clay mounds

how little respect must you have for your children to hit them? i feel like a lot of parents don’t really see their kids as human beings, but mounds of clay to shape to their liking, usually into an image of the parent.

My Rating: 9.5/10

     This is it guys, this is the big one. This is the film I’ve been looking forward to seeing the most in 2017. Wonder Woman. Holy shit, Wonder Woman. Not only is this the best DCEU film by far, but it’s also one of the best comic-book films in the genre to date, and an all-around well made movie all together. It earns every bit of praise it’s been getting before it’s release and then some!

     I bet DC’s been on cloud nine ever since these early reviews came in, since their last three films had lukewarm to very, very, very negative critical and fan reaction. I’d say that Wonder Woman’s success couldn’t have come at more crucial time; not just for the DCEU, but for Feminism and how female-led films are perceived in general.

     Wonder Woman (in case you didn’t already know) is making history as the first female-led comic book film that’s also directed by a woman, not to mention the fact that it’s the character’s first solo-film ever made! Only took 75 years and a decade of failed attempts at films and a tv show! (Hear that, Black Widow? There’s still hope for you!)

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8 tips to increase creativity and break writer's block

8 tips to increase creativity and break writer’s block.

These are simple activities that I indulge when scenes, images and plot do not manifest with alacrity.

If you are stuck on a plot point or scene development: take the characters involved and run them through a fun, if not absurd, scenario in your head. It has no stakes or impact so you are free to let your imagination run wild without the fear of having to edit later. Have fun with it. Then, after you have done so, get back to the event you wish to put down on paper.

In relation to the point above, sometimes you must walk away from the keyboard. Take a walk. Exercise. Or find a way to relax and let your subconscious mind work it out. Sometimes, the problems are solved by not being the center of focus. That’s why we have things like a “Shower Epiphany”. You know, when the great ideas come to you while taking a shower.

Another aspect to the “Shower Epiphany” is the sensory exclusion of everything else but you, the warmth, and the constant smooth sound of falling water. Since we can’t sit in the shower and write, I am sure some people have the tech to but the pruning would be worrisome, there two things to mimic the sensory limitations: First, turn your bloody phone off and put it away somewhere that it would take effort to retrieve. Second, iso-rooms. Isolated room with no decoration, adornment, sound or anything but a desk for that matter. Local libraries have study room if you don’t have a small room to utilize in this manner. With no distractions and sensory deprivation, your mind must generate input. You can focus and direct this function by thinking of your writing problem. If you don’t believe me that the mind will generate sensory input, false as it is, go stare into a mirror for more than three minutes and see what happens. Or, stare at another person’s face for ten minutes and see what happens. Go sit in a dark, sound proof room for ten minutes and see what happens. You will hallucinate, but with writing, this can be harnessed.

Having a problem with a metaphor or image? Do association exercises. Example: Take a cup. What does a cup do? It holds liquids. What else holds liquids? Oceans, lakes, ponds, palms of hands, bladders, plastic bags with no holes in them…etc. You get the point. Now, you can reverse engineer. In this example, you have a character who is holding a cup and you want to develop this because it relates to the character’s inner turmoil. So, the cup can represent an obstacle. Perhaps the character was on a hunger strike or has a fear of accepting drinks they have not prepared themselves. Let’s go with this then- “She lifted the thin rimmed tea cup to her lips, but every sip, was a struggle like swimming across the salt burdened sea to a shore that falters in the horizon.” It is the association game. If you are not innately skilled at this, I recommend just doing the game regularly when among other activities. There are patterns everywhere.

Just work through it. Write some horrible, dumb, stupid, sentences and just keep going. You know why? Because we rewrite. In fact, rewriting probably takes more time than writing the first draft for some of us. Also, if it is the first draft, and you are having inspiration or flow obstacles, don’t worry. First drafts suck. The degree of the deplore depends but they do. I liken it sculpting with clay. First, you gather a mound of clay. The second draft is forming the clay into a recognizable figure but cutting away chunks. Third draft smooth out the features and creates fine details. Do as many drafts as you need to.

Do routine tasks differently to prime creative thoughts. If you eat with your right hand, try eating with your left. The point is to disrupt your routine. This break automatic approaches to tasks. Your neurons light up and are ready for novelty and our minds love novelty, so they get primed.

Emotional state dependent creation: Having a hard time getting that pathos to pour and the pain to emote from your protagonist? Listen to some music you know make you feel this way or invokes a memory of and event you can use. I can’t tell you what music to listen, but I wouldn’t listen to Mariah Carey if the character is to be in the emotional condition where they go on a murderous rage… unless hearing her music makes you feel that way.    

Notice most of this is about relaxing and not getting too anxious about writing. There is a reason. Creativity can be stalled by worry, fear and anxiety. That twist of tense tension tortures us into freezing. When faced with fear, humans do a few things: fight, flee and freeze. The stress hormones don’t give a crap if the threat is imagined. They will do what they do and leave you blocked like you had eaten a wheel of cheddar the night before.

Relax. Writing is just about depicting a world through a series of false memories and conjured daydreams. Two other activities help me as well. First, reading. Go read a book, short story, or comic that is similar to what you are writing. Second, acting exercises. Pretend to be other people and look at the world or conflicts you are creating. You know, get a second opinion from yourself. Sounds a bit crazy but writing is the art of wrangling memory and madness in a way. 

Hope it helps.


Joshua Lee Andrew Jones of Wayward Raven Media.

Imbalance occurs. Balance is restored.

Ars longa, vitae brevis.            


Harley x Ivy thing 2

for @thefingerfuckingfemalefury

It was a moonlit evening in Gotham City, quiet and peaceful, well as peaceful as one can get in a city known for being regularly attacked by clowns, giant mounds of clay, mobsters who look like penguins and giant brutes on steroids.

In a small car driving through the streets, Harley Quinn and her girlfriend, Poison Ivy, were heading towards a supermarket, the only one near their hideout that would be open this late.

“I can’t see why we have to go to the store to buy this fertilizer for your plants, red,” Harley told her. “I mean, you can control plants, why not make it yourself.”

“I control plants, not grow them, Harley,” Ivy told her. “Besides, this fertilizer will make my babies grow nice and big.”

“You sure you don’t want to let them grow naturally?”

“I do, but this is organic fertilizer, not some toxic man made crap,” I’ve explained. “My babies hate that.”

Harley looked out the window. “Hey we’re here.”

As the two stopped outside of the store, Ivy looked out the window. “Looks like this place really is open 24/7.””

Harley checked her pockets. “Ah damn, I don’t have my wallet on me.”

Ivy rolled her eyes. “Then we’ll just have to do things the old fashioned way.”

The two got out of the car and walked into the store, the assistant at the counter noticing them. “Oh good evening, ladies. May I help you,” she said in a rather relaxed voice.

“Yes, you may,” Ivy said, looking at her seductively. She then kissed the assistant with her dark green lips and she fell into a deep slumber.

“You didn’t kill her did ya, red?” Harley wondered.

“It was only a sedative,” Ivy replied. “I don’t kill innocent people, just the ones who harm my plants.”

“Oh right forgot,” Harley giggled.

The two headed into the aisle, browsing the plant fertiliser section, trying to hunt down Ivy’s particular brand.

“So much plant stuff,” Harley commented. “How come they don’t actually sell plants here?”

Ivy rolled her eyes at her girlfriend’s statement. “It’s a supermarket, not a garden centre.”

“Well why didn’t we just go to one of those places?” Harley wondered.

“This place is closer,” Ivy told her. “Besides, we both know you want to get back to playing video games and watching cartoons.”

“You know me so well, red,” Harley remarked.

Harley looked up at the fertilizer bags. “Hmmm, what brand is yours, Happy Daisy.”



“No, why does he like to put his name on stuff.”

“Probably didn’t but some PR guy thought it was cool.”

Ivy sighed. “Then our caped friend doesn’t have that big of an ego.”

“Okay, what about  Mega-greens?”

“Really corporate, that’s definitely not what I’m looking for.”

“How about Green-greens?”

“Isn’t that a level from a game you played?”

Harley thought for a moment. “Yeah, Kirby. Ohh! I think I found it, Orga-fuel.”

Ivy looked at the fertilizer bag. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“The name’s a bit confusing. It sounds like it’s gas for your car or something people have in those weird clubs Mr J kept bragging about.”

“Don’t worry, it’s none of those,” Ivy said, taking the bag. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

As the two made their way towards the front door, Ivy noticed something. There appeared to be someone else behind the desk, a young man wearing a black hoodie. “I thought I took out the .”

“Don’t worry, red, I’ll handle him,” Harley said.

Harley then walked over to the man, clearing her throat. “Excuse me do you work here?”

The man looked at her. “Ummm… yeah, I just started.”

“Really?” Harley wondered. “I mean, you’re not exactly wearing a uniform.”

“It’s uhh… a new policy. Workers bring their own uniforms.”

Harley looked down, seeing the cash register open. “Are you a cashier by any chance?”

“Yeah why?”

“Because the register is open and it looks like all the money is gone.”

The man then took out a gun. “Sorry, cosplay, I think you looked too far into this.”

“You’re a crook!” Ivy shouted.

The man leaped out from behind the counter, grabbing Ivy and pointing a gun to her head. “Alright, let me walk free, and the bitch doesn’t get a bullet in her head.”

“Just let me go, Harl!” Ivy begged.

“No way, your babies need that plant stuff,” Harley said. “So get down red!” She pulled out her huge mallet and charged at the crook.

“What the fugh!” The crook grunted as harley struck him on the head. He loosened his grip on Ivy and fell to the floor.

“Don’t worry, he ain’t dead,” Harley said. “I’m an anti-hero, not a villain, just because I can be mean, doesn’t mean I’m not a good person.”

Ivy chuckled. “I used to find it weird you carried a giant hammer with you. Now, I’m thankful.”

Harley took the cash money out of the man’s pockets. “Hey, red, we’ve got some money left over here. Wanna just leave it on the counter and we’ll pay for your plant food with it?”

Ivy smiled. “I suppose that’s a fair and legal way to do things.”

Harley did just that and the two got into their car, Harley starting the engine. “That was certainly an eventful evening.”

Ivy looked at her girlfriend and held her hand. “Thank you, Harley. I really was worried there.”

“Hey, I just wanted to make sure my girl was okay,” Harley stated. “If it meant giving a guy severe brain damage to do so, so be it.”

Ivy gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Harl.”

“Love ya too red, now come on, let’s go feed your babies.”

On a more serious note–

Pokemon are vague creatures. They are all based on something, sure, but the Pokemon art style itself is vague. It leaves a lot to the imagination when drawing Pokemon in any style but for the original. People should not receive hate for their varying interpretations.

For me, Pikachu has no solid form. It does not look like a mouse to me. The only thing “mouse” about Pikachu to me is that tiny blurb of text beside it in the Pokedex.

But what does Pikachu look like to me, then? Well, I’m not really sure. Really, as some of you might have already gathered, it is rare that I draw Pikachu the same way twice.

Sometimes Pikachu is more canine for me, sometimes it is more rabbit-like. Heck, I’ve even drawn a big cat-inspired Pikachu before and that one didn’t feel anything less like “Pikachu” to me than any of my other incarnations of it.

For me, Pikachu is a pliable mound of clay that I can draw without feeling any stress. I often default to sketching Pikachus when I sit down to draw with no clear intent, and I enjoy the freedom that comes with drawing Pikachu however I please.

And that’s what I want everyone to do with Pokemon. I want people to take these vague creatures and breathe life into them– even if their versions aren’t mainstream, canon, or common.

These are fantasy creatures with limitless possibilities. Draw them however you please and don’t apologize.

What Are You Doing New Year's Eve? [2/2]

Set season four. If you’ve never heard the song this fic is based on, click here. If you haven’t read chapter one, you can do so here

Ten minutes to midnight, Kate goes on a search for the elusive host of the party. Castle’s been conspicuously absent for a while, yet another mark of a night where he’s smiled a little too brightly, and laughed a little too loud for it to be natural. There’s something forced about his New Year’s Eve cheer, a strain that’s lingered in the depth of his eyes and the slight hunch of his shoulders with every bit of small talk and drink refills. 

It isn’t terribly difficult to find him, the outline of his frame highlighted by the glare of the city lights that reflect up into the loft windows. The relative darkness of the office takes her by surprise, slants of light filtering in from the bustling party at the other side of his bookshelves. 

“Hey, stranger,” she calls softly, waiting to approach once he’s turned to look at her, “Any reason you’re not out there being the center of attention?”

The breath he takes is slow, a huff of air that stretches the dark fabric of his immaculately cut suit across the swell of his biceps. With the lights floating up from the street he looks older, a little worn and dejected. It worries Kate because, even in their worst moments together, Castle’s always playing the light-hearted optimist, rarely letting the darkness that so often consumes her also wreak havoc with him. 

So often he’s her solid ground, but tonight she’s obviously meant to be his. Steadiness in the eye of whatever storm that has her partner in its grasp.

“Do you ever feel like things are changing too fast?”

The question is meant to be serious, almost introspective but Kate still smiles, reaching out to lay a hand at his bicep when Castle turns back towards the window, “Usually I feel like they aren’t changing fast enough,” she replies, “Like I’m in a holding pattern that’s never going to break.”

“You’re stubborn like that,” is his answer, the words formed around a half-hearted smile that fails to stir anything in her but concern. Not for herself, despite bruises and scars Kate’s infinitely more pieced together than she’s perhaps been since she was a naive whip of a nineteen year old, on the cusp of dreams that were never meant to be realized. 

She’s learned in the intervening years that dreams have a way of changing. Age, experience, and circumstance morphing them into being like mounds of clay. Easily built, easily squashed unless protected and carefully fostered. 

Her noise of agreement at his proclamation is soft, formed around the elegant curved rim of her champagne flute, “Still. Working to change it, Castle. Can’t stay gridlocked forever." 

Kate forces herself to meet his eyes when she says it, a swooping shot of want sizzles through her veins. He’s got that look in his eyes again, the one that he used to only give her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Sometimes she thinks it’s giving her a promise of forever, overwhelming and dizzying in its excitement. Most of the time she’s sure that’s just what Castle looks like in love. 

Or, more accurately, in love with her. 

It makes her want to cry, to dance, to let him take her in his arms and chase away the doubts and the encroaching, sometimes encompassing shadows. 

Most of the time she just gazes right back at him, hoping against all odds that he understands she shares the sentiment but her fragile, puzzle pieced self just isn’t ready to speak the words and begin the journey. 

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umadbrx  asked:

☎ because when else would he call


Oh, for the love of—.

What the hell was he supposed to do? His hands were covered in clay, and his phone was in his damn pocket. God, this better be important. He stopped the wheel (kind of a sleepless night, pottery wasn’t a bad way to waste time), wiped a hand on his jeans to pull the phone out, resting it between his ear and shoulder as he went back to working on the mound of clay.

“I hope for you’re sake you’re in the hospital or something."