i literally have no idea why this was in my drafts folder

lil-seeds  asked:

yo yo yo dysfunctional entp here. i've been in a weird, non-creative, funk for the past week or so, i believe largely due to some very well ignored and internalized negative feelings. what is the best way for me (or any Ne user really) to get back into the idea-generating, novelty, creative swing? (im a writer working on a second novel so the whole 'tired of a single project' thing isnt helping either) thanks hot hot hottie

(Gif: Claudia, Warehouse 13. ENTP.)

Uh, well first there’s this: i believe largely due to some very well ignored and internalized negative feelings.

Have you dealt with those yet? Because as a Fe, until you get them out of your head and into the world, you cannot move on and the intense internalization of something that NEEDS made public (Fe) is going to cramp your muse. So, expel those feelings. Share them with someone you trust. Shout them into the void. Express them. You will feel better.

As for getting your Ne-dom mojo back – it’s simple.

Ne needs external stimulation to work. It does not exist in a void. Your Ne bounces off objects, ideas, and stories in the external world. This is why you watch a television show – you get ideas. Better ideas than they used. Or you read a book – and you get more ideas. Or you listen to a song – and you get ideas. Or you talk to someone and… you get the idea, right?

Being in a non-creative funk for a Ne-dom means your creativity tank is drained. Why? Not enough external stimulation. Not enough new stuff to bounce off of. Not enough exposure to things related and unrelated to your current writing project. You need new material going in your head. Start reading someone else’s novels. Start up a television show you’ve never seen before on the side. Read someone who is FULL OF IDEAS, who makes YOU full of ideas, someone EXCITED about their ideas.

Here’s some personal writing advice from a fellow Ne-dom, who quite often experiences temporary creative slumps (since I pretty much work on a novel and/or writing project anywhere from 1 to 8 hours daily, about 10 months out of the year… yeah, I don’t “do” hobbies and I don’t “do” idle time… and it kind of sucks).

If you hit a creative slump, you have two choices:

- Take it back to where your creativity was flowing, and take the plot in a new direction (write a different ending to that scene, or cause something unexpected to happen that you did not see coming)

- Change the setting of the scene (it’s quite possible the setting is boring you; whenever that happens, I go, “What will my reader NOT expect? Okay, the last interrogation scene took place inside a dim cell in the Tower of London. What if THIS TIME Henry VII decides to interrogate someone above the Tower’s lion pit, and dangle him over the side?”)

Here is something vital to remember, as a Ne-dom: you figure it out too far in advance, you’ll get bored with your own ideas.

Every time I have lain out an entire book from start to finish, and drawn up lists of what happens in what chapter, the creative spark dies. I have now started keeping an abstract concept in my mind (this is vaguely where it’s headed / what the climax will be, and what I should introduce next) and then leaving myself questions when I stop writing for the day, to trigger ideas for the next day.

So instead of writing: Heledd meets Alfred on the road and they discuss X, I ask, What does Heledd see that makes her suspicious? How should I introduce doubt into Meg’s mind? What should happen with the ring I introduced in the last chapter? How can I make the big reveal more dramatic?

Leave lots and lots of room for improvisation, too. When I sat down to write the other night, I knew I had to take my heroine through her fears up a road lined with her enemies – people who months before had tried to hang her. So, I knew I had to deal with PTSD trauma. What I did NOT know is that superstition would surround a myth of faerie lights to accuse her brother of murder (the murder, I had planned) and that other people would turn up in support of her, and sing an old Welsh tale to calm her down. But that was nice.

Ne’s delight in the unexpected, in allowing ideas to flourish and spring forth with just enough forewarning to lace together into the rest of the story; you must leave room in your novels for this to happen.

(Gif: Jo March, Little Women. ENFP. My soul sister.)

I’ll be honest here, in the hope it’ll inspire you. I started in on a sequel right after finishing my last book. I was excited about it, I wrote about 20 thousand words, and then I had to stop and do some line editing on the original novel. When I went back to my sequel, my creative spark had DIED. I was distraught; where had all my excitement, enthusiasm, and ideas gone?? So I put that draft in a folder, and tried another. It went on for about 15 thousand words just fine, and then it DIED. More distress. More staring at a blank page. More clueless pondering. More angst. So I delved into it from yet ANOTHER angle. I changed all the POV’s. I tied it back into London in addition to Wales. I invented an entirely new subplot. I wrote about 20 thousand words.

And it DIED. I lost the spark.

I spent one day utterly frustrated, near tears, anxious that maybe I’ll never be able to write another book (low Si paranoia :P) … and I opened up my original draft, the one with 20 thousand words, and skim read the first four chapters… and then sat down and carried the story forward. I’ve kept bits and pieces from each draft, and a lot of that writing can go in this book; but my forward momentum is back. The original idea WAS INDEED the best, or at least, the one my Ne is most passionate about – but it had to explore other options first, before it could settle down to tell THIS story.

Okay, the last bit of advice – you can take it or leave it.

Many high Ne’s benefit from working on multiple projects at once. You should consider, yes, working on your book; and writing a short story or a fan fiction on the side in a totally different genre, to keep your mind active.

I, however, have never been able to do this without losing focus – so I am a “one project at a time” kind of girl, to the extent where if I have an amazing idea for a different book or character in the middle of working on THIS one, I write it down on a slip of paper, stick it in a jar, and forbid my mind from thinking about it further, in order to remain focused.

Finally, write yourself a quick deadline. Given the amount of time you have to spend on this novel, and what else you have to do which might detract from it, and how fast you can write, figure out a rough estimate of how long it will take you to write this book. I spent two years on the last one and it literally almost killed me and drove my family insane (though, technically, since it went through about 14 drafts / rewrites / completely changed focus 4 times, and started out as a novel covering 20 years, went to a novel covering a decade, and wound up being a novel covering 6 months… I was working on more than one novel). This is NOT GOOD for a Ne-dom. We like to see PROGRESS. We like to see a point in our future when we are FREE to pursue OTHER THINGS. So, give yourself six months to write a rough draft. Or four months. Something doable, that keeps you motivated, because:

When I get done with this, I can write something else!

You are verbose. You are creative. You are ideas-driven. And if you’re a Ne-dom, you can turn out an incredible amount of words in a very short time.

You can do this.

Hope that helps,

- ENFP Mod (who tomorrow goes back to writing her sequel, because she did NOT write fiction today and was so bored she could hardly stand it)

xf fic: date of birth

Summary: Five of William Van de Kamp’s birthdays.

hey i’m only a month late, right? this has literally been in my drafts forever. also m/s are barely in the damn thing yet i still managed to make it all about them. show-stealers.

i.

His mother bounces him on her hip as his family sings “Happy Birthday”. She sets him down in what they almost exclusively refer to as a “big boy chair” while everyone claps. William reaches for the slab of chocolate cake, and smears icing along the surface of the table. He giggles as he stuffs a chunk in his mouth. “What a messy boy,” his mother says affectionately as she wipes a brown stain off the tip of his nose.

“I am messy,” he agrees. He holds up three fingers to display how many he is.

“How do you know his real birthday?” his grandmother wants to know. Secretly, William hates her presents - mostly uncomfortable clothes. He doesn’t her voice, either - she sounds like his mom when he does something bad, right before he’s put in time-out.

“It was on his birth certificate,” his father says uncomfortably, brushing a hand over his son’s hair.

Keep reading

Finished the first draft of my novel!

‘Any teas, coffees, panini, snacks?’ asked one of the flight attendants, smiling wide, holding onto a trolley filled with plastic bags and paper cups. She wore her chestnut-brown hair tied in bun at the back of her head. Her skin was tanned and flawless, her English sprinkled with a mild Spanish accent. A long apron covered her pale yellow shirt and ocean blue skirt.

I shook my head and she moved the mini-bar one row past me. It would be at least an hour before they come back with perfumes and those damn lottery tickets.

Blessed with a window seat, I stared at the vivid azure of the sky above the clouds for a minute before getting back to tapping on my phone. With my wife’s head rested on my shoulder, I was trying not to move too much. She’s fast asleep and I didn’t want to wake her up. The crammed seats sure didn’t make that any easier.

Our plane would be landing at Mallorca in an hour and 40 minutes and that made me nervous. I was meant to be done by now so why the hell was I still working? For the third time I selected the whole last paragraph and deleted it without any idea what to write instead. I was stuck.

This is the story of the first draft of my first novel.

It all started back in December 2015. I’m one of those people who like to take at least a week off around Christmas. But besides celebrating the holidays, I don’t usually do much. As the year comes to an end, I sit back and reflect. I want to see what I’ve missed before it all gets flushed down the drain of history.

I did a lot of disorganised writing in 2015. This year, I wanted to start something new; something with a purpose. I had a hazy story idea in my mind, way too complex for a short story but not developed enough to become a novel. So I though I’d do an online serial: 26 chapters published bi-weekly over the whole year, 3000 words per chapter. If people liked it — great, no big deal if they didn’t. It’d be free on the internet.

When the fireworks launched on New Year’s Eve, I had a basic outline. Many questions and not enough answers. It took one more week of agonising and a number of revisions before I started writing. The story arc was nowhere near ready, but if I were to hit the deadline for the first instalment, I had to dive in.

I wrote the first 500 words on 10 January, another 500 on the 11th and 500 more on the 12th. The words added up and when the deadline was due, I had enough for not one but two instalments. I stayed up late, scrolling through the draft, cup of coffee in hand, struggling to keep my eyes open. The copy was raw and the story too.

How can I do this without knowing exactly what happens next? I thought.

The more I wrote, the more precious the story became to me. The fear of putting something out there that I couldn’t fix later became real. I went to bed without publishing either of the chapters that night.

The next morning, I filed everything I wrote so far in a folder called CHAPTER 1. I set my goal to 80,000 and suddenly, I was writing a novel. The math was pretty simple. Inspired by my previous daily successes — if I wrote 500 words a day, I’d be done by 18 June. That sounded like a plan.

The transition from a pastime activity into a major project put an abrupt end to my epic writing streak. I produced no words on that day or the one after. The resistance had crept on me from behind, unwelcome and unexpected. When I started caring whether it was shit, everything got a lot more difficult.

With mixed success over the following month, I stopped to re-work the outline. Two weeks later I scrapped four of the seven chapters I had written so far and started over, making a promise to myself that this time I’d stick with it till the end. Oh, well.

Wake up, try to write, go to work, try to write, go to bed — my next few months in a nutshell. I moved the novel forward as a snail moves its house; it was slow and frustrating. The thing got heavier and heavier as I filled the manuscript with imperfection.

June arrived earlier than expected. I had just finished chapter 12 and the manuscript sat at around 55,000 words, whooping 25k short of the target. That sucked and I didn’t want to write another word ever again. My writing sessions went on an on, if I wrote anything at all. Four hours in, 117 words done — less than a half a word per minute. I quite literally dragged myself through chapters 13 and 14 until I couldn’t possibly carry on with this excruciating endeavour any longer.

I stopped writing completely in July, 14 chapters and 62,000 words into the manuscript. I barely passed the midpoint and keeping up the same pace, I’d be stuck with this project till Christmas at least.

The problem with first drafts is that they give you the benefit of the doubt. When you quit mid-draft, you’ll never get to see how bad your story really is. Your work goes into a folder of wishful thinking. You could make it awesome if you wanted to, but not now. Failing to finish is very different from finishing and failing. You don’t get to face the reality and never learn from your mistakes.

I had failed to finish too many times before. This time, I wouldn’t have it.

Even in January, I wasn’t naive enough to think that I’d finish by June. But I wanted to get the book done before the beginning of September when I booked my holidays — in exactly 39 days. Out of curiosity, I worked out what would it take to finish the book by then. The calculator showed me a number I didn’t like one bit: just over 1,000 words every day for the entire month.

My daily output at the time averaged at 150 painful words. Doing this for a couple of days? Maybe. But thinking that I could keep writing over seven times that for 40 days straight was an absolutely ludicrous idea.

Luckily, a part of me that I still don’t quite understand said, 'Fuck it. Let’s do this.’

I was in for some serious hustle, every single day, no exceptions. Slip one and miss it. I woke up early and stayed up late, drunk coffee by the litre, adding cans of Red Bull when that would no longer do.

And 39 days later, I found myself three quarters into a flight from London to Palma de Mallorca, still working. The words were stubbornly refusing to leave my head. I saw sea already beneath us. It was exactly the same colour as the flight attendant’s apron. There were three ships floating at the surface, each the size of a grain of sand. The rocky north coast of the island emerged out of the blue shortly after. I forced my eyes away from the beauty, took a deep breath and woke my phone up again.

Bullshit, I’m not stuck. I know how to do this, I thought. I hammered out the last two paragraphs of chapter 26 as the crew wrapped up the perfume trolley and got the cabin ready for landing.

The Boeing 737-800 touched down and my novel was done. 39 days, 44,000 words. The most productive writing streak of my entire life. Commitment and hard work made all the difference.

The whole manuscript is 26 chapters and 109,475 words long. I overshoot the target quite a bit. I can always delete some stuff.

When we disembarked into the heat of late afternoon, I felt calm and relieved. Eight long months of grappling against the resistance came to an end. I was happy; really happy. But it was an entirely different kind of happiness than I had imagined I’d feel when I wrote the first page in January.

Writing the first draft is only one step on the journey from an idea to a finished book. Now that I’ve got all the ingredients in a pot, it’s time to step away and let it brew.

And when the time comes, I can’t wait to start editing.

Thanks for your support; I’ll keep you guys posted.

The princes when MC’s work gets plagiarized (BMP)

I was tagged in a post by voltagematuregentlemansclub about the recent theft of creative work associated with the fandom. 
As a fan fiction writer myself, I know how much work goes into these pieces meant for everyone to enjoy, and how dearly a writer values feedback of all sorts from their readers. In plagiarism, not only is an author stripped of their pleasure in receiving attention for their effort, the writer’s time and creativity is belittled. There is no joy in receiving attention that was never meant to be yours.

These aren’t characters I’m familiar with. I tried. BMP GREE MC is the only MC i know of that has steal-able art. 

Prologue:
You stared down at the pages of the magazine before you, reading with complete disbelief.
How could they?!
It was a report on a budding designer, a pretty young woman from across the sea. Dotted across the page, among the the article, were pictures of her designs. Correction. Your designs.
They were literally pictures of your sketches, copied down to the style of lace around the bodice and ruffles in the skirts.
You shove the magazine away from you angrily.
It was so unfair, so rude, so ridiculously insulting that your work had been stolen like this. You put heart and soul into every design, and someone could just come and take it all away. You weren’t even upset that they were getting famous for it. You knew your art was of quality. 

But the stealing.
The disrespect.
You feel tears well up in your eyes as you get up from the desk with a loud scrape of the chair. Shuffling over to the shelves, you pull out your sketchbook and start flipping through your designs.
Well, to the rest of the innocent and deceived world, her designs.
Your fingers close on a page and you hear the tearing of the paper. You crumple up the sketch in your hands and watch your hard work go to ruin. There. So what. No one else would care. No one cared about your work.
Chewing your lip, you throw the rumpled ball across the room.

Roberto:
“___________!”
He grinned as he poked his head around the doorway, expecting to see your smiling face. He was greeted with a paper ball to the face and he jumped.
“___________!?”
Roberto picked up the assault weapon and opened it up in confusion.
“Why are you throwing your sketches around? Feeling frustrated?”
He approached you with a bright smile that would normally make your heart lift. You gazed up at him sadly.
“Why do I even try, Roberto?”
“A little bit lacking in inspiration is okay.” He smiled and kissed your temple, wrapping an arm around you and handing the wrinkly sketch back to you.
“It’s not that…”
“What is it then?” His voice was so innocently curious and you sigh. Walking over to the desk, you show him the stolen sketches. The brown eyes widen and Roberto’s smile twists into an angry frown. “That’s your work!”
“Yeah…” You say softly, weakly, letting the sketch slip through your fingers again as you slump into a chair. “Why do I even try, Roberto? I tried so hard too, and someone just-“
He squats down beside you and pets your head gently.
“It’s okay.” He said soothingly. “Here, come on.” Roberto takes your hand and pulls you to your feet.
“Where are we going?”
“We are going to set this straight.” He said, shaking the magazine in his hand. “Come on, _____________, grab your sketches. Someone needs a visit.”
“We’re going to see her?”
“We’re gonna take action and tell her and everyone else that this is yours.” Roberto grinned at you and nodded reassuringly. “Come on! The magazine says that she has a presentation today at 1.”
Your boyfriend’s grip tightened on your hand and gave you a tug.
“Don’t be worried. I got your back. You don’t deserve this kind of treatment.”

Joshua: 
You had tried to hide the problem from your boyfriend, knowing that it was quite a trivial matter compared to his duties with the kingdom. What you hadn’t been expecting was a letter summoning you to court.
“Joshua, when did I file a lawsuit for my sketches?” You look up in shock as you read the letter he handed you.”
“You didn’t.” Joshua fixed the intense violet eyes on you.
“But then… how…?”
“I filed it.” He looked stern and serious. Joshua comes to stand in front of you, gazing down into your face. “We’re going to sue them.”
“But-“
“But what? They’re your designs. No one else is allowed to take credit for them.” Joshua’s voice was filled with controlled anger. “We’re going to sue them.”
Something in your heart smiles at your boyfriend’s complete seriousness. Him paying attention to your problems simply made you happy. A smile graces your lip.
“The prince himself filing a lawsuit for a few sketches? Won’t the media-“
“I’m not doing anything illegal. I am reestablishing your claims to your artistic property.” He said firmly. “I set up the lawyer and everything. Just be ready to say the truth on that date.” Joshua gestured to the papers in your hands.
“Joshua…”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled, quite proud with his work.
Your heart warmed and you threw your arms around his waist. Joshua’s body stiffened in surprise. You felt him embrace you slowly.
“Joshua, how did you know about all this?”
“I…” He blushed a little. “I recognized them from the time you showed me. And you left a couple of the crumpled up sketches where I could find them.”
You gaze up at him gratefully, eyes glowing.
“This means a lot to me, Joshua. Thank you…”
“No one gets away from stealing in Dres Van.” Joshua’s expression turned fully serious, his voice dropping to a steely tone. “Especially not from their future queen.”
He didn’t notice anything wrong with his words, nor your blush, and patted your shoulder. There was something particularly endearing about this thoughtful, supportive man before you, and you roll up on your toes to kiss his cheek.
“Thank you, Joshua.”

Edward: 
“What’s wrong, my dear fairy?”
You seemed so distant, so distracted as you drank tea with him in the garden. You quickly put down the empty cup that you had been sipping at absentmindedly.
“Nothing much, Edward.”
“I see the shadows in your eyes. What’s drinking my love’s happiness?”
You meet the earnest amethyst eyes and feel your problems pour out of your lips. Tears welled up in your eyes at the kind look upon your boyfriend’s face, and you felt a twinge of guilt as he listened to the way someone had stolen your designing work.
“That’s quite an offence.” Edward said finally, as you fall silent, reaching out across the table and taking your cold hands in his. “Were they so desperate for ideas? Or for fame?”
You shook your head.
“I do not know.”
“Would you find more comfort if you spoke to her, my love?” Edward asked gently. “I could arrange that for you. Perhaps taking in regard their point of view would sooth your heart and set things right?”
“That sounds good.” Your voice was quiet. “I just… I don’t know… I don’t know what she’s thinking, and what she did hurt.”
Edward leaned in and brushed a light kiss to your forehead. He lifted a hand to stroke your cheek.
“I know it did, my sweet. I’ll get Louis to get her in contact, alright? I’ll bring you to meet her and sort this all out.” His lips touched your forehead again, a little firmer this time, more reassuring. “Don’t you worry your pretty little mind.”

Keith:
“Where are we going?”
“Stop asking so many questions.” Your boyfriend huffed in the car beside you. It was strange to be riding in the passenger side, Keith gripping the wheel instead of Luke. He looked like he was controlling his anger, and you wonder what’s gotten him so worked up.
Keith pulls up in front of a hotel, and half drags you out of the car.
“Keith! What’s this for?” You were blushing horribly, mind jumping to the dirtiest conclusions. Your boyfriend pulled you inside and led you down the corridor to one of the presentation halls. “Keith!”
The prince of Liberty quite literally kicks open the doors. You flinch as they throw open with a bang and he tugs you into the room behind him. Countless cameras clicked and a buzz rushed through the gathered crowd. Keith looked up and saw the young woman standing there with an entourage of reporters. With you in tow, he stormed over to her.
“Hello, Miss Zarla.” His lip curled in a sneer, the dangerous look outlined with the flashing colour of the emerald eyes. Your hand tightens around him. “Would you like to explain why you are staking false claims to works my girlfriend - the future princess of Liberty, mind you - had sketched?” His question was spoken sternly, with the commanding tone that stemmed naturally from him.
“Er…. Your majesty…”
“If you would like to see the original drafts, I have brought them, with Nobel Michel’s written comments dated upon them.” He flipped open the folder in his hand and displayed some of the crumpled drawings you had tried to throw away. Questions were shrieked from the reporters, recovering quickly from their shock and tuning in on this major outbreak.
“Is this… a little too harsh?”
“No one gets away with stealing your work.” He threw another glare in the direction of the woman, who was now swamped with demanding journalists and insulted guests. Keith pulled you aside. “I’m not going to let anyone get away with it. Do you understand me? She brought this upon herself. You could have sued her.”
You case a glance at the young woman, and turn back to Keith with a gentle smile.
“I think it’s enough. Can you please call the media away?”
“You are too kind.”
“Keith, be merciful. She’s already shamed enough.” You insist. Keith patted your head and walked back into the storm of flashing lights and whining microphones to end her public embarrassment.  As he dissipates the raging crowd, you lean in and peck his cheek in adoring appreciation for all he has done for you. There was just something about Keith, the blunt way he tried to make things right for you, that made him so dear to your heart you could never let go.

Glenn:
“That’s pathetic.” He grumbled as he shoved the magazine off his desk. Yu had handed it to him, purposefully having folded a corner to ensure that Glenn noticed the designs - your sketches - chalked up under someone else’s name. “How could they do that?”
“Miss ___________ often uploads her sketches into her online storage system. It is fully possible that someone entered her account and did a little editing.”
Glenn got up from his desk.
“Where is _____________?”
“Miss _____________ seemed like she was very upset with the publication of the article. I would think that she is in the garden to relieve herself of such negativity.” Yu watched as the prince hurried out of the study, finding scraps of comfort knowing that you would be taken care of.
*
You sat in the garden, pulling your dress left and right, the fabric dragging over your knees. Staring sadly and blankly at the flowers, you hardly notice when your boyfriend sits down beside you.
“_____________.”
Glenn watched you expectantly, and narrowed his eyes at the lack of response.
“_____________.”
You looked up. Glenn sighed and took one of your hands in his.
“You feeling okay?”
Slowly, you shake your head.
“Stop pouting.” He mumbles as he scoots closer and pulls you into his arms. “It’s okay.”
Your fingers grip his clothes and you whimper softly against him.
“It’s not fair… I tried so hard…”
“I know. I know.” Glenn clutches you closer. “I promise, I’ll set things right. I’ll do it for you, alright? I’ll talk to her and the media and sort it all out for you.” He touches his lips lightly against your temple, holding you in his embrace. “Trust me, okay?”

Wilfred:
You had tried to hide the sadness away and put on a happy face for Wilfred’s sake. He seemed to see right through you, however, and gently eased the truth out of you.
“It’s hard to imagine that someone could hurt you like that.” He kisses your hand. “Would you like them to apologize? I could arrange for you to meet her.”
“I just want them to…. to tell me that they shouldn’t have stolen my designs… I mean… I should feel flattered the someone likes my designs, but I… She stole them… right?”
“Right.” Wilfred’s calm, cool tone was soothing. His grip on your hand tightens warmly. “This isn’t flattery either, _____________, this is theft. I do believe she owes you the most sincere of apologies.”
“At least… she has to tell me why… Designing is my life… I can’t imagine someone else wanting to copy another’s life…” The anguish corrupts your speech into uneven sections. You wrap your slim fingers tighter around Wilfred’s hand. The relaxed blue eyes smiled at you.
“I understand what you mean.” The blond prince stroked your cheek gently. “Now, now, I’ll organize for the two of you to meet and discuss this matter. The magazine will fix the article, and it will be alright.” His touch brushes over your lip. “Look at you, she’s not worth your sadness.” Wilfred pulled you against him and wrapped an arm around your waist.
“Wilfred!”
“Don’t fret about a thing. Relax, _____________. No need to waste your precious time being upset over such a rude lack of manners.” Wilfred kissed your forehead tenderly. You snuggled against your boyfriend’s chest and peering into his eyes with starry admiration. He was so thoughtful, so considerate to you. “Look at you, isn’t this so much better?” He watched the tiny smile blossom over your lips as you gazed at him, and kissed you fleetingly. “It’s all going to be sorted out.”


I tried. 
Thanks for the read!! 

Okay so I’m going through the tag and seeing a few of you saying how you want to talk to someone about HP/Dramione and share headcanons and basically just suffer together

So… why don’t we create a network for that?

Would anyone be interested in something of that nature? Because it could have so many applications. If enough people are interested, I have no problem creating one.

Basically, I’d make a Slack group for all of us. If you’ve never heard of it, it’s one of the most useful sites I’ve ever encountered; it has a group chat, and you can create subchats (e.g. by region, or by House, or by category–head canons, prompts, rp I suppose for those of you into that, etc) as well. You can send files directly through the site, so you can private chat people if you want (think of talking to your beta in real-time and sending them your fic’s draft and then flicking over to the next chat and your friend can send you their wip graphic, for example. It’s essentially a less glitchy Skype without a download and with more organisational capabilities). 

What I’m getting at is, it’s extremely convenient, and would essentially be a fandom-wide IM group with highly customisable ‘folders’. So you could give me your House and I’d give you access to your Common Room’s ‘folder’ and you could even chat to your House mates. 

This is just an off-the-cuff idea and I’m literally typing whatever comes to mind at the moment, but really if you are all interested, then I think it would be worth it! Think about it, as popular of a ship as we are, the fandom is still dwindling. This could strengthen it and make things fun in a really new way.

With that said, I would be doing this for the fandom so I’m 100% open to any suggestions you may have. :) I’m also open to the idea of allowing different ‘folders’ or chat groups, rather, for other ships if non-Dramione shippers want to join, too! But the central theme would be Dramione.

Again, this is just me talking off the top of my head because I’ve seen an interest in the tags for DHr buddies, and really–from experience I’ve seen that we’re a rather shy group. So this could be fun for all of you, yeah?

So if you ARE interested, please let me know. This simply wouldn’t be practical if only around five of you wanted something like this.

And if you have any questions or suggestions, let me know! I’ve used Slack for political organising before so I’m reasonably familiar with it, but I know it’s still relatively unheard of.