idk man, i kinda wanna be in a punk band and have tattoos and listen to rock music, but i also wanna be indie and have like a flower shop or a coffee shop or something, but i also wanna be a teacher or something and get a degree and make my parents proud, but i also wanna be a comic book artist and go to art school even though i can’t draw, but i also wanna be nothing at all because fuck everything, it’s not worth it, ya feel?
After an hour at the dog park, I stopped off at a gas station for snacks. Parked next to us was a car with an elderly woman in the passenger seat. She beamed as she noticed Bear. Her husband was just coming out of the shop as I got out of the car, and exclaimed, “Your German Shepherd looks just like one I used to have!”
He said hello to Bear through the cracked window, and got his fingers licked. He was grinning. He said they’d lost their last GSD five years ago.
I am always amazed by how dogs bring people together.
I think, for a long time, I was scared to write what I really wanted to put down on paper or post for others to see. I was so intent on making the audience happy that I forgot that my writing, my plots, and characterization really affects me more than anyone else.
It took me about a year to come to the realization that I write for me–I’m the one who sits up in bed at ass o'clock in the morning, writing and jotting down ideas in my documents. I’m the one who thinks of the plot twists and specific adjectives that would really brightened the scene, simply because I like them. I like that word, that sentence, that phrase, that character, so I’m going to write it like this–it’s for me. I write for me.
I share my writing because that also makes me happy. I share my plot twists because I want others to see what I did, to enjoy what I enjoy.
Always, always write for yourself. Write that thriller, that comedy, that romance. Abuse that trope, and cliche, because if you enjoy it, that’s all you need.
Write for yourself. And share it with others, if that will make you happy.
There is an old alleyway,
Just a stone’s throw away from where I used to live,
Terrifying after dark,
But there’s something beautiful about the hideous,
Underneath the dim and dull yellowed lamplight.
It’s incandescence washes the old metal trashcans,
No polishes the dumpster forgotten by the city.
The stray cats no longer hissing,
Given up on breaking the heart of that sickeningly sweet ailurophile down the way.
No longer does that wretched old alleyway look sinister.
But never will it be.
Us natives know what’s happened in that alleyway,
And why no one has tried to clear it,
Why it is no longer habituated by those who have no where to call home.
A slightly spooky poem thing I wrote a while ago
summary: 21. “i have to make out with someone for the play and oh dear god it’s that attractive arsehole i wanted to murder yesterday” au. requested by
in-spirational, and an Anonymous.
word count: ~ 3,000
a/n: YOU DON’T KNOW HOW LONG THIS TOOK ME BUT THE MOMENT I STARTED ANOTHER ONE I FINISHED IN 2 HOURS
She’s been hoping all
day that nothing goes wrong with her audition, and she is ecstatic when the
roles are posted up and she sees her name listed besides the protagonist. The
entire day prior to auditions was spent worrying and nearly kicking this British
guy in the balls because he’d been bothering her while she was going through
her lines over and over.
There’s a casting call
at the end of the day, and when she heads there, she wants to gouge her
eyes out because the guy she’s wanted to not see is standing there talking to
other members of the cast for this play.
Inhaling a deep breath,
it apparently catches his eye and they lock gazes, a knowing smirk on his face
and an annoyed one on hers. His name includes Jones, or something, but Emma
doesn’t like him very much. Too cocky, some gigantic ego, it’s just not the
type of person she likes. (Yet how she managed to tolerate him yesterday is
beyond her own understanding. But she did want to murder him at some point,
too, just that she’d never ended up doing so.) (Not that she was going
to murder him.)
again,” he greets enthusiastically, that smirk still plastered on his
She really wants to
(She expects herself to
during some point if he’s involved with the play.)
(She may get
kicked out and replaced if she does, though.)
“I guess we
do,” she responds, putting up one of her smiles that doesn’t scream
excitement of any sorts. “But, why are you here?”
“Got casted for the
Captain of course,” he proudly exclaims.