I’ve decided I need a space for my daily spiritual workings. I love my formal grimoire (bottom), but it doesn’t really allow for working things out. I have a daily planner (middle) but that is more for my work and social life. So I invested in a travelers journal (middle) that will allow me to rotate through bullet journals. I spent a good part of the morning painting the covers of each book, so photos to come soon!
During our campaign Andrea Klassen (our Certified Journalist on the team and co-writer/producer for Station to Station) did interviews with the creative teams of all our shows. In case folks on the tumble missed it, we’re also posting it here!
Below the cut:Station to Station
writer’s room insider with Alex Yun and Andrea Klassen on inspiration, horror, and representation in genre fiction.
When Dr Miranda Quan embarks on an 10-week research cruise in the Pacific Ocean, she expects two months of no-nonsense experiments, bad Titanic jokes and marathoning Grey’s Anatomy. Instead, her lab partner has vanished, leaving nothing but a notebook full of illogical ramblings, a voice recorder, and a half-finished maths problem she has to solve. With a storm moving in and something sinister lurking below decks, Miranda must untangle the conspiracy surrounding her or be consumed.
AK: It’s really satisfying to write women who get to be flawed heroes in all the ways male protagonists do too. With moments of bad judgement and moral conflict and selfishness and stubbornness. Also as a queer woman it’s… just nice to get write characters whose stories aren’t tied to homophobia — where someone can have a crush on another woman, but that’s not the source of conflict the way horrifying science conspiracies are.
AY: Exactly. And the reason that we do this — the point of PPN — is to create narrative space for ourselves in genre fiction, be it horror or sci-fi or fantasy, where we are allowed to take up that space and drive that narrative. We deserve to be front and centre, to have our stories not end in tragedy, to have stories that doesn’t just mimic the current way the media treats marginalised identities. It is not niche to put non-white, non-straight bodies into narratives that have been historically excluding of them.
The idea that diverse stories are less appealing is based on constructed ideas of what “the norm” looks like - it’s tied to the experience of what it means to be the “default” and what it means to be the Other.
A/n: I have so much stuff to do and I told myself I wouldn’t write this all now. I clearly lied to myself. I hope you all enjoy this, it’s a bit random. I love you all and have an incredible day
Summary: The reader has writer’s block and Newt helps them as they start to feel down about their abilities and passion
Warnings: fluffy stuff, all the fluffy stuff
This was edited again because certain things did not appear when I originally posted it
The window remained open in your flat as the sounds of people walking and cars whirring filled the atmosphere with a clever combination of business and daily life. Spring sunlight sifted into the room and lit up the walls. Your fingers rapidly punched away on your typewriter, ideas and words flowing from your fingertips and onto the white surface of the paper. The ink spun into words and phrases, ultimately adding the plot of the story that you had fostered inside the realms of your imagination. Clicks and clacks reverberated off the walls of your study area, and this attracted a certain Hufflepuff to enter.
“Still working on that chapter, love?”
“Unfortunately,” you muttered as you slumped your head down onto your desk, causing a stack of your notebooks to tumble to the floor.
With a drained groan, you reached down to collect them, however, a slight breeze had decided to remain out of your favor, thus resulting in some of the looser papers to lift up and float around the room. Newt began to collect the ones that had soared taller than your height, and he gently handed them back to you so that they could be added to the pile in your hand.
“Thank you Newt,” you said. You put them on the desk and returned back into Newts arms and leaned against his chest in frustration. You let a sigh escape, as you had been experiencing a bit of what was classified as “writer’s block.” Newt kissed the top of your head and rubbed your back lovingly. He knew you were stressed, he could see it when you woke up and when you crashed on your desk after pulling an all-nighter. He combed his long finders through your hair, earning a moan of content from your hidden face.
Newt remembered the day you two had first run into one another. He had stopped by a tea and coffee shop in New York out of curiosity and because it was quite cold out and he found himself in need of something to warm himself up. He fixed his coat and opened the door, instantly being hit with a scent of ground coffee and fresh bread. Out of the corner of his eye sat you, focused on writing inside of a notebook.
Newt was enamored with the sight of you. The way that your hair covered your (eye color) eyes and your gentle lips curved in concentration provoked a sense of attraction. It was if an invisible string had been wrapped around his heart and tugged on, telling him to be pulled closer to you. Not only that, but the scene of you being so involved in your writing also intrigued him immensely. It was as if you were lost in your own little world, unknown to you surroundings, unattached to the real world, and that to him, was beautiful. He wasn’t one to believe in love at first sight, for his heart had been shattered before, but he couldn’t push the new found feelings away. He felt like he was a giddy student again, and he couldn’t fathom exactly why. How is it that without a simple introduction, you still had this effect on him?
He wasn’t even sure as to what your personality was like. Were you kind? Were you aggressive? Were you snobbish or prude or angelic? Do you laugh at people in pain or do you help them out? What if you hated animals?
Newt had pulled himself out of the trance and turned back to the counter where a young man was asking him if he was ordering anything. Not wanting to look like a lost lunatic, he settled on ordering a cup of tea. Maybe after he would have the courage to talk to you. He placed the order and paid, but when he turned back around to look at where you were sitting, you had left. He felt slightly down, for his chance had slipped past him.
He decided to sit down to enjoy his tea anyways. He didn’t want it to go to waste like his chance to speak to you had. Once he was finished, he prepared himself to leave by fixing his coat and such and he headed towards the door. He moved through the small crowd of people, but his body had collided with someone. It was you.
“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going and I kind of came in here bustling because I left my notebook and now I’m rambling.”
Newt’s heart fluttered. You weren’t mean or rude at all, you were simply sweet, like icing on a cake.
“It’s alright, I wasn’t watching where I was going either,” he said, earning a small smile from you. Your cheeks turned rosy and his heart started to skip beats at a time.
The two of you had begun talking once more, as you both ended up exiting the same way and walking along the same sidewalk. You talked for an hour or so before you reached your home, and Newt bid you a farewell after asking if you would join him at the shop again. You happily agreed.
Months sped by and after many dates, many kisses, and a few run-ins with MACUSA, he asked you to run away with him back to England. He couldn’t help the fact that he was falling in love with you, but you were a muggle, or No Maj in America. You knew of the wizarding world, and you couldn’t help holding in your love either. So you went with him, even though he doubted you would come. You got a new job as a small writer for a local paper and you moved in with Newt, leaving the two of you more in love than ever.
This brought you to where you were now, grabbing coffee and publishing small works by day, writing you novel by night. Newt knew how passionate about writing you were, he had seen the notes and ideas scribbled and edited in your notebooks, but he also knew what a toll it had on your life.
You often had moments of insecurity, doubting your skills and aspirations, and this happened to be one of those times.
“Newt I just can’t seem to make the plot interesting,” you mumbled, still snuggling into him. The block was agonizing to you, even if you didn’t necessarily show it.
“Darling, you’re an incredible and creative writer, I’m sure whatever you choose the plot will be fantastic.”
“But maybe, maybe I should just stop.”
Newt ceased rubbing your back and peered down at you in confusion. “Love. What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?”
“Newt do you really think that I can do this? That I can write something that people will actually pick up and buy and think is good? Because honestly maybe this is all just a waste of time.”
“Really Newt, writing a book was the worst thing I could have done. It’s all a bunch of nothing anyways. I’m not like you, I can’t write a book. I can’t do this. I was too foolish to think I could actually make something in this, this stupid world.”
By now you were hyperventilating and flailing your arms in a mix of frustration and anger and sadness all directed towards yourself. You had always questioned your ability to achieve a finished novel, one that could be out in the world, and all the nights of pondering about the outcome had kept you up.
Newt however did not understand how you had come to feel like this. He had read your short stories and poems before, and he thought they were wonderful. He thought so, and the beasts thought so too. It broke his heart to see you upset over your insecurity in your own passion. He knew you desired his more than anything, and he didn’t want to see you just throw it all away to run errands and write coverage on town events the rest of your life. Your talent, in his opinion, was too great and extravagant for such minor tasks.
“Y/n, listen to me,” he whispered to calm you down. He held your arms and lowered them back to your sides, looking at you right in the eyes.
“Darling I know but please, just listen.”
You silenced yourself and stared back with empty yet teary eyes. Newt continued on while wiping them away.
“Ever since the day I met you, I knew you had something that a lot of people at your work lack, and that, my wonderfully amazing and beautiful darling, is passion. You create worlds and pull people’s emotions in ways that some can only dream of. You are not ‘wasting your time’ at all, and your aspirations are nothing short of incredible. I love you, and I remember falling in love with someone who had a sparkle in their eye and couldn’t tear their hand away from writing stories and such. I fell in love with the most talented and astounding and passionate person.”
Newt scooped you up and twirled you around in his arms, to which you did giggle slightly before he went on.
“Y/n, whatever you write, will be so well written that people all over England, even all over America, won’t want to put it down. You amaze me every day, and I don’t want to have you think for a minute that you aren’t stunning at what you do.”
Newt beamed at you. He truly was proud of you, and he meant every word. Tears began to spill again from your eyes again, and he was worried, but then he realized that they were in fact happy tears.
“T-Thank you, Newt,” you murmured as you leaned up his towering frame to kiss you. He noticed this and hoisted you up in his arms to kiss you passionately.
“I love you darling, please don’t doubt yourself or your creativity ever again. It’s not right to do that to yourself when it’s so obvious that your work is beautiful, just like you are.”
He nuzzled his nose against yours, and for the first time that day, a genuine smile of cheer graced over your lips.
Clicks and clacks of inspiration filled the atmosphere hours later after Newt had made you take a nap with him. After getting rest that you deserved, you popped back up and ran to your typewriter. Newt had never seen you move so fast, and he had never seen you type so fast either. He followed you, in a slower pace, and observed you allowing your fingers to dance rhythmically over each key. He leaned down to kiss you and he cleared all the empty mugs away from your desk. You kissed him back, you smooth warm lips over his chapped ones packing in the love you felt towards the incredible man.
Newt exited the room and rinsed the abandoned mugs. He had a feeling that your writer’s block had been cured, all you needed was a bit of confidence and some sweet affection. Your frenzy and flowing of new ideas was evident, and he smiled at himself as the cool water ran over his fingers. You always had the inspiration and passion in you, he was aware of that. It was in all of your work. The inspiration for this story you had devoted your life to though, had just now seemed to fall into place. You were in your own world once more, your fingers creating the clicking and clacking that would craft your soon to be debut novel.
Almost every day I write in my journal. Sometimes I pull out an old notebook, a journal from a few weeks or many years ago, and read what I have written. I reacquaint myself with myself - a past self, a younger self, a different self. Often I recognize her, understand her, and see how she got to this moment, and became this me. Other times I feel as if I have picked up the journal of a stranger. That is such a shocking experience. To not know oneself, a self stuck in a moment of time, someone that got left behind - that is scary. But it is also exciting. It feels voyeuristic. How could this person write about such emotions, share these odd thoughts, reveal so much that should stay hidden? I read, having to remind myself that it is I who felt this way, was this way. It is good to shock oneself. It is good to haunt oneself. It is good to remind oneself that there can be the inexplicable. I can too often get comfortable, haughty in my sense of self-awareness.
This mess of neurons encased in bone, that rides atop my body, is quite familiar, and completely alien, to me.
Thirty-plus years of scribbling in a journal…
Today I will scribble some more. One day I may wonder “who the hell was that?”