watch something awful happens in book 2 that i have not read that would make this ruined

You’ll Be There

Request: “Hi I was wondering if you could write a Neville longbottom x metamorphmagus!reader? Where the reader likes to hang around Neville and likes to listen to him talking about the different plants and he notices that hair changes colors when she around him but it stays the same natural color when they are around other people.”

Pairing: Neville Longbottom

Word Count: 1464

Warnings: None

A/n: sorry if this sucks - first time writing this character :)


Today your hair was its natural colour. But to use the word “natural” was somewhat stretching the definition. On normal days, your hair dulled to a brownish-purple colour. Your mother, who had passed down this strange gene, had said that the colour must’ve reflected your content moods. You soon learned in your early days that your hair was a literal mood ring, displaying your emotions for the entire world to see. And you hated it.

You were lucky to have no one tease you for your natural trait, although many handled you with caution when your hair flared a deep red. Friends would often come up and ask you what was wrong if your hair was a sorrowful blue. The only time you felt that people were totally comfortable around you was when your hair was the dark purplish hue that it subjected most of the time. You remembered your first years at Hogwarts, concealing the colour with a hat all the time. Since then you had become more comfortable with the fact that your feelings were an open book, although you still felt a pang of embarrassment whenever you were reminded of it.

It all seemed to change when you met a shy boy in fourth year.

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Saved by the Bell: Chapter 1

Originally posted by bangtanroyalty

Taehyung!HighSchoolTeacher AU

Taehyung x Reader

I’ll add links to chapters here later.

Word Count: 7253

Genre: Fluff, future angst, aaaaannnnddd what I know all you hoes are after: future smut (hahaha not that I can say much).

Summary: Being a teacher is not easy, especially when you’re teaching emotional, hormonal teenagers who don’t give a flying fuck about school. What’s even worse is when you have to deal with all of the dumb drama that comes with being human and unfortunately still very active in society. Taehyung is one of those people who makes your life more stressful than it should be, and his constant teasing is one day going to be too much, you’re sure of it. What you’re not sure of, however, is how you feel about him.

A/N: Guess who’s back??? That’s right peeps! This would have been uploaded yesterday, but my flight got grounded, so I got in last night… Anywho, this may be a surprise, but it is not the surprise. That’s still in progress haha… Other fics and requests are also in progress, so I’m hoping you guys won’t have to wait forever! I’ve been wanting to write this one since last November (along with others that I will announce later, so be prepared!), and I finally got inspiration to write it, so it here it is! Enjoy!

Song: What You Know by Two Door Cinema


Why did every day start like this?

“Goood morning Ms. Y/L/N!” Taehyung drawls with a wide grin set on his visage as he sidles up beside you with his usual black and white travel mug filled with steaming dark roast.

You roll your eyes at his repetitiveness, responding with the usual sigh and snub as every day before, choosing not to take the bait that his choice of words always tempted.

Taehyung scoffed, blatant insincerity spread across his features. “Tsk tsk Ms. Y/L/N. are you really going to not respond to your beloved co-worker? How very rude of you…” Taehyung clicks his tongue in disapproval of your actions, or lack thereof, and steps in front of you in attempt to stop your futile efforts of escape.

“Now, now Miss. There is no need for such rude behavior so early in the morning! What have I ever done to deserve as such?” Taehyung grasps at his heart with his free hand, clutching tightly to the striped button up as if he were truly holding on to his “hurt feelings.”

You roll your eyes, and step around him, not willing to give in to his ridiculous act. “Taehyung, you know exactly why we go through this every morning, but I will admit that in fact, I do not, and this repetitiveness is making me dizzy. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d rather like to escape your aggravating throes, and arrive in my classroom in good humor (not that I really can now, seeing as you have already ruined my high spirits this once-fine morning).”

Taehyung gasps in false anguish, allowing you to pass him, but continues to trail on your heels in hopes of achieving further aggravation on your part (at least, that’s what you believed he was doing).

“Ms. Y/L/N, I would never intentionally ruin your morning, let alone your typically wonderful temperament, seeing as you are usually so… Pleasant.”

You stop walking, eye twitching in annoyance as you turn sharply in the direction of Taehyung.

“Mr. Kim, I sincerely hope that you are not implying what I think you are. That would be rather rude of you to do so in light of the general rules of human decency.”

Taehyung raises an eyebrow, an infuriating smirk clear on his equally maddeningly attractive face. “Oho? Is that so? Well, would you be so kind as to enlighten me on what you think I might be attempting to imply?”

Your eye twitches again, and you pull your arms across your chest in a defensive stance, your foot tapping in impatience upon the grimy school tile floor.

“You seem to be implying that I have a bad temperament. Am I incorrect?”

Taehyung’s eyes widen at the accusation. “Oh no, I would never say such a thing about someone as lovely as you, Ms. Y/L/N! You must have misunderstood my emphasis on the word pleasant! It was meant as a compliment!” He smiles at you knowingly, and your rage flares at the realization.

You huff, and turn on your heel to stomp off in the direction of your classroom. “Whatever Kim!” You yell behind you, hearing a deep chuckle resonate down the hallway, vibrating through your body, and you shiver.

Bastard.

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Story of Another Us (Part 2)

Word Count: 3841

 

A/M: I would highly recommend you read Part One before reading this if you haven’t already because then things will make sense. This is the conclusion of this story so I hope you enjoy. It’s a story about the one who got away. I got inspired to write this from a prompt post with the quote: “I never should have let you go”. Hope you like it! Tell me if you do Xx


—Years ago—

The new school year had started, senior year. 

Over the summer break you and Harry hadn’t seen each other very often, but every other time you’d text each other and things continued to be fun and casual between you both. You were friends and nothing more, and you loved and valued his friendship more than anything. 

Every so often you would still have your alone times together in the mornings and afternoon. Though the morning meetings grew less and less, as he found himself more often sleeping in, he would still try to visit you just before class if he got to school in time. 

You felt yourself blush every time he’d come to visit you, and though you didn’t want anything to come between your friendship, you wanted very badly for him to be your boyfriend. You just didn’t know how to ask him, and the thought of an actual relationship made your stomach flip. 

As the months went on, you refused to tell anyone of your crush on Harry. Except for your best friend who had long since realized your feelings for him. You just felt way too shy to tell anyone about it, or risk ruining your friendship with him. 

Though in the back of your mind, something was telling you that he wouldn’t say no if you had told him that you liked him. 

Even with schedule switches from the new year, you and your best friend still had the same lunch. But your friend had invited someone else to your lunch table. Another girl. Naomi. 

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Greased. - Chap.3 - Steve & Bucky x Readers - Series

Originally posted by coporolight

Originally posted by lookprettyliveclassyplaydirty

A/N - I’m so looking forward to writing the next chapter. All feedback is appreciated :) Also requests are always open.

-Imagine Grease but in reverse. It’s the 50s and two best friends are in The Widows gang, a group of not so friendly girls. They  fall for the not so dumb jock and the other a class clown. This could only go wrong.  50s College AU

 
Steve x Reader
Bucky x OC - Bucky changes now he can brag about sleeping with Rachel. Steve accepts readers proposal of going to the dance together. And Tom finally makes an appearance.

Warnings: Just cursing in this one

(Chapt. 1) (Chapt.2)

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frosted-shadows  asked:

I just can't get over how in acomaf Feyre was taken back to the spring court and then when acowar started it has already been a month and when we get to nesta she never even wondered where Feyre was or cared that she was gone! I can't stand nesta

Jeeesh this came out soooo long. My apologies in advance. Seriously, grab some snacks…take a trip to the bathroom and then begin.  

Okay, this is tough for me because I have a lady boner for Nesta. I do, I’m sorry–that’s so weird to say but it’s true. 

I totally understand what you’re saying! I honestly do. However…that’s right, I just said “however”. Put yourself in Nesta’s shoes.

1) She had already failed Feyre–she knows this. It’s evident in ACOMAF, especially when Nesta admits that she tried to go after Feyre but couldn’t save her. When she admits that she was angry at their father and would let them all starve if it meant he would get off his ass and do something. There’s red flags everywhere when it comes to Nesta.   


2) When they’re kidnapped by Ianthe (and gods only know what happened while they were being taken and the horrors they witnessed then) because of Feyre. Yes, that is Feyre’s fault–she even admits how it’s her fault because she gave all that information to Ianthe. 

These two girls, with no powers and no fighting abilities are taken from their home and transported to a foreign place. Again, we don’t know what they endured to get to that point. Could you imagine? Being kidnapped by that psycho slut Ianthe?? Then to be sent to Hybern? Then to be stuck in a room, watching everyone who swore to protect you–do nothing?  


3) They get transformed into the one thing they fear most. Fae. Elain and Nesta have been taught their entire lives to not only hate, but to fear Fae. It’s been driven into them since birth. In ACOMAF, Nesta is tortured by watching Elain get thrown into a cauldron that hasn’t been tested before (successfully at least). 

So, not only has she failed Feyre, she has also failed Elain. She couldn’t keep either of them safe and has doomed them to a life none of them originally wanted. She watched helplessly as Feyre was frozen, Elain was damned and Cassian nearly shredded to death. Imagine, just imagine what that must feel like. Your loved ones being taken away from you in every possible way. 

NEXT, Nesta is thrown into the cauldron. She doesn’t even know if she’ll survive it!

Whatever she faced in there–she didn’t come back as the same person. It’s noticed by the entire room. She can’t control what she’s become, she can’t make sense of it. All she can do is run to Elain and protect her from whatever else will be thrown their way. 

Feyre has made it perfectly clear that she is more than capable of handling life on her own. But not Elain. 


4) YET, despite having this terrible childhood, being transformed into Fae and realizing you’re the villain in your own narrative–she still attempts to redeem herself in ACOWAR. And in my opinion, she does. 

She tries with Feyre and Elain and then goes above and beyond with Cassian. A man who can’t figure out what the hell he wants because he’s so damned horrified to love someone who could feel far more than others. AND STILL SHE STAYS WITH HIM. Nesta chooses him, to protect the man who failed her. And when she can’t protect him any longer, this chick, ms.coldheartedbitch…chooses to stay behind and DIE with him. 

Heartstrings are pulled and plucked until nothing remains in my chest, dear lawwwd. 

And let us not forget, she watches their father come to her rescue only to die in front of her as she helplessly stood by…unable to react quick enough as Hybern snaps his neck.  

This bitch has been through enough. I AM TIRED FOR HER. I AM BROKEN FOR HER.


5) When they’re thrown into the House of Wind, when they’re basically prisoners in a foreign land (yet again, I might mention)–she’s trying to protect the sister who has finally gone mad (or becomes a seer–depends how far you read in ACOWAR–P.S. SPOILER). They’re surrounded by people they barely know, people who failed them just as much as they failed Feyre. She’s adjusting to becoming Fae, adjusting to the trauma not only she endured but her sister too. 

She’s broken. In every sense of the word, she is broken because she was never shown love. She may have been the older sister, she may have done awful things…but Feyre and Elain weren’t much better to her either.  

Two. Way. Street. 

OH…and let me just add, she is thrown into a palace where the people HATE her. They HATE what she has done to Feyre. They HATE her yet none of them bothered to ask why she is the way she is. Instead, she’s the enemy because Feyre was the one who told her side of the story first. Feyre set up her own sister to be judged and mistreated. 

IMAGINE…walking into a room and knowing everyone in there hates you because of your mistakes and flaws. She’s what? 23? At 23 (not that long ago for me…aw…sad day), I know for a fact I would be more of a mess than this column of steel beauty. 


6) Finally, yes, Nesta can be a raging bitch (my favorite kind). But my hell, the woman is more human and more relatable than any character in these books. Why? Because she has flaws. Real, human flaws. As much as I love Feyre and Elain and every other woman in this series, not one of them has the qualities that most of us have…except her. 

She knows who she is. She KNOWS she’s the villain. Yet she tries to change her fate, her destiny. 

She tries.

Putting myself in Nesta’s shoes…no, I wouldn’t ask how Feyre is. Why would I when the remaining stable parts of my world had just shattered? When it was more important for her to ruin Tamlin’s court than it was for her to be with her family? She didn’t need to mess with Tamlin. In fact, that only made things worse for them during ACOWAR. Feyre did it because she wanted revenge on Tamlin (as we all did). 

You may not like her, love and that’s perfectly okay! BUT, she’s perfection to me. And I would go down swinging for my wickedly flawed Nesta than Feyre any day. 

P.S. I’m sure this came across super intense, not my intention. Just know, you’re still my boo and I promise I wasn’t yelling as I typed this. haha.      

30 Day Character Drawing Challenge

I’ve been blank on my drawing ideas lately (and by blank I mean I’ve just got so many ideas  I can’t seem to make up my mind about which one to do first) so, in an attempt to fix that, I’m creating a 30 Day Drawing Challenge.

Anyhow, here’s the challenge:

Day 1 - Draw yourself however you want (future, past, present, steampunk, fantasy, noir, post-apocalyptic, etc)

Day 2 - A couple just survived the whole apocalypse and are now living in a post-apocalyptic world. Draw them. 

Day 3 - DYNAMIC TIME! Draw a super secret spy jumping from an explosion!

Day 4 - A mysterious outlaw just arrived to the Old West. What is he looking for? Was he a ranger? Was he a robber? What if that outlaw is actually a she? Draw this outlaw cowboy walking all mysteriously into frame. 

Day 5 - Yargh! What brings you to these salty waters, small fry? Is it fortune you seek? Power? Adventure? Because, believe me, in these waters what you’ll want the most is to get out alive… Draw yourself as a badass pirate! 

Day 6 - Earth. Fire. Air. Water… using any of these elements create an Avatar. He/She can be from the past or even from the future! 

Day 7 - This ain’t no place for no hero to call home… A waste planet… you’re exiled to that planet full of psychopaths and mercenaries. Draw a fictional character (or yourself, if you prefer) living in that planet. Pssht… look for Borderlands for a very good example of what I’m talking about.

Day 8 - You must have a favourite superhero or character, right? Imagine that character just grew fond of a kid and he/she lends him/her one of that character’s accesories (a mask, a helmet, a vest, a weapon, etc).  Draw that kid wearing the accesory. 

Day 9 - This next drawing is all about staying positive. Your next character is sailing aimlessly on a small boat in the middle of the ocean. How is that person killing time? 

Day 10 - VANDALISM! Draw a scene where a street artist is being chased by the athorities. Let your imagination fly away, what if instead of a city, they’re in a flying city? or an underwater city? or SPACE!? 

Day 11 - Draw a cat on an unusual place. Come on ;) you’ll come up with something. 

Day 12 - Time for space traveling. Draw a whole space squad. They can be soldiers, mercenaries, outlaws, bandits, hijackers… but remember they’re in space so think of some fancy equipment to help them breathe and move around!

Day 13 You’re a wizard, Harry! … or at least what you’ll be drawing is a wizard. Don’t go with the typical hat and long robe. Think differently. How would a wizard look in the present? The future? the 50’s? 

Day 14 - Urban kids having adventures? Choose any city from around the world: London, Rio de Janeiro, Mexico City, New York, Spain, Istanbul, Dubai… really, there’s like a million cities all around the world. 

Day 15 - I’m just curious… how was your day? Create a 3-panel comic (at least) describing something funny, curious, unusual, or crazy that happened to you this week. 

Day 16 - The ever-lasting fight between a liberator and a tyrant. Draw them both in their final showdown. Whoever wins is up to you!

Day 17 - Peace. That’s all I’m saying. 

Day 18 - There are thousands of visual representations of Death… but this day you’re changing that number to a thousand and one. 

Day 19 - The good… the bad… and the worse… draw yourself as a creature hunter or as a mythical creature. Just… make sure you don’t sparkle.

Day 20 - Everyone rips what they sow. Draw a king or a queen watching over his/her kingdom. Whether the kingdom is at peace, destroyed, or under attack… that’s your decision. 

Day 21 The night was dark… darker than usual. My face got wet when I looked up as the droplets of rain water landed on my skin. Noir time… draw a character, which ever gender, on a Noir-themed style. 

Day 22 I don’t kill for money…  I grant a trash disposal service where people are kind enough to give me money afterwards… alright I kill people, sue me if you dare. Draw a modern day hired assassin or hitman. 

Day 23 Brrraaaaaaiiiiinssssssss…… It’s the zombie-apocalypse! Grab your closest friends and survive… unless… you know… you’re already dead (or UNdead?).

Day 24 - Every boy/girl who aspires on becoming the greatest engineer ever needs a companion… a robo-companion designed and built by themselves…. do it. 

Day 25 - Geez, you’re almost done. How’s your imagination going? Let’s keep it down a bit… by turning the music up! Wub wub! Today you’re going to choose your favourite album from your favourite band and you’re re-designing their album art-cover with a drawing of your own. So start listening or start… hum… wait, I got this… blitzening/shiverning/ whatever… just do it :) I trust you. 

Day 26 Reading’s important, kid! Not all monsters are evil. Draw your favourite monster reading a children’s book to several children. Aw, come on, it’ll be cute. 

Day 27 People get old… that’s just nature’s way of saying nothing lasts forever. And that’s true… today you’ll choose any of the characters you drew from this chalenge and draw him/her again but as an old retired person. Bring them some closure. 

Day 28 It’s… c-cold… out here…. draw a character living on an extremely cold climate. He doesn’t need to be shivering, but we must be able to tell that he’s not, precisely, in a warm place. 

Day 29 Adventure Time… not the cartoon tho! You will be creating a character that enjoys piñas coladas and getting soaked in the rain… while climbing underground Mayan ruins to find lost artifacts that reanimate the dead. You know… typical Sunday afternoon. 

Day 30 You’re done… finally. But just remember, it’s not over. Thirty days of intense drawing and imaginating stuff and, guess what? You finally made it. Draw yourself in the most EPIC way possible at the top of a mountain, a city, a planet, I don’t care. You deserve it! 

So yeah, that’s it. I’m gonna be doing this challenge myself and if you guys want to do it, be my guest :) I’d be neat to see your work and what you did. So yeah :) good luck if you’re trying this. 

anonymous asked:

What are some of the characters (aside from Jaime) who you feel like aren't being done justice on the show? Also is there anyone you feel like is being done too much justice?

I’m going to try and give you quick, quippy answers for this, otherwise we will be here for the next 300 years and I have finals to work on. First things first, I don’t think that any character on Game of Thrones is fully the character that GRRM wrote in A Song of Ice and Fire. All of them have been essentialized in some way - and this makes sense, in some instances, because the show is so short compared to this long series of books. However, I think that some characters have clearly been given the short end of the stick, and I can talk about that. So here we go.

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5 Things (8/3/14)

Crawford/Glass

1. When I was around eight years-old, I pushed my cousin Crawford through a glass window.

I wasn’t angry with him. He wasn’t angry with me. It was an accident. We were in his room, on the second floor of the house, spinning to make ourselves dizzy.There was freedom in being disoriented. When we got dizzy enough, we pushed one another trying to make the other person lose their balance and fall. It was a game we played whenever I visited which seemed often, though I can’t remember for sure. 

I can’t recall the force behind my hands, but I remember the push. I remember the look on his face, how it changed when he went from falling down to falling out. His eyes got big, his mouth opened wide, there was no sound. I don’t remember hearing anything after the glass shattered. I remember his eyes. I remember his mother pulling him from the window frame, I remember the tiny red rivers traveling from his shoulders to the small of his back. I don’t remember moving. I don’t remember what came next.

We never played the spinning game again. Sometimes we went into the neighbor’s treehouse and Crawford would take off his shirt and let me stare at the scars. I don’t remember being punished for what I did, and I wonder if this is how I punished myself. I let my eyes follow the lines of hyper-pigmentation. I’d reach out to touch the keloid scars. My doing. My hands. My bad. I let the guilt wash over me. I would say sorry over and over until he’d put his shirt back on and tell me to stop.

“I’m not mad at you.”

The anniversary of Crawford’s death just passed. He was shot and killed in our hometown. I hadn’t seen him in years. I did not know him as an adult. We weren’t angry with each other, but our lives took drastically different paths. We were close in age, only months apart. As children, he was my closest link to my father’s side of our family. My brother and I sat in the front row at his funeral. We held hands and I cried into his shoulder. For a moment, it seemed our legs grew shorter, our hands smaller, and we had regressed significantly in age. I began to cry for the loss I would have felt when I was eight years-old. I did not know Crawford the man, but there was a boy who I pushed through a window. He showed me his scars in a treehouse and said over and over. “I’m not mad at you.” He said, 

“You’re my best friend.”

Nikki/Paris

2. Here’s the thing about family: they love you. Sometimes. They want the best for you. Sometimes. But sometimes they confuse what they want with what YOU should want, and that’s not your problem, baby. You are not selfish for wanting a life, an adventure, or the chance to be the full expression of yourself. You’re human and passionate and you’re good. You’re good and you’re okay. I don’t care how much it sounds like I got that from Oprah.

Families are important. I love mine to pieces. But if I’d listened to certain members of my family, I would be miserable. There are some things I’ve never wanted, and I’ve always been expected to want them. I don’t know how to explain that what I feel is as valid as what they feel. We are different, we have different desires, and me not wanting your version of my life won’t kill either of us. 

There is so much fucking life to be lived. There is a picture in my head, clear as day. There is a house, and a passport, and there is him.

I am living in that direction. 

Ashley/Joy - Spencer/Peace

3. When I am in a bad place emotionally or mentally, and I’m craving something beautiful to get me through a few more moments, I watch this. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that two of my closest friends are obsessed with beauty. Real beauty, all kinds, in many different perspectives. Both are always trying to get me to do a little more, care a little more, try a little more when it comes to how I present myself to the world. With me, they have small victories. With them, I am perpetually in awe. 

Lena/Bean

4. I’m writing a script for a television show and I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. I’m trying. There is an opportunity out there–MAYBE–and if I can do this right, if I could make it something good and decent and doable, maybe I can have something that I’ve secretly always wanted to do and never had the confidence to give my best effort.

There are few things I’ve given my best effort. In this way, I have been cowardly.

I have a big bad habit of saying no to myself before anyone else can say no to me. The past year, I’ve tried to get out of that habit. I’ve been trying. And it’s been…working. Good things are happening all of the time. Yes, there have been some bad things. Of course. But I don’t think my life is about striving for things to always be good. I think it’s about knowing the bad will come, and not letting it ruin the present. I think it’s letting the bad be. 

I would tell you more about this script, but there are some things I want to keep to myself for awhile. You understand.

Kelly/NYC

5. Kelly is reading “An Untamed State” and I am beginning to feel like a broken record. Do I talk about trauma here every week? I believe I do. I would apologize, but I am not interested in that tonight.

We talk about the book, because we must. It’s so deeply personal to me, I have to know how he is reacting to it. I love him. I want him to see me. I’ve said it before, but there is so much Miri in me. If he rejects her, if he rejects the book, I feel like he will reject me. This is nonsense. I know. But I’m lying to you. I don’t really know that the way I should.

Really I want him to see why I may sometimes be the way I am. He loves me this way, but there are things I can’t tell him as well as this story can show them. That was one of the most important things for me to see in this book. The distinct understanding that trauma forces you to love differently. Sometimes, you love people so much, you truly do believe you have to protect them from what you’ve become in the wake of that trauma. You’re not always unlovable, but perhaps, unsafe?

There is a thing between us. A chasm, A difference in emotional extremes. I know how far I can go. I know how dark I can get. I know what it looks like when something is broken inside you and because it isn’t visible, you suffer. You suffer from compound abuse, dismissiveness, and emotional neglect. I know what it feels like to watch the beloved walk away. Lucky me, his feet seem firmly planted.

He moves here after Christmas.

Better is better.

Originally I had planned to update this blog on a weekly basis during the writing of my book, Dark Days. My intent had been to provide a glimpse into the mind of a first-time author as he struggled his way through writing a first draft; grinding through the doubt, fear, and just plain old resistance to sitting down and facing the empty page day after day. From reading any of the numerous biographies of authors I have managed to compulsively accumulate over the years (because it’s much easier to read about writers than, you know, actually become one), I knew these difficulties were common place amongst those who write books. Over and over I read that all real writers faced them, and that they could become all-consuming, even crippling. But I am haughty, arrogant, and supremely self-assured much of the time, and I wasn’t worried in the slightest about all that “writerly” stuff. That kind of tortured artist crap was for introverted and socially awkward men and women in black turtle necks who sat around sipping lattes while reading obscure literary journals, not burly-tattooed-no-shit-taking-skateboard-riding-old-school-punk-rock-listening-hundred-thousand-person-festival-crowd-rocking-round-the-world-touring-ultra-gnar dudes such as myself. I was ready for any of the whiney bs I knew I might throw at myself in order to distract me from the job at hand: writing the damn book. And not only would I pop the top on a tall boy can of whoop-ass right in the grill of any and all self-imposed hurdles to completing the book, I would simultaneously blog about how I effortlessly crushed these puny obstacles beneath my size 11 Vans as I stomped my way into literary history.

“Ah, yes- surely these things will come,” I thought, “but I will USE them. I will be the exception to the rule. I already KNOW about the creative process from being in a successful band, I already KNOW about pushing through the uninspired slumps and just making it happen, I already KNOW about the staring down the blank page. Hell, I’ve been busting my ass for twenty years with lamb of god, I’ve been to prison in a foreign country, I even quit drinking cold turkey after a twenty-two year bender- I wrote during all of that, now I’m in a good place with some time to myself, and this book writing thing is gonna be a breeze in comparison. I’ll write this thing and blog about how it’s really no big deal at the same time- I’m gonna show these motherfuckers how it’s done. It’s clobberin’ time.”

Then I sat back, a smug smile plastered across my face, and started day dreaming about the second book deal I would get from this blog. Surely someone (my agent, or maybe even my editor) would read all my no-nonsense, beautifully crafted, astonishingly insightful posts detailing how I smashed the crap out of the stuff that brings most bitch-ass writers to a grinding, weeping, self-loathing halt. They would behold my stentorian yet graceful electronic proclamations with wondrous eyes, thinking “Jesus, why aren’t all the writers I deal with like this dude? All they ever do is complain about how hard it is to write a lousy book. I mean c’mon- how difficult can it be to type a bunch of crap? This guy is practically writing two books at once! We really need to put all these posts together and publish them. Mental note: talk to the boss about getting Blythe a huge advance, like yesterday, before someone else shoves a contract in his hands.” Yes, after I had simultaneously written my book and laid out my writing process on the interwebs during the three or four months it would take me to bang out my first draft, it would only be a matter of time before the offers for speaking engagements at Columbia, Oxford, and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop would start pouring in. One or two measly blog posts a week written during downtime from the book would be a piece of cake.

I must have been out of my fucking mind.

As I sat down each day to work on Dark Days, I very swiftly realized that there was no way in hell I was going to be able to do much of anything at all except write my book while I was writing my book. Writing a book is not easy. Not at all. And despite the fact that I am, indeed, intimately familiar with one variety of the creative process after making several records with my band, the process of writing a book is vastly different from getting together with four other dudes to write and record an album. In my experience, writing a book makes writing a record look like a joke in comparison. And if you do it like I did it, with no cowriter or ghostwriter or underwriter or whatever they are called these days, then you do it 100% alone. That means when something sucks, it’s 100% your fault. There’s no chance of pawning off even one shitty sentence in your book on someone else. Unlike an album, where listeners sometimes exercise a great amount of leniency and tolerance for aspects of the music they don’t care for because of the things they do enjoy about the band (ie., “I don’t really care for the singer, but the drummer/guitarist/accordionist/kazooist/whateverist is amazing”), an author has nothing to offer to the audience but his own contribution to the book. A reader isn’t going to recommend your book to anyone else just because it has a few good paragraphs in the first chapter, or they really liked the epilogue. And unlike the collaborative effort that occurs in a band, you as the author can’t blame that particularly sucky self-indulgent part of your book on anyone but yourself. In a band, if a song just sucks (even if it’s your fault), you can always pass the buck and blame someone else: “This would have worked if it wasn’t for that stupid wanking guitar solo at the end,” or “If the drummer would have just played a straight beat like we wanted him to, the middle of this tune wouldn’t sound like he had epileptic fit in the studio,” or “This thing was a ripping jam until that douchebag singer came in and ruined it with his pretentious lyrics and awful screeching.” Then, when the album drops and people hate it, you can just sit back and take a long relaxing soak in a glorious hot tub of self-righteousness: “I tried to tell them, but those boneheads wouldn’t listen. Now look at ‘em.”

When your book drops, and people say it’s the worst thing to happen to the written word since the invention of the letter bomb, then that’s on you, Jack. Suck it up.

As a life-long fan of well-written books, I wanted very badly to produce one of my own. I didn’t want the ecowarriors fire bombing my house because a small forest had been sacrificed on the pulp mill altar to provide paper for my offensively bad memoir. I didn’t want to hold that first galley copy in my hand, thumb through it, and then start looking around for a suitable length of rope to hang myself with after realizing I had produced the written equivalent of the Yugo. I didn’t want to read reviews of my book that said “Like so many before him, D. Randall Blythe has fallen victim to the awful delusion so common amongst musicians these days: that he has something worth saying that can’t fit into a song. He should stick to his rather dubious and obviously singular talent- screaming like a mountain gorilla being castrated.” In short, I didn’t want my book to suck. So I worked very, very hard to make sure it didn’t suck. When I was writing, it felt like was I locked in deadly combat with myself. Nothing could go wrong, and every single word had to count. One little screw up, and my ass was grass. This took up a lot of time; in fact, it took up all of my time. If I wasn’t writing the book (which I did for hours and hours most days), I was thinking about writing the book. Every single morning when I woke up, the anxiety would immediately set in as soon as I realized I hadn’t finished the damn thing yet. The only time I wasn’t writing the book or thinking about writing the book was when I was asleep or surfing (surfing is an amazing way to clear the mind, and as I wrote my book one block from the ocean, I took full advantage of the days when there was decent swell in the Atlantic). Writing the book ate eight months of my life like a slice of pizza. Chomp, chomp- Oh fuck, it’s almost next year already. What just happened?

Contrary to my ridiculously self-assured assumptions, I did not write the book with the greatest of ease. I did not breeze through it with style and grace. I did not just sit down, start typing, and watch the words appear before me like magic. I struggled hard with it, every single step of the way. And not only did I fail abysmally to give the book writing process a Bruce Lee-like Fingers of Fury typing beat down, in very short order I began to manifest every clichéd writerly behavior I had ever read about. Wild mood swings. Long periods of depression. Inexplicable and overwhelming urges to get up from my desk and do housework. A bad case of Ye Olde Imposter Syndrome. Multiple trips to the grocery store in one day for entirely unnecessary single items, things like hot sauce and hummingbird feeder nectar. Lengthy journeys down the cyber-rabbit hole after I stopped writing to look up some historical tidbit pertinent to my book, only to wind up an hour or two later on some ridiculous website dedicated to some grotesque “fitness model” internet celebrity I had never heard of. The only two things I didn’t do that a lot of writers seemed compelled to do were: #1- drink way too much (I mastered that skill a long time ago) and, #2- become “blocked” (actually, I did have a two week period when I couldn’t bring myself to write a single sentence, but a friend very dear to my heart had just died, so I cut myself some slack there).

All that other neurotic “writer” crap took root in my life like crabgrass, though. Yes, I was one of them now. How ridiculous.

So while I did become a real writer (because there is a huge difference between real writers and those who dick around with words sometimes, as I had done before- more on that in a different post), I didn’t write about writing as I had planned. I just worked on my book, surfed when I couldn’t take looking at the screen anymore, and slept about six hours a night. And eventually I got the thing done. To be precise, I typed the last period at exactly 2:09 pm on October 1, 2014. Then I drove to one of the best seafood shacks on the East Coast and treated myself to a well-deserved dinner of locally caught wild shrimp and crispy crab cakes. I sat there by myself, eating steamed shrimp and drinking pink lemonade while Queen’s “We Are the Champions” played over the restaurant’s stereo, and I must admit- I felt pretty damn majestic. Over the next four days I tightened up the last three chapters of my book and the epilogue, and emailed them to my editor one by one as I finished them. After the last of it had been sent off, I printed out the final pages of the book and added them to the thick manuscript I kept in a plain black binder. I picked up my book, straightened all the pages by banging them on the kitchen counter, and just held it for moment. Damn- the thing was heavy. My contract required me to turn in a manuscript of 80,000 to 100,000 words in length; I was pretty sure I had blown past that long before the book was finished, but I decided to do a quick word count just to make sure I was in the clear.

I had written 234,022 words. Holy crap.

I called my editor Ben, told him how long the book was, and asked him what happened next.

“Congratulations, man- well done. Now it’s time for some surgery. Amputation, really” he said.

Faulkner is often famously (and erroneously) attributed with saying “In writing, you must kill all your darlings.” This means that the writer must remain objective enough to realize that while he may be really, really enamored with the scene he slaved for weeks over in which the large breasted female pirate captain has a huge blow-out with her rough and rugged co-captain pirate boyfriend while on the way to the final battle of the book with Lord Admiral McSnootypants, then impulsively commandeers the dingy and jumps ship with the geeky galley cook and settles down for a weekend of hot pirate mama hanky-panky on a nearby deserted island, that scene just doesn’t work in the book. The writer has to let go of these things while he writes the book, or at least be willing later to let a judicious editor bust out the red pen and start slashing and hacking away at all the long-winded unnecessary stuff; stuff like the awful and awkward run-on sentence preceding this one. But this is just a blog, there is no editor here, and frankly I don’t give a shit whether or not the audience likes that sentence. I had fun writing it— when I’m writing a blog post that I’m going to throw out for free amongst the bazillions and bazillions of other blog posts that are all screeching for attention in amateur world, if I’m not having any fun, then it’s not worth my time.

My book? That’s a whole other ball of earwax. That’s some pro shit, some career shit, some better-do-it-right-because-it-counts shit. I am a pro, and I play by pro rules when the game is for real. So I’m going to let my editor kill a lot of my darlings, because I’m obviously too close to the work to see what is and isn’t working all the time. I’m not looking forward to it, but I’m already used to it from working with producers when I make a record. In lamb of god, we have a saying: “Better is better.” Sometimes it takes a producer to step in and say “Nah, that riff is kinda stale” or “Man, that lyric certainly isn’t the best one you’ve ever come up with.” Sometimes this results in screaming matches, and sometimes the band wins and keeps the part they want. Sometimes, the band even makes a better decision than the producer, who is burnt out and has lost perspective after listening to the same fourteen songs for three months straight. But for the most part, a smart band will let a producer do the job they hired him to do: get the best record possible out of them. Get a different set of ears on those tunes, put the ego aside, and listen to some suggestions.

I’m going to let my editor “produce” this damn monster of a book I’ve written, because better is better.

I am very excited about one aspect of the editing process— the way we are going to do it.

“So, dude— how is this going to go down?” I asked. “I’m guessing you are going to look at the manuscript as a Microsoft Word document, make those redline correction thingies, then email it back to me?”

“Yeah, that’s the way it’s done these days,” he said.

“Well, crap. I guess I gotta buy Microsoft Word then,” I sighed. I wrote my book on an iPad, using Pages, a very simple word processing application. I hate Microsoft Word documents, with their redline corrections to track changes. It’s the standard way things are done in the publishing world now, but it’s complex. And by complex, I mean it might require me to do anything other than just type. I am a computer simpleton. I have zero patience with modern technology, and anytime anything goes wrong with my computer it creates the same rage in me that driving does in others. I just want to smash the thing into a million pieces— this is one reason I am glad I have my wife, who is much smarter than me, isn’t overly frustrated by computers, and has the patience to figure out these sort of things. She understands how to make the infernal machines work.

I understand how to make simpler things work. Things like skateboards. Zippo lighters. Knives. Rocks. These are tools I can use with an acceptable level of competence. A computer program too complex for a three year old to learn in five minutes? I am doomed. I was already getting angry thinking about trying to simply install Word on my computer when Ben said the magic words.

“Oooooor, I could just print the thing out and mail it to you with my handwritten corrections,” he said.

If he had been in front of me, I would have kissed him.

“YES! YES! Pleasepleaseplease can we do it that way?” I begged.

“Sure. Why not? We’ll do it old school, like I did back in the wild 90’s. No problem,” he said.

Soon I will be receiving the first 150 pages of my manuscript in the mail, the real mail, from Ben. The manuscript will be all marked up, by hand, and I will get to keep it for my archives, the old school way. I’m stoked on that, even though it’s time to kill all my darlings. I’m prepared.

Well, maybe not all my darlings. I might have to let a few live.

Or maybe not.

After all, better is better.

PS- more soon about my writing process. (I promise)

The Pet Goldfish: Chapter 4

Heyyyy guess whose back to writing fics? not me. really nope. not at all. this took way too long to write and only exists because i’m procrastinating on studying.

Okay, seriously though. 

this is not anything to do with the actual plot or the storyline of TPG, this is extracts from Rae’s book. If you dont remember at the start of Chpt 1 Rae has written a book, and then it flashes back two years. These are small extracts from that book, which in the long run will help show the development of Rae’s character in TPG but right now they will mean nothing to you because they have no Rinn in it. Literally none. But it doesnt take a mastermind to read between the lines, if you know what i mean.

i was originally going to put these with the other chapters but they dont fit right at all so heres a whole chapter of the extracts together. Please dont hate me :/ im sorry that its not what you might be hoping for

Severe TW: depression, self harm, abuse, anorexia.

Chpt 1 Chpt 2 Chpt 3

tags are at the bottom for a reason - long speech for some of you guys. and as always if you want to be removed/added just ask :) xxxxx


Extracts from Broken Glass and Feigned Expressions by R. Nelson

Chapter 38

Before I met him, everywhere I went, a thought would seep its way inside of me. A very simple, small thought. Only a few words. Yet those words were powerful. And this thought was; “I want to go home.”

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