we write the wrong

i still remember playing animal crossing on the gamecube with my brother and we pissed off mr resetti one too many times so he WOULD NOT LET US PLAY until we had WRITTEN A FORMAL APOLOGY LETTER he told you exactly what to write and you just had to type it out, exactly, letter for letter, and if you tried to cuss him out instead HE KNEW and he was FURIOUS and you literally could not continue to play the game until you had written mr resetti a formal apology for making his life hell

Oh by the way. To any followers who aren’t into SnK..... I’m really sorry. You’re going to have to suffer every Saturday until it’s over. My condolences.
Soulmate Potion

One day in potions class, Snape makes everyone brew a potion that will draw you towards your soulmate and of course, Draco and Harry are partered to brew this together. Towards the end of class, Snape instructs the class to test out the potion and everyone starts running around all over the place, drawn towards their soulmate. Some head towards each other while most of the class clusters at the door-locked of course to prevent students from leaving, but Harry and Draco dont feel anything. They just stand there looking confused and arguing a little because Harry’s potions are absolute shit but Draco’s potions are almost always perfect and there’s no reason why the soulmate potion is not working until they see how Snape is staring at them, looking more than a little queasy and oH

Sometimes I think we met at the wrong time, but is life ever this simple? If I met you tomorrow, if I ran into you these days, I honestly would be at a loss for words. “I miss you” wouldn’t be enough, “I shouldn’t have let you leave” would be too much, close enough to the truth but still half a lie. What exactly do you say to someone you haven’t reached out to in three years because you were scared? Because that feeling of vertigo hit you square in the chest whenever you let yourself think about what could have happened, what would have happened if you hadn’t said goodbye, if you’d only held on a little longer. How can someone be as familiar as your own shadow, yet as strange as a blurred face in the crowd you see in passing? What would you say if I told you that if I could change one thing in the world it’d be this: swallow my pride and ask you to stay. But is it what you’d want to hear? If I was strong enough to pluck up the courage to say it, would you care? Would you even listen?
—  stay stay stay / n.j.
We write about what we had to live, the unrepeatable world of the 60s. We were idealists and we were a reflection of that. What I did was folk and there were so many doing the same, so I cannot consider myself the first or the initiator of anything. But I like several current names, like Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran. Both are not only good singers. And I know they grew up listening to us.
—  James Taylor when asked if songwriters of his generation are more honest (La Tercera interview)

every single mcr album character is adopted by me. the killjoys? gracie? cherri and blue and the whole comics crew? the patient? fear and regret? colton haynes and his ghostly gf? even mother war herself? emily? bonnie and clyde? helena the corpse bride? even the unnamed bullets people?? all my kids, they deserve some attention. my city now.

I have a dumb one shot fic I wanna write where Danny kisses Wes and then runs off and Wes is like “that motherfucker I’ll get him back for that” and it’s like they both see who can kiss the other in front of more people and if basically ends up with them making out in front of a huge crowd of Danny’s fans while he’s Phantom

Writing Series #7: Am I Copying?

We all know that plagiarism is wrong. If you’ve written at all, you’ll have it engrained in your head that copying is theft and stealing creative works is one of the worst things you could do in the writing world (no matter how much we wish we could have written that one book, you know, the really really good one). But what about accidental copying?

Every writer I’ve ever met has at some point said to me, “I really like this story, but I think it’s already been done” or “I just finished my book and found out there was one published last year that’s the exact same thing” or “I started reading this book, and I think I accidentally stole its plot.” I know I’ve been there, staring at my favorite books and wondering if I was just a bit too influenced by them, if our plots are a bit too similar, if our writing styles mesh too well. 

But then we have the well-repeated Mark Twain quote: “There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope. We give them a turn and they make new and curious combinations. We keep on turning and making new combinations indefinitely; but they are the same old pieces of colored glass that have been in use through all the ages.” And this just might be the most important quote a writer–or any artist–can ever see. 

Plagiarism is stealing fully formed concepts (or words, or sentences, or pages). Plagiarism is taking the full design. Plagiarism is writing a story about an orphan boy in glasses with a lightning bolt on his head who goes to a wizarding school and defeats the evil wizard who killed his parents with the aid of his redheaded best friend. Plagiarism is not writing a story about a wizard. It’s not even writing about a wizaring school. Harry Potter doesn’t own wizarding schools anymore than it owns orphans. Yes, it has been done before. Yes, it can be done again. 

General concepts are not owned. Magic, teenagers with terminal illness, vampires, werewolves, “quirky love stories”–all these things can be done again. Just make sure there’s a reason for it, make sure that your version is different than the last one, that you’ve “turned the kaleidoscope” so to speak, and are giving to the world a story that only you could write: a brand new take on what’s been done again and again and again. 

And this is a question we should  be asking ourselves no matter what: is what I’m writing important? Is it a story that needs to be told, and one that only I can tell? It doesn’t have to be earth shattering, doesn’t have to be an instant classic. Important can just mean “it will make the right people smile at the right time” or it can mean giving representation to a lifestyle that isn’t often seen. It can mean different things to different people, but it should mean something to you. When you’re off trying to sell this story, agents are going to ask just that: why are you the author to make this story a reality? Why could you and only you write this story? 

But by all means, be inspired by what you read and watch. Media is meant to be absorbed and used, to be a springboard into new media. 

To all the writers out there: how do you determine the uniqueness of your story? How are you influenced by the stories you read and how do the play into what you write? 

Feel free to add to this post or submit your own advice to share with your fellow writers at ancwritingresources.tumblr.com

Creepypasta #1095: The Room At The Bottom Of The Stairs

Length: Super long

This is the story of what happened to my family when I was 14. It was the strangest series of experiences I’ve ever had. 

My dad was an abuser. He never really touched me - he mostly ignored me, like I was beneath his notice - but he was terribly cruel to my mother. He never raised his voice or hit her when we were watching, but he would just quietly criticise her in an almost unbroken stream of soft, matter-of-fact verbal abuse. Also, while he may not have done it in front of us, I know he definitely hit her. My mother was - and still is today - a graceful woman. The stories about her tripping on the stairs or slipping on the wet bathroom floor never rang true, and yet we all saw the bruises, the arm in a sling, the band-aids over grazes.

She left him when I was 14 and we were all relieved. I felt no love for him and I had become more and more convinced over the last couple of years that one day he would kill her, and maybe us too. Seriously, he was a frightening man - seemingly soft-spoken, but cold and intense. When stories crop up on the news about fathers snapping and murdering their families, I always imagine my dad could easily have been one of them.

So we left, and I was glad. There were three of us: me, mum, and my big brother Joseph who was a 16 at the time, only a few months off 17. Technically, he was old enough that he could have left home already, but like me he lived in fear of what dad might do without a tall, muscular 17 year old in the house. Joey was a rugby player, a hundred kilos of solid muscle, but the opposite of our father: gentle, sweet, generous. I think it was his growing resentment of our father that pushed mum to leave. She told me years later that she had nightmares about Joey losing it and beating dad to a pulp, ending up in prison.

Mum did her homework as thoroughly as she could. She got the court order in place so dad would be barred from entering the property or coming anywhere near it, and the very next day she had the moving truck and the self-storage unit booked. A soon-to-be homeless unemployed single mother has limited resources, so we had to do all the moving ourselves. That was a long, exhausting day, but it was good, too. Liberating. We knew we were leaving that bastard behind.

Most of our stuff was stored away and we lived for a couple of months with mum’s sister Bella and her husband Steve. Their apartment was small for just the two of them, so with five of us there it was insanely cramped. Mum’s plan was simple enough - get a job, any job, and then find a place to rent - but the job market wasn’t great for a fortysomething single mum who hadn’t worked in almost 20 years.

Thankfully, the government came through with some emergency payments. Between that and Joey’s income from his weekend job, we had enough money coming in that we could maybe think about moving into somewhere very cheap. It wasn’t just the cramped apartment, either. Mum didn’t talk about it much, but she knew that dad knew her sister’s address. A few times the phone would ring in the middle of the night and the caller would hang up without saying anything, so mum was starting to get spooked.

Our stroke of luck came in a matched pair. Mum got a job interview for an office admin position, and it went very well (the interviewer was a sympathetic older woman and mum was very honest about why she was looking for work after such a long break). On the way home on the bus, she saw a “for lease” sign. My mum has always been very spiritual but she was feeling very optimistic and decided the sign was, well, “a sign”. She jumped off at the next bus stop and ran back to check it out.

It was an actual house, not a unit or apartment. Most people in my mother’s position would have walked on, assuming it was out of their price range, but my mother was very observant. The road it was on ran along a kind of ridge between two hilltops, and the house was on the uphill side of the road, nestled in against a fairly steep slope. As such, the back yard was considerably higher up than the street, and the back door was on the same level as the upper storey out the front.

My mother noticed that the exterior of the house - stucco over brick, painted a creamy white - was looking pretty shabby. It was all surface dirt, the kind that would come off easily with a hose and a broom. The fact that nobody had bothered made mum feel certain the house wasn’t getting a lot of love. She took a closer look at the “for lease” sign, swinging from a wooden post in the front yard. Sure enough it was looking very weathered too. She jotted down the phone number and - she confessed to me later - almost skipped back to the bus stop.

Her instincts were good: an unusually frank agent admitted that it had been sitting empty for months and the owners were eager to get a tenant in. The rent they were asking was shockingly low and well within our budget. Mum got the rental approval and a new job on the same day, and we all felt like our troubles were over.

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How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
Get it wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds


Jack Gilbert - The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart

Image:  Early Sumerian pictograph



“How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.”

- Jack Gilbert, The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart from The Great Fires

“I CAN EXPLAIN!”

*Mcgonagall catches Rose, Scorpius, James Sirius, and Lily Luna all on the third floor corridor (a restricted section of the school) with a lasso, a love potion, and a pound of goose feathers.*

Mcgonagall: Now, concidering none of you would like to come forward and explain what happened. I have decided that I am going to talk to all of you seperatly. Ms. Potter, my office now.

*In the office*

Mcgonagall: Why were you in the third floor corridor?

Mcgonagall: You and your friends were righting wrongs? 

Lily Luna: We’re a lit club. We write the wrongs. It’s a very important job. Without the dedication and courage of the press the world-

Mcgonagall: Next.

Mcgonagall: Why were you in the third floor corridor?

Mcgonagall: Next.

Mcgonagall: And why were you in the third floor corridor?

Mcgonagall: *rubs temples* Next. 

Mcgonagall This should be good…what were you doing in the third floor corridor? 

Mcgonagall: I need a raise. 

((OOC: This was a rp based on this post. Thank you to the lovely @space-marauder for being a grande Scorp and James.))

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SOMEONE DEADASS MADE A SONG ABOUT CLOSETING IN THE INDUSTRY, I’M SCREAMING.

Originally posted by ifyoutouchherimmahavetocutatrick

*lyrics below*    

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sry i frankly just don’t give a fuck about quoting rich kids anymore, I think what we should be doing is writing arguments about why they’re fucking wrong instead of givin them an audience. [yes i’m aware many of you have told me this already, I’m a late bloomer lol]

Ignore bigoted bullshit, send in, or tell me to reblog, shit you write debunking their trash. They don’t need attention, they don’t need audience, everyone already knows theyre fucked up except them, so writing why they’re fucked up is more beneficial than laughing at our misery. imo. [yall can cope however you need to tho]

I mean if yall wanna start blogs giving voice to bigots too in hopes of seeing people will agree with you that it’s fucked up go ahead, but let me tell you, so many fucking people thought we agreed with our quotes, or that our actual posts were mocking hating bigotry. Literal nazis thought we were on their side.

Irony is a difficult thing to work with, because ultimately many people can’t tell what one believes on first glance, it’s best to be very direct if you want to get a message across, that’s what i’ve learned over the years. 

I don’t believe in the ‘right person, wrong time’ concept.. If they were the right person, it would have been the right time.
—  My theories on love