“When do you know it’s over? That you’ve really lost them this time?”
“It’s in the silence. At least when they’re throwing curses at you like it’s second nature and screaming how much they hate you, you know that some part of them still cares. Some part of them still cares enough to feel something for you; even if it is love twisted into hate. But when they stop yelling and they lose the fire in their eyes, you’ve lost them. When it goes quiet they’ve given up - they’ve gone.”
Dreams that go unfulfilled, where do they go? Do they fly above and become one of the constellations in the sky? Or do they sink into the ocean, as nothing but waste material? Will they ever find their way back home?
“Don’t look at me like that! Say something, please!”
“I just found out my best friend and love of my life isn’t human and you’re criticizing me for being shocked?! What do you want me to say; ‘That’s nice honey, what do you want for dinner, pizza or tacos?”
I’ve had someone ask me why it made me happy to learn that they’d cried while reading something I wrote, which brings us back to the familiar topic of Why In Heck Are Comments Important To Fic Writers.
Listen. We’re not needy or annoying when we ask readers to leave a comment. We are only being human.
Ever since you were a kid, you’ve needed praise and encouragements to strive on, you’ve needed advice to go on, you’ve needed to share things that made you happy with other people.
You drew your family for the first time? Quick, let’s run to Mama to show her the drawing and hope she likes it. You finally got the hang of how to crack an egg in order to bake that cake your brother is fond of? Damn, now you’re gonna crack all the eggs and smile at each victory, and then cry when the egg shell falls in the bowl and hope dad isn’t going to be mad at you for failing.
You think you finally did good on this math test? You did. The 10/10 in the corner of your sheet and the teacher’s smile prove that you did a good job, that you are capable, that you can do more. You hurry home and proudly show the test to your parents, or whoever else you hold dear to your heart, and bask in the praise. You are disappointed if it never comes.
You need them to acknowledge what you did. You need them to tell you that you did well, and then you need them to repeat it again. And it will motivate you to study harder, to make them prouder by doing even better on the next test.
Why? Because of simple encouragements. Because of feedback. Positive feedback makes you want to do more. It makes you want to go further, take yourself higher because now you know that you can do it.
It’s always gonna be the same in life. High school, college - you work hard on stuff, and when you do you expect to be praised for it. Hours of pouring over that essay have to become a good report card. Getting out of bed early every morning to run have to result in admiration from others. Working late hours have to make your boss notice you and offer you a raise. Because you deserve it, because you worked hard, because you need to know that your work is appreciated.
Now you’re a fanfiction writer.
You don’t get paid for writing this story. You never will. You know you will likely get very little feedback, even if you know your story is good. Yet you still sit down and write the thing. You take hours of your free time to go over what you wrote, again and again, losing sleep and gaining anxiety over it because what if no one likes it? What if I did all this for nothing? What if?
You still write it, because despite it all you like doing it, just like you loved trying to draw your family as a kid to show it to mom.
But when you post it - you need people to see it. You need people to tell you that you did a good job. You need someone to encourage you. You’re here, throwing hours of work into the Internet void for anonymous faces to read and hopefully enjoy. Unlike original stories, you don’t mention it to friends or family because of the fanfiction stigma, because fanfiction is considered less than original stories. So, really, the only way you have to know if your writing is worth it is the comments.
And kudos, even though they are appreciated, will never tell you how a reader feels. They’ll never tell you how someone, a real person, felt while reading your story. Did they like it? Did it make them happy? Sad? What did they go through? Was it worth it? Did you convey what you wanted? Was it worth it? Is this story worth it? Is my writing worth it? Do I keep going?
What do you think?
We only want to know if we did well. Because we are simply, painfully human.
There are no words to describe the feeling a writer gets when they see the mail notification telling them they received a comment on this or that fic. No words.
When you see that “please tell me what you think ! <3” in the chapter notes, please know that what we actually mean is “I would sell my entire body and suck Satan’s d*ck if it meant you could click that little comment button and actually write something down”.
Leave comments on fics, people. It’s not hard, and it means you will get more fic in the future if you so much as encourage the writer. That’s how people work.
In a universe where we age backwards.
We are born at the bottom of graveyards.
Dust becomes bone
Bone become flesh.
As we enter the surface there is light.
Later we will learn that they call it the sun.
we are wrinkled skin and slow smiles.
We are assigned to younger adults who become our caretakers. Mother. Father. They teach our tongues the words of their people. We get better at remembering.
But no one recalls the life before this one.
We learn to walk without the cane; without the limp.
At school; the best teachers are children. They tell us of all the years they have lived.
Between classes we talk about what we want to be when we grow down.
At graduation, the grey fades and we find out our true hair colour for the first time; women begin to bleed; their breasts rise; our bodies become firmer; the wrinkles smoothen like pressed flowers.
We dance for the first time. And don’t feel tired.
My caretakers are teenagers now. They’re loud and hard to understand. The scientists say it’s something with their hormones. I find that my mother skips work and listens to sad songs; she spends more time looking in the mirror now. My father cries when no ones looking;
it’s hard for a man to become a boy.
When we go to find jobs the younger ones interview us. When we turn 13 we will have to retire.
I save money to put my caretakers into a children’s home when they get younger. Just like they did for their grandparents.
I was assigned my first elderly person. He’s 95 and confined to a wheelchair. He doesn’t have any hair yet but I know it’ll grow soon. Sometimes he grabs my wrist to look at the way our skin doesn’t match. When he gets younger I’ll tell him about race; he’s too old to understand such things. I name him Luke.
I fall in love with a younger man; a writer named Hercules. He says funny things like “Imagine a universe where we age backwards; where we start off babies and die when we grow old.”
I try; but it seems impossible; too farfetched.
At our wedding; Luke is the ring bearer.
(He walks down the aisle without his wheelchair and I can’t help but cry).
Hercules kisses my forehead every time we meet. Says he wants to savour the days when he stands taller than me.
My caretakers are babies now. And Hercules is a teenager. There’s something different about him; he says I’ll understand in a few years.
They say that my mother wouldn’t sleep the night my father passed on; that she wouldn’t stop crying for what seemed like no reason but I think that somehow she knew. He’d been asleep in his crib at the time; the passing often happens this way.
Hercules holds me tighter that night. He’s started having nightmares. I guess it’s harder for a writer. To know that one day he’ll forget how to say how he feels; how to read.
I wonder how babies manage it. To have all these thoughts and no way to express them.
I’m eighteen today and it’s full moon. Hercules takes me to the beach and insists we bathe entirely naked. Between the waves he tells the whole sky of stars that we’re rebels now; that becoming a teenager makes us free in ways I don’t yet understand. I think that he just wants to taste everything before he dies.
After sharing a bottle of wine on the sand with him and dancing to the sound of the ocean’s monologue…
I believe him.
Our love has changed. From candle to fireplace to forest fire. I want to touch him all the time. He likes writing poems on my skin; but says that even without them I’m the best book he’s ever read.
My breasts are shrinking. And my bleeding had stopped. Though no one really understands why it happens. Hercules says maybe it served a purpose in the life before. His voice is high pitched now; more like mine; a sign of maturity.
Being teenagers was hard but nothing prepared me for childhood. They say it is a lot like old age.
Luke put us in the nicest children’s home he could find. It’s full of interesting people who’ve retired like us. But the babysitters are always watching. We play games during the day but they force us to go to bed even if we don’t want to. Hercules and I have to sleep in separate rooms now.
Yesterday they caught Hercules trying to paint his hair grey again. He believes he can fight it somehow. He hates that he can’t stay focused long enough to finish books but he still brings me love letters; crooked hearts coloured with crayons. I stick them on the fridge and stoop so that he can kiss my forehead.
When the babysitter told me that Hercules had passed on… I learnt what it felt like to be crushed. Some days I’d feel the ghost of his lips against my forehead and feel so angry. I’d cry and scream and curse. They called it a tantrum.
I’m five years old now and I’m beginning to understand that the end looks so much like the beginning and that’s why they call it the circle of life.
In a universe where we age backwards // Ceres @mentamorphisis
The thought of being without you makes me afraid, even though I know that I’m worse off with you. I’m afraid to dangle, to float untethered. At least with you I could always be sure that I belonged somewhere, that I was something to someone. I’m not searching for validation or a cure for insecurity, but for a place where I can find a voice that’s confident in me, a place where your fingers are there to lift my chin when the world tells me to keep my head down, a place where your hand is resting in its favorite spot on my back, ready to push me back up if I start to fall… Someone there to tell me that maybe I’m not as crazy as I think I am. Now I don’t really know what life will look like without that. And it’s sad, sad that things had to turn out this way.
Request from Anon : Hi I was wondering if you could write something about a Metamorphi magi! reader x Newt? They meet for the first time at Tina’s and Queenie’s apartment and the reader finds Newt attractive and her hair changes red (its normally brown) and Newt wonders what the color means.
A/N : I’m alive! Haha I’m so sorry about the delay guys, I hope you like it! Something to keep in mind though, I switch between POVs a little bit in here, it’s mainly Newt with a sprinkle of Y/N. Oh and if you’re wondering why her hair keeps changing different colors, I thought I’d use the color to represent how she’s feeling/thinking so here’s a little cheat sheet : Auburn Brown - Newt (LOL) Grey - confusion Blonde - caution Red - love
Newt looked back at his friends utterly confused and slightly hurt about what just happened. Jacob equally as confused as Newt, he was having a nice conversation with Y/N when the mood turned sour. Maybe he was talking about himself too much.
Queenie placed a hand on his knee and gave him a reassuring smile. “It wasn’t you, honey.”
“Then what was?” Newt looked at her with determination in his eyes. He wanted to set this right but he needed to know what he’d be apologizing for first. He turned to Queenie because he knew that she’d have the answers to his dilemma. Being a legilimens, she must have heard Y/N’s thoughts. “Please…I need to know.”