who they missed

Q & A Livestream

Hey there!!

So I did a little impromptu livestream last night just sitting and talking. For those of you who missed it you can find it here:


It’s funny cos I couldn’t see this link anywhere, it wasn’t in my video manager even though I set it to archive afterwards. Super strange but there ya go :D EDIT: the video being unlisted doesnt change anything, it should still show up for me regardless of its status

Jongup be bustin out these solos left and right, meanwhile I, a perfectly capable adult, still struggle to put my socks on in the morning without falling on something



George Saunders: what writers really do when they write
A series of instincts, thousands of tiny adjustments, hundreds of drafts … What is the mysterious process writers go through to get an idea on to the page?
By George Saunders

When I write, “Bob was an asshole,” and then, feeling this perhaps somewhat lacking in specificity, revise it to read, “Bob snapped impatiently at the barista,” then ask myself, seeking yet more specificity, why Bob might have done that, and revise to, “Bob snapped impatiently at the young barista, who reminded him of his dead wife,” and then pause and add, “who he missed so much, especially now, at Christmas,” – I didn’t make that series of changes because I wanted the story to be more compassionate. I did it because I wanted it to be less lame.

But it is more compassionate. Bob has gone from “pure asshole” to “grieving widower, so overcome with grief that he has behaved ungraciously to a young person, to whom, normally, he would have been nice”. Bob has changed. He started out a cartoon, on which we could heap scorn, but now he is closer to “me, on a different day”.

How was this done? Via pursuit of specificity. I turned my attention to Bob and, under the pressure of trying not to suck, my prose moved in the direction of specificity, and in the process my gaze became more loving toward him (ie, more gentle, nuanced, complex), and you, dear reader, witnessing my gaze become more loving, might have found your own gaze becoming slightly more loving, and together (the two of us, assisted by that imaginary grouch) reminded ourselves that it is possible for one’s gaze to become more loving.

Or we could just stick with “Bob was an asshole,” and post it, and wait for the “likes”, and for the pro-Bob forces to rally, and the anti-barista trolls to anonymously weigh in – but, meanwhile, there’s poor Bob, grieving and misunderstood, and there’s our poor abused barista, feeling crappy and not exactly knowing why, incrementally more convinced that the world is irrationally cruel.

10 Year Floor Canvas-As I took this in for framing and unfolded it, I stumbled across the painted handprints of my closest friend, Deanne Hastings, who went missing a year and a half ago. The handprints are from the last time she visited me.

#MichaelCarini #CariniArts #AcrylicAlchemy


Dominique’s birthday video is finally up! Thank you so much to everyone who took part, as well as the few people who missed being in it. You are all incredible, we hope Dom sees and loves it!

Next Story Comic Monday

I wanted to post the next story comic during the day tomorrow, but that would be ignoring history because I didn’t like what it had to say. The long term effect on production posting a story comic during the day has is always worse than a postponement.

For anyone who missed previous posts on the matter, this delay is on the writing end of things. I will elaborate in upcoming commentaries.

anonymous asked:

So if the racism in books like the Continent and TBW is so apparent and so blatant as everyone says, how did sensitivity readers miss it?

Who says sensitivity readers missed it?  More often it’s a case of:

1. The author ignoring the recommendations of sensitivity readers.

2. Not being able to fix and synthesize recommendations from sensitivity readers because of lack of craft.


3. The book is such a hot fucking mess that even when taking into account the recommendations of sensitivity readers the author cannot fix the book, because the book is broken at a fundamental plot or world building level.

I haven’t read The Black Witch, but I can tell you The Continent was number 3. No sensitivity reader could have fixed that book.  The racism was baked into the concept itself.  The execution just upped the ante.

delicatelyglitteryperson  asked:

May I pretty please have a follow up to the note-writing fic? I just love it too much

AN ~ here you are, at long last! also for the ever-supportive, ever-patient @agentcalliope. Enjoy! (feel free to continue prompting from this verse if inspiration, I’m loving it, and there are so many options!)

For those of you who missed the original note-writing fic, it’s here, and definitely best to read that before this. For those who just need a quick reminder; it’s the High School AU in which the girls find out that Fitz’s absent father is, to Fitz’s  displeasure and significant stress, back in his life. He’s been keeping to himself, but they’re determined to help in any way(s) they can.


and now for the new part, which can also be found on AO3 here. Angst/hc with a happy/fluffy ending :D



The jangle of his keys was the only sound in reply as Fitz pushed through the door and into the foyer. He scouted ahead of Jemma and Daisy who followed him in, and lingered in place while he stuck his head into the laundry and down the hall, calling as he went. His mother was probably at work – which was probably a good thing, because she’d be disappointed to find him skipping out of school in the middle of the day, especially for her sake. Still, it made him feel better to be here – to know that nothing was out of place, somehow, even though he had no concrete way of actually measuring that.

The Fitz house was a perpetual mess. The kitchen was half-decent, but beyond that, shuffling papers and abandoned cardigans and aprons and half-baked ideas to clear space had become a way of life. He didn’t mind it, being surrounded by the tumble of his life, but he could have done without the reminders, here and there, of his father’s lingering presence. A coffee cup. A magazine. One of Fitz’s own inventions, knocked off the dining table and not replaced. He collected it and deposited it back onto the table for fixing later, and retreated to the kitchen.

He screwed up his nose. It was still not right in here. It still felt like him.

“Fitz?” Jemma leaned her head in to check on him, and Fitz beckoned them further in.

“Come on,” he said. “’s probably the cleanest room in the house, anyway. Want a drink?”

He set about making them each a hot chocolate, and ran a sponge over the bench and the stove while waiting for the water to boil. It settled him somewhat, feeling like he could wipe away his father’s touch, but after so many years of just him and his Mum, the sudden sense of violation was taking a while to clear. As his mother had said, though, there was nothing else to do but cover the bad memories with good ones; drown them out. He wasn’t sure about the nothing else part, but still, looking around at Daisy and Jemma – especially Jemma, who had finally marred this year’s perfect attendance record to be here – he felt reassured.

“Thanks for coming with me, guys,” he said. “I know it’s nonsense, but…”

He looked around at the kitchen. It wasn’t nonsense at all, really, it was his. And it was scary to know that someone could come and take it all away.

“Hey, it’s cool,” Daisy assured him. “I get the privacy violation thing. I have to go through so many damn checks and controls. Shitty curfews, clothing checks one time, internet control – not that that works, but they try, so the principle applies. Sometimes my ‘parents’ even get the keys to my room. It’s gross. I’m not theirs.”

She screwed up her nose, mimicking the expression he’d made earlier. He couldn’t be sure if she’d seen him, and was mimicking him on purpose, but he smiled anyway. It was satisfying, to feel understood.

“Have you thought about calling the police or something?” Jemma wondered. “Surely he can’t just show up like that.”

Fitz shrugged.

“The car’s in his name, I’m pretty sure. Plus, I’m a kid, so anything of mine he can control if he wants to, I think. I’m not sure what Mum did back when they split. Maybe she could see a lawyer, I don’t know.”

Lawyers – good lawyers - were notoriously expensive, of course, but Jemma decided to zip her lips, especially since Fitz seemed to be avoiding eye contact with her. He obviously didn’t want to talk about it, and she didn’t want to risk putting her foot in her mouth; sometimes she forgot that not everyone came from a well-off and extremely well-educated family. Perhaps she’d broach the idea of her father having a look at the state of the Fitz family’s affairs, but that was a conversation for another time. For now, she sipped her hot chocolate and wondered if she should offer to help Fitz clean instead. He seemed satisfied by his work, though, and took up his own mug for a drink.

“Should – should we maybe go back to school?” Jemma suggested. “I suppose there’s no point now. By the time we get back up there, there’ll only be twenty minutes or so left. We might as well make the most of the afternoon.”

The others were in agreement, so they bundled themselves out of the kitchen in search of what to do. Fitz herded them away from his bedroom. It was a pigsty born of preoccupation, depression and anger that nobody needed to see, to be honest, and instead they flocked to the living room. Cups and papers and blankets were shuffled around as the television awoke, and Jemma and Daisy made themselves comfortable fighting over the remote.

“YES!” Daisy shouted all of a sudden, holding the remote high in the air and dangling it over Jemma’s head. “Mythbusters. Fitz? Mythbusters?”

“Yes!!” Fitz clapped and Daisy tossed the remote to him so that he could adjust the settings.

“What’s Mythbusters?” Jemma wondered.

“Only the greatest show on Earth,” Fitz muttered.

“These two guys do science,” Daisy explained. “Like, real science, to figure out if you could like…blow up a car by shooting at its fuel tank, stuff like that.”

“You can’t-“

Daisy held up a finger. “Even if they find out that you can’t, they’ll mess with stuff until you can. Like, they’ll put propane in the tank or something instead.”

Jemma’s eyes widened.

“Science, explosions, hilariously Southern accents,” Fitz summarised. “What more does an afternoon need?”

Dear Charlie,

I’m the guy who is always positive about everything and encourages people to get their life together and start loving it. I’m the one who is always structured and organized and plans every step to take. I’m the one with the brightest smile in a crowd and the one with the most body positivity. I’m the guy who can handle everything and no matter how hard it’s going to be, people know I will be standing in the storm because nothing can bring me down.
But Charlie.. Here comes the truth.. Wow this is going to be hard..
I’m the one who cries before I’m going to bed. I’m the one who is missing my family everyday and I really wish I could have a loving mother and a loving father. I really wish this. I’m the one who is bad at school and clearly overstrained but can’t admit it because I’m to proud to be at this school and I know it’s the only way to get any reaction from my parents. I’m the one who is always organised and good at housekeeping but in my kitchen where nobody ever looks, the plates are stacking. I’m the one who thinks everyday about alcohol and wishes that I could just drink a whole bottle of Vodka and get drunk and forget this world even so I’m clean for some months now. I’m the one who thinks about cutting again. I’m the guy who wants to sleep forever. I’m the boy who still struggles with eating even though my lowest weight was 1 year ago. And I’m the one who could never ever say this to anyone.

I (22.03.17)