writing to pay the bills

Flufflet #6 for @lifeinahole27 as a reward for writing her CSBB!

Continuation of flufflets #3 and #5.

Artwork at the end is by @clockadile, who is amazinggggggggggg


There were almost too many resources, Killian thought, as he typed in another phrase to look up. There were the doctors and nurses at the clinic Swan insisted on going to; it was out of town, since she refused to permit Whale to, as she put it so eloquently, “go anywhere near my goddamn vagina.”

There were the books, both the old ones in the library and the newer ones that Emma purchased through the post. He read all of them, although he did think Emma had the right idea with the newer ones; perhaps after the baby was born, they could donate the books to the library.

And then, of course, there was the Google. It was a double-edged sword if he’d ever seen one, with more information than he’d ever thought could possibly exist. But it seemed nigh impossible to determine just which information was accurate, and all of the personal testimonials made everything even murkier.

“What are you looking up?” Swan asked from the couch.

“When the baby can hear,” he said. “I’m getting too many different answers.”

“Yeah?”

“Some Google tells me–”

“Some websites, Killian.”

“Well, some tell me that it could be as early as eighteen weeks, and some say as late as twenty-four.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know which is correct?”

“No. Why, though?”

“Well … just that if she can hear us, then maybe we should take advantage of that.”

He loved that he could say that: she. It was only a week ago that they’d gone to the clinic, and the doctor had told them that they were having a daughter. It was nearly mind-boggling that the technology of the realm made it possible to know so much about an unborn child.

Hell, it was incredible just how much there was to know about a pregnancy in general. In the Enchanted Forest, a single missed monthly cycle was troubling but not necessarily an indication of pregnancy; it was typically only a second skipped cycle that tipped a woman off. But here? Here, Emma simply waited until her cycle was a day or two late, and then she (he still felt uncomfortable about this) urinated on a strange stick, and it informed them both that she was with child.

And he’d seen their child. The near-magic of the ultrasound machine meant that they both had been able to watch their daughter grow from a tiny little bean-shaped smudge into something resembling an actual human. And now, they knew they were having a beautiful baby girl.

His daughter. He was going to have a daughter.

“Killian, did you hear anything I just said, or are you not at 18 weeks yet?”

“Sorry, what?” He’d been so lost in his thoughts, he’d missed whatever Swan had said.

“Do you want to sing to her?”

“Would you be all right with that?”

She laughed. “Um, very. Besides, isn’t that the exact reason I’m pregnant?”

“Well, I’d like to think it would have happened anyway, regardless. But fair enough.”

“C’mere.”

He stood from the computer desk and headed to the couch; Swan had been lying down with her feet up, but she swung them around and sat up a bit. “All right, go for it, Daddy.” She patted the space next to her.

He sat beside her and then leaned forward. She wasn’t showing very much, but enough that the townsfolk were catching on. Emma had always been extremely slim, and so the way her stomach was beginning to protrude was an easy giveaway that she was either pregnant, or she was overindulging significantly and gaining weight in very strangely specific places.

His favorite thing about her stomach, what she called her “baby bump,” was that this was their child. Right here, taking up space, growing and becoming a child.

“Go for it,” Emma encouraged.

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Hello, my love. This is your papa.” Bloody hell, he was going to be a father. Neither Bae nor Henry could have ever prepared him for this. “Your momma asked me to sing to you.” He looked up at said momma. “Are you sure about this?”

“She’s gotta learn about revenge sometime,” she joked.

Perhaps. But he balked at the idea that the first song he would sing to his daughter would be one of anger and sadness. He had a better idea.

“Tomorrow is uncertain,” he sang. “Who knows what it will bring?”

He looked up to find Emma staring down at him in wonder, and although he knew her emotions were a bit out of control (he’d done a lot of reading about hormones), he was still surprised to see that she had tears in her eyes.

“But one thing is for sure, love,” she continued. “With you, I have everything.”

He grinned and turned back to her stomach, and they sang together.

“And happily ever after is the way these stories go …”

Help Gallus Buy A New Computer... By Buying Their Old One!

So, I do pretty much all of my writing/emails/bill-paying etc. out of my old Toshiba and its… literally falling apart at the seams.  They keyboard is currently held on with duct-tape.  But that’s not the computer I’m selling!  I also have This Bad Boy:

Which I originally purchased for Art Purposes but unfortunately, due to a shoulder injury, drawing with a tablet and working with this screen gives me migraines like you wouldn’t believe.  So it can be yours! and go towards the purchase of my next computer! So you also get more sweet, sweet Gallus content!

This is a 2012 iMac with the following features:

  • 21.5 inch screen (diagonal)
  • Intel core I5 quad core
  • Terabyte hard drive
  • 2.7 Ghz processor
  • latest copy of Windows For Mac
  • mouse and keyboard
  • professionally refurbished by university tech team
  • It’s in perfect working order, I just have shoulder issues.

I’m selling it for $700+shipping, or best offer.  I take paypal.  If you’re interested, please send me an ask, and if you’re not, maybe reblog this for a friend?  (Posting on 6/18/17 just so this doesn’t get reblogged for 400 years).

Pursuing the Muse Against the Clock

By Lin-Manuel Miranda

Nov. 11, 2001, Eastern Standard Time.

I am a senior at Wesleyan, and my girlfriend Aileen has surprised me with tickets to see “Tick, Tick … Boom!” by Larson Off Broadway. We drive down from school to the Jane Street Theater, south of West 14th Street. The terrorist attacks of two months earlier are still fresh in everyone’s minds, and it is our first time so far downtown since. The real world is terrifying, and we are theater majors about to graduate: What on earth do we have to offer it? The houselights go down, and Raúl Esparza comes onstage as Jonathan, and nothing is ever the same again.

“Tick, Tick … Boom!” is an autobiographical musical that Jonathan Larson wrote concurrently with “Rent”; the playwright David Auburn later adapted into a three-person show. The story is simple: It is 1990, and Jonathan is grappling with turning 30. He is trying to make a living writing musical theater, but he works at a diner to pay the bills. His best friend has given up acting for a job in market research; his girlfriend, a dancer, wants to leave New York. He hears time ticking away, he sees friends and lovers abandoning their dreams, but he keeps going.

Just as “Rent” grabbed 17-year-old me and announced, “This is what you should be doing,” “Tick, Tick … Boom!” grabbed the 21-year old me and refused to let go. It was more than a portrait of the artist as a young man; it was a sneak preview of what my 20s would be: readings and workshops going nowhere, jobs allowing only flexible hours, relationships ending because the writing comes first and must always come first, watching talented friends adjust their dreams and find happiness in other careers with more stability. Every young artist deals with these realities, and Jonathan gave them specificity and vitality and truth. He kept going, and, in doing so, galvanized a generation of songwriters to follow his lead, myself included.

[read the rest here]

Tenth Christmas

the series is as follows so far:

FirstSecond ThirdFourthFifthFifth Christmas, Part 2SixthSeventhEighthNinthTenthEleventhTwelfthThirteenthFourteenthFifteenthSixteenthSeventeenthEighteenthNineteenthTwentiethTwenty-firstTwenty-secondTwenty-third

———————–

Mulder was so tired, he could barely see straight. He’d been working as a lumberman in the woods of northern Minnesota for the past three months, so he was used to the work but today had been extra cold, extra windy and everything seemed extra heavy, given the layers he had on and the fact that the snow was nearly three feet deep in spots. Not about to complain, however, given the extra money he was getting for working the holidays, he took a two-minute breather, then got back to it, cutting, trimming, moving, settling, tying, climbing, checking, trudging, to begin again.

Scully had scored herself a job on the janitorial staff of the local school system and was there now, cleaning the high school over break, making things neat and orderly for the return of the 1000 students come the end of winter break. He questioned her motives for applying and taking the job, given it was fairly far beneath her, but as she reminded him with a smile, he thought everything was beneath her, including him much of the time. She then told him she needed the contact, the interaction with the outside world, a conversation with someone other than him, no offense of course.

He hadn’t taken any, knowing it was harder for her than him to live the solitary lifestyle. She’d come from a boisterous, loud, bouncing family and to plunge her into single-interaction insanity wasn’t healthy in the long run. It took him almost a year to convince her she needed more than telemarketing jobs and data-entry positions that allowed her to work from home.

The Gunmen, long before the thought of running was a glint in Mulder’s eye, had begun making identifications for them. They’d created entirely new people, histories, allergies, likes, dislikes, dental visits, prescription refills, bad credit, maiden names, social security numbers, ATM cards, storage lockers and a myriad of other things that only paranoid, long-haired, suit-wearing funny named men could think of. After they finally filled Mulder in, Mulder began filling those accounts with money squirreled away from two inheritances, well-picked stock trades and living like a pauper for several decades.

Scully didn’t get in on the act until after Mulder had been abducted. She had a very frank conversation with Byers and Frohike while Langley, who was a surprisingly good cook, made them all a taco pie she would kill for everyday if necessary. They worked out a few kinks and soon, knowing something would have to give eventually with the situation, she was squirreling as well.

The pair of them tried not to touch any more of their savings after the first few months, deciding that odd jobs could bankroll their meager existence. Scully picked up several doing the aforementioned phone work and data entry while Mulder went the handyman/mowing lawns/painting houses route. Mulder’s paid under the table while Scully could have her checks automatically deposited into one of their fake checking accounts. All in all, they figured it out.

They became adept at being together and being apart from everyone else.

They learned to carry on conversations without delving too deeply into the past.

They learned that they only had each other.

Then they slowly began to learn to function apart.

Scully went to the smaller church in town and got a library card, making friends with the librarians while Mulder went to the woods. Scully needed people while Mulder needed to fire up a chainsaw and cut shit down, carving up a tree as he carved his past from his life.

All but Scully.

He kept her close.

She kept him closer.

Nights were quiet, filled with cards and movies and books and knitting and crossword puzzles and writing on Mulder’s part and learning on Scully’s. She decided one day she wanted to learn how to whittle. God knows why, Mulder thought, but he watched her determinedly wielding a pocketknife like it was scalpel. She accepted the blocks of wood he brought home after a day in the woods and eventually began turning them into chess pieces. When she was done with that, she began making blocks for the kindergarten and first grades, sanding edges, smoothing planes into several sets of alphanumerical squares that she donated by simply leaving them on the school steps at dawn.

She then began a secret project, one she did while sitting in the bathtub of their monthly-rental unit, able to keep her endgame hidden from Mulder by pulling the shower curtain shut when he had to pee.

It amused him and kept her mind occupied, which is all he could really ask for from the world he dragged her into. He’d stopped feeling guilty for taking her with him but he never quite got over it, so he brought her chunks of oak, cedar, pine as penance for his sins.

That Christmas Eve, he made it home after her, finding her cooking in their small kitchenette, ham and potatoes, bowl of jiggling red Jell-O on the side. “Christmas Dinner already? I thought we were doing that tomorrow?”

“This is just something quick. Tomorrow, I’ll make that small turkey I got and we’ll have stuffing and corn. It’ll be like Thanksgiving but … more Christmas-y.”

He grinned, sidling up to kiss her before disappearing to the shower to eliminate that day’s sweat and grime. Emerging 10 minutes later, he ate the filled plate she handed him, then filled again when he asked. Once he’d finished his Jell-O, he noticed her staring at him, her bottom lip half-pulled between her teeth, a question wanting to escape but held back by berry red lips. Putting the spoon down, he gave her a gently smile, his eyes soft, his face languid, “you, little miss, have a question to ask so spill it before you explode.”

“Would you like to come to church with me tonight? I mean, you don’t have to but I just … I’d like it if you did. I haven’t gone to Christmas mass alone … ever, really and ….”

The end of her sentence evaporated into the fragrant, honey-ham air of the room as she began to think this was a really stupid request.

He stopped her, though, before she got too anxious, talking herself out of something he had yet to say, “I would love to go with you.”

Relief flooded through her and he received her happiest smile, dimly lit by the one crappy overhead kitchen light, her eyebrows curving slightly along with the corners of her lips. “You sure?”

“As long as you know that the whole being struck by lightning the moment I walk in the place is still a viable possibility.”

“I don’t mind.”

&&&&&&&&&&

He took a short nap before they left and he felt fairly awake when they walked quietly into the church. It was a low building, decked outside with wreaths and lights and Nativity scene and decked inside with trees, pine garland, bows, angels and a particular smell that Mulder couldn’t seem to get enough of. Once they were seated, she leaned over, telling him in a hushed voice, “you keep breathing like that and you’ll pass out in the next four minutes, I guarantee.”

“Then what is that smell?”

Scully took her own deep breath, “incense, pine, candle wax, snuffed matches and cinnamon.”

“That’s a hell of a nose you’ve got.”

“Don’t say hell, Mul- Jake. It’s church and you don’t need to invite the lightning.”

Mulder reached his hand over, capturing hers and squeezing it tightly, letting her know the near-mistake would be okay. It wasn’t enough to send them running like it might have in the earlier days but Scully still felt the panic rising in her chest, the comfort of his hand soothing but not eliminating the tightness in her belly.

They sat in silence as the church filled up around them. There were more people than Scully had expected but there was plenty of room between families and individuals that she didn’t feel crowded and overwhelmed and realizing this, relaxed a little and led Mulder through the Catholic rituals of midnight mass, complete with hand-holding, kneeling and boisterous carol singing, Mulder’s voice blending in seamlessly.

She’d have to ask him about his secret singing abilities when they got back home.

After communion, after the kneeling, during the sitting but before the standing and the praying, she felt Mulder’s head land on her shoulder. For a moment, she expected him to whisper something else to her, possibly asking when in the world this whole affair would be over but instead, he remained silent, asleep instead, eyes closed, cheek settled, breathing steady.

She didn’t have the heart to wake him to stand when the time came so she self-consciously sat, mouthing the prayers and holding his hand. Even the last of the celebratory singing didn’t wake him nor did the people filing past, smiling down at the pair, whispering ‘Merry Christmas’ to Scully, who could only thank them with a gestured, raised hand and a low, inaudible ‘Merry Christmas’ in return.

Waiting until the church was half-empty, she was about to start waking Mulder up when she caught sight of the priest crouching down beside her in the aisle, “apparently, I was not as inspiring as I could have been. I’ll have to do better next year.”

He said it with a wide grin, however, and Scully, knowing his sense of humor from the last few months, smiled back, “you did wonderfully. It’s just he was at work out in the woods at five this morning and only got the chance for a short nap before we came here.”

“I always tell the children that God doesn’t mind if they fall asleep while saying their prayers. It means they had a fulfilling day and feel safe enough to drift off giving thanks. I think the same applies here. A hard-working man does his best but eventually feels safe enough and happy enough to fall asleep with the one he loves, even if it’s the middle of mass.” Standing back up, “I take that as a compliment for both God and myself.”

Scully’s eyes desperately wanted to fill with tears but she swallowed them down, “Merry Christmas, Father.”

“Merry Christmas, Ella.”

&&&&&&&&

Soon, they were snuggled down in bed, Mulder’s mouth drifting across her neck, more asleep than awake and promising nothing but a moment of clarity to tell her he loved her and Merry Christmas. Nuzzling him back, she tucked herself into his arms, thinking about how, in the morning, it would be Christmas and he would see the ornament she’d carved for him and she’d find out what was in that square box he’d wrapped for her several weeks back.

But first, she was going to go to sleep, warm and cozy under their flannel sheets and thick comforter, the one with the crop circle pattern that Mulder had indulged in when they realized they’d be north for the winter. The single string of red Christmas lights strung over the bathroom door frame bathed Mulder’s face in holiday hues and with a final kiss, she shut her eyes, his heartbeat carrying her into slumber beside him.

You ruin your life by tolerating it. At the end of the day you should be excited to be alive. When you settle for anything less than what you innately desire, you destroy the possibility that lives inside of you, and in that way you cheat both yourself and the world of your potential. The next Michelangelo could be sitting behind a Macbook right now writing an invoice for paperclips, because it pays the bills, or because it is comfortable, or because he can tolerate it. Do not let this happen to you. Do not ruin your life this way. Life and work, and life and love, are not irrespective of each other. They are intrinsically linked. We have to strive to do extraordinary work, we have to strive to find extraordinary love. Only then will we tap into an extraordinarily blissful life.
—  Bianca Sparacino

I’ve been trying to formulate this for awhile, so here we go:

Today, I am juggling single motherhood, evading an abusive ex, full time school admission stuff while taking 9 hours of transfer classes, keeping this blog limping along, working full time in my current job while simultaneously training on a new job and handling huge IT project integration thing, handling the fallout from my two support systems in terms of child care falling through in one week, two different soccer schedules, my brother is in the hospital, and my mom and grandma both facing long-term chronic illnesses. 

And I am doing, like, okay. Not great, but good, some of the time, and okay, most of the time. That isn’t a humble brag! I never would have given myself credit to do a quarter of this a year ago, half of this six months ago, or even all of this three months ago! 

So many factors have kicked my ass into gear. Therapy is key, and that isn’t accessable to most people. I have the endless support of great family + friend. Surprisingly, going analog and using a bullet journal is the key to all of this. It started with just writing shit down.

Suddenly, I was making appointments on time. Paying my bills. Writing down my work tasks and getting them all completed. 

And this isn’t one more “drink water and your depression will go away post” or “will the sadness away.” That isn’t reality.

I’m doing all of this, and obviously my anxiety is ratcheted up, like, a lot. (Finals! in two weeks! Shit!) I’m still not sleeping, but I am overall killin’ it. I’m pretty proud of myself. For me, it started with one good decision. my goal at first was just, “OK, Linds, Make one good, forward-thinking decision today.” 

I started small: start a yoga routine. I mean, I still don’t have a yoga routine, but I do, by and large, have my shit together. Or I’m getting there. 

And now I pay my bills on time, am excelling in my job, have more confidence, got myself and kids in therapy, and am managing all of the above. 

You can come back from anything.

It started with taking fucking care of myself first. Learning that I was worth taking care of. I am still learning this. Getting whatever help I could. I read books at the library (free!) that helped teach coping strategies for managing anxiety. They weren’t cure-alls, but every little bit helps.

Anxiety doesn’t go away. I had a panic attack at work last week because I stood up to my boss. You know what? It was okay. My coworker was a great support. And my boss actually admitted he was wrong, gave me a HIGHER RATING on my review, and thanked me for bringing his slip-up (not looking at the new rating system criteria) to his attention. You can, however, have anxiety and still Kill It.

Confidence doesn’t build overnight. It is a process. Proving to yourself on, like, a daily basis that you can do it. This is my therapist’s #1 gripe with me. But look at me praising myself up there! Give yourself credit where credit is due.  Give yourself some grace, babe. You are doing your fucking best. And for today, that is good enough.

Failure is still part of the equation. I fucked up at work today! I apologized and moved on. I would have let that clobber me a year ago. Every single person makes mistakes. The world still moves on. So will you. It’s ok.

I am not a Mental Health Expert or a motivational coach, but I do believe that our stories can empower each other. It is possible to live with anxiety and still get shit done. Make ONE forward-thinking decision today, even if that one thing is taking care of yourself as best as you can. Doing homework in 20 minute increments until you finish an assignment. Whatever you can manage. 

Tomorrow, do it again plus one more.

Shave

This was born out of a conversation with @never-enough-harry. I have not proof read it or edited anything, so ignore any typos please! Enjoy xx

***

Originally posted by juststyls

You can hear the whistling coming from the bathroom, the clinking of something against the sink catching your attention. You’re getting ready for the day, skin smooth and smelling like roses after your shower, wardrobe doors open to reveal your clothes. You’re still not sure about what you’re wearing, the weather unstable enough to have you doubting the little dress you had picked the night before, so you settle on doing your make up first.

When you enter the bathroom, the scene makes you stop – it’s nothing unusual, in fact, it’s something so unexceptional that it shouldn’t bother you in the slightest. It’s just Harry, going about his usual morning routine - he’s got his hair in a bun, eyes still a little swollen with sleep but shining with a bright green and it’s almost as if he was smiling, because his good mood is palpable. He has no shirt on, towel wrapped so low on his hips you can see the start of the little coarse hair on his happy trails that leads to the slight bulge on the front of the towel. The smooth skin over hard muscles that flex on his back is glistening with little droplets of water from the previous shower you had shared, his tattoos catching your eye on the reflection in the big mirror in front of him and his face… his face full of shaving cream, the minty smell of it enough to burn your nostrils and wipe away that little bit of sleep that still plagued your sore eyes.

Although the smell is strong and the sight of him it’s almost sinful, it’s not what’s making you restless; it’s not the smell or the sight that’s making your mind become suddenly hyper aware of every hair on your body standing on end; it’s also not the low tune Harry’s humming, the deep tone coming from his chest and the melody entering your ears with the calm serenity of it that’s making your stomach fill with butterflies and the color drain from your face … it’s the fact that he’s shaving.

The thing about such a mundane activity is the fact that he only does it when he has a reason to – a dinner with his mother, a photoshoot, a night where he wants to make you scream.

When Harry shaves, it means he has plans; when Harrys shaves, it means he has plans for you. When Harry shaves, it means he’ll have his face buried between your legs all night long.

This little tradition had started months ago, after he’d spent the night licking you like you were his last meal – deep, strong, unrelenting licks that left you a puddle on your bed -  a puddle with far too many scratches from his stubble. The skin was red and irritated for the next days after that, your center a bit tender and he’d felt guilty. So guilty you had to convince him to go down on you again, after everything was back in order but from the on, he’d made a point of shaving every time he was in one of those moods.

Harry’s neck is completely stretched up as he runs the blade of his razor carefully up the length of it, the foamy shaving cream being wiped away by the razor to give space to the smooth creamy skin of his neck. His eyes catch you in the mirror, a small little smile gracing his features as he rinses the little blade before continuing the precise and careful work he’s doing of his face.

“Ready yet?” He asks. There’s so much more to that question than it sounds and it makes all your blood run to your center in one quick violent rush.

“Not yet.” You answer, hesitantly. He’s nonchalant, not giving you enough attention to make you so hot and bothered, but it doesn’t fool you – the glint in his eyes is enough to tell you that he’s not as innocent as he looks.

“What are your plans for the day?” Harry inquires as he keeps to the task at hand, gently running the little blades over a spot on his jaw and when the sharp angle of it is revealed, it makes your mouth water.

You know you probably look pathetic, standing in the door way with your eyes locked on him and his every move, thighs brushing together to try and tame the needy feeling on your center. You know it’s silly to be turned on by something so trivial, but you can’t help it – he’d made a habit of it, a tradition, a silent promise that he’d give you the time of your life after he was done with himself and he never failed to keep it.

“Nothing, really. Grocery shopping, paying some bills, writing a paper…” You shrug and decide to step inside, walking to him until you’re standing close enough to touch him.

“Nice.” He nods. The monosyllabic answer makes you huff and step aside. He doesn’t want to play now and you know he’ll make you wait but your body doesn’t seem to get the idea - you can already feel the slight dampness between your legs and you grunt at yourself for being so weak.

You fuss with your make and brushes, too distracted to actually do something with it and you catch him side eying you while you do. He knows you’re waiting for something, anything but it doesn’t seem like he’s ready to give it to you just yet.

When he reaches for the towel, wiping away at the excess product, you can clearly see the small little stubble that remains on his upper lip and you frown, looking up at him, the question on the tip of your tongue but you stop yourself before it comes out.

“Did yeh want anything, love?” He raises an eyebrow, splashing water on the afflicted skin before looking for his after shave.

“N-no. Nothing.” You shake your head, hesitantly looking away from him and reaching for your moisturizer. “I’m- no, it’s nothing.”

“Gotta rush, love. Have a meeting.” He presses a pert kiss to your cheek, then another one to your lips, the taste of mint from his toothpaste still fresh on his tongue and you sigh. Guess you wouldn’t be having as much fun as you’d like tonight, after all.

Keep reading

I actually have a writing job lined up!!! For a published book!!! I’ll get 50% of the profits!!! 

I can’t believe my writing is going to pay some bills. At long last.

anonymous asked:

Why do many writers sell the film/tv rights for their books?

a lot of us would love to see our work on screen, plus writing is how we pay the bills, and options/rights help pay the bills

Just Between Us [Lin-Manuel x Reader]

Summary: Your friend has a brilliant idea how to fix your lack of date to the upcoming wedding.

Word count: 3184 (whaaat?!)

Warnings: cursing, some pretty harsh words directed at the reader, huge amounts of fluff

Author’s notes: Okay, so this my first imagine ever. And first fic in a long, long time. This idea just wouldn’t leave me alone, so I had to get it out. Shoutout to @fragmentofmymind for inspiring me to do this and proofreading the first half. I hope you guys enjoy it!!
Just a warning - I’m not a native English speaker, so this might be a little awkward in some places. Sorry!


“Oh God”, you murmured, massaging your temples furiously. This was not happening. How the hell had you gotten yourself into this mess?

Oh, right. It was your goddamn cousin’s fault. As usual.

“Don’t worry”, Alice massaged your shoulder in a way that was probably supposed to be comforting. Right now it only added to your overall tension. “Just ask a friend or something. It’s not a big deal, is it?”

“Except I literally have no one to ask. Besides,” you added, flopping onto the bed dramatically, “who in the right mind would agree to go to a wedding with me?”

“Well, it’s free food.”

“You’re a real friend, Al.”

Keep reading

"Lipstick" (Villainous drabbles)

“Lipstick” drabble 7


Dementia was dancing around the house, happily holding a small tube of lipstick that she had recently bought. It was ruby red, and she was ready to try it out on Black Hat. She giggled with anticipation. She adjusted her lizard skin and slithered inside Dr.Flug’s lab and found him working with chemicals. He was carefully measuring and mixing the ingredients together, knowing full well if he made a mistake the lab would go up in flames, not for the first time.
Dementia snickered as she tip-toed behind him, her fingers slowly making their way towards his side.
“Hey Flug!” She bellowed. She quickly gave him a tickle when he screamed like a frightened child and fell back, landing on his behind.

“Ow!” He lifted his head to find Dementia looming above him with a large smile. He let out an annoyed growl. “Didn’t Black Hat say that you weren’t allowed to come in here while I’m working?”

“Yeasssssss.” She hissed as she stuck out her tongue and giggled again. Flug dusted himself off while he got up.

“Well, please leave me alone. I’m making a very dangerous nerve agent for the company.” Flug said. He stood in front of the table and picked up a new beaker. “It will instantly paralyze anyone that touches or breathes it in, and I really don’t want that to happen to me.”

She frowned and crossed her arms. “You’re no fun!”

“Yeah, well I don’t want to be locked in the linen closet again by the boss, so I really must finish this.” He said sternly, sliding a batch of new chemical powders towards him.

“But l wanted to show you the new lipstick I got!”’ Dementia whined, making Flug roll his eyes.

“Okay.” He sighed, giving in as he turned around. “Show it to me.”

Dementia, bouncing on her heels, brought out her new lipstick. It had a black and gold metal case and when she twisted it open the red lipstick revealed itself. It was as bright as a cherry lollipop. Flug stared at it, bored.

“Wow…that’s great, Dementia.” He said and turned back to his work station.

“It cost $150 dollars!” She exclaimed happily as she applied the lipstick.

“Wow, where did you get the money?” Dr.Flug asked as he carefully put a drop of liquid into his beaker. Dementia put her hands behind her back, and with a smile replied.

“I didn’t, you did.”

“I…wait, what?!” He whirled back at her and saw her shrug innocently.

“I took it from your piggy jar.”

“You did what?! Noooo!” He shrieked and ran to the other side of the lab, where he kept his piggy bank. He found his poor ceramic pig shattered into pieces on top of a table. The murder weapon, a hammer, lay right beside it. Flug fell to his knees with tears welling up in his goggles.

“Benjamin!” He yelled out. His eyes swiftly narrowed with anger, his arms shaking as he turned back to her. “Dementia!” But she was already gone, having skipped away before he had the chance to reprimand her.

Dementia put on another layer of lipstick and threw it down the hall. She stood in front of Black Hat’s office and peeked inside.

“Oh BH?” She sang. Black Hat grumbled at being disturbed. He glanced up at Dementia from his desk and went back to writing.

“What is it now, Dementia? Can’t you see I’m busy paying these idiotic bills?” He snarled, scribbling across the paper violently.
She slid inside and sat on the desk, leaning her head on top of Black Hat’s hat. His eyes went down in disbelief and lifted up his arm, which he used to shove her off of him.

“I’m not in the mood for one of your games.” He growled, continuing his work. She jumped up from the ground.

“I got a new lipstick!” She grinned.

“I don’t care.”

“Its cherry flavored!”

“Still don’t bloody care.”

“I wanted to try it out on you.” She smirked as she leaned forward. Black Hat’s scribbling suddenly stopped when he realized what was happening. He whirled around and began to run to the door until he was tackled by Dementia from behind.

“Dementia! No! Get off!” He yelled, but she giggled loudly when she lifted him back towards her. She wrapped her arms around his neck possessively, making Black Hat jerk his head back, avoiding her puckered lips. “Unhand me! Don’t you dare!”

Loud screaming filled the mansion, waking 5.0.5 from his nap and run off towards Flug’s laboratory. The sudden screaming made Flug abandon his work and dive into the panic room. When the screaming finally stopped, Dementia skipped out of Black Hat’s office, humming happily with hearts in her eyes. Black Hat slowly got up, his suit and tie disheveled as if he walked out of a shady alley. His whole face and monocle was covered in red lipstick marks. He stuck out his tongue in disgust.

“Flug! Get me the cleansing chalk!”

———————-
Edited by @obsessivegeekgirl13
I hope you all like it and reblog if you do! ^_^

anonymous asked:

Do you have advice for writing stories where the characters are older than the writer? More particularly, do you have advice for teenagers trying to write adult characters?

That’s tough. The best you can really do is talk to adults and ask them questions pertinent to your novel. Enlist adult betas so they can confirm whether or not your adult characters are realistic.
As an adult, the number one thing I see teen writers doing wrong is having adult characters stress about shit they wouldn’t realistically give a shit about. Unless an adult is emotionally stunted (which is possible), they’re not gonna care about a lot of things teens care about. This is not meant to be condescending. When I was a teen, things would devastate me and keep me up at night. As an adult, the same shit can happen and I wouldn’t bat an eyelash. So when writing an adult, remind yourself that this person pays bills, they support themselves, they have people depending on them, they worry about the livelihood of their family. So before they freak about someone dating their crush or the pretty, bitchy bully, ask yourself - does this adult have enough fucks to give? Probably not.

Being A Superhero Doesn’t Pay the Bills

When writing a superhero story my first thought was who is my main character. After all, having a good understanding of your character can help you write a story that makes sense for them. The way to do that is to try and add some realism to it, because the less reasons your readers have to suspend their beliefs the better. And while thinking about it I realize that being a superhero can be rough when it comes to the state of their bank account.

Heroism doesn’t pay the bills. Unless they’re a billionaire like Tony Stark, Oliver Queen, Bruce Wayne, Emma Frost, Charles Xavier, and so on, than they’re out of luck. The best they can do is find a day (or night) job that caters to their unique position. A job that allows them to disappear at a moment’s notice, to not be questioned if they show up with injuries once in a while. Even better if they can keep track of the news in order to know when they are needed.

That’s why I listed down jobs that would suit superheroes (even villains to a certain extent). Some may be difficult to pull off, but it all depends on your character’s abilities and position in the job.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Why are you starting a new series when you don't even finish a 2 parter?

Why are you demanding things from me when you don’t pay my bills? I write what I so choose and if you saw, I apologized the other day about not finishing that fic. It slipped my mind as I was planning a wedding and on my honeymoon, my mistake. Also, I had planned to work on it tomorrow after work but I think I’m good now. Suspended indefinitely. This new series is a collaboration that’s been planned for a long time. You think that by being rude I’m going to want to finish that fic you want? Because it does the opposite. Thanks!!!! You can leave permanently.

anonymous asked:

When did you realize you could live off of your work as a Writer? I know it seems too personal but, do you have an average number of how much you make per month? People seem to be so secretive about that and I don't understand why. I want to live as a writer but I couldn't possibly do it without knowing I would be able to pay my rent and food

People are “secretive” about that for a few reasons:

1. No one wants to talk about personal finances online. It’s uncomfortable and, more importantly, unsafe.

2. A vast majority of writers fail by society’s standards. They make shit money. The average traditionally published writer sells 1000 copies in 2 years, and the average self-published writer sells 100 in the same amount of time. No one wants to announce these numbers.

3. A lot of people don’t understand the writing industry or the averages. They think you’re only successful if you’re on the NYT best seller list. So when an author is selling well and announces it, sometimes the reaction is mixed - what? That doesn’t sound like very much. It’s not fun having to explain your success each time you present it.

My reasons are #1 and #3. My platform is huge, and announcing my financial status to everyone obviously puts me at risk. And in the past when I’ve given sales updates, I was met with confusion, sadly from aspiring writers who should know better. For example, when I announced that I had sold my first 2000 copies of EVE, people were surprised that I hadn’t sold 20,000 on the first day alone. Having to explain that such numbers are insane, especially for a debut author (with a much smaller audience at the time) got old fast. No more announcements. Too many idiots in the mix.

All that said, there’s a big flaw with your question, and that’s the fact that you’re assuming there’s some kind of financial norm among writers. The norm is dick money. Most writers write part-time and have a full-time job to support them. Writers like me who do this full-time are the minority. So even if writers announced their finances, it wouldn’t do you much good. This is a job that depends on the individual writer, their marketing tools, their audience. It doesn’t matter how well I’m doing, because I am not reflective of you. I have a YouTube channel, a large audience, and zero debt - so while writing is most definitely paying all of my bills, I have fewer bills than most people.

There is no crystal ball with this industry. You work your ass off, you market like crazy, and you wait for the sales to come in. At some point in your writing career, you will be able to tell if the money is good enough for you to quit your day job. But that is not something you’ll be able to predict before anything is released. That’s a realization that will come long after your work is published. 

i laid down intending to relax for 10 mins bc i felt exhausted + dont feel good and ended up passing out for 2hrs+

have to be up again at 5:30 tomorrow and do it all over again all week

work is exhausting life is exhausting i just wanna have like a week off to catch up on things & draw & write without working myself to death just so i can pay my bills

i’ve been a “singer/songwriter” for 10 years now. wrote my first “Real” song about a girl in 6th grade on 1 guitar string. 2 years later i was performing professionally, 2 more years and i was touring around the country. and now, 6 years later, i’m poor as shit, barely writing, working retail part-time and trying to pay bills. fucked up how i used to be really like Following My Dreams and shit but now my music is basically dead and i can’t even play music in my apartment because the walls are thin and i’m scared i’ll piss off the neighbors

When you feel like you’re disappointing everyone for not writing fanfic...

I hate this right now. I have to channel all my energy into writing my original work because that pays the bills, and I’ve been totally remiss in not writing with depression and anxiety for the last few months.

And now I just feel like i’m letting everyone down. :(

cnn.com
Senate Republicans still don't like the House health care bill
The Congressional Budget Office released its highly anticipated score of the House Republican health care bill on Wednesday.
By MJ Lee, CNN National Politics Reporter

I am actually kind of grateful that the House passed such a horrible health care bill

why? because before it was even passed, the Senate had already decided (as it announced immediately upon passage) that it would write its own bill without paying much, if any, attention to the House’s version

now the CBO has said that 23 million Americans would be still uninsured by 2026 under the new bill and many would face thousands of dollars in premium increases (and meanwhile the deficit cut, which was supposedly the point, has plummeted)

so, what we have is a bill that will not become law, that everyone hates, that now has some sound-bite-worthy numbers on how bad it is, with a whole bunch of House Republicans’ names attached to it. it’s a fucking gift to the opposition. the campaign ads write themselves!

the president’s party traditionally gets smashed in the first midterm. this time the fallout may be worse, in large part because Trump is awful, but Republicans are cheerfully making it worse for themselves.