Oh, that wonderful feeling when you’re plotting and brainstorming and the dots just start CONNECTING all over the place and then it just spirals into this oh… oh???? Oh!!!! OH??!?!?? moment which is an unmatched high as a writer
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I like writing.
I like the process of writing. I like the mechanics of writing.
I like writing down words and picking what order that they should go in to best convey the meaning and images in my mind to the person reading them. I like thinking about the way a sentence sounds and the way it interacts with the other sentences around it. I like thinking about what words should repeat, and what words should stand alone, and what words should be swapped out with other words.
I like the actual writing part of writing!
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I think the most unintentionally pretentious part of me is I genuinely forget that most people do not have a near-encyclopedic knowledge of mythology and folklore. I literally just assume most people know at least the name of every Greek god. My mom and I were watching the Banshees of Inisherin and at the start, she asked "Do you know what a banshee is?" and I was so stunned because it would never occur to me to ask that question because I would never assume the average person doesn't know what a banshee is. The average person knows what a banshee is right. You know what a banshee is right. You know the names of the greek gods right. You know that norse myth where loki fucked the horse right. Right. RIGHT
Image transcript: an edited version of the xkdc comic Average Familiarity, depicting a conversation between two stick figures.
Person one: myths, legends and folklore is second nature to us myth nerds, so it's easy to forget the average person probably only knows black shuck, jormungandr and banshee
Person two: and gorgoneion of course
Person one: of course
Text at the bottom of the image says "Even when they're trying to compensate for it, experts in anything wildly overestimate the average person's familiarity with their field."
End image transcript.
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i know i wouldnt survive in an austen novel because someone would be britishly, discretely rude to me and i would be completely unable to restrain myself from calling them a cunt to their face
my detested rival: why, madam, you look so drawn and pale today! does the small size of your estate not give you enough freedom to take in the sun?
me: listen you waxy, lemon-faced bitch,,
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You’ve heard of one shots, now get ready for none shots! It’s when you think of an idea for a fic and then don’t write it
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unfortunately, I will write this fic and I am writing this fic are two very different things
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i really do enjoy the Woman Who Hunts as a character archetype. whether literally or metaphorically i love a woman who goes out with the specific intent of killing something and bringing it home in her teeth.
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Soulstober Day2: Goal
“If you insist on facing Miquella, I will run you through, whoever you might be.”
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what if you get divorced, and your ex writes a novel about it, and you write a novel about it, and your ex writes another novel about it, including about the novel you're writing, and that gets published before your novel. welcome to another article at new york magazine
Earlier this year, Ewell published a novel, Set for Life. Its narrator is unnamed, but his initial circumstances closely mirror what Ewell’s once were: a frustrated writer married to a more successful novelist, the two of them teaching in the English department of a liberal-arts college, his job offered as a “spousal hire” to help lure her. In the novel’s first chapter, the narrator, on his way home from a writing fellowship in France, stops over to see his and his wife’s good friends, a couple living in Brooklyn. (In the book, they are named Sophie and John and his wife is named Debra.) Near the end of chapter one, the unnamed narrator sleeps with Sophie. [...] Ewell is far from the first writer to pivot on the intimate details of their personal life. But one circumstance in which he finds himself is somewhat less commonplace. In May 2021, he sent the manuscript of Set for Life to an agent. That November, he learned some disconcerting information. In his novel, the narrator — who in this fictional world initially returns to live with his wife, his affair still secret — eventually realizes that his wife has known about the affair for some time and has been writing a book that will chronicle the disintegration of their marriage. Now, in the real world, Ewell discovered that a version of his story was actually happening. His ex-wife had written a book about their falling apart, and it would be published nine months before his. [...] One further peculiar aspect of all this is that Ewell had already touched on these events in fiction several years before his novel, in a 2019 story called “Halloween” that was published in Juxtaprose magazine, but appears strangely unaware that he did so. “I don’t think of that story as being very rooted in experience or anything,” he says when I mention it, seemingly mystified that I might bring it up in this context. I point out he is clearly using his marriage in it. He seems perplexed. “There’s an ex-wife with a boyfriend or something?” he asks. To which, well, yes, but rather more than that: The narrator’s ex-wife has stayed in the college town where they’d both once worked and married a man named Bruce, the former chair of the department, who has a daughter from a previous marriage. She is made full professor in three years. All of this mirrors Pittard’s subsequent life (aside from the fact she and her partner, Jeff Clymer, are not formally married). [...] “Weird!” Ewell says. “I don’t remember that at all. But, yeah, I mean I guess I’m calling on my experiences and memories more than I thought.” [...] All of which takes on greater significance for a very particular reason: This is a story in which the narrator’s ex-wife, Angela, is stabbed to death by a homeless man on the university campus. In other words, if we accept that Angela is based on Pittard, Ewell has written a story in which he imagines and depicts her murder. I ask whether he didn’t consider what Pittard would think if she read this. “It didn’t occur to me at all,” he says.
how else would they write novels about their failing marriages
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Dessa’s tweets speak to me on a spiritual level
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Leave me and my weird names in peace