#PennedPossibilities 31 Has your MC ever desired a better understanding of themselves?
When we land in the series in book one, Freya has nearly forgotten who she is. She is deep down in a numbing dark void and can not see the colour of the world anymore. She knows she's in there somewhere, in that blank, expressionless face in the mirror. At that point, she's tired of this dark murky limbo and pleads to the self she once had to get her out of it.
#Writing and other creative tags are useful once you filter out those who are only using Mastodon for promotion and never engage with other people. I have no trouble muting words and people to make my feed interesting and inspiring.
What really inspires me is writing #MagicMageMadness with @strangeseawolf We write the story in alternating toots, and it's really fun to have two captains on a ship in an ocean of absurdities. It forces you to directly see and work with very different approaches.
I've seen most of the hashtags mentioned here already, but last week, I noticed #fridaykiss which gives an insight into how other writers approach romance.
#WordWeavers 2405.31 — Do your MCs enjoy games that are more physical or intellectual?
Wintereyes has never heard of... What did you call that? Games? She'd be interested in learning more about Township people if you would be willing to teach her.
The devil-girl is familiar with the concept of games, and she's done role playing games—as in trying to act the part of various people she might deal with in social situations (estate parties) or in real life (tenant farmers, officials, miners, petty rulers, etc.) Doing well meant she'd face less anxiety when hosting or negotiating with real people. Social anxiety was one of the many reasons she would later run away.
Things like board games or sports games? She wouldn't see the point. She was a prizefighter. Though people considered it a sport, that was never a game for her. It was how she would earn tuition and hone her fighting skills, and get sucked into the mob.
So physical or intellectual? She'd definitely enjoy physical games better.
#PennedPossibilities 331 — Has your MC ever desired the feeling of a fresh start, or a better understanding of themselves and / or the world around them?
Yes. Disappearing and starting fresh is a recurring theme with her. She's done it a few times.
My devil-girl values her freedom to pursue her interests (thaumaturgy) over practically anything. But for a single book, she has no attachments to anything material. She lives as an ascetic. Threaten her people and it won't end well. She will do most anything, if she feels she is learning or stretching herself. And, when she's pressured to do what annoys or bores her, or you have the temerity to threaten her, she will state clearly that she will disappear on your ass if you don't stop. No idle threat, that. She ended up running the syndicate when the Doña died (and no comment about who was responsible for the Doña's death), then ghosted the organization two weeks later taking nothing with her. She'd gotten rid of the undesirables first and was just sooo done with it all the flapping headaches.
Writing about food. Japanese literature has so many food references. But nothing spells the characters getting comfortable with each other than discussing food. #Writing#Amwriting
Nabe, gyudon, soborodon, hayashi
Good thing I have some nice leftovers in the frig. Though I am tempted to make hayashi. Can't go wrong with that.
I am going down the rabbit hole with research for my new story. What I was originally planning to have as cosmic horror is becoming more and more eco-horror based on the history of New Brunswick. There’s so much going on here: expropriation for Base Gagetown and Mactaquac, huge amounts of DDT sprayed everywhere, rampant deforestation, and heavy testing of Agent Orange (and all the other rainbow herbicides). Who needs Cthulhu when there’s corporate/military/industrial poisoning on a grand scale? And that’s not even getting into the fracking. #Writing#Research#NewBrunswick#CanadianHistory
there are the old tales
of the man who went for smokes
and never returned
as if it was that easy
afraid of laughter
in case it turned showery
caressing with smoke
lungs that gave up long ago
filled with that small joy
and he said, 'fuck it', and went
elsewhere, far beyond
the reach of life's pain and hope
as if his long trail
of lived days led to one choice
as if it wasn't
the weight of so much choosing
that crushed him to a fine dust
snug door
storm trapped outside
the shape of you in the darkness
our bones still humming to the tyres
skin patterned by stitched seats
eyes busy with back projections rolling
hands full wet clothes puddled
somewhere it is morning
there are people on their way to work
this is the stolen place between lies
where we can be true
light switch hidden but not needed
rain picking at the roof
wind wrestling the branches
peace in the darkness
and then they cut you
like you were the pattern bits
and not the pinned-to fabric
defining edges
from where no edges had been
before hungry scissors snipped