MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m pretty sure they never show in the anime how they got to class?? But I love the idea that Denki used to show up to UA in his skateboard before they stayed at the dorms, also idk I feel like Bakugo it’s his dad’s baby and he used to take him to class when he wasn’t busy like PLEASE

MHA tweets pt.8

Day 1 for the March 50k novel writing challenge I'm running on my sideblog (@bi-focal15):

Introduce yourself/your WIP/your writing goals/ your writing schedule and/or whatever else you please :)

Bonus: create a writing affirmation for the month!

Hi, I'm bi_focal! The WIP I'm focusing on for this challenge is actually based off of a writing prompt I did awhile ago (that you can see here) and most of my writing will be concentrated in the evenings

My affirmation is: It doesn't have to be good, it just has to exist

Hihi this was so fun to draw ! I just really like imagining them hanging out I guess haha 🧡💚

24hr Novel Challenge: day 2 results

My total is currently up to 11hrs and 12,139 words

For today, specifically: 7 hours/ 7,110 words

Started feeling pretty fatigued around hour 6 but I’m happy with the work I was able to put in today!

“But my writing’s not good like-” Comparison is the thief of joy. Comparison is the thief of joy. Comparison is the thief of joy.

writers! favorite line(s) from your current WIP?

mine is: Shouto sits curled up beside the door and waits patiently for the flimsy defense to crumble. When it finally does so, it is not with the same fury and righteousness that Shouto had imagined, but carefully pushed- the creak an askance rather than a condemnation- with hardened hands more suited for holding children than tearing unholy beings apart. The only thing that rains down upon him from the open doorway is water.

personally, i definitely think that these phrases stand out a lot more to the writer than to the reader, but if you feel like those comparison phrases are adding up too much or getting a bit clunky, I’d recommend experimenting with metaphors rather than trying to look for replacements for “like” or “as”

to a reader, something like “her smile was like the rising sun” is super easy to read and can do a lot of work communicating theme and mood and details about the character (or narrator, depending) but switching it up to something more complex like “her smile was akin to the rising sun” can make a reader pause and go ‘huh that’s a little awkward’ unless that’s the style of language you’ve been writing in the whole time

that said, i think the simplest way to cut down on similes if you have too many (or don’t enjoy how they affect the flow of your sentences) is to use metaphors. they can help cut down that barrier between a character comparing two things (e.g. her smile & the rising sun) and instead appeal directly to a reader’s senses or their understanding of the world, so that the comparison just becomes part of the scene itself

for example, I was reading Sally Rooney’s Normal People during the unit on comparisons for a writing course I took and some that stood out to me were how she described “rain silver as loose change in the glare of traffic” and how that rain “[whispered] on slick roof tiles”

the first quote is a simile while the second is a metaphor, but both of them are making comparisons (the first comparing rain & loose change, leaning on a readers visual reference for shiny coins and implying that the narrator thinks these two things are alike) while the second one compares the sound of rain to the sound of whispering by making it part of the scene description directly. rather than say “it was as if the rain whispered on slick roof tiles” Rooney broke down the barrier that similes sometimes put up by directly appealing to the reader’s senses instead (sound here, instead of sight) and that’s effective bc a reader can very easily understand what it means for rain to whisper without the author having to put in a lot of work looking for a natural way to say “the rain seemed as if it was whispering on slick roof tiles”

and sometimes similes just work better than metaphors. it really depends but, as the author, you get to choose what works for you and what doesn’t

these kind of considerations can be hard to remember when you’re in the middle of writing, too, but the editing phase can be a great place to turn some similes into metaphors (or to decide that you like all your similes and to leave them be!)

i know a lot of my writing involves me writing exactly what I mean, and then scaling it back in the editing phase so that I’m showing what I mean instead of stating it all outright- and in that process a lot of similes end up incorporated in different ways (either by using metaphors instead or by dropping the comparison altogether and leaning more on body language and or theme to draw out the ideas and impressions i want a reader to get) so maybe that strategy could work for you too?

i got a little long-winded here but I hope this helps!

As a newer writer, I'm struggling to use similes in more ways other than by phrases like "like", "seeming as", "as if" or other versions of these three.

What are some of the other, if any, ways to compare something to something else, to avoid a book turning mundane?

This is my first time participating in flash fiction friday but I had a lot of fun, thanks so much for the prompt! @flashfictionfridayofficial

Content Warning: suggestive content

Title: Slip | WC: 591

The moon is bright when Margaret's hand draws me into wakefulness.

Her cold fingertips press against my arm like piano keys- tap, tap, tapping a scale that brings goosebumps to the surface and bores her the second my skin grows used to the touch.

She smiles, a finger raised to her lips, and I remember that Margaret has the prettiest teeth I've ever seen. Pearly and straight and not at all afraid to bear down until I bruise. The memory blooms before my eyes as I watch her sway around the room, picking up her hairbrush, then a headband. The echo of her perfect press of lips will linger in the days to come like a love letter and ache in all the ways that I do when she's not around.

"It's late," I murmur, sparing a glance towards my alarm clock.

Margaret continues to dance like I hadn't said a thing and I continue to watch her, content to swallow down the sentiment.

What did late matter when Margaret was drawing closer with those eyes, leaning down to pluck the observation from behind my teeth like sweet oranges in the summertime? What was the hour compared to the way Margaret crept out of the room with my breath still caught in her lungs?

The floor creaks under my weight when I slip from the bed- a clumsy cat to Margaret's graceful creeping- and I follow her humming out of the bedroom.

Here, the moon peers in like a voyeur and bathes Margaret, elbow to hip, in her soft and hazy glow. Margaret's slip is practically sheer. Pathetically mesmerizing.

My pajamas are threadbare, but they cling to her echoing touch in all the right ways and I can't help but take a few steps forward, hand outstretched and hesitating half an inch before her hip.

"Marg," I say, then I stop. Swallow. "Margaret," I try again.

"That's my name," she whispers back.

My fingers catch in the hole against my own hip, instead.

Don't wear it out, I think. But I don't think a name like Margaret could ever be worn out when it's used for a girl like her.

"Margaret," I croon slowly.

She rolls her eyes with another, secretive, almost-smile, eyes glinting in the low light. I'm close enough to see the way the moon colors her eyelashes silver.

She waltzes into the kitchen and I get the feeling I'm supposed to wait, so I do. I pick up humming the tune Margaret had begun, drifting toward the window to play with the curtain hem, unable to put together a picture based on the sounds she's leaving behind.

I imagine the curtain is Margaret's slip, instead. They're almost the same color.

"Is this what you wanted, Beth?" Margaret calls out, voice cutting through the empty space between us like she's right beside me.

I drift forward toward the kitchen, smiling, still rubbing the sleep from my eye, and the expression wobbles like a figure skater on the ice- spinning, spinning, spinning.

The eggs are on the floor. The ones that she bought.

Margaret's coat is gone from the rack.

"I really tried, you know?"

Yolks spill slowly out of their fragile shells, bathed in a refrigerator halo, trembling under the weight of the front door- closed, firmly.

Unlocked.

Margaret's key is still hanging by the door.

Spinning...spinning...spinning...

Something wobbles, something burns, and I'm crouched down beside the eggs, my father's voice in my head and Margaret's perfume on my skin, already fading.

Don't wear it out, I think again.