Ecstatic To Say That I’m In That Particular Writing Flow State Again. You Know Which I Mean—the One

Excerpt #1: The Waiting Room

    Seated in the doctor’s office I peeked over my magazine, causing the collage of perfume bottles to distort until they resembled vague, pastel coloured light-bulbs clustered at the brim of my vision. Across me slouched a woman with a house shaped cage on her lap, a string of drool snailing down her chin as she snored. I made a face at her green-cheeked conure as it inched down its tightrope towards me, bobbing its head. The middle-aged man a few seats down, his cowboy hat flipped over his eyes, fanned himself with a lung disease brochure even though the air conditioning had been set to blast. My eyes followed their thought bubbles as they bounced off the oily walls and popped. The severed letters puffed up to the ceiling in a cloud of confetti, mundane details they’d already forgotten. The parakeet’s thoughts were less entertaining, a string of staccatos that fizzled out before they could even form. 

     When the secretary, a bullnecked woman with streaked green hair grated down to a pixie cut, waved her faux quill pen at me, I placed my magazine back on the rack and followed her down a hallway tiled with domino doors. She kept glancing back to confirm I was still on her heels and hadn’t wandered off like a sneaky child. Once we reached my cubicle she finally left me alone, her black heels clacking against the shiny floor as she trotted off. I crunched down on the paper spread out over the bed, dizzy from the reek of iodoform. Fortunately the doctor arrived quickly, tapping a clipboard against his palm as he asked why I’d come. I lied that my back had been killing me and we both shrugged and nodded at the hardships of old age. 

House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski.

Reading this book requires rotating it around, holding it upside down and paging through countless footnotes of fictional references. I'm really enjoying it so far and I strongly reccomend it if you love horror!

i don't know who needs to hear this, but 'perfect' writing is a trap. all writing is subjective. what we create today, we may see as flawed tomorrow. what we see as flawed today, we may see as perfect tomorrow.

writing is the act of transmuting the human experience through words. and the human experience? it's a messy, chaotic thing filled with rough edges and uneven lines and mistakes and failures. you can erase all of that. you can. but then you're left with something sterile and artificial. you've effectively squeezed the soul out of your work, and i can think of nothing less appealing.

this isn't to say don't edit your work. please do. but keep it within reason, and make sure you're moving forward and not backward. momentum is key.

don't sit on an idea for three decades waiting for that dance with inspiration, or that dynamite first line, or that eureka plot twist, or the words to flow like magic from your fingertips. because it won't happen. and if it does, it'll strike like lightning and disappear twice as fast. the only surefire way to finish a story is to start.

so write. for the love of god, just write.

along the way, things will fall in line. i promise. and if they don't? then they already have. the magic of art is that everything we create is a snapshot of who we are at the time of creation. it's like a time capsule of human experience, and there's a beauty in that authenticity-- in the mistakes we make and the wrong turns we take. don't run from them. embrace them.

let their lessons flow through you and channel them into something tangible. if it's hard, then start with one word and keep going. don't erase it. don't start over. don't let yourself believe your story isn't worth telling because if you don't tell it, then no one else will. and that'd be a damn shame.

so one word a day. one sentence a week.

whatever it takes.

it might be tough letting go of the idea of perfect. silencing your inner editor. your inner critic. it might be tough realizing that your story will never meet your standards, not completely, but it won't be half as tough as looking back and wondering where all the days, weeks, and years went; that in the pursuit of perfection, you forgot to ever write a story at all.

so leave perfect behind. readers don't want it. why would they? they can't possibly relate to perfect-- none of us can.

instead, give readers a window to your imagination, stormclouds and all. you'll be surprised by how many stick around for the rain, how many relish the sound of your thunder, and how many cherish the worlds that only you could bring to life.

Stuck in an unanticipated editing spiral at the beginning of Draft 2 of Project Istanbul, oh and mourning the plot lines that got chucked for the Greater Good. Goodbye side character whose only purpose was to be aesthetically pleasing, I never knew you.

Old books kind of ruined me for that. Cue me staring at my own three paragraph run on sentence while editing and not even understanding it

i love reading old books because they invent such ways to create a long ass sentence

Wip Intro: Yellow Houses

I should start by saying that this project is shelved. I’m currently too busy to devote it the time it deserves while juggling uni and another novel. Hopefully, I’ll pick it up one day in the future, but for now, let’s just let it age like a fine wine on a USB stick, shall we?

Genre: Lit-fic/mystery? Logline:  Ellen, an aspiring university journalist, finds an envelope in her mailbox filled with photographs of upper-class houses. When she visits these addresses she finds they’ve all been vandalized -- painted a neon, school-bus yellow. When the two vandals engage with her via a virtual chatroom to propose that she cover their ‘art project’ for the local newspaper, she must do her best to write a non-biased recollection of the conflicts that ensue. Literal Logline: A bunch of young hipsters create pretentious art and go on tangents about eating the rich. Also, there is a creepy/psychopathic mayor candidate always wearing a signature yellow jacket and tie having an affair with Ellen’s mom! Fun!

Setting: Takes place in a small, fictional town in British Columbia. But a lot of scenes also take place in a chatroom, with virtual urban cities like Tokyo, New York and more. 

Excerpt from the chatroom scene! TW/NSFW warning: mild sexuality. Also I haven’t line edited much yet, oops!

My baby pink VR headset landed me 2050, Chinatown; a street puddled with neon lights swimming in oily water, reflecting a Tetris stack of knockoff Balenciaga retailers. A couple Hello Kitty shaped arcade machines silhouetted a bar window, casting a pink and blue grid over my friends, who caught sight of me and waved. In only 330 hours, 20 minutes, 12 seconds, I’d come to know them better than their own families. If I hovered over their bodies, too creamy and poreless to be truly photorealistic, a timer would reveal when we’d clicked accept, invited eachother into our second lives.

Cassie’s heart shaped face grinned, her bejeweled teeth blue in the ink of store lights. She tossed her metal bat up high, and caught it on her index finger, balancing it there. Jada’s newly installed robo arms were translucent plastic. There were wires tangled inside.

           Across the plaza, next to some motorcycles collapsed like dominos, a tall woman with a black veil over her face dragged a leash with a crawling half naked man in a bunny mask on the end of it, shuffling clumsily to keep up with her long strides. When she greeted us with nod, Jada let out a squeak before muting her microphone to safely burst into giggles.

           “So many weirdos tonight,” Cassie said lowly, staring at the slave’s bony butt disappear around the boba shack. “Alors.” Her hands came together in a prayer. “Matching tattoos. Glowing ones, from the new update. And don’t even think about saying no, I have enough coins for all of us. You’ve got no excuse whatsoever.” She linked her arm through mine and Jada slung her robo arm over my shoulder and they steered me across the street. A group of white-haired teenagers, teardrop wings trailing along their bare feet drifted past us at the traffic lights, which only existed to flash ads for fast food chains or reduced phone plans at the pedestrians. One of them poked out her tongue at me. Pastel blue and pierced with a tiny metal seahorse.

"Hold Me Under Till I See the Light" by Shaelin Bishop - The New Quarterly Digital Edition

On the first day of summer, my sister asked me if I believed in god. “I’m leaving, Rainey,” she said, while we scrubbed the bay windows—dim on our side, bright on the other, where blonde tendrils of grass rustled against the glass. Vinegar stung my eyes and the raw hangnails on my pinkies. The other […]

What’s this?! “Hold Me Under Till I See the Light,” my most recently published short story, is available to read online in TNQ for free! I had no idea the story would be made available to everyone, but I was so excited to see it there today. If you want to give it a read, I don’t know how long the story will be available for non-subscribers (might only be around a week), but it is probably my favourite story I’ve ever written so if you want to read it, now is your chance! 

–Shaelin

This is so interesting, please add me to your taglist! :o)

To find but morsels of what the world used to be spurs an odd feeling of nostalgia deep within your core; it surpasses your hard shell, delving until it tickles something gleaming, innocent, and something some would dare say is childish – hope. Hope for a future crafted with compassion but founded on destruction.

Funny, to experience nostalgia for a past that isn’t your own.

You live in Angelwood; a city like many others, yanked by the leash that is MERCY. You know about MERCY. Magnificent Emergency Relief and Care for Yourself, it stands for. It rose from the ashes of a worldwide epidemic of organ failures, constructing artificial organs which would ultimately save pockets of humanity from extinction – at a price. With the devastated economy and government, MERCY’s growing finances and following, MERCY soared to power. Then came the monopolisation of medical services – even if it was under a different name, you knew it was collared and walked by MERCY – and the subtle lacing of bodily modifications, or “augmentations”, into contemporary fashion and style. For those who still suffer from breakouts of organ failures, or for those who feel the stroke of MERCY’s marketing and manipulation warm on their cheek, they can pursue avenues paved by MERCY. Oh, but for those who cannot afford such grandiose costs? Well, need not worry, they offer simple contractual signups where you can pay back in smaller instalments. While this all seems lovely and altruistic when spoken with the honey-lathered words of MERCY agents, you know all too well that should someone miss one too many instalments, they’ll pay for it in more than just their money.

Will you conform and live a life that is shadowed by MERCY? Or will you fight? Both sides have their positives and negatives, yet death lurks at either door. Do you want to go out swinging, or go out plodding?  ―  THE ORGAN OPERA

OVERVIEW.

GENRE  ―  sci-fi (cyberpunk);  queer romance.

DEMOGRAPHIC  ―  (new) adult.

NARRATION  ―  third person;  past tense.

THEMES  ―  capitalism;  fascism;  anticapitalism + antifascism;  body augmentation;  human experimentation;  dystopian earth but struggling to make a better future.

STAGE  ―  revamping and plotting;  worldbuilding.

SUMMARY  ―  Years ago, a manmade virus raked its teeth against humanity  -  an epidemic of organ failures swept nations, devastating economies and governments alike. From the ashes of millions, select few megacorporations loomed over those who remained with malicious intent. Many of these megacorporations now control particular districts. Angelwood is controlled by the medical monster that is MERCY and is currently facing its latest threat  -  yet another uprising. And this time, they’re not going to stop until they burn MERCY to the ground.

MAIN CHARACTERS.

LEONARDO SONG  ―  Often referred to by his nickname of ‘Leo’, Leo is of mixed Korean and Filipino descent. He is the originator of the latest wave of rebellion against MERCY and his fire is something that can’t be quelled. He’s suffered severe facial disfiguration at the hands of a MERCY agent but wears it with mixed pride and anger.

CYRUS MERCER  ―  A black man who was one of many orphaned and taken underneath MERCY’s wing  -  under the condition that he partook in their PERSON program. On the surface, it seemed benevolent and altruistic… But MERCY never does anything nice without later ripping it to shreds. He’s now immune to the virus and wields more power than anyone in MERCY could’ve anticipated.

COCO DOOLEY  ―  A trans woman and close friend of Leo, she partakes in the uprising against MERCY and their control over Angelwood. She’s an expert hacker and has been steadily building her pool of information of and against MERCY.

MURDOCH MURRAY  ―  A trans man and close friend of Leo, like Coco, he too is part of the uprising against MERCY’s control over Angelwood. While Leo is fiery, Murdoch wields the cool charisma and allure akin to that of a skilled conman. He’s often the first to go into a situation, to procure or to defuse.

TAGLIST. if you’d liked to be added to the list, let me know via message, ask, or reblog! @mxxnwrites

Seven Lines

Thank you @glasshouses-and-stones and @comicgoblinwrites for tagging me. Even though I should be writing a production proposal for Macbeth this afternoon for my

cw: alcohol, mild sickness

ok at this point if my characters just spoke normally that would actually interest me.

Tagging: @orphanheirs, @noirwordsmith, @writingwithsnails, @mintyswriting, @tildeathiwillwrite, @icarianauthor, and @holdmyteaplease, to share (aprox.) seven lines of their work if they’d like!

Hello friend, it’s been a while. I completed the first draft of my adult thriller novel, which I’m currently referring to as Project Istanbul, so I wanted to share my mood board for this project and some excerpts with you.

a little about me/the blog™

I’m a Turkish-Kurdish English student living in Canada

I’m very introverted

I mostly write literary fiction

This blog is a nook for my novels and short fiction wips. I also share works I adore from my fellow writerblrs

a little about Project Istanbul

Set in Istanbul, Turkey (obviously) during the early 2000s

Story features a morally ambiguous journalist, unethical stalking, controversial therapy methods, too many expresso shots, glamourous outfits, and murder

Vague aesthetic inspos: Despair by Vladamir Nabokov, The Bell Jar by Slyvia Plath, The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón, Rear Window (1952)

TW: my novel explores mental illnesses including PD and NPD

random excerpts just because

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