Happy WBW! ^^ If You Could Bring One Thing/person/place/etc. From Your Wip Into The Real World, Which

yess a bonus vid! 🤩🤩 my question is, as a discovery writer, what signals to you that a chapter isn't working? And do you rework them, store away in a doc--or scrap entirely? much luv, hope you're staying safe :)

Q&A - ask me questions!

Helloooo! I thought I’d do an end of year writing Q&A for a bonus vid in my YouTube channel. If anyone has questions, leave them as a reply on this post or send me an ask (make sure to indicate it’s for the Q&A)!

student writeblrs! what are your writing plans/goals for the rest of your break? my plan is to finish drafting/editing a climate change short story and submit it to some literary magazines and hopefully, hopefullyyyy.. draft chapter eight of my lit-fic novel which keeps. not. working. feel free to use this post for accountability! <33

hello world! you’ve severely disappointed me! i’d sound like my mother if i went on about your mistakes, but i’d rather spare you the grief! save room for me in my unlikely return, even if you’re a hard place to call home! ciao!

Foreshadowing, agreed! But also—

Queue those random eating scenes and insufferable monologues. Can’t forget the matching character’s mood to an ornate object or cloud pattern.

I’ve come to realize that I’m an underwriter. Hbu?

the painter’s mistress

The oak cottage has grown mushy in the rain, susceptible to mold.

The boggy air - a warm, wet rag, plugs my mouth 

as I sit and snap split peas into a Blue Black bowl, nostrils blaring 

at the stink of rotting leaves.

My hunched figure is molded from swirls of oil, greasy smears 

of Yellow Ocher, Permanent Mauve;

colors you’d so thoughtfully selected, seen in me.

Now, under coats of glaze, spotty like a bride’s moth-eaten veil,

I’m just a mute, colorless oval to you.

It’s needless to hide my bloated, decaying face;

you turned away before I could.

Ecstatic to say that I’m in that particular writing flow state again. You know which I mean—the one where time and space do not exist.

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. 

they hadn’t prepared us for this. they left us with nothing left worth fighting for.

that is, until we found each other.

we were living through what scientists had called the worst case scenario, and we were doing it alone.

| worst-case scenario: a wip intro |

the floods, the fires, the wailing, the radio static.

there was nothing left to salvage. except for maybe the kid, and that one dog. a van that stuttered more than it moved, a pink blanket tucked inside a fathers jacket. the notebook filled with silly drawings and the notes passed between them in the dark.

GENRE: science fiction, dystopian, adventure, thriller, surrealism

POV: third/omnipient

PROGRESS: first drafting

MOOD: dark, wistful, painfully nostalgic, uneasy, cautiously hopeful

SETTING: the year is 2336, Earth. but it’s nothing like anyone had imagined.

WARNINGS: multiple deaths, biological ware fare, drowning, weapons, display of mental illness(es), end of the world scenario, not so natural disasters, alcoholism, manipulation, nothing is right, there is no normal.

VAGUE PLOT: [they] were fed up with how their lives were treated on this planet, and decided to leave. they left behind their final words, etched into the grounds they tore apart and whispered into the waves that came crashing down. the people meant to protect them all had given up, had betrayed them. but they couldn’t be blamed, they had tried to warn the world to no avail. now [we] were on our own, with a scattering of the earths population, to make this place a home again.

[they] are the scientists who had tried their hardest to keep this world alive.

[we] were five people undeserving of this hell.

[[ wip tag: wip; wcs ]]

Me decaying in bed writing my wip in front of the fan in summer, August.

“Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”

— Louis L'Amour