23 || Female || BA in English/AFA in Music || Fanfiction and General Fiction Writer http://archiveofourown.org/users/AAnnR https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2006529/AAnnR
Someone: “Why do you get so heated while discussing lore of stuff? And why is it so detailed? Why do you have several thousand words devoted to this shit?”
Omg. If anyone hasn’t ever seen Bambi, I recommend you do it’s a masterpiece, but all that aside! I love the idea of Alastor chasing Charlie to this song. Especially that HAUNTING as SHIT part in the beginning. I always see Charlie being reflected in Alastor’s eyes. Like she’s prey >3>
Charlie didn't know how she ended up being chased through the destroyed outskirts of Pentagram City, clothes torn and hair in a manic disarray.
She'd been sitting in her office just an hour before, eating toast and trying to outline a new fundraising plan to finance the Hazbin Hotel. While Alastor was an integral in funding the staff of Charlie's passion project, she didn't realistically know how long his generosity will continue and she wanted to make sure that they are prepared for any outcome. Especially for when it was time for Alastor to come and claim what he deemed was suitable for his payment. So she'd been sitting, munching away at her toast and getting messy crumbs all of over the piles of papaerwork that liters her desk, when a patterned knock came from the closed door of her office.
While she stood quickly, having an inkling about who was on the other side by the rhythm, she been immediately startled by a loud bang and the sound of claws digging into wood. Charlie raced to the door and flung it open to reveal who she originally suspected: Alastor.
But he was different. His antlers were much larger and thicker, extending past the height of his hair and adding a plethora of additional prongs. His hands gripped at the door frame, piercing the wood with red talons. The yellow grin stretched across his face in a grin that Charlie found immediately unsettling.
"Little lady, aren't you just a sight for sore eyes." Alastor's radio-esque voice was gravely against the static.
"Well, I, um-"
"Dear," He'd interrupted, taking a step through the doorway, forcing Charlie back. "Why don't you put something more comfortable on and come with me? I'll take you to a nice dinner and a picture show."
"Um, but I still have so much to do here and, um, don't you think that's a little-"
Alastor swirled around, grabbing a hold of Charlie's bicep and pulled her along out of the office and down the hall. "Nonsense, I'm sure it's nothing that can't wait until tomorrow!"
"But! Um! Sir!"
"Alastor, darling, I insist!" He pulled her towards the front door until Charlie, finally having enough of being pulled around her own residence ripped her arm from his grasp with a loud "Stop!" However, because of how tightly he was hold her, the skin of her arm, unfortunately, was gouged by Alastor's talons. Blood, immediately poured black from the wounds.
Charlie pressed a hand to the wounds and fought to keep her breathing even. Alastor, in all his humored glory cocked head for a moment, looking Charlie. It was then that Charlie noticed how wide his pupils were blown. And, for a moment, she saw her own reflection peering back at her.
"Oh dear, now look what you've done!" He hummed, a small chortle rising beneath the words. "Here, come closer and I'll help you."
"Mr. Alastor, sir? I don't think that's a good idea." Charlie took a step behind her.
"Oh, really?" That was the only warning she recieved before he pounced, arms outstretched to grab her.
Charles manged to crouch, transfer her weight to her good arm for a moment, and strike out with s swift kick to trip Alastor, using his momentum against himself. Then, she shift her weight back to her feet to run to the front door of her hotel and down the front steps. She couldn't just let him take her and, if she was going to have to resort to physical violence, she didn't want to be in her home.
When she was half a block down the street she heard Alastor's voice call her name and the sound of dress shoes' hard souls hitting the pavement. A glance behind her told her that, yes, he was following her and gaining on her, quickly.
She turned down an alley, mustering a bit of magic to heal her wound as she ran. When it was healed, she picked up her pace, following her internal map to the outskirts of Pentagram City.
Eventually, Charlie stopped abruptly and turned to face where she knew her adament persuer would arrive. After a moment, Alastor thundered onto the scene. Even though Charlie was right in front of him and stopped, Alastor did not slow.
"Mr. Alastor! Why are you doing this?" She rolled out of the way to avoid his grasp. Alastor slid on the pavement of the broken ground and followed after her, reaching out a hand of talons out to grab her.
Charlie blocked the grab and rolled along the back length of his arm and away. He twisted, snapping his spin to follow her and made a grab for her wrist. His hand gained purchase and gripped her like a vice, but not crushing her bones.
She attempted the yank her wrist through to weak junction where his thumb and forefinger met, but his grasped remained true. In a panic Charlie switched tactics, pulling her magic to release her reserves. She growled as her horns grew, her teeth elongating and sharpening in her mouth.
Alastor attempted to open his mouth to speak, but her free hand struck out, her black talons piercing his throat. With a kick, Alastor was suddenly on his back, Charlie pinning him to the ground by his neck.
Beneath her, Alastor began to chuckle. "Now now, dear!" Charkie gripped his throat harder, but Alastor just hummed. "If I'd known you were this much of a fire cracker, I would have asked you go steady sooner!"
Charlie growled, a deep warning sound that reverberated in her chest.
Alastor's eyebrows shot up, his hands coming up to cup Charlie's constricting group. "But then, let's not forget about the order of things, hm?" Suddenly, Charlie was flown backward, Alastor's own hands wrapping themselves around Charlie's neck. He straddled her, ignoring her snarling, and smiled down at her as she struggled against him, her anger receading to make way for panic.
Alastor must have seen her change in mindset because his grip softened. "Oh no, dear. You've nothing to fear from me!" Alastor's smile stretched across his face causing Charlie to shiver. "At least not until I collect on our bargain and I possess what is mine."
Then, suddenly, he released her. Charlie immediately sat up, gasping, and rotated to pull her feet beneath her. Alastor stood, glancing to the distance before returning his gaze to her. "Besides," he murmured, his grin softening, "It would be mistake to just end the story before it began, don't you think, sweetheart?"
No, Charlie didn't really know how she'd ended up in this perdiciment, but for some reason she thought she was beginning to understand why.
Buy a pencil and paper. Get a writing program and a keyboard.
Spill all your ideas into a notebook that will never see the light of day. Write down literally every idea you have that even sort of relates to the scene/chapter/book that you want to write until your thoughts converge on a pointed attack.
Quality vs. Quantity? No competition. Quantity all the way. The more you write, the better you will know your story. Worry about Quality LATER.
Think about where the idea came from. Go there. Set up a cardboard box and live there. This is your home now.
What is the coolest, most self-indulgent thing you can think of? That’s what you want to write at this point, until you get some steam.
Short-term goals, my friends. And by short-term, I mean a minute from now, ten seconds from now. What are you going to do to write RIGHT NOW? Stop thinking about an hour from now, stop thinking about a day from now.
This is not a book. This is not a book. You are not writing a book. You are writing a story. A story is much easier to take bites out of than a book. A book is a big, scary, colossal thing. Stories are fun and carefree.
Get yourself a writing friend. A cactus, an old bottle of nail polish, a fish in an appropriately sized tank, etc. Make them hold you accountable.
Set crazy low goals. Promise yourself you will write ten words today. Ten words and you will be the Best Writer in the Entire World to Ever Exist. Accomplishing things is a morale booster and will urge you to write more.
So lately there’s been a lot of scary things happening in media (journalism is dying and there’s huge media layoffs, Amazon, Disney and Netflix are taking over everything, etc). I want everyone to remember how truly amazing and unique AO3 is and the sheer amount of organization and work it takes for it to be independent - many of you on here are young and may not know how much it changed being a fan. Read your history.
I have so much love and respect for women who are honest about their own loneliness but also find the good in it like when audrey hepburn said “I have to be alone very often. I’d be quite happy if I spent from Saturday night until Monday morning alone in my apartment. That’s how I refuel” and when charlotte bronte said “I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself” and when jenny slate said “I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that there will always be a ribbon of loneliness running through who I am. But that’s why I want to do comedy, and why I want to connect with people. You can use that ribbon to be a part of a finer tapestry, or you can choke yourself out with it! Your choice!” and when mary oliver said “whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh & exciting - over & over announcing your place in the family of things”
During the NaNoWriMo Now What? Months, we’re focused on helping you revise, edit, and publish your story. Today, NaNoWriMo participant Osie Cairn shares some editing advice on updating your messy first draft to version 2.0:
Writing that initial rough draft for me is a lot like careening around corners and sitting in the backseat while my sister’s learning how to drive: Absolutely terrifying. Sure, you can let your Inner Editor out while writing, but you’re probably not going to get much done—just like your sister isn’t going to get better if you kick her out of the driver’s seat to drive to the store yourself.
But after that journey is done? When you’ve written “The End” on your rough draft and know every mile of the journey your characters take? That’s when your editor gets to take control. That’s my favorite part of writing.
Editing is where you already know the story, who the characters are, what the plot is, and so don’t have to worry about what’s going to come out when you type. You don’t have to slog through a scene wondering where you’re going or if it’s going to be relevant once you reach the end. Because you already know. It’s all written down.
It’s where you get to take the mess of a rough draft and turn it into a shiny new Rough Draft 2.0.
Their Love Was Bone Dry (The Beginning of Chapter 3 and Spoilers)
Dias de Muertos comes quickly. Miguel manages to stay on top of his chores well enough during the day that he doesn’t incite suspicion at night when he sneaks off to the attic of the storage shed to practice. His family does not notice the blisters that comes with the sudden increase of practice, but his abuelita does notice his ferverance about his chores and actually compliments him at dinner one night -- which makes guilt fizz in his gut like a shaken soda. But he bites down the bitter feeling and smiles, instead basking in the sweet nectar of his abuelita taking notice of his diligence. Compliments are few and far for him, so he drinks up the praise and funnels it into his midnight practice.
When the day finally comes, Miguel is calm and confident. He can play the song blind (which he’s basically done in the darkness of his little hide-out for months when he can’t manage to get a candle) and with interruptions. He’s got the intro and bridge and closing down cold. He can do this.
He’s not arrogant -- he’s never really been successful before, so there’s no way he would be arrogant -- but he is absolutely confident that he can perform.
When he wakes up that morning, as usual before anyone else, Miguel pays a visit to his family’s refrenda to pray. He lights the unscented candles that line the tables then pulls a dusky yellow pillow to the center of the room and kneals, hands clasped like he’d been taught by his mother, head bowed as he asks for protection. He doesn’t ask for a blessing -- Miguel knows that he doesn’t deserve one for going against the wishes of his family -- but he wishes that, if his family is out there, they would want him to be happy.
The hardest part is the facepaint -- he’s never used it before, and in the darkness of the shed and using a mirror shard from some box he’d moved months ago, he’s absolutely sure that he’s messing it up. But he manages to recreate some emulation of the death that is paraded around the town on Dias de Muertos.
That’s when he hears his mama calling for him, which, timing being what it was, has Miguel’s heart pounding because, while there’s no way she could know, he just knows that she knows. “Miguel? Miho?”
Miguel stays silent as her voice grows closer, then fades as she moves away from the shed. He can't be seen -- face paint is not traditional in his family, so wearing it would be a red flag to his family. Then they'd ask questions; and while Miguel isn't a terrible liar, he isn't gifted in the subtle art of deception. He's as obvious as
XXX
And Miguel wants to say it hurts, but he’d be lying if that single word was enough to completely convey what he was feeling as he laid, curled up beneath the wooden slats of the porch. It’s a distress that numbs the wounds carved and painted along his body and makes his blood heavy in his veins. He’s soaked through, the rain above coming through the gaps of the wood and tracing lines through the mud, face-paint, and blood that covers his skin, leaving little trails of bare skin beneath.
He wants to cry, he wants to scream, he wants to bit and crawl and throw himself into an abyss that’s deep enough he’ll never reach the bottom.
But mostly, he just wants to sleep -- but despite the exhaustion that sits in his bones, his eyes don’t close. He stays awake, watching the rain fall and pool and evaporate and cradling his hands against his chest.
His music -- he could feel the flame of his music, his hope, being extinguished in the rain and the pain and the chill.
XXX
From this point on, I this is what I had been planning. If you don’t want spoilers for later on, don’t progress!
He manages to make it and does really well. A talent scout corners him and asks to sign him on as a performer
Grandmother finds him -- didn’t listen to the festival, but has gathered that he performed from the was the scout talks and tells the scout that they are uninterested in music and that Miguel doesn’t have the talent for something like that
Grandmother takes Miguel home and they argue. She smashes his guitar and his hands.
When everyone is asleep that morning, before sunrise, Miguel visits the referenda and prays to his family to protect him. And pray that the gray on his arm is a lie -- that someone will come and save him.
Every morning it becomes a mantra, for his soulmate that is dead to save him. He imagines that on the Day of the Dead, his soulmate comes to see him and is watching over him. And he sings a song under breath that he manages to compose for his soulmate over the course of his turmoil. (Proud Corazon is the song that Miguel composes for his soulmate and the family he wishes he had)
Grandmother treats him like a slave. Something in her snaps when he figures out that the famous guitar guy might be his great grandfather -- even his family tries to talk her out of treating him so terribly, but she manages to force them into compliance.
One day, Miguel is singing to himself one night, hungry and cold and sick because of lack of food and sleep, when Grandmother hears him and beats him for daring to sing in their house and forces him outside.
When Miguel wakes up in the next morning, he is with a woman in another place
He’s in the lap of a child social worker who is dead.
He freaks when he is told that he will be released to his family
Miguel tries to tell the social worker that his family will kill him if he goes back to them. But the social worker laughs and says that he’s already dead.
Miguel realizes she’s right and has a panic attack. She calms him, trying to tell him that it’ll be alright. That everything is fine. He tries to tell her that he can’t go back to his family. She doesn’t listen.
Miguel is ushered into his family’s care. But they are kind -- but he thinks it’s fake. It’s weird tho, because they seem so worried that he’s there and they try to ask him what happened. The social worker pulled the Great Grandmother aside and tell her about Miguel’s death. Child neglect.
They take him home -- exact replica of their home in the village. But it’s not in the village and it’s much bigger on the inside.
Miguel is given the freedom to choose a room. He chooses the room up in the attic that he used to keep his music in.
They teach him the nuances of being dead. It’s weird for him. He automatically cleans and they try to teach him not to do it, but he explains that it’s fine. It’s not a big deal.
Overall, he begins to relax -- they are nice and warm and wonderful. He gets an allowance for things he does. He is told her can buy anything he wants to. He saves up for a guitar.
It doesn’t take long and he buys a brand new one -- with a case because he wants to keep it nice.
He brings it home and shows his family. They are horrified. Great Grandmother goes to reprimand him and takes the guitar. Miguel shuts down and runs away, realizing that nothing has changed. At all.
He runs and runs and runs until he’s caught by the authorities, even though he’s trying to go to his great grandfather. He escapes by and runs into Hector -- and realizes immediately that they are soulmates.
Miguel drags him to a phone booth to ask for help because he heard Hector say that he knows his great grandfather -- and Miguel trusts him because he’s sure that Hector is his soulmate. He needs to get to his great grandfather -- the guitar guy. Hector isn’t sure, but Miguel manages to persuade him by saying that he’ll give Hector a favor if he’s able to (That Miguel will promise to visit Hector’s child for him on the next day of the dead).
Miguel and Hector run for cover.
That is all I had outlined. Well, that and the beginning of the last chapter:
“You weren’t there for me.” Miguel muttered into the hard surface of his knees, his throat working against the heaviness of emotion vibrating through him.
“What was that, kid?” Hector’s oblivious to the turmoil in Miguel’s head as they sit in solidarity at the bottom of the pit.
“When I needed you! You weren’t there when I needed you the most!” Miguel screeched, hi voice catching as, finally, he lets the gates open, his gaze locking onto Hector’s. His eyes felt as if they were burning, water pouring from them, his throat working out a sob as he tried to keep talking. “My abuelita- she-” He clenched his shirt, feeling the hardness of his sternum beneath the material as he pulled it down to where he knew his soul mark laid, etched into the bone of his collar the one phrase that had chained him to his fate - Hector.
Hector flinches, his bones clacking on the stone of the little island that peaks above the surface of the water as he violently wrenches himself from the small boy. It was like a stage -- the hole above them a skylight, a spotlight that gave purchase to the drama that unfolded like a jail sentence between them. Miguel felt his inner turmoil magnify in his soul as he watch Hector piece together their interactions -- Miguel's’ secret affection for the man that was so many years his senior, that secret that Miguel had told Hector that he’d trusted with no one else. That phrase that’d been etched in silver for so long that was his death sentence because his soulmate had already been dead when Miguel was born.
“I dreamt about someone, anyone, who would come and save me. I stayed awake at night and sang after my hands were--” his voice cracked again and this time, Hector joined him in his cry, bending over to brace himself against the ground, head bent. “You kept me alive, Hector.” So please don’t push me away. Don’t leave me alone again. “Hector, I can’t lose you. I can’t, not after I’ve found you.”
The last chapter exists at an alternative moment between Hector and Miguel from the original scene of them reuniting in the weird hole they’d been thrown into. From there, Hector and Miguel’s relationship would have platonically progressed throughout the rest of their lives in the land of the dead. Eventually, Miguel would have learned that he was asexual while Hector would have eventually gotten back together with his wife, but would have had a very close relationship with Miguel.
I don’t know about you guys, but this last year has been insane for me: I graduated college, got my first actual income driven job, got an apartment, made and lost friends, and dealt with some crazy mental nonsense. I got in my first fender-bender, started to pay off my student loans, adopted a cat, and learned how to find comfort in my solitude.
There are things I’ve majorly fucked up and learned from.
There are also things that I’ve managed to overcome and achieve.
At the heart of my struggle and hardship, though, has been my terrible writer’s block. While I might have a small following that might be interested in what I have to say, I do value and treasure them.
So, at the very least I want to be honest and frank with you all.
The writer’s block was bad and I want to one hundred percent blame my senior thesis. It was defintely rough and it burned me out. But honestly? I took a break from writing because I thought I deserved it. But when I tried to return to writing a few months ago, I realized that I had kind of lost myself. I didn’t know how to start and what to say anymore. My big picture was gone. And it scared me.
So, for the last few months I’ve been toiling away to regain whatever spark or flare my primitive brain believes that I had. I’ve reread all of my fanfictions, published and not published. I’ve read a few more books about creative writing (and racked up some serious library fines (always return your books on time kids)).
In this time frame I’ve also come to realize that the subject matter I appear to return to is dark -- “Our Love Is Bone Dry” was created to be not so happy and joyful. I was in a very interesting place mentally when I started writing it.
I DO PLAN ON RETURNING TO IT. Probably sometime this year because honestly? It was fun to write it.
I will also be posting a thread of snippets I wrote out for short ideas for the piece (but keep in mind these needed desperately to be work shopped and edited and there is no guarantee that they will make it into the final piece).
However, I will be moving on from “Our Love” for the time being. I hope you can forgive me -- but I need to move on to someday return to it.
You will hear from me today, probably, with the preface and a preview of the first chapter of a fanfiction for an unpublished web cartoon called Hazbin Hotel. This web cartoon was created by @vivziepop. In the post I will be linking the playlist of videos she has released so that if you are interested in joining the fandom, you certainly can.
Hello. :) This feels kind of random, but I just wanted to say that I found your soulmateAU fic a week ago and loved it. I decided to check this page because of it. I don't usually like leaving comments on things cuz I feel like I'm not very good at saying things right. But I saw the post about silent fans and wanted to say that i'm one of them. Ive been very excited to see where you go next with the story. It's my 1st experience with the soulmateAU and it's great! Thanks for such a good story!
Ah! I have no idea how long ago you sent this to me, Anon! I’m so sorry for my lapse of tending to my tumblr. To be honest, a lot of things have happened since I posted my soulmate AU fic! I know, eventually, I’ll return to it! But probably not for a hot second. I was in a very interesting mind set when I was writing it…
I appreciate, desperately, your support. Until recently I was in a pretty bad writing slump, but I actually was inspired to write again.
I’ll be posting a brief preview of what I’ve been working on probably tonight.
I hope, at the very least, you continue to enjoy my writing. This fic I’m doing is also a soulmate AU for an unpublished web series called Hazbin Hotel. If you havent already heard of it, look it up on youtube. It’s very interesting and creative!
Also, you are amazing about conveying yourself, especially in this message. You have no idea how much my readers mean to me, whether they leave comments or not. I desperately appreciate each and everyone of them.
And I appreciate you for taking the time to message me. You've given me a bit of life.
Hello. :) This feels kind of random, but I just wanted to say that I found your soulmateAU fic a week ago and loved it. I decided to check this page because of it. I don't usually like leaving comments on things cuz I feel like I'm not very good at saying things right. But I saw the post about silent fans and wanted to say that i'm one of them. Ive been very excited to see where you go next with the story. It's my 1st experience with the soulmateAU and it's great! Thanks for such a good story!
Ah! I have no idea how long ago you sent this to me, Anon! I'm so sorry for my lapse of tending to my tumblr. To be honest, a lot of things have happened since I posted my soulmate AU fic! I know, eventually, I'll return to it! But probably not for a hot second. I was in a very interesting mind set when I was writing it...
I appreciate, desperately, your support. Until recently I was in a pretty bad writing slump, but I actually was inspired to write again.
I'll be posting a brief preview of what I've been working on probably tonight.
I hope, at the very least, you continue to enjoy my writing. This fic I'm doing is also a soulmate AU for an unpublished web series called Hazbin Hotel. If you havent already heard of it, look it up on youtube. It's very interesting and creative!
I’m just shining with pride at all you awesome folks out there writing these mighty fine stories, keep going, I’m sitting here mentally waving a foam finger around in one hand and a pen in the other, shouting for your autographs
Honestly, I think the whole “don’t pay the writers” thing boils down to the notion that everybody thinks they can write. It’s the old saw about the novelist at a cocktail party having to hear someone say, for the millionth time, “I’d love to write a book someday.”
Someone–Stephen King? Pretty sure I saw this in a Stephen King foreword–once said they’d like to say to a brain surgeon, “Boy, I’d love to do brain surgery someday.”
We treat “the ability to put words into a sentence” like it’s just the same as “the ability to form a coherent narrative that engenders a variety of emotions within the reader and puts them in a scene and shows them what they didn’t see before”.
And that’s like me drawing a stick figure and saying I’m an artist.
Writers are constantly devalued because everyone thinks they have a book in them and don’t realize the level of skill and commitment it takes to finish even a short story, much less a whole book.
This goes well beyond fandom, but man, I would’ve hoped fandom would know better.
I get that the original sentiment of the post is to say “don’t devalue writing as an art form and a skill set,” which is true. But the whole “it’s not something just anyone can do” elitist sentiment here is bad lmaooo this is a mess.
First of all, the brain surgeon bit, the takeaway isn’t that “not everyone can be a brain surgeon,” it’s that “just like brain surgery takes knowledge and practice and skill, so does writing.” It’s not about setting an unobtainable standard that only a few can do it, it’s about emphasizing the work and skill development that it takes to get there
Secondly, someone drawing a stick figure is also a bad metaphor because the thing is, art is subjective, not objective. Maybe stick figure dude after years of drawing portraits and murals wants to return to a form of simplicity(something that a really famous artist, Picasso, actually did) or Maybe they’re a beginner, who knows, who cares? the elitism of “this isn’t art, you’re not an artist” is unhelpful and unnecessary.
Just like little children say “I wanna write a book someday,” adults do it all the time. Hell, more adults would be saying “I’d love to be a brain surgery someday,” if it weren’t for the fact that society establishes a deadline for becoming a brain surgeon. But you know what society never sets deadlines for? Being an artist of some kind. There are loads of examples for people getting into art or writing or acting at an older age. So that’s why adults still say things like “I’d like to write a book someday.” Sure, lots of them say it because they are ignorant about the work that takes to do it, but a lot of the times, it’s really just about the desire to express themselves in that way, someday.
Life is not some harsh competition. Writing, art, music, etc. etc. none of them are competitions. There’s plenty of room for everyone; beginners and experts alike. No one is “born to write.” Sure, some people innately have a faster grasp on storytelling and story building, but for those who lack it, they can still learn it and take time to build a sense of it.
Yes, OP is absolutely correct in that writing is a skillful and expressive art form that can take decades upon decades to craft, but that’s not the only way to be a writer or to write lmao and saying shit like this really doesn’t encourage people trying to get better, especially beginners.
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