I’m a thoughtful and kind introvert who loves diving into stories and exploring ideas ✨
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I enjoy helping writers polish their work and bringing out the best in every manuscript👍💞
Interview with Melinda Kucsera
https://open.substack.com/pub/wdkilpackiii/p/interview-with-melinda-kucsera?r=wjqfd&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
I should start working on chapter 16 because nothing will happen. Nothing with my writing ever happens. As everyone knows I only EVER write fluff. Chapter 14 and 20 of as I want you? Noooooo, that is non-sense, dear reader, would I the author, ever put you through the horrors? I mean, these people are based off my best friends that I love and cherrish! Why would I ever do that!
day in and day out working to make myself as human as possible, fake fake faking a functioning body and brain while I am slowly suffocating under the weight of my mental illness, but we can never be seen, no no. showing yourself means abandonment and we cannot survive that. not again, no no. leave me alone to waste away behind closed doors (actually please please please open the door, some please step inside of it with me i can’t do this alone anymore. I mean i will because i have to but god breathing is as hard to me as a marathon is to you, why can’t you see WHY CAN NO ONE SEE)
but I’ll smile and laugh and talk about whatever is popular right now because i want to be lovable to you and i can’t show you my pain and my darkness and the extend of my illness because you would leave. i know it because i lived it time and time again. god, the immense pain of being chronically ill and having to sacrifice your needs for everyone else around you with it ever being acknowledge or seen. i am so fucking tired.
When I wake I don't wake fully. My eyes are heavy and I can feel the blood rushing into my face like it's supposed to be there.
People stand around me like an army. Moving like I've never seen anything move before. Faces are swapping into each other like water. Bodies are transforming, slipping through worlds. I try to look around but my gaze can't move from one scene, the one right in front of me. Unfolding like a piece of paper that's been stuck and forgotten in my pocket for ages.
Water is turning into the sky. Changing places like characters in a high school play. They are trading without hesitation, not questioning whether what they are doing is right or wrong. In my dreams nature creates itself, science betrays itself and my thoughts are a bit quieter. It all goes against the nature of reality, nothing is how it's supposed to be.
Shadows appear in the middle of the chaos, unmoved by the strange behavior of nature. They're dancing around each other, never touching. Moving like ghosts, floating in the air like smoke. Nothing could bring them together neither rip them apart. They were one while not being together. They were searching while ignoring what was in front of them.
For a moment it was quiet, silence stretching along the waterline, then humming started. They were singing. One melody, different keys.
I close my eyes, drifting off into nothingness. Listening to the sweet melody, bathing in the familiarity of it all. My body disconnects from by mind before consciousness comes over me again.
I am falling.
My body moves upwards.
My feet are in the air.
The cliff beneath my feet is gone and now I'm being carried by the wind.
I am floating just like the figures.
I go higher and higher until my head dips into the water, swallowing my whole body at last. It wasn't cold but it wasn't warm either. It felt like nothing. Blue turns into black in front of me, coming nearer with every moment but I don't feel the water. I can breath.
Two dots appear. Two glowing, orange dots in the middle of nothing. They disappear before returning. Repeating the choreographed game of hide and seek as I'm being sucked further down.
On the ground, grass is growing. Long ivy plants are scattered all over the place, hiding whatever hides beneath it. They were braided together like flower crowns we used to make in kindergarten. And in the middle of it all were two glowing eyes looking up at me, enchanting my soul with its secret. Whispering something that I can't understand. A foreign language that I haven't yet learned.
It was him. Scolding me. Telling me to run.
Water filled my lungs. How could I run from him? I don't think I am where he is, I am further down the west coast in a long forgotten bedroom with grey walls and tossed bedsheets that stayed undone for days on end. Splattered glass from broken windows scattered all over the floor, cutting whoever dared to take a step towards the exit. The wind outside tossed the waves against the shore up to the hill where we resigned and my feet washed blood into the ocean as the tide takes me down the dunes and to the iceberg waiting to be crushed. My skull was waiting to be crushed by it too.
If you are happy, hug a cat. If you are sad, hug a cat. If you are nervous, hug a cat. If you are anxious, hug a cat. If you are angry, hug a cat. If you are..
Do you think the poet is as loved as the performer? Do you think on an evening, or through the quiet hours of the night, the poet feels the same affection?
Can one live without the other? The poet writes and writes, silent but begging to be heard; pleading with the pinpricks of light in the polluted sky just to be heard.
The performer never has to beg for that. He's always heard. His voice carries for miles and all around know his name. Though, I doubt many listen to the words he says. At least, not the ones he speaks with his eyes.
The poet can speak, but with words so sweet, they can stick in his throat and get all jumbled up. The flow of words onto the page never translates to vibrations in the air.
The performer does not have this worry. As he reads from his script, the words float easily off his tongue. They slip out into the open space, waiting to be received by the silence of the crowd.
They're one and the same, the poet and the performer, and yet so very different. The one thing they both share deeply is the art of being misunderstood.
Tbh, I think one of the best ways to deal with a creative block is to write one-shot AUs with your characters that are completely different from the canon setting. I just feel like that's one of the best ways of doing a character study there is, or at least the one that works best for me.
For example, if my wip is fantasy, I think writing about how my characters would act in a modern-day coffee shop AU in idk Birmingham is objectively fun AND a great way to get to know them better.
»-♡→ Eyed
»-♡→ Sized up
»-♡→ Studied
»-♡→ Observed
»-♡→ Watched
»-♡→ Measured
»-♡→ Scrutinized
»-♡→ Kept an eye on
»-♡→ Regarded carefully
»-♡→ Looked over
...or if they're watching from a distance:
➺ Observed
➺ Monitored
➺ Followed with their eyes
➺ Kept watch over
➺ Tracked
➺ Shadowed with their gaze
➺ Looked on
➺ Witnessed from afar
➺ Viewed
➺ Surveyed
...or if they're confused:
➵ Squinted at
➵ Peered at
➵ Blink-and-missed
➵ Looked twice at
➵ Examined
➵ Stared at
➵ Tried to make out
➵ Struggled to see
➵ Looked uncertainly at
➵ Focused on
...or if they're remembering or realizing:
̗̀➛ Recognized
̗̀➛ Discovered
̗̀➛ Realized
̗̀➛ Found
̗̀➛ Noticed at last
̗̀➛ Became aware of
̗̀➛ Caught themselves seeing
̗̀➛ Finally spotted
̗̀➛ Identified
̗̀➛ Perceived
...or if they're in awe:
⬩➤ Beheld
⬩➤ Witnessed
⬩➤ Gazed upon
⬩➤ Took in
⬩➤ Marveled at
⬩➤ Stood transfixed by
⬩➤ Basked in the sight of
⬩➤ Soaked in the view of
⬩➤ Absorbed the sight of
⬩➤ Looked on in wonder
rebirth. (jennifersbody!reader x policeofficer!jax)
needy's screaming and sobbing into the phone. 'jax! the fire! the screams! they're burning alive! and they got Jennifer! they took her in their van!'
'what are you talking about?! slow down, slow down..'
'jax,' she's sobbing. 'help!'
he's off duty today, and he's never wished to be on duty as much as he does right now.
hopping onto his motorcycle, he gets there in practically a minute. the sight before him something out of a horror movie. the fire is bursting, the people are screaming in agony, and for once, his sister wasn't exaggerating.
he's running to her, wrapping her in his arms. 'are you hurt, needy?' he's looking at her unscathed face and arms. grateful that she's ok.
'they took jennifer, jax! she went with them! i tried to stop her!'
'with who?'
'the band! she has a crush on the lead singer!'
his jaw tightens. 'i'm sure she's fine, alright? you'll see her tomorrow. do you need a medic?'
she's shaking her head, her body shaking, unable to stop crying. 'no, no, no....'
a man pours himself a vodka
on top he pours
iced tea, blueberry
he cares not for the flavor
only the temperature
the tea is cold
the vodka is hot
together they are lukewarm
and this pleases the man
he takes the drink
back to the typer
to type more desperation
a man is desperate
