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occasionally subtle
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@hotchoqlit
A demon has cursed you with the inability to have children or form a family, and as soon as you learn of this you went to tell the witch who you promised your firstborn child, as this clearly will prevent you from fulfilling your side of the deal.
It's my 9 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳
“The hardest part of being in a biracial relationship is taking a picture together.” [whatthecaptcha]
Hahaha! This is so wrong it’s right.
A throwback to some of the inspiration for my first book.
Poor Babies. 🫠😂🩷🥂
@cake-by-thepound @iminyjo and I want to thank everyone who wrote Richonne stories that kept the fandom entertained and fed until we got to this moment. 😘
Six Word Sentences
"Do what you have to do."
"Not what I came here for."
"What do you want from me?"
"Don't talk to me ever again."
"I will see you later, ok?"
"What a silly question to ask."
"I can't stop thinking of you."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Feel free to never come back."
"You are always on my mind."
"That was such a dumb idea."
"Do you have a better plan?"
"I don't feel like doing that."
"What more is there to lose?"
"Don't you see that I'm hurting?"
"I love you, but not enough."
"A little help would be great."
"You can't handle a little pressure."
"I know what I am doing."
"My life is empty without you."
"How am I supposed to know?"
"I don't want to hear it."
"This was a spectacularly bad plan."
"It's good to know you're safe."
"Don't come near me ever again!"
"What a silly thing to say."
"I couldn't care less about you."
"This is not what I expected."
"Where are my manners, my dear."
"I can't risk losing you again."
Hi! (Im not able to access your FAQ so i hope this is an acceptable question) I feel SUPER awkward writing kissing scenes, they always feel super forced or cheesy, I'm not sure what im doing wrong, hopefully you can help me out with this!
Hi, darling! Thank you for your question :) We actually have yet to answer anything like this, so don’t worry!
As a long-time romance writer, let me assure you that most everyone feels this insecurity – even those of us who have more real-life romantic experience. We battle ourselves with over-sharing, clinical description, mood, timing, and getting the image of the kiss into the mind of the reader. With years of horrible kiss scenes under my belt, I’ve accumulated some tips for you…
How to Write a Kiss Scene
So before I get into it, let me make a clarification for what I’m talking about here. There’s two kinds of kisses in fiction: kisses and kisses. If you’re writing a brief paragraph of a kiss, something to tie up a chapter or a character interaction, you probably won’t need all of these tips, although some will still apply. This post is more relevant for kiss scenes, which are more romantic and drawn out. Whether your characters are giving their first confessions of love, reuniting after a long parting, or giving a prelude to passion, these are my thoughts on how to portray a warm and lovely kiss scene.
1. Do Your Research
Whether or not you’ve been kissing your share in real life, there’s an art to fictional kisses. It’s less about realism and more about the feelings inspired in the reader – and this affects how kiss scenes are filmed and written. The style you want may relate to genre, too; sitcom kiss scenes (think Ross and Rachel) are a bit different from drama kiss scenes (think Jack and Rose).
When you’re watching/reading examples, pay attention to a few key details. Watch how the writer leads up to the kiss – the dialogue, the physical interactions, the way the characters look at and think of each other before the inevitable kiss. If you’re watching a filmed kiss, take note of the actors’ unique physical habits. What do they do with their hands, their posture, their facial expression? What emotion do they give off in the moment – love, lust, anxiety, glee, desperation? And which of these appeals to you and your characters? This will give you ideas for physical descriptors, as well as an idea of what mood to set.
2. Focus on Sensory Detail
In my experience, the worst kind of kiss scene is one which is described too clinically or distantly. For some writers, the nervous habit is to write a kiss scene as a stenographer would take down a testimony: this is what happened, this is where we were when it happened, and this is what I was thinking when it happened. It’s too stiff, and it relies too much on Telling instead of Showing.
Instead, describe the scene as though you were in it, doing it, with your eyes closed. Let us know what the POV character notices, when they notice it, and how it feels. Start with a detail about the kiss itself – the warmth, the taste, the easiness of it – then move on to other parts of the body, and other sensory details. What are their hands feeling? If they’re on the other person, what do their clothes or hair or skin feel like? What are they hearing? What colors are dancing behind their eyelids? Let us experience it, and let us experience it in romantic language – staying away from words and metaphors that sound rough, dull, or cliche. A few things to avoid:
Weird tongue shit – tongues fighting for dominance, going into throats, probing and asking for entrance, etc. This is not what tongues do, and even if it were, reading this kind of language is a huge buzz kill. There’s a reason TV actors tend not to kiss with tongue; it’s not half as pleasant for the viewer as it is for the participant.
The “starter pack” romance descriptors – including but not limited to: “they deepened the kiss,” “they pulled (him/her/them) closer,” “(his/her/their) lips met (his/hers/theirs),” “the world faded around them,” or god forbid, anything about a girl’s chest heaving with her deep breaths.
Overwhelming detail – because as important as it is to be romantic and sensory, you can definitely have too much of a good thing. For one thing, and this is a good general rule in writing: do not describe colors. No one cares how blue a character’s eyes look, or if they’re in a black or white lace teddy (in fact, stay away from the word “teddy” if you can), or if the hair “cascading over their shoulders and pooling at their midriff” is strawberry blonde or raven black. Only describe colors that change in the moment – flushed cheeks, reddened lips, or that early purple of a developing hickey. Anything else and you’re wasting page space.
The setting around them – at all, if possible. Too many writers get nervous in the middle of a kiss and “zoom out” to give us a view of the room they’re in, but this isn’t necessary at all. If your characters are making out, they don’t care about the hue of the sheets they’re about to fall into or the pattern of the rug twisting under their feet. And if they don’t care, why should we? We’re just here for the action, and we want it fed to us in an IV, immediately.
3. Make Your Kiss Scene Original
When writing something lovely and language-driven, you must resist the urge to use your first idea. Avoid the obvious information, which read like stage directions, and instead give us what their hands are doing, what their legs are doing, where they’re feeling warmth – the little noises they’re making, the lightness in their heads, the things they want to do but aren’t doing… yet.
Romance scenes are a great opportunity for originality, because everything has a clear direction. So when you’re brainstorming, try going to the less sexual things first, and sexualizing them. Romanticize them. Tell us how their hair feels – feathery and soft or thick and curly or tangled and rough or braided or twisted. Tell us how their clothes stretch around them when they take big breaths, how their heels peek out of their shoes when they stretch up into the kiss. Tell us how the inside of the other person’s shirt feels against their fingertips. I mean, god, romance writing is so beautiful for this reason – because you can catch things in your net that swim past you in the real moment. Don’t overwhelm the reader, but give them more than, “They wrapped their arms around each other and kissed.” Because it is more.
4. Craft New, Unusual Situations
Instead of the same formula, where two people meet eyes, kiss, wrap their arms around each other, and eventually break away, try some new positions: hand-holding, standing between the other person’s feet, one person sitting on a table, both in an awkward state of half-dressed, tasting like toothpaste or something not bad but not quite sexual. Don’t be afraid to get comedic with it – maybe there’s some ticklish facial hair or a shirt that won’t unbutton, or one character’s really itchy but also super entranced and bouncing between awkwardly trying to scratch their knee and groaning because damn, this person can kiss. Humor and romance are not mutually exclusive. In fact, they work pretty well together.
I think a lot of romance-lovers would agree, also, that awkwardness is majorly underrated in love stories. Tripping, or lulls in conversation, or stuttering, or having shit-all to say after the kiss when you just want to be smooth and sexy – these imperfections are endearing and memorable, and they’ll put a smile on your reader’s face more than hot-and-heavy ever will.
5. Don’t Neglect the Moments After
As important as the instant of the kiss is, the period afterward is double. It can be difficult to transition from a purely physical moment back into the conscious world, full of thoughts and dialogue and the reaction to the heated kiss that just happened. It can be overwhelming to attempt to maintain the tension once the kiss has happened – to follow up with a realistic and not-cheesy and not-disappointing response to everything. Some writers panic and rush the ending, but trust me, you don’t want to waste this important moment in the scene!
So take the pressure off and, instead, take this ending for what it is. Your characters aren’t going to sit there and think up a storm; they don’t need to say much, either. Either end the scene with a quirky one-liner, or a farewell, or something sweet – but give it an ending. If the kiss is going to continue, give us a line at the end letting us know that they’re leaning back in. Don’t bow out too early, but don’t overstay your welcome, either. Just give us something more than a kiss and an awkward walkaway.
This is a basic idea of what’s important to me in a kiss scene, as a reader and writer of romance. I’m sure there’s plenty I’ve left unexpressed (and I actually have another post on romance/smut coming up), so if you need any more help, the inbox will be open soon! I hope this addresses your concerns :)
Thank you again for your question! Happy writing <3
– Mod Joanna ♥️
If you need advice on general writing or fanfiction, you should maybe ask us!
It's my 7 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳
Been a long time, but I still love it here!!❤️🩷🧡
The Bear + Reductress headlines
last christmas, I began writing my wip, but the very next day I threw it away
Lord. THIS.
This right here.
Language matters. Change the narrative.
This.
Writing Tips
Punctuating Dialogue
✧
➸ “This is a sentence.”
➸ “This is a sentence with a dialogue tag at the end,” she said.
➸ “This,” he said, “is a sentence split by a dialogue tag.”
➸ “This is a sentence,” she said. “This is a new sentence. New sentences are capitalized.”
➸ “This is a sentence followed by an action.” He stood. “They are separate sentences because he did not speak by standing.”
➸ She said, “Use a comma to introduce dialogue. The quote is capitalized when the dialogue tag is at the beginning.”
➸ “Use a comma when a dialogue tag follows a quote,” he said.
“Unless there is a question mark?” she asked.
“Or an exclamation point!” he answered. “The dialogue tag still remains uncapitalized because it’s not truly the end of the sentence.”
➸ “Periods and commas should be inside closing quotations.”
➸ “Hey!” she shouted, “Sometimes exclamation points are inside quotations.”
However, if it’s not dialogue exclamation points can also be “outside”!
➸ “Does this apply to question marks too?” he asked.
If it’s not dialogue, can question marks be “outside”? (Yes, they can.)
➸ “This applies to dashes too. Inside quotations dashes typically express—“
“Interruption” — but there are situations dashes may be outside.
➸ “You’ll notice that exclamation marks, question marks, and dashes do not have a comma after them. Ellipses don’t have a comma after them either…” she said.
➸ “My teacher said, ‘Use single quotation marks when quoting within dialogue.’”
➸ “Use paragraph breaks to indicate a new speaker,” he said.
“The readers will know it’s someone else speaking.”
➸ “If it’s the same speaker but different paragraph, keep the closing quotation off.
“This shows it’s the same character continuing to speak.”
Always useful!
a thesis on "What if Shen, but girl"
Shhh...I thought Shen WAS a girl. LOL! Oops. 😬
LONG PAST SUMMER by Noué Kirwan
Book Summary: With the Southern charm of SWEET HOME ALABAMA and the emotional complexity of IN FIVE YEARS, LONG PAST SUMMER is a sparkling second-chance romance from debut author Noué Kirwan, written from the author’s own perspective in the Black community. It’s hard to move on from a broken heart—and harder to move on from a broken friendship.
Mikaela Marchand is living the polished life she always planned for: a successful New York lawyer, with a promotion in her sights and a devoted boyfriend by her side. She’s come a long way from the meek teen she was growing up in small town Georgia, but the memory of her adolescence isn’t far—in fact, it’s splashed across a massive billboard in Times Square. An old photograph of Mikaela and her former best friend, Julie, has landed on the cover of a high-profile fashion magazine advertised all over the city. And when Julie files a lawsuit, Mikaela is caught in the middle as defense lawyer for the magazine. Not only will she have to face Julie for the first time in years, Mikaela’s forced to work closely with the photographer in question: the former love of her life–and Julie’s ex-husband–Cameron Murphy. Mikaela needs to win the case to get her promotion–and as a junior partner, she has no margin for error. But unresolved feelings still exist between Cam and Mikaela, and jealousy always made Julie play dirty… With flashbacks to summers of first loves and fragile friendships, Long Past Summer looks at the delicate and powerful thread that binds and breaks friends and flames.
Buy Links: BookShop: https://bookshop.org/books/long-past-summer-9781335448828/9781335448828 Harlequin: https://www.harlequin.com/shop/books/9781335448828_long-past-summer.html Barnes & Noble:https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/long-past-summer-nou-kirwan/1140508909?ean=9781335448828 Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Long-Past-Summer-Nou%C3%A9-Kirwan/dp/1335448829/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1ZPMIC384YTRY&keywords=long+past+summer&qid=1658170657&sprefix=long+past+summer%2Caps%2C90&sr=8-1 Books-A-Million: https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Long-Past-Summer/Nou-Kirwan/9781335448828?id=8292090795540 Powell’s: https://www.powells.com/book/long-past-summer-9781335448828
Author Bio: Noué Kirwan is a Bronx, NY native, raised between there and the Bay Area of Northern California. A graduate of the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, she currently, and for many years, has lived in Harlem, New York. When she’s not consuming copious amounts of media–binging TV shows, devouring movies, hoarding comic books and inhaling romance novels–she’s writing herself, dreaming up lives for formidable women and the men who love them.
Author Website: https://nouekirwan.com/ Facebook: N/A Twitter: https://twitter.com/NoueKirwan Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/nouekirwan/ Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21993475.Nou_Kirwan?from_search=true&from_srp=true
EXCERPT:
one NOW Mikaela took a deep, cleansing breath and rolled her shoulders back. Breathe, she chided herself. She hadn’t even darkened the doorstep yet; a heart attack in advance of that seemed premature. One of the doors to the gallery stood open in invitation, but it was the frigid air escaping from inside that was actually more enticing. It was unseasonably hot. A freak heat wave had made it a blazing, makeup-melting, fire-hydrant-opening, egg-sizzling-out-on-the-sidewalk day in New York City, in only early May. Still, Mikaela wouldn’t reward herself with the tempting relief offered inside. Instead, she just stood on the bottom step for yet another moment, lingering as the various city dwellers went about their business. Another typical Saturday afternoon along a cobblestoned street in Soho. Despite its swank location, this art gallery was more nondescript than any of the other storefronts that lined the street, rather anonymously tucked in between several ultra-high-end fashion boutiques. Its entrance, an open doorway like an ominous black hole, sat among a sea of gleaming white and vibrantly colored doors. In the single large plate-glass window hung a poster advertising a photographer’s retrospective and the gallery’s address. Adorning the poster was a small reproduction of a picture that even now bedeviled Mikaela from no less than a magazine cover, a thirty-foot sign in Times Square and numerous subway station advertisements across the City. But now, looking at the size of the relatively unremarkable gallery, she guessed most of the exhibit’s undoubtedly extravagant budget must have gone to the rent on this place and the marketing for that poster alone. The gallery itself was lo-fi, unassuming and minuscule, judging from her spot well outside of it. Mikaela pushed her sunglasses up off her face and peered through the dim doorway, head angling this way and that like an owl. Her feet remained rooted in place, fear-induced moisture popping out on her brow and nose, sweating through her carefully applied war paint. The problem was the sun made it hard to make out what further surprises might lie in wait for her on the other side of the door. “It’s okay,” a voice said, startling Mikaela from behind. Mikaela spun around. A young woman with a bright smile and a nearly white-blonde ponytail stood on the sidewalk below. She squinted without the benefit of her sunglasses, which hung neatly tucked in between her breasts on her floral ditsy-print sundress. One open blue eye appraised Mikaela, top to bottom. “We’re open. They’re just putting the final finishing touches on everything but it’s all in there.” She took a step up onto the old wooden stairs then paused, waiting to see if Mikaela would choose to enter. Rather, Mikaela stepped aside to let her pass with two large iced coffees in her hands. Indecision still gnawed at her nerves. “Is the photographer in?” Mikaela gave a courteous smile as the young woman continued past. “Yup, should be. This is for him.” She raised one of the coffee cups. “He tries to come in for at least a couple of hours every day—he’ll probably be coming in more often leading up to the opening.” Mikaela nodded as they changed places, backing down the steps as the young woman ascended. They continued to regard each other: the young woman with mild curiosity, Mikaela with acute wariness. The young woman paused again at the top, just in the threshold. “Do you want me to get him?” She turned to the photo in the window then back to Mikaela. The beginnings of a smile curving the corners of her mouth. “Or tell him you stopped by? Miss…?” For a split second, Mikaela saw the omnipresent photo in the window the way any stranger might. Two girls on a swimmer’s platform on a summer day. “Oh no, that’s not necessary.” Mikaela stood on the cobblestones again, heart thumping, resolve faltering. Not only the full glare of the sun but also her own discomfort burned her up, urging her retreat. She shielded her face with a palm, partially from shame, and hurried down the street. She was half a long block away the first time she heard her name. She hadn’t heard his voice in over fifteen years, but she recognized it, quickening her steps. “Mikaela!” he bellowed again over the ambient noises of the street. It was still distant but closer. Mikaela hazarded a quick glance over her shoulder. A figure made his way toward her, dodging pedestrians as he moved. Mikaela stepped into the street, raising her arm, waving her hand. A passing yellow cab pulled over. She yanked open the door. “Please drive,” she commanded. “I’ll tell you where to go in a second. Just pull off, okay?” The cabbie eyed her through the rearview mirror then glanced farther down the street before understanding her hurry and doing as she requested. A full minute later, he spoke, turning off the small bumpy street and merging into traffic on the smoother avenue. “Where to, miss?” “Downtown Brooklyn, please.” Mikaela sighed. She swallowed through the lump forming in her throat trying to sort why his voice had upset her. She had always imagined she would instinctively know if Cameron was in her city. Or that maybe they could walk past each other, simply another two strangers in a city of eight million. But today proved, for her, that wasn’t possible. He is Cameron Murphy and I am Mikaela Marchand and as long as we remain who we are, that will always be a patently ridiculous idea. Mikaela pressed the button lowering the window nearest her, sinking into her seat. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the thick, pungent city air that blew into her face as her cab sped down the windy expressway along Manhattan’s East River.
two THEN November 2001 “Here.” A female sheriff’s deputy handed Mikaela a moist towelette. Mikaela took it and wiped the black ink off her fingers. “We’ve called your parents, who said they’d be here soon, but we haven’t finished processing you yet.” The deputy raised an arm and waved over an extremely tall young man in a dress shirt and khakis. “As soon as we’re done with this, someone’ll take you to stand in front of the judge and then your folks can spring you.” Mikaela nodded, meticulously removing every drop of ink from her fingertips. “Stay here. Cam’ll finish up with you,” she instructed gruffly before switching places with the young man and walking away. Mikaela and the photographer stood staring at one another for a moment before he leaned forward and whispered, “Judge came in special to arraign y’all. Your parents must be pretty important, huh?” “Not mine, hers.” Mikaela nodded down the hall in the direction of her best friend, Julie. Julie leaned against the high-top intake counter chatting with the desk sergeant and another deputy. “Her daddy’s a judge too, but Georgia Supreme.” “Oh, so a real muckety-muck then?” He reached into a tub on a nearby desk and handed her several more wipes. “I suppose.” Mikaela eyed the stack of wet wipes in her hands. The young man mimed wiping his own face in a circular motion. “I gotta take your mug shot,” he explained. “You? Aren’t you a little young to be a deputy?” “I’m not… A deputy, I mean. Just takin’ the pictures. Grade two, office support. But I can’t photograph purple-faced perps.” “Oh.” Mikaela obediently scrubbed at her face, yet every towelette came back with more purple paint. After the fifth one, she stopped. “Can I please just wash my face in the bathroom?” The photographer shrugged and directed her down the hall. Inside the restroom, Mikaela made for the sink and the large mirror above it. She had a hard time, right then, remembering why she had been so obsessed with this “senior prank” for so many years. Although Mikaela could admit, up until she’d had breakfast that morning, she’d still been so excited. Even as she and Julie applied their purple-and-gold face paint, and Mikaela’s little sister, Vanessa, affixed two glittery wigs of opposing colors onto their heads, they’d all giggled with an almost frothy enthusiasm. “Trust me—no one will ever forget this!” Julie had promised, pulling Mikaela up the vaguely damp football tunnel to the thundering beat of the Harmon Spartans’ fight song—and also Mikaela’s heart. “Yeah, ’cause we’ll be laughingstocks.” “We’ll be legends!” Arm in arm, they’d marched toward the light as the shaggy foil tips of the itchy wig tickled Mikaela’s face. And as usually happened, Mikaela could feel Julie’s seemingly limitless enthusiasm for high jinks begin to permeate the layers of her own innate reserve. But now, standing under the harsh fluorescents of the police station bathroom, Mikaela just ripped off the moronic gold tinsel wig and ruffled her short brown hair trapped beneath it. It sprung wild, thick and curly from her scalp, freed from the loose plaits she’d had it in earlier. She took a deep breath and regarded herself, still covered in purple greasepaint. Was it worth it? She knew that was going to be her father’s first question for her and she didn’t have an answer. Julie had been right—no one in this town would ever look at her the same again. Especially not after the two consecutive cartwheels and back handsprings she’d done on the fifty-yard line while school security chased Julie around the end zone during halftime at their high school’s final football game of the season. At the time, more than half of the stands roared in appreciation. Mikaela stifled a little smirk remembering it. Of course, that was probably because most of the Tri-County area now knew her better than her own gynecologist did. But the truth was, for those two hundred and eleven seconds, it had been utterly wonderful. Mikaela let loose and was completely herself, joyful and free and brimming with the most intense hopefulness and excitement about what lay ahead after graduation. Not only for herself but every single young person there. In fact, it had been three and half of the finest minutes of her life. That is until sheriff’s deputies tackled her to the ground and dragged her off the field in handcuffs. Now, Mikaela stood in the mirror wearing only an extra-large Spartans T-shirt, her pink Keds, the remnants of particularly noxious paint on her face and a slightly lopsided Afro. She was a mess. “Pull it together,” Mikaela said to the grotesque, mocking face in the mirror. She pressed the dispenser until there was a mound of soap in her palm. Then, using paper towels to scrub, she washed most of the face paint off in three cycles. Her face was tender from the effort by the time she emerged from the ladies’ room. “I was just about to come in there lookin’ for you,” the young man said as she stepped out. He stood in front of the door, facing it like a sentry. “Sorry, it was a lot of paint.” “Yeah, no kidding. I had no idea what you looked like under all that stuff.” He guided her back toward the intake area. She glared up at him with lingering suspicion. “And what, were you taking bets?” Mikaela had always been sensitive about her looks. A month from eighteen, she was still knobby kneed and gangly, with barely a B-cup. The only sizable things on her remained her hips and an ass that kept her from being one long, unbroken straight line from the back of her head to the back of her heels. “Takin’ bets on what? That you weren’t a Purple People Eater?” He chuckled. “No, I just wondered. Step over there.” He pointed to a plain wall notched with height markings, in front of which stood a camera tripod. “Take this.” He handed her a placard to hold. “I didn’t know you guys really did this.” She examined the slate with her name, the date and booking ID on it. “We do.” Mikaela was not this person. Not a person who got arrested. She was not prepared to forever be identified as one. “You misspelled my name. Tell me, is it like a parking ticket? You mess it up, and I get to go free?” “I wish.” He smirked. “You’re funny. What’s misspelled?” He walked up to her looking over her shoulder for the error. Mikaela could tell what soap he liked to use and the fact that he’d brushed his teeth or eaten something cinnamony recently. She considered that as his eyes met hers briefly. This close, there were flecks of green in the blue of his irises. “Um, it—it’s actually k with an a before e in my first name. M-i-k-a-e-l-a.” “Well, Mikaela with a k-a-e, I’m Cameron.” He underlined a small name tag on his crisp white shirt with a flourish of his hand before reaching for the placard. Their fingers brushed as he took it from her, whisking it back to the booking desk as she stood waiting. She chewed on her nails, staring for a moment at the bulletin board on the far wall. A collection of real-life FBI wanted posters lined it. She paid particular attention to the mug shots and shook her head at the realization that she was about to have one of those too. A wolf whistle pulled Mikaela’s attention to Julie, standing down the hall. She laughed, galloping around the hall on an imaginary horse until one of the officers made her stop. Cameron came back from around the desk to hand Mikaela the placard. “Let’s try that again,” he said. Julie made a face, mouthing the words “He’s hot” and fanning herself while his back was turned. Mikaela attempted to hold in a snicker. Cameron looked over his shoulder but saw nothing. “What?” He smiled, trying to read her expression. Mikaela’s stomach tensed, the kaleidoscope of butterflies that resided in there all suddenly banking hard left as his eyes searched her face for a clue. She shook her head, looking down for somewhere to put her eyes. Her fingers ran over the placard’s velvety felt board and sharp white plastic letters. “Are you ready?” Cameron asked. “Seems the real question is—” she cocked her head “—are you?” The second the words were out of her mouth she wondered where they’d come from. His eyes widened and he chuckled again. Embarrassed, Mikaela nodded, averting her eyes and stepping back to the wall.
Excerpted from Long Past Summer by Noué Kirwan. Copyright © 2022 by Noué Kirwan. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
I guess some people like it, huh? 🥰🥰🥰
Am I still considered a writer, even if…
“I don’t write every day?” Yes.
“it goes weeks or months between sessions?” Yes.
“my stories don’t get any or much interaction?” Yes.
“I only write fanfiction?” Yes.
“I only write for fun?” Yes.
“someone criticizes my skill?” Yes.
“my family are the only ones who read my stories?” Yes.
“I only write for myself, with no intention of sharing it with the world?” Yes.
“I don’t know writing terminology?” Yes.
“I’m not very good at what I’m doing?” Yes.
“I don’t believe myself worthy of being called one?” Yes.
“the publisher turned me down?” Yes.
“I only write one genre?” Yes.
“I use clichés?” Yes.
“I lack motivation?” Yes.
“I excel at dialogue but suck at description, or vice versa?” Yes.
“I keep abandoning projects to start something new?” Yes.
“I say screw the rules?” Yes.
- D
Am I still considered a writer, even if…?
I invite my colleagues to come in behind this and add their details.
“…I don’t write every day?” Yes. You need to find your own best writing rhythm. Don’t let people bully you into theirs.
“…it goes weeks or months between sessions?” Yes. Writing comes from an internal “aquifer” that can take time to refill. Let it.
“…my stories don’t get any or much interaction?” No one can guarantee that anyone will interact with their work, even if it is good… now, or in decades/centuries past. For example: you want to sit down and have a long talk with the shade of James Joyce.
“…I only write fanfiction?” Oh FFS. This “Fan fiction isn’t as valid as non-fan fiction” thing: who made THAT up? Write what you love. God knows I have, and continue to.
“…I only write for fun?” This is the single best and most valid reason to write. (Though `’and also for money” comes pretty close behind it). You could, though, make a strong case for “There is no point in writing for WHATEVER amount of money or fame if you’re not having fun as well.” In fact I think my professional colleagues may possibly agree that without the fun, the money’s value decreases significantly. Lack of fun in writing, in fact, could be considered to be one of the very few things in the world (besides outright currency devaluation) that can make money worth less.
“…someone criticizes my skill?” (…A pause while I fall to the ground wheezing with laughter.) Jeez. Publishers may try to declare you less of a writer than you are, but usually that’s only because they know you’re about to be poached by another publisher.
“…my family are the only ones who read my stories?” If only your family read your stuff? Assuming they’re not assailing you with inadequate critiques about it, then they are perceptive people. Others will get there. Thank them for their support, and give it time.
“..I don’t know writing terminology?” This is another O,FFS! thing. I couldn’t diagram a sentence if my life depended on it. The only way I know about gerunds is from Nigel Molesworth. Just write.
“…I only write for myself, with no intention of sharing it with the world?” When you are a writer, you get to write only for yourself if that’s what you choose. …And you know what? The world has its own imperatives. If you really don’t want your words shared, dig a deep hole to put them in, and never tell anyone where it is. Because words will out.
“…I don’t know writing terminology?” Whatever I previously knew, I’m happily to have pretty much forgotten, except when I need to coordinate with editors. When I have to do that, if someone uses a writing word I’ve misplaced by disuse, I go look it up. No one cares.
“…I’m not very good at what I’m doing?” If you’re just getting started on this journey (i.e., you’re only within the first five or ten years of it), you’re not in the best position to make that judgment. Give it some time yet.
“…I don’t believe myself worthy of being called one?” Oh, gosh, who sold you the idea that you have to believe you’re worthy of this work to be doing it? Routinely the people who hand you this line are the ones who feel the most unworthy themselves. Unfollow them at your earliest convenience.
“…the publisher turned me down?” Oh, my sweet summer child. The only time to pay attention to anything a publisher says is after they’ve paid you. If money hasn’t changed hands, wave bye-bye and move on. It’s not your job to validate them or their (soi-disant) taste. A publisher’s quality is known by those they take on, and how they treat them.
“…I only write one genre?” …What? What are you saying? You write. All writing is in the One Great Genre. Everything else is nonfiction. (Or something.) You’re where you need to be. Relax, and write, and have a party. :)
“…I use clichés?” All clichés had some truth in them once. That’s how they got to be clichés. … Some of them are still true. Use them judiciously… or rephrase them and make them new. They’ll thank you for that.
“…I lack motivation?” Are you kidding? All working writers lack motivation, repeatedly, every single day. All you have to do is be motivated one more time than all those times… and then write something.
“…I excel at dialogue but suck at description, or vice versa?” If (a), write more dialogue. If (b), write more description. Play to your strengths, and let the world beat a path to your door. No one ever said you had to be great at everything.
“…I keep abandoning projects to start something new?” (a) Make sure to make notes on what you’ve been working on. (b) Keep those notes safe, and move on! Sometimes the writer’s brain recognizes something as being of value, but doesn’t yet know how to make use of it. Give it time.
“…I say screw the rules?” Every day, and twice on Sunday! Do it as necessary while finding your way. A big part of your job is to find what the rules are for you… the specific working writer who you are. Your job is to find the writing habits and style that will enable you to share with other human beings what the most important things are that you feel the need to share. …And to have as much fun as possible doing it.
…Are you still here? Get on with it! :)
As a bestselling author, I need to admit that I’m also not entirely certain what a gerund is. In the Molesworth books I learned they were tubby and had horns and pointy noses and that was good enough for me.
A Gerund is a comic book writer and band frontman, like Gerund Way
Writers write, right? turned 5 today!
It has happened.
I have purchased Trans Wizard Harriet Porber and the Bad Boy Parasaurolophus
Will provide updates
IT’S HERE
I’m going to start it pretty soon. I’m for some reason locked out of my student account and email and IT was no help as usual, so what is there to do except read a parody romance novel written specifically to spite J.K. Rowling?
Chuck Tingle has more or less become a meme because of his bizarre titles and covers and because of the Hugo fiasco, but I’ve heard relatively little about what it’s like to actually read his work and I frankly have no idea what to expect or if I should go into this with expectations at all
This book is…surprisingly easy to take seriously as a book. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. But it’s like. A Book and not just an extended joke. Like on some level it’s not particularly terribly written nor does the plot like, completely exist in service to the…whatever humor is derived from the self-aware absurdity of the premise
AFSGFBCHH??
I love that he’s not even described as a humanoid dinosaur. He’s just sexy goth tattooed Severus snape and he’s also a parasaurolophus and we are left to just figure it out
I have to talk about what is going on with the worldbuilding. Like this is a parody. Of Harry Potter. But there’s an entirely different magic system and….everything???
In summary
there doesn’t appear to be a statute of secrecy type thing magic is just fully integrated with the modern world and modern technology
Harriet is a wizard, but that means that she creates spells by typing them out in long manuscripts, which on one level is a nod to the book publishing industry but on another level is kind of interesting in of itself
there’s a??? spellcasting industry??
there are different types of magic users other than wizards, and they appear to be based on the d&d classes
or at least, bards exist and they are distinct from wizard
the dinosaur is a bard
Bigfeet exist and they are integrated with modern society
there are sentient motorcycles and no one finds this in any way unusual
THE DINOSAUR IS A BARD?!?!?!
…Warlocks in this world get their powers from a pact with Chuck Tingle
The fourth wall break is killing me.
The sexy dinosaur is also trans
As much as I love skillfully crafted satire that takes deft jabs at the flaws of the thing it’s lampooning, there’s also something charming about how every character in this book has a name blatantly and hilariously derived from a Harry Potter character regardless of how most of their roles in the story barely resemble anything like characters in Harry Potter.
…You know, I’m not even sure Chuck Tingle has read Harry Potter.
I’m back to reading. Does chocolate milk have intoxicating effects on sentient motorcycles??
…sentences I never thought I’d write
um im lowkey getting feels from this like there are some genuinely emotionally resonant bits in here what the fuck
chuck tingle’s magic system is unironically better than jk Rowling’s I’m sorry
I’m so sorry to sample the sex scene but. “sexualis secondus” just killed me. I have been pronounced dead by this book. im obliterated this is indescribable
I.
I literally have no idea how to describe what I’m experiencing right now. Like this is a somewhat poorly edited parody adult dinosaur romance novel but. It’s genuinely?? Creative?? In a lot of ways???? And there’s a lot of heart to it, a lot of genuine powerful messages about identity and about art and creativity and the fourth-wall-breaking device is…I can’t explain it because that would spoil it but it’s actually pulled off so well?????
This is not like, a humorous joke story this guy did for Being a Little Shit and Spite reasons, it’s like actually in its themes and message a genuine “fuck you” to j.k. Rowling’s transphobia even though it’s this absolutely wild janky batshit story and I have never experienced anything like this in my LIFE
I did not expect my adhd little heart to be touched by understanding of my fears about creativity and writing and its place in my life. Not like this. What the fuck. What the fuck.
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I have a couple of his books (for donating to his preferred COVID causes) and I've heard this stuff before. That his work is actually good and substantive and could operate outside of the parody he's known for.
I just can't bring myself to read them yet. I think the one I have is "Pounded in the Butt by Coronovirus" or something. 🤣🤣🤣
