“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.”
— E. B. White
KIROKAZE
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ojovivo
Monterey Bay Aquarium

Janaina Medeiros

Love Begins
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

izzy's playlists!

JBB: An Artblog!

if i look back, i am lost

Kaledo Art

blake kathryn
Sade Olutola
Misplaced Lens Cap

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
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todays bird
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Not today Justin

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@justanothervoiceouthere
“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.”
— E. B. White
“Setting, pace and trajectory are important, but they’re irrelevant without the reader’s emotional investment, and that is driven by characters.”
— Brad Taylor
“I hate writing, I love having written.”
— Dorothy Parker
Working On A Cozy Fantasy
Outline (thus far):
Setting: Realms between the Fae and the mortals has been open for quite some time. Modern day.
Woman (mortal) has quit her 9 to 5, to open the very first coffeeshop in the Fae realm.
Man (Fae) keeps it under wraps that he is a High Fae Lord, and uses some glamor to blend in the rest of the Fae. Stumbles across the hottest new topic in the Fae realm, the first mortal coffeeshop.
The High Lord is not only swept up in the aroma of the cup in front of him, but by the woman who placed it down in front of him.
That is my basis so far. Still a lot of world building to figure out.
Prompt #966
"Why did you never tell me?"
"It was a personal issue."
"You being in love with me kind of also involves me."
"Why did you never tell me?"
"It was a personal issue."
"You being in love with me kind of also involves me."
Polly wasn’t sure how to react to such a statement. She loved many people, but never felt the need to share her stressors with them. At a young age she had been thought to hold her tongue. Sharing emotions was a privilege, not a right.
“My stress is mine to deal with.” Polly countered.
“Yes, but I love you.” He countered back, as if these three words were a magic password. Once spoken, now Polly was expected to bare her soul? That had never gotten her anywhere before this. He must’ve seen something in her expression, which was often uncontrollable at times, and he continued his next statement in a cautious tone. Knowing that she might flee at any moment. “Polly, I know it’s hard to trust again. Especially with your past. But I don’t want to hurt you.” He took a step closer to her, causing her to take a step back. “Please don’t run away from this. Let me in.”
Polly could see that he was still talking, but his words were no longer registering with her. What felt to be completely out of her control, Polly’s legs began to move her towards the front door of their shared flat. He stared at her with an unreadable expression, but nothing could hold her here. Polly was never a fighter, and when the opportunity to take flight presented itself, she was gone.
So she left, unsure of where she was headed next.
Poly #3
Another night of doom-scrolling was bound to occur, since the long hot shower did not evaporate any of Polly’s depression. This was going to be the eighth night in a row, where sleep seemed like a lifetime away. She wanted to rest so badly. To melt into the mattress, and come out on when it felt like the sun wouldn’t sting her eyes anymore.
Polly was used to an episode of depression, sprinkled throughout a month's time. She could handle the occasional need to become nothing more than an inanimate object in her own home. A decoration on a wall, or a throw-blanket on the back of the couch. But this period of utter agony had been going on at least four days too long.
Normally, she would have had no issues sorting out the source of her dark cloud. However, she had yet to pinpoint the cause.
Outsider Polly’s studio apartment window, was the chatter of a group of women who had clearly come back from a night out. One of them seemed to be quite upset about a recent break up, and her very inebriated friends were doing their best to simultaneously uplift their friend’s spirit, and shit talk the man that had wronged their also very drunken comrade.
Polly rolled onto her left side, and tried to drown out the noise, but nothing could keep her mind from racing. The anxiety began to squirm, and materialize into acid in her stomach. Bile ready to escape her system at any moment. She clutched the blanket closely around her, begging for it to shield her from any more pain.
She knew that sleep would come sooner or later, as it did every night. Not through her own source of will, but through the pure exhaustion that would soon take her into a deep slumber.
Polly Excerpt #2
“With you only being higher functioning, I have to commend you on how far you have made it in life. I am not sure if you need medication, when you seem to have found your own tools to get through life already.”
Polly’s doctor had commented this to her only a day ago, when she had gone to see him about the medication her Psychologist had suggested.
This comment had been haunting her thoughts, since the moment it had been spoken to her. It made her feel invisible, much like her diagnosis with being on the spectrum. She had made it through life on survival alone, not through adaptation.
Polly had hated when people used her higher level of education, or her occupation as a means of qualifying her level of struggle. Every hour, of every day, felt like she was wading through a swamp. It seemed as if her brain never quieted, and all she wanted to do was bundle up in a blanket and tune the rest of the world out.
Simple tasks were becoming unbearable, and outright unmanageable. Yes, Polly could and would be able to get these menial tasks completed, but the will to get her there felt like it was fading.
She felt like she was fading. Fast.
So to be told that her societal accomplishments exonerated her from any form of help, felt like a punch to the fucking gut.
A Lady and her Knight
Fanart for The Mandalorian
Excerpt from a story I am working on...
Words meant a great deal to her. She put much thought into the words she chose to use, because it had to be the right word, for the right situation. Like soulmates.
Polly had been pondering a certain word for several days now, for the current predicament she found herself in. It was this morning, on her way into the office, that the word finally occurred to her. When she had put the car into park, and stared out at the very outdated brick and mortar office building, a sensation washed over her entire being.
She felt a sense of dread.
Her world had become very, lonely.
She was lonely.
Not in a romantic sense, she had determined early on.
Polly craved friendship. She craved that closeness, and special bond with a group of peers. Where there were no expectations, no strings attached, and a feeling of comfortability.
From the outside looking in, Polly was convinced that friendship would be easily obtained. Through the bonds of shared interests, she had planned to be surrounded by a plethora of kindred souls.
But much like the rest of Polly’s life, the people she came to call ‘friends’ had gone off script.
Polly is Autistic. Unlike so many of her peers, she is at times, unable to pick up on even the simplest human mannerism. Especially in a social environment.
A recent example was the concept of having work friends. Polly was convinced that this would serve as a great opportunity to bond with others. Since they were basically forced to be around one another for eight hours, five days a week. Polly found it very easy to make friends with a group of gentlemen. But she had grown up, reading books and watching movies, where female friendships were spotlighted.
She had concluded that there seemed to be a pattern of sorts, when making friends with groups of women. The first phase was easy, the special interests were easy, but the next step always proved to be most difficult. Women were much different from men. There were hidden meanings within words. Which Polly struggled with that the most.
Not every, “let's get coffee together sometime,” was going to be scheduled in her Google Calendar.
She had always wished people would just say what they mean, and mean what they say.
Polly was not fond of puzzles. Especially of the people variety.
So she had bonded with several women from her new job, and shortly after had even received a nickname.
“Shelly.”
This was a very crucial piece to Polly’s equation. Even though she couldn’t figure out the origin of her new nickname, it was hers. It was a special gift. That was until last Thursday. When Polly was excluded from a meeting, because she had coughed.
***
You, like Polly, might be finding this a very peculiar reason to be excluded from a meeting.
Her boss, a slightly older woman, was very friendly to the group of women Polly had associated herself with. Jane had approached her desk, while the rest of her coworkers were attending the meeting in a separate room.
“I think you should leave.”
“Oh, I am not ill. I think it is a tickle in my throat from the pollen.” Polly replied with a quivering smile. She had been crying. For days now, Polly had felt her new ‘friends’ pulling away. She was never invited to lunch outings, and often felt that people were whispering about her as she walked by. So when she was excluded from a meeting, feelings of her adolescence came rushing back.
She was being left out.
“No, hun. I think you should leave the company.”
Polly felt a wave of nausea come over her. “I’m sorry? I don’t quite understand.”
“You never do, do you Shelly?”
She had loved that nickname, but now it felt covered in something filthy. Jane took the seat across from her.
“No one likes you here, Shelly. People are talking.” She cleared her throat. “You just need to leave.” Her statement was so matter-of-fact, that on a different occasion, Polly would have been more than grateful for her directness.
“But my nickname…” She said quietly.
“Sheldon, from Big Bang Theory.” Jane replied curtly. “You know, the weird one.”
Polly felt as if she had nothing to cling to. So she did what she did best when a situation became too much to handle. She stood up, gathered her things, and walked silently out of the building.
Polly left.
A weekend had passed since then, and she still felt lost.
She felt lonely.
Losing My Shit
‘You graduated college,’
‘You have a really intense, and high paying position.’
‘You seem to have developed your own tools of coping.’
Nothing seems to enrage more than people down playing my struggles. So often people comment on my accomplishments, and glaze over the struggles I seem to have on a recurring day to day.
I am the double-threat, as I have heard some people refer to it. I am diagnosed with being on the Autism Spectrum, while also having a form of ADHD. To clarify, these two diagnoses have traits that overlap with one another. Along with being pitted against each other.
I can honestly say that I am not sure how I ended up in the life that I have, apart from playing the role of puppet for my parents. Many of my decisions and efforts were not of my own volition.
So I now find myself in a job, where I have no idea what is going on most of the time, and in charge of a group of people who believe me to have some sort of leadership skills.
I am not sure I would call my level of conformity, a sign of acute adaptability.
My brain is in constant thought, every minute seems to be something gnawing at the walls of my skull. Some new fixation, or a never ending hyperfixation on something that brings me nothing but dread.
I crave quiet, and I crave a life of my own. One that I have cultivated.
So yes on the outside, I wear a mask that shows a woman with herself together. While behind the mask lies a woman who is completely losing her shit.
‘Write what you know.’
A comment I heard quite often as a young and aspiring writer. I was convinced that there would never be an audience for my kind of life experiences. Why would someone want to hear about abuse, and depressive episodes? When you could read about adventure, and romance.
It was then that I realized that what I liked to read, versus the experiences I had obtained, differed on a great level.
This is not to say that I don’t love writing in other genres.
I just find it funny, the argument of ‘writing what you know’ versus ‘writing what you want.’ It just seems to be another generational gap in what is a right or wrong way to do something.
It can’t possibly be that black and white.
I thrive in their gray zone. I write to escape, but also to share my story. Even if it is through a persona, or into the Tumblr void. I want people to feel where I have come from. So my escapism doesn’t feel so alone. Whether I choose to sport myself in everyday wear, or full in dragon steel, those characters carry a piece of me with them.
So yes, I write what I know, but in a way that I want.
Me: I am going to write a POV piece from the eyes of a woman who grew up in healthy, loving family.
Other Writers: Write what you know.
Me: Well fuck.
I Love Tumblr
I had many friends in the past who relied heavily on Tumblr. Yet something about it never spoke to me, until I found the Tumblr writing community.
As someone who is AuDHD, I have A LOT of thoughts running through my mind on an almost 24-hour level. (Chalk that up to also being an insomniac.) I have come to learn that one person cannot take on all the information I have to give, which is probably where my love of writing and the internet go hand and hand.
Just another info-dump, about my love of info-dumping.
I Love Being Autistic
Something I hate hearing as an Autistic person, is being equated to everyone else. To somehow make me feel ‘normal’? Or included?
Let me be clear.
I LOVE BEING AUTISTIC.
If being hyperfixated on your diagnosis is possible, then I might as well be the poster child for it.
I appreciate that my brain is linear at times. Until I am able to talk about something I love, or something that interests me at that moment. Being Autistic feels like seeing the world through different lenses each and every day. I often find that being hyperfixated on the subjects of ‘how humans work,’ to be exhilarating.
A family member recently pointed out to me that I speak about humans and people as if I wasn’t one myself.
Even though I have a love of being Autistic, I am usually misunderstood. I try so often to feel like myself, and unmask (as it is currently referred to in the neurodivergent community). Yet somehow, when I speak on being Autistic, I am met with remarks shrouded in pity.
I love being Autistic.
I am not so sure why that is such a crime.
Something that bothers me about wanting to become an author, is that it feels like as a writer I am more concerned with my online presence, than I am the quality of my writing.
I have had a hard time remembering what writing used to mean to me.
I wanted to become a successful writer, because that meant doing it for a living. Not for the fame, but for the availability and opportunity to be engrossed in something that makes me feel free.
High school is the last timeframe of my life that I can recall writing for the sake of putting all my jumbled thoughts into something fun, and cohesive. Where every scrap of paper I had was dedicated to a story, and the never ending doodles in the margins.
Being autistic causes me to crave structure, while simultaneously seeking a sense of freedom from that uniform lifestyle.
I want to write, not to inspire, but to share the thoughts that haunt and inspire me. I write to feel connected, and not alone. Who wouldn’t want to be surrounded by people who share similar interests?
I know that someone on the spectrum would understand how important writing is to me, when I say that this hobby has been with me for over 20 years. And to the all-istic crowd, that's a pretty important thing.
I don’t care about being viral. I care about sharing my thoughts, being a good storyteller, and maintaining that sense of freedom.
Obsession
I am in the love story era of my life.
No, my love is not all consuming, and it is not obsessive.
It is the kind where fighting is normal. Where the ‘making up’ just gets better and healthier each time.
Obsession feels like such a gross word, for the lack of a better one. I wanted to be obsessed over, and I wanted to obsess.
My mother is obsessed with anything my father does, and somehow seems to sweep away his indiscretions. To her, he is not the man who inflicted physical and emotional pain on his children. He is the man who is tall, makes good money, and keeps her safe. So she goes along with her obsession. Whether it be the obsession of being in love, or not being alone.
I craved this structure. But when I got it, all I received was another version of my father.
No, my love doesn’t go on great adventures. Sometimes we don’t even venture past the sofa.
I don’t want to have an obsession. I just want to have an everyday kind of love.
Everyday and everlasting.
My Monster
How does it feel to be the last resort child? To live in the shadow of someone who was your monster?
When he passed, they acted as if he was their golden child. That they could’ve saved him somehow.
That child they do desperately ‘cared for,’ was the same child I saw take beatings in front of my doorway. My mother blocking the path of my father, who would begin to throw large items past her head. My brother cowering in fear, but taking every blow. As if this was normal, and he knew it would end soon enough. This six foot being, would cower into nothing more than a small child.
How could anyone fear him? Fear someone who was experiencing their own form of abuse.
But in the end, I was the lowest form on a very small and intimate food chain. So who better to take it out on?
So he passed, and the world should've gotten easier, right?
My demon may have been silenced, but his monster was still roaming this earth. And I was still at the bottom of the food chain.
Last resort may have been too kind to call what happened to me.
So what would you call it?