Writeblr of Taylor Foreman | Daily Stories or Chapters (Urban Fantasy, Science Fiction, Humor) | Current WIP is shaping up as a novel -- #CivilGhost. Previous Novel is #Pandemic | Send me writing prompts and I'll tag you!
I feel like a better rule than “Show, don’t tell” is “Express, don’t state”
Because a lot of people interpret “show don’t tell” as “use visuals instead of dialog” or “play out scenes instead of referencing/describing them” which is an arbitrary rule that doesn’t communicate well what the issue is.
What I mean by “Express, don’t state” is that the facts of your story should be conveyed through the story’s elements instead of stated in the story.
If a character is depressed or guilt ridden, it should be expressed through their attitude, their actions, their decisions, their reactions, etc. instead of stating “this character is depressed”. Whether it’s done through dialog or a visual of a rainy cloud doesn’t matter, because it’s still conveyed directly to the audience instead of being evident in the text itself.
In fact, sometimes having a character describe a scene or a diagnosis or whatever using dialog can express a lot more than showing the scene itself.
has detailed if not meticulous notes on the universe they’ve created, down to the food eaten and language quirks, they use mythos and setting to bring it all together
most of the character’s backstories are already loving laid out, though may not be all connected yet.
Has yet to write a full chapter. (But they’re getting there!)
The Bae
Story is centered around a complex and engaging OC that they’ve spent years developing
said OC has been through A Lot, the love is real, so is the pain
OC may sort of be a loser? ie the story is a character-driven piece where the plot is moved ahead by said character’s bad decisions and questionable habits
The Researcher
akin to the lore-ist but spends more of their time on wikipedia articles jotting down notes and things like how much a watermelon weighs
Everything from knowing Too Much about child-care to how a body decomposes or flapper chest-binding is on the table, their breadth is large and Should Be Feared
takes a long time to start but make the most of their words, from spot-on sci-fi to history to murder, readers will learn something on the way
The Lemon Flavored Factory
alright take it back now y’all, this writer has written enough smut to make a tom cat blush, they can write other things too, and often well, but there will inevitably be bed-rattling at some point (or car or shower)
either unusually creative or just sticks to classics like Aliens Made Them Do It, neither is necessarily bad but there is oddly little in between
their author’s notes tend to be hilarious or at least very self-aware
The Word Vomit Canoe
action oriented writer who spews out the words before they know what is happening, no plans, no outlines, 10k of the first thing that comes to mind, sometimes things like ‘maybe dragons?’ & they go with it
their strengths are productivity, weaknesses are not knowing what the hell is going on
style is marked by fast-paced tone and downright impressive word count
The Muse
their inspiration doesn’t come as often, but they are always listening for her & redy 2 go
update schedule is…sporadic at best, but makes up for it with long chapters and clean editing
Will write 30 pages in a day and then take a few months off, enjoys one-shots but can do longer works
doesn’t have the best sense of time and when they are in The Zone may forget to eat or shower
Lorist, bae and muse for me😂 character drive and forgetting to stand up when in the zone for hours, has yet to write the first chapter but all the metas, got it 😂
very similar indeed, but I’m more about the magic lore, while your modern setting and sense for detail come more into play.
@stories-by-rie @thewalkingnerdx what are you?😂 I have my suspicions of course…
And I had to laugh out loud so bad when I read the Bae, because let’s face it, my WIPs only exist due to my OCs’ questionable choices hahaha xD I work only on my OCs, plot means nothing to me x) But also definitely the Word Vomit Canoe, as I said, I have no clue what is happening at any given point. Also a bit of the Researcher, I know weird stuff and it’s purely writing related. Out of curiosity, what did you think I was?
@soul-write @cilly-the-writer and @musicofglassandwords if you want (I actually have my suspicions too hehe)
Built in 1879.
The chapel, which is the oldest structure in Yosemite Valley, was designed by Charles Geddes, an accomplished church architect from San Francisco.
bonjour! my name is manon (pen name) and admittedly, i’ve been stalking the writeblr community for like 2 months and i decided to create an account and finally take a deep dive. i love the idea of writers supporting writers and all you have such stunning imaginations and writing you got me doing hearteyes every 5 mins 😍
quick facts about moy
manon mansa
24 years old
afro-british (born in africa, raised in england)
i’ve been writing since i was 13 but i didn’t take it seriously until i was 16
loves: sci-fi, fantasy, afrofuturism, philosophy, doctor who (series 1-6), parasite (bc bong joon-ho explores class struggle in a way i have never see before and WOW), angela davis, anything arthur c. clarke, inside no.9, cornetto trilogy, it’s always sunny in philadephia
inspired the ongoing destruction of the amazon rainforest
lol i promise its not preachy
currently in the planning stage, hoping to get a full wip intro and start drafting soon
my plan for this blog
squeal about your wips bc holy cow a lot of you are so bloody talented!
squeal about published fics i love (the broken earth trilogy, hunger games, song of achilles, dread nation, the dispossessed etc)
start drafting the conquest of ashes
track, improve my own writing and learn about the art of writing
sprinkle a little eco-feminist/eco-anarchist discussion here and there just for my own education and bookmarking (basically, lets take care of the planet, our women and simultaneously question the illegitimate power structures in place and challenge them to prove themselves to be legitimate powers)
blogs that inspired me to join writeblr (bc they’re amazing 😍)
‘So,’ I say, trying to break the tense silence, ‘what’s your story?’
The girl looks up at me; I can’t tell if she’s angry or if that’s just what she always looks like. She hasn’t given me many expressions to go off of at this point. For a moment, it seems like she just isn’t going to answer me. It’s just as I’m about to turn and head back inside that she answers.
‘It’s nothing special. I lived over in Parker’s Crest with my parents, we were at church when the news started to spread. I told them we should leave, pack up and head to one of the safe zones but they were stubborn as hell. They wanted to say and take care of the sick.’ She laughs bitterly and lets out a heavy sigh. ‘It was fine until an older lady turned; she bit my mom’s face off right in front of me. Dad tried to help but he got bit, too.’
Sorry hangs on the tip of my tongue but I know full well how useless those words are. So, I just hum and let her know I’m listening.
‘He didn’t die at first. We left to try and find help but he turned right after we found this place. It sucks but it’s safe and there’s supplies so I can’t really complain.’
I nod. ‘That’s one hell of a story,’ I reply and it gets what I have decided is a laugh out of her. ‘So, now I know all of that about you but not your name.’
𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 / mariana grew up in the church, constantly being forced to help put up the front of a perfect family. she spent much of her life rebelling at every turn, going against everything she’d ever been taught, and becoming more and more of her own person. it’s those things that save her life when the ends comes.
( taglist / ask to be added ) @neptunely, @emdrabbles, @dogwrites, @thriae, @noloumna, @halcionic, @bahay-kubo, @cianawrites, @elliewritesstories
Real talk here, especially for writing longer works:
You need to trust yourself to pull it together by the end, even if you think you’re going completely off the rails. The trust might be unfounded, hell, you might even be wrong, but you need to do it.
Trust your story. Trust the point you want to get across. Trust your subconsciousness to get it right. Because the moment you start to doubt and second guess yourself, you stall. Get to the end, then you can see if you succeeded or not.
Hey ! I know everything is crazy right now with the protests and COVID and everything, and while it's so extremely important that we focus on that, I know it can be stressful. So I'm currently writing a few-thousand word short story of a future eutopia where people have learned how to accommodate and treat each other as a little escape from now (I'll try my best, anyways- we'll see how that goes). I was just wondering if you'd like to be tagged- no pressure !
this sounds so cute!! i would definitely love to be tagged :)
“I heard that Judah killed his entire family and then came to school to shoot Mr. Jackson because he gave him a bad grade,” says a kid the following day. He smells like Axe Body Spray.
“They never could find him, you know,” says a girl so short she can rest her chin on the long, white lunch table without bending over much. “He’s still hiding in the school...”
Outside the cafeteria are armed security and local police, standing around, one guy near the window laughs.
“I heard that Briar tried to help him and now she’s going to jail.”
“Little miss goody two-shoes?” says another girl, an early bloomer.
“Yeah. She apparently snapped because Mr. Jackson was making her grade papers for extra credit.”
“I knew she was crazy,” says the early bloomer.
“I heard that Mr. Jackson is still alive and that he forgives Judah,”
“I guess that proves it,” says the first kid. “Mr. Jackson is a ghost.”
“Oh my God, stop it with that stupid rumor,” says the short girl, straightening her spine and her glasses. “He’s been through enough. We saw him get shot... I think that proves he’s not a ghost.”
Mr. Jackson sweats in a hospital bed. The nurse finishes checking him.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says. He registers her smile as finally, a real man who knows how to talk to a woman.
“That dude just called me fucking sweetheart,” she says to another nurse outside the room. “Ew,” says her friend, not looking up from her phone.
“Good to see a pretty woman like that. Really lifts the spirits, Graham.” Next to the bed stands Graham, looking grim and absent-eyed as a Civil War-era photo.
“You sure these nurses won’t be able to see me? I know they probably seen death...”
Mr. Jackson sighs. He places a gentle hand on his solar plexus, which is wrapped with white bandages. “Death isn’t felt properly in these sorts of places.” He gestures to the curtain around his bed, as if the paisley pattern was the evidence to his claim.
Graham swallows, lifting the prominent Adam’s apple in his neck. “Why don’t you just let your form die?”
Mr. Jackson looks sharp. “I made this form over these years...” he taps his own leg. “I made it big... I turned the misery of Lee into power. Physical power. I can move the world better than any living man. I don’t want to start over...”
While Mr. Jackson talks, Graham places his hand on the hospital bed and focuses on it intently. He tries to push it, but only manages to flutter the sheets. His crest falls.
“Keep me company, Graham, and I will get your physical manifestation back,” Mr. Jackson says knowingly. “The boy shot me, good for him. But now everyone thinks he killed the family. He did me a favor. I feel myself getting stronger and stronger by the love and attention I’m getting and the hatred toward him. Even now, sitting here with a hole in my chest...”
Graham tilts his head, playing in his mind all the times he had shot Mr. Jackson in reenactment to little or no effect. “How did he managed to hurt you so bad?”
Mr. Jackson chuckles. “He shot me with the gun that killed me. I didn’t expect him to be helped by Buddy Red. If it wasn’t for the attention he got me, it might have taken me back to my creator for good.”
...
In the chaos, Judah ran. Briar told him to run. He went right back to that bat-tunnel and dove in. A few people saw him do it, too. He could hear them talking about it. So, he kept crawling. The dirt and the spiders and the bats could not stop him now. Things crawl on him, touch him, possibly even bite him in the total dark, but he keeps going, pushing through his fear.
Adults can’t fit in the tunnel, and the kids are too afraid to go after him, besides--he has a gun, Ms. Perkins reasons.
Judah finds an old ladder by running into it with his nose. He feels it until he understands what it is, and climbs. He realizes that the gun is still in his hands, and puts it in his backpack.
The ladder seems to go on and on, rising through the total dark. The smell of long-untouched things disturbed invades his other senses. He shivers. Now that his eyes are adjusted, he can begin to see rays of light coming through the plaster of the inside of the walls. He squirms through the guts of the school.
At the top of the ladder is a trap door. He pushes it open and climbs up. The room is covered in a layer of dust and long-abandoned--locked from the outside.
“Hello, Judah,” says a voice, like audio from an old phonograph. Judah jolts to the source. A man, not entirely solid, skin as dark and reflective as stained wood, stands before him. “We have been waiting for you.”
Being a good person is a choice. Don’t let people fool you into believing that truly good people never have bad thoughts, are never tempted by the easier path, by the low road, never mess up or act out selfishly. Never believe a person can be good without making a conscious effort.
Every single time you do something good, you’ve made a decision to make the world a little brighter.
Goodness is not an inherent trait, it is a choice. Keep making it! I see you, I’m proud of you, and I’m rooting for you!
Judah and David are boy scouts. The older kids, David among them, organize an event--it’s tradition--called “skeet hunting” where they get the younger kids to take all their clothes off in the middle of the woods to catch an imaginary bird called a skeet. Once done, the older boys take their clothes, and leave them in the woods, naked, at night. Hazing. It’s meant to be funny.
“Don’t take your clothes off,” David whispers to Judah. “When everything starts to happen, just follow me.” Judah nods.
As the trick starts to play out, David makes a motion to Judah, and they leave with the older kids.
They quietly follow flashlight beams down a trail, laughing and horsing. “Donny looked like he was going to shit his pants!” says one kid.
“Why are you bringing your little brother, Davey?” asks another older kid.
“Shut up, Ethan,” David says, loudly. “You still miss your mom?” The other kids laugh. Judah walks there, silently.
Presently, he sits in the scary bat-tunnel under his school, watching Mr. Jackson threaten to kill Briar’s family. Something suggests that he should move, but he hasn’t done anything yet. Briar sobs.
“What do you say, Mr. Danielson? Would you like to come out now and be done with all of this?” calls Mr. Jackson to the open air.
The bell rings, which means lunch is over and students are going back to class.
“Last chance, Mr. Danielson,” Mr. Jackson says. “I have to teach these kids the truth about the war of Northern Aggression!”
It dawns on Judah that David is not coming to rescue him this time. His family isn’t coming either. No one is coming. Tears fill his eyes, and he pulls the gun from his backpack. He can barely lift it with one hand. He crawls out of the little tunnel, and stands, covered in dust and cobwebs.
“Judah!” Briar says. “No! Run away!”
Judah shakes his head and lifts the gun with both hands.
“Well, well! Mr. Danielson has a gun!”
Judah flashes the profile of it. “The one that killed you!”
Mr. Jackson’s eyes flash the smallest moment of fear.
“That student has a gun!” says a voice. It’s a teacher coming out of the bathroom behind them.
Mr. Jackson smiles. He puts his hands up slowly. “Put the gun down, son,” he says, loudly enough for the teacher to hear.
The teacher pulls out his phone. “Ms. Perkins!” he says. “A student has a gun!... Behind the school near the football bathroom!... Well, I called you first-- OK, OK, I’ll call 911 now...” He hangs up. He dials and quickly calls again. “Student at Barham school with a gun!” he shouts into the phone.
Judah hasn’t moved. He isn’t even sure what will happen if he pulls the trigger.
Mr. Jackson grabs Briar. “Don’t shoot us,” he fake-pleads.
“Let her go!” Judah says.
“I won’t let you shoot her!” Mr. Jackson says, again loud enough for the now approaching crowd to hear.
“I thought he was dead... Where did he even get that gun?... Is he the one that killed his family?” says the hushed voices of the people gathering around.
Reality seems to be falling into pieces before Judah’s eyes. Puking seems like a reasonable plan of action.
“What is going on here, Mr. Jackson?” says Ms. Perkins.
“I saw Judah sneaking around the school, and I followed him,” Mr. Jackson says, hands still in the air. “I knew he was missing, and I was concerned. It appears that he was trying to contact this young woman.” Mr. Jackson, more mindful now, puts Briar behind himself in a show of protection. “And he pulled a gun from his backpack and pointed it at her.”
“That’s not true!” Briar says.
Ms. Perkins looks at Judah and speaks slowly and calmly. “Why do you have a gun, Judah?”
Judah struggles to show that he is not very close to fainting, which he is. “Mr. Jackson...” he says. “He killed my family.” He does not go on about how he is a ghost, not feeling at all that he has the wherewithal to back up that kind of claim.
All eyes turn back to Mr. Jackson. Now all the students are gathering as well. Teachers shush and try to control the rising noise.
Mr. Jackson acts dumbfounded. “Son, you are the one with the antique gun. Wasn’t that the sort of thing that was used...?”
That aspect of the crime was published and gossiped about thoroughly. This proves to be a very salient point for the crowd, who turns back to Judah and his shaking gun.
“He’s lying! Judah was trying to protect me from him!” Briar shouts. This does little for the growing consensus. Mr. Jackson puts her more firmly behind him, as if Judah were casting a spell on her to make her say such things.
“The police are coming, Judah. Can you put the gun down?” Ms. Perkins says, as if asking him whether he wants any gravy on his mashed potatoes.
Judah lowers the gun, the suggestion reminding him that it is very heavy, if nothing else.
“Good...” she says.
Mr. Jackson approaches him now like you might approach a trapped wildcat, one hand extended, one hand back toward Briar. “Everything is OK,” he says. “We are going to get to the bottom of all this, and as long as you have nothing to hide, you ain’t in any trouble.”
Two flashes in the windows of his home, and his family is gone forever. A man waddles out of the house. There he is, walking toward Judah now. When he is only a few steps away, Judah raises the gun and pulls the trigger firmly. The thing practically explodes, flinging itself back into his chest. Good thing Mr. Jackson was so close, because there was no aiming involved.
The lead ball plunges into Mr. Jackson’s sternum, and he flops backward.
Many scream. A few rush to Mr. Jackson. A few more run away. The boy behind the gun seems to vanish in the chaos.
“Y’all stay there,” says Mr. Jackson as he marches across the parking lot toward the shabby red car that had vanished behind the trees. The growing crowd of students watches him go; children watching a paternal figure go check out the noise.
Buddy Red is holding his bleeding shoulder in the car when Mr. Jackson clears the trees. He fumbles for his keys to try to start the car, but gives up once it is clear he won’t make it. “I should have known you’d get involved, Mr. Green,” Mr. Jackson says.
Buddy Red just breathes.
“Why hang on, sir?” Mr. Jackson prods. “If you survive, it’ll be some long months of suffering. Don’t you agree?”
Buddy Red reaches into the back seat and finds a bottle of vodka. He pours it over the wound with a shaking hand.
Mr. Jackson grimaces. “Oh, I imagine that whole arm is shattered, now. Might need an amputation.” He reaches across Buddy Red, leaning his great body into the car, and presses his stumpy fingers into the shoulder. Buddy Red groans and tries to get away, but Mr. Jackson is steady as stone, and holds him in place, kicking legs and all. “Where is the boy, Robert?” A whispered grumble.
Sweating, Buddy Red manages to catch a full breath. “I’ve been beat worse to give up less,” he says.
Mr. Jackson smiles, understanding. “A good slave owner don’t beat his slaves. That’s like beating up your coffee maker. A waste.”
Buddy Red spits in Mr. Jackson’s face, and Mr. Jackson pulls himself out of the car, pats his pockets until he finds his handkerchief. He whips the spit away carefully, thoughtfully. “You were always more trouble than you were worth. Really the reason why I let you fight for your freedom. But you were rarin’ to fight for the South, weren’t you?”
“For my kids, Jason,” he says. “For my kids.”
“Oh and where are they now, Robert? Where are their kids? On the streets of Chicago, Detroit?” A moment is filled with Buddy Red’s labored breathing. “Where is the Danielson boy, Robert? Why do you want to protect a white boy anyway?”
“Danielsons was like family, and I’d die before I’d tell you.”
Mr. Jackson raises his eyebrows. “Sounds brave! If you weren’t already dead I might be inspired.” He grabs his finger, as if starting a list. “Let’s see: I kill you now and you come back a little fainter?” Next finger. “A little harder for the living to see? No. I’ll let you suffer in this form. That is the worst I could do you.”
Buddy Red nods, chuckling: they agree.
“I know about as much as you do, anyway, I reckon. The boy is at the school. And I’m going to find him.”
He grabs a branch, too heavy for a normal living man to lift, and raises it above his head easily, creating a shady canopy. He places it on the car, mostly hiding it from view. “There, now you can suffer in peace,” he says, tapping the roof of the car twice. He toddles back toward the school.
When Mr. Jackson is out of sight, Briar hurries toward the last place she saw Judah. She rounds the corner, taking care to attract the attention of no one.
“Judah!” she hisses to the open driveway behind the school. No one is around. She waits and Judah does not answer.
During the summers, when Judah and David aren’t staying up all night to watch stand-up comedy, they come to Barham school and climb around on the old structures. The find passage ways into attics and basements, never meant to be seen by student eyes again. One place they are always too afraid to go: a tunnel under the school. “Filled with bats,” says the lunch lady, Ms. Dot. “I get here early, and I seen ‘em coming in to sleep for the day,” she explains.
Struggling to breathe, Mr. Jackson near with a gun, Judah pulls the door open to the tunnel and climbs in, preferring the bats to Mr. Jackson.
Once inside, he pats for his phone and its light, and realizes that Briar still has it. And there she is, walking down the driveway, calling his name. He watches her, longs to call back to her. No, she’s had enough danger thanks to Judah.
“Judah!” she calls, tears in her eyes.
Just as he is about to change his mind, Mr. Jackson appears behind her. Nearly invisible, Judah catches a glimpse of Graham, Mr. Jackson’s partner. “Reason to think he’d be near here, Ms. Beckman?”
Briar jumps. “No sir!”
Mr. Jackson might have laughed, but enough is enough. He storms to the girl and grips her shoulder. “Judah Danielson!” he calls. “Every moment you do no present yourself to me is a moment closer to this young girl’s death and the death of her entire family.” He squats down to Briar’s level. “I will save you and your family if you find me Mr. Danielson, OK?”
Briar cries.
“Just find the boy!” he says. He stands and hikes up his khakis. “Y’all have 24 hours to figure it out.” He looks at his watch. “By 12:45 tomorrow, I either have the boy, or the Beckman family is my next project.”
