You can cure people by removing their illness and turning it into slime, which must be kept sealed in jars. The slime still carries the sickness, and if anyone else touches it, they can catch the illness themselves.
Been itching to make Sir Caine happen with my own two hands. Just an idea that desperately needed to escape my head. Colored chain mail and all. What do yall think?
The biggest complaint I have with the phrase “Just do it!” is that it’s a dismissal masquerading as advice; it assumes that the only support the person needs is to have someone else give them the green light to get started, while completely overlooking that there might be a legitimate obstacle keeping that person from actually doing the thing
While this is always frustrating in any case, when it comes to something as subjective and open-ended as writing, it can be even more challenging to make the phrase useful. Because there are definitely some times when the answer really is to ‘just do it’! But that doesn’t always give people any idea of where to start, so let’s try to address some of that here
1. “How do I start/get good at writing?”
Ultimately, the only way to be all but guaranteed to get better at anything is to practice it. If you’re asking this as someone who has been writing for a longer time and is worried that they’re stagnating, you already have evidence to point to your strong and weak areas, so look through your existing writing and pinpoint areas where you would like to improve, then do your research there if you’re not sure how to improve in a specific area
If you’re asking this as a new writer, however, you’ll be wanting to start in a more general area while you build up your overall skills and confidence. Don’t be afraid to write poorly in the meantime; all that will become experiences you can learn from, and is a crucial aspect of starting a new creative hobby. It can also be worth looking into general writing tips from other writers and checking out beginner writer guides, but the main point is just to build up writing experience of any quality rather than relying on an overabundance of theory knowledge to carry your practical skills
2. “How do I make myself write when I have no motivation?”
The first step is to identify what’s keeping you from starting and addressing that. For example, is executive dysfunction keeping you from transitioning from your current activity to writing? Try wiggling different parts of your body until you can rock your body into gear, or whatever other executive dysfunction tricks work for you
From here, set yourself a ten minute timer, and write for as long as that. Tell yourself “If I write for ten minutes, and I still lack the motivation to write, then that’s okay”. Once the ten minutes is up, check in with yourself and ask if you want to keep writing. For most people, the ten minutes is enough to lock in. But if you still don’t want to write? That’s okay, respect your mind and body’s needs by honouring your deal and teaching your brain that it can trust your word on matters like this
3. “How do I keep writing instead of getting stuck editing the same sentence for a million hours during the writing process?”
This sounds more like a case of perfectionism to some degree, which is especially unhelpful for a first draft which is, by nature, rough and unedited. There are different ways we can have a go at getting around it; trying to focus more on quantity over quality; continuous thought exercises where we can’t stop writing for a few minutes even if we don’t know what word to put next, and just keep writing no matter how nonsensical the writing gets; filling our writing with jokes to edit out later so that we can get a laugh out of it as we go while making the writing feel unserious
There are definitely options to practice writing without editing, but if you’re really struggling, there are also applications that physically prevent you from editing for a certain period of time by hiding your progress from view
You are a priest of the god of chance and thieves. You capture two enemy priests sneaking around your hidden temple: one of the war god, one of sea god. You hold up a coin. "Heads, I kill the war priest. Tails, I kill the sea priest." The coin has been spinning in midair for five minutes.
i highly recommend finding yourself a clingy (healthy) lovey dovey partner who's always super excited about you. life is too short to spend it with someone who acts like showing love is a chore.
But then there was you again, and you had just kind of been there; standing by Raphael’s side like a loyal dog since day one. Never frowning, never raising your voice. And he didn’t think he minded it, not really. He liked that your serenity balanced out the semi-man-child whom Thaddeus now called his new boss. You were soft, gentle, benevolent. Maybe only at times. Greeting him whenever he passed by you in the hallway. Laughing at his stupid jokes. Humming a foreign song under your breath that the Apostle didn’t recognize.
One less eggshell to walk on, yet two ticking bombs remained.
He liked your eyes too. Shining, dazzling, so unlike Raphael’s. The redhead only felt that familiar twinge of annoyance when you gazed up at the man you called your little brother with so much love and care. Like you were willing to hang the moon and stars for him. And Thaddeus wasn’t jealous, not really. Raphael was your flesh and blood; it’s only natural that devotion would dig deeper than any shovel or sword could.
But you only had that impenetrable smile on these days. Moving with grace and gold. Keeping your distance. He couldn’t even hold a conversation for longer than one minute before you excused yourself out of the room, not sparing him another glance.
—
Your indifference bothered him.
Made him feel like he was a snot-nosed brat all over again, struggling to survive in that dog-eat-dog shithole he reluctantly called a family. Years ago, when you took the knife out of Raphael’s hands and dug the blade into Father Gabriel’s heart for him, Thaddeus was stuck kicking his legs somewhere far away until his limbs were bent at an inhuman angle, his lungs burning for air. But he pushed through the pain, the tears, the blood early on. He had to become the strongest.
For what, a six-year-old him once pondered.
Sitting by the pond in the garden and swinging his legs in a pair of dojo shoes he had soon outgrown. Martial Arts is about the body and the mind. Integrity, courage, respect. He never intended to frighten others and should have never been considered a weapon of destruction either. But then came the power. The control. The entire continent soon bowed to the King of Kowloon, and Thaddeus was nothing short of elastic.
As much as he hated to admit it, the fight with your little brother knocked some sense into his thick skull. The Apostle didn’t even have time to process his defeat before Raphael wrapped him up in a white body suit that made him look like a goddamn psych ward patient, heavy chains bidding his legs together and keeping him suspended in the air. Thaddeus refused to yield then, gritting his teeth and cursing out strings of profanity that he wasn’t taught before. He fussed, yet Raphael was barely fazed. The punishment didn’t come right away.
It was the days after that.
Days when he was all alone in the base with nothing but his thoughts for company. Thaddeus kept his head hung low and just stared blankly. He felt like a slab of meat. Static noises played on repeat inside his head; and he was okay with that, really. He didn’t want to think anymore.
The hours were so long that he stopped counting. Only then did sleep eventually claim him—a stuffy, dreamless slumber.
—
The redhead didn’t know how long he had been unconscious. But when he woke up, he found himself on the ground; the chains and ridiculous costume miraculously all gone. He was resting his head on something soft too. Thaddeus’ mind tutted its alarm late, but when it did, his body shot up as if struck by lightning and muttered up whatever little strength was left to put some space between him and this unfamiliar presence. Yet the second he attempted to move, his vision started spinning. A stabbing discomfort gnawed on his nape, and Thaddeus realized he was hit with the worst neck pain ever.
He was going to fall at this point. Crashing face-down on the ground like a pathetic loser. The Apostle’s legs wobbled like overcooked noodles as he braced himself for the fall that never came. Instead, he found himself on his back once more, wondering if his body had even moved an inch in the first place.
But there was you, staring down at Thaddeus with a smile.
“Welcome back,” he hadn’t heard any voice in days, much less one as pleasant as yours. The way your hands cradle his face felt like a hug on a winter day. When you shifted, Thaddeus’ stomach did a weird twist.
You didn’t seem to mind him gaping at you like a dead fish, tilting forward with that same mysterious quirk on your lips. Your hair falls around him in soft curtains, blocking the flicking lightbulb ahead that was starting to hurt his eyes.
“How are you feeling?” Your fingers weaved through Thaddeus’ hair. And it felt good, so good he thought he could fall asleep again right here, with his head on your lap. The stinging pain at the back of his nape went away almost instantly when the tips of your digits grazed through the spot.
He opened his mouth, trying to get the words out. It’s useless; his throat was so parched. Thaddeus guzzled the bottled water you handed him in less than two seconds, not caring if his whole face was drenched too in the process. He heard a giggle from you, sounding like mist drops on leaf dripping down a pond.
You came here by yourself.
That much he collected when you pat his face dry with a handkerchief, the silver cross embroidery at the edge tickling his jawline. The movement was still nothing but gentle, yet Thaddeus noticed the corner of your smile turning icy. You came alone, but not without purpose.
“What do you want?”
It might be a little too late, but his inquiry came out nonetheless. Thaddeus tried propping himself up with his elbows but soon realized they were shaking.
At the question, your head tilted to the side ever so slightly. Legs tucked under your thighs in a too-expensive dress. Not a single wrinkle or hair out of the place. Unfeeling. Unmoving. Pupils blown wide like a doll’s.
“I came to check up on you!” You sing-song, beaming too bright, too superficial he had to stop himself from cringing outwardly. “Sit up.”
The command barely registered in his weary mind when Thaddeus felt his body moving on its own, and he was sitting face-to-face with you.
The smile you gave him was nothing short of satisfactory. Eyes glinting with mirth. Like he was a puppy and just did something endearing.
“Here,” something warm slipped down his throat; soup? Thaddeus blinked in awe, feeling the herb soothing his deserted taste bud. He hadn’t eaten anything for a whole week, “how does it taste?”
“G-Good.” His response came immediately this time, albeit rasped and still shaky. But you didn’t mind, feeding him another spoonful of dumpling that he eagerly bit into. Thaddeus was left starved, and he was gonna rot here to death if you didn’t come.
You were technically his savior.
And you looked pleased too, letting him have the rest of the bowl until it was empty. Wiping his mouth clean. Guiding him to lie back on your lap. You were warm, so perfect. Thaddeus wondered why he wanted to get away in the first place.
“It will get better,” you hum, running your hands through his hair, “once you move in with us.”
Thaddeus perked up at the last part, meeting your eyes. Your gentle smile remained as your fingers slipped underneath his bangs, resting on his forehead. “Have you thought about what he said?”
He did.
More than he begrudged to relent. Between the endless hours hooked up to the ceiling and nasty bug bites bruising his skin, Thaddeus didn’t have much of a choice. If he somehow walked out of here alive, he would be dragging his feet until the friction scoured the heel of his shoes. Bitter. Humiliated. He didn’t want to be reduced back to the disappointment he was back then.
He needed to be strong.
“Good boy.”
Taking his silence as an answer, you giggled and ruffled his hair. For once, he was sure he had made the right choice.
—
Thaddeus was all over you. In the hallway, in the garden, in between those meetings he rarely ever showed up. Always saying your name with an ear-splitting grin. Always have something to say. A stupid joke to tell.
You never seemed to mind it. You never even liked him to begin with. But he felt comforted when you were there, passing him by like an invisible wall. Thaddeus remembered the way your hands felt on his skin that day. He wondered just what he had to do to have you close again, looking at him like he was precious. Like he meant something.
Feeling stuck with no way out to continue the story? Maybe you Wrote yourself into a Corner. In other words, you wrote something that feels intrinsically out of character/plot to the story or MCs.
Usually this can be solved rather easily by going up a few paragraphs and writing in a different direction. Maybe that gut feeling you had when you went down the path that got you stuck meant something.
A lot of times we think we know better than the story and do whatever we want when we damn well know that the story has a way it wants to go, and not how we think it should go.
Aside from skill, inspiration and imagination, a lot of writing (at least for me) is gut feeling. And that is something that takes practice to attune yourself with it.
I’ve had times where I’ve had to delete an entire chapter because I wrote myself into a corner I can’t keep going on with. And that is perfectly fine. You can also save that for later and pin it to the story at a later time because it didn’t need to belong to that first point you added it.
And if you’re having issues where to find the point where you went down the wrong path, usually you will intrinsically know and you can usually go back up to where the story diverged.
Why does this happen?
It happens usually because you force the character(s) to behave/react/take a decision that is contrary to their core beliefs, goals, personality, etc. and thats why you’re writing yourself into a corner. It takes a lot of practice (or none if you know whats going on) to figure this out.
Sometimes your being unable to write is not writers block, is because you took the story and drove it into a ditch, and now you need to back up.
Stick around for more tips, tricks, rants, randomness and other stuff. And check out my book, The City of Laohz: Kannon on amazon/barnes & noble (online). I’d really appreciate it.
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