Primordial Verbena~Nemophilist~INFJ~Ravenclaw~House Stark~Plague Rat~Inmate W25R~Rebelcaptain trash~Stationery fetishist~Pointe shoe voyeur~Social justice ranger~Come inside for all things Star Wars, fighting words, cats, and all the arts and crafts I can't do in real life.
Literally my favourite thing about Rogue One is that it makes the opening of New Hope so funny. Like, Vader has followed Leia from a planet he just blew up seconds ago and pursued her across the galaxy and then she’s just like: ‘I’m on a diplomatic mission to Alderaan’
Vader: You’re a rebel. I just had a fight with your entire rebel fleet and followed you here. Straight from the rebels. Of which you are a part
Leia: *dramatic gasp* rebel? Me??? I was just passing through. Diplomatically. Thought it was a five-space-ship pile-up or something going on there…
ok but this is like legitimate Canon Improvement because I’d always wondered why Vader was so wildly furious at the start of the movie like “rahhhhh bring me the passengers I WANT THEM ALIVE!!!!” and now I’m like
ohh yeah okay they literally JUST blew up Vader’s base, stole his sh!t, and took off while giving him the finger from the window
It is the best thing ever because it establishes that he knows she’s a Rebel and she knows he knows she’s a Rebel and he knows she knows he knows she’s a Rebel and—here’s the kicker—every moment she stalls him is another moment Artoo has to get the plans off the ship and head for Kenobi, and so she’s standing there all “Rebellion? What Rebellion? Me? *kicks dead Stormtrooper underneath carpet* I don’t know about any plans, have you checked behind the sofa?” and making Darth Vader’s blood pressure rise, and, oh, the best part of it is that she’s his daughter so guess where she got that sass from, like every fucking dead blue Force Ghost Jedi who got killed at the birth of the Empire is whooping and cheering from the Blue Force Ghost Afterlife seeing Anakin Skywalker get inflicted with everything they had to deal with from him.
Take a day off and see if you feel like making art the next day. Or the day after that.
Still nothing? Then sit down and make a piece of crap art.
I mean, CRAP. Make it as bad as you possibly can. Screw everything up! Don't just break the rules: jump on them from a height and mock every one as you come down and stomp them into mush. Challenge yourself to be the worst you can possibly be.
...No, not like that! Worse!!
WORSE THAN THAT!
Good!... There you go.
...And at the end of it, guess what? You'll still have made art.
It may indeed be terrible art, of no damn use to any other being on the planet. But you will nonetheless have asserted your claim to the right to create art, even when the creative process isn't working particularly well.
And just keep on doing this until the juices start flowing properly again. Because, pretty much inevitably, they will.
Disclaimer: do I use this approach? Oh God, yes! You should see my bad pages. (Or on second thought, no you shouldn't. I like the Hague a lot, but not that part of it.)
But sometimes the road to making good art (waving at @neil-gaiman) runs through the territory inhabited by making bad art... and sometimes willingly, shamelessly, hilariously bad art. The very act can be surprisingly cleansing.
Fear nothing. Make crap art, and let it set the stage for the good stuff. Then laugh at it, and keep on going.
this is so mean but sometimes i see published writing and suddenly no longer feel insecure about my own writing ability. like well okay that got published so im guessing i dont have much to worry about
I have a friend who is an editor, and gets submissions of mostly poetry and short stories.
I have had a glimpse into her slush pile, and let me tell you, the contents were unbelievable and immediately disabused me of the notion that reading through submissions is in any way glamorous. People have the nerve to submit unhinged paranoid ramblings, fetish porn, and a seemingly endless supply of poems about masturbation.
I no longer feel like my fiction is somehow an imposition on the people who read it. It may be forgettable, but at least it isn't typeset to look like sperm.
Do not be afraid to submit your work. Your competition is not only worse than you think, it's worse than you ever imagined.
Do these three things to get to the top of the slush pile:
The place has a style sheet. Use it. They say they want your MS in 16.5 point Papyrus italic with 0.8 inch margins all around, guess what you're doing before you send it off? Save As, reformat, send it. In the absence of a specific guide: Courier 12 pt (Times New Roman if you must), double spaced, align left, tab 0.5 at each new paragraph.
Check the word count. Don't submit novellas to 2500 word short story venues. BTW, you format the MS in that old style above because the question isn't literal words. Courier 12pt double spaced gives you 250 words per page for typesetting purposes. 2500 words is 10 ms pages, 5000 is 20 pages, etc.
Don't send your romance to Analog or your war story to Harlequin. If it's a cross-genre story, be sure there's enough of what the publication is focused on to interest them, but breaking through is hard if that's not something they usually do.
That's basically what every single editors' panel at every con I've ever been to has boiled down to. And invariably, someone tries to get up and argue with them, not realizing it's not a discussion.
Bonus tip: Don't be in any way cute in your cover letter. Just the facts/Luke Skywalker's message to Jabba the Hut in ROTJ.
Enclosed/attached is my story <Title> for your publication <Magazine>. It is x (rounded to the nearest 500) words. I can be reached at <email> (that you check regularly and isn't likely to dump things into spam) and <phone>.
(If submitting a hard copy: The manuscript is disposable. A SASE is enclosed for your response./A SASE is included for return of the manuscript and your response.)
Thank you for your consideration.
If submitting a novella length piece or greater, a brief and complete summary is appropriate.
In the midst of an interstellar revolt against an evil galactic Empire, vital weapon plans fall into the hands of a farm boy on the edges of the galaxy. With the help of an aging warrior from the Old Republic, and a smuggler with a dark past and his imposing alien copilot, the four set out to deliver them to the rebel forces but are instead flung into a rescue mission to save the beautiful princess who stole the plans as worlds are destroyed by the might of the Empire's weapon, the Death Star.
Captured by the Death Star on route to deliver the plans, they manage to escape the base with the princess, the old warrior sacrificing himself to make this possible. As the Death Star approaches the rebel base, they use the captured plans to stage a desperate final stand. In a fierce space battle of single-pilot ships over the surface of the moon-sized weapon, the farm boy manages to make the critical shot with an unexpected assist from the smuggler, destroying it.
Never under any circumstance put a cliffhanger into a query letter summary. There is no faster way to get the entire MS binned than doing that.
Happy writing.
PS "Top of the slush pile" means into the top 25% of manuscripts received. Three quarters of the submissions don't take the trouble to do even those three basic steps.
Now, that still means 25/100 submissions or 250/1000 submissions, but it still improves your odds and forms the basis for starting a relationship with the publisher for the next piece you send them.
PPS This is obviously about prose. Poetry certainly has its own submission rules, and I know none of them. If you're writing poetry, find out what they are.
Warnings: whump with a sweet ending, canon typical violence, lots of blood, heavy war themes, these boys are fated as fuck
Author’s Note:
Y’all have this post to blame for this. It’s been consuming me since I saw it. It was fun to explore a moment of weakness for Jyn, I don’t usually let her crack.
READ ON AO3
“Where is she?” Cassian asked no one in particular, his voice stretched thin with desperation.
His eyes were wild with concern as he scanned the hanger. Two cargo ships had just gotten back in from supply runs, and there were dozens more bodies and droids crowded around than usual.
Ti’zo, one of the returning pilots, gestured over her shoulder to the U-wing in the center of the hangar where Draven and some of the other high ranking officers were forming a wall around the crew.
Cassian thanked her with a nod and pushed through the swarm, ducking behind cases of rations and racks of new uniforms. He wove between carts stacked high with wooden crates and droids scanning shipping labels and updating the inventory database instantaneously.
The vague transcript they had received from the crew on Coruscant had replayed in Cassian’s head a hundred times over the course of the afternoon while he waited for the confirmation of their return.
They gave no indication as to what went wrong. It was a simple mission. Not even a real mission by definition. Jyn was accompanying Mon as security to an impromptu senate meeting about some stirring dissent in the outer rim. Cassian didn’t even feel the need to go with them, declined the invitation to stay behind and catch up on paperwork. Every time he let his guard down, something like this happened.
His parade of self deprecating thoughts was momentarily paused when he finally reached Draven, placing a hand on his shoulder to alert him of his presence.
If Draven knew or cared that Cassian was there, he gave no indication. His jaw was tight and his arms were crossed over his chest while he listened to a cacophony of people try to recount the afternoon’s proceedings and take vitals of the returning crew.
Mon was perched on a crate getting examined by a medical team, much to her apparent disdain. She begrudgingly allowed the nurse and med droid to scan her, poke her, and prod her while she repeatedly insisted that she was fine.
Her light pink outfit was thoroughly saturated with blood, and Cassian’s stomach turned as he wondered who it belonged to.
In front of her stood a very nervous Bodhi, tripping over his words while he babbled on to Draven.
“Well, see sir, I was, I was on the ship. I didn’t see any of what actually happened,” he stammered, pausing only when he met Cassian’s eyes, and his face was overcome with a deep pleading look.
Cassian’s stomach turned again.
Bodhi reached beyond Draven to pull Cassian through the wall of people and closer to the ship.
“Jyn. She’s. She’s okay. Well, she’s not okay, but,” Bodhi stuttered out just as two more nurses descended the ramp with Jyn in tow.
Her feet dragged and scraped against the pleated metal, and her arms were slumped over the two men’s shoulders.
She was drenched in blood. The soft locks of hair that normally framed her face were plastered to the side of her head. Her once pale white skin now shades of crimson and rust, just two hollowed out emerald eyes staring out.
“She won’t talk,” Bodhi warned, placing a gentle hand on Cassian’s chest before letting him rush to her.
The med team lowered her onto a mechanic’s bench, and Cassian followed close behind but was stopped by an outstretched hand.
“We need to examine her,” the one who seemed to be in charge explained.
Everything in Cassian screamed at their idiocy, and he did his best not to erupt. She didn’t need strange hands on her treating her like just another hour of work to get through. He had seen this same haunted look in her eyes before. He had been the only one to pull her out of it then, and he certainly would be the only one to do it now, after the years they had spent together. No one knew her like he did.
He bit down so hard, he was afraid he would crack a molar.
Jyn was still catatonic, staring off into the middle distance as the men worked diligently to check all the pointless boxes on their holopads. Her body offered no resistance as they bent her limbs every which way, posing her like a shell shocked doll.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, just let him talk to her,” Mon chastised with a stern look on her face, the click of her heels on the tile floor alerting the men to her presence. Her right wrist was in a brace, but she looked otherwise unaffected by the events of the day. Her honey gold hair was still perfectly swept, and the authority with which she carried herself had certainly not been shaken.
“At most, she’s got a few contusions. She’ll come down to the medbay if she really needs anything,” the senator continued, with a look on her face that let them know they were dismissed immediately.
“Yes ma’am,” they both answered with a nod, sweeping their equipment into a bag and retreating across the hangar.
Cassian closed the distance between him and Jyn in an instance, squatting down to try to catch her gaze. He drew her hands into his and gave them a squeeze.
“Jyn?”
Her eyes tracked across the room in search of the body belonging to the voice she called home. It sounded like it was coming through 10 meters of water. Static roared in her ears, she felt completely disconnected from her body, unable to take back control of her limbs.
“Jyn?”
Cassian.
Her neck lulled downwards, and she caught the gaze of his earnest brown eyes. Like a signal fire in the dark, calling her back to shore.
Jyn opened her mouth, but she left her voice in a puddle of blood on Coruscant.
Cassian and Mon were talking, but she couldn’t hear it over the buzzing in her ears.
“She’ll talk about it when she’s ready, just get her cleaned up,” Mon assured, resting a well manicured hand on Cassian’s forearm and giving it a squeeze.
Cassian scooped Jyn up bridal style and carried her off to their quarters. She hung heavy and weightless in his arms at the same time. The stench of death made his eyes water, but he blinked back the tears. Holding her against his heart reminded it to beat again. His whole body began to regulate with the nearness of her.
He whispered soft assurances into her ears, promises to get through this, whatever it was, together.
Jyn couldn’t hear him, but she knew he was there. Her hand tightened around his shirt, bunching it between her fingers, slowly coming back to life.
Cassian fished out his key card with one hand, bouncing his knee up to balance Jyn’s shifting weight while the door slid open. He bumped a light on with his shoulder and carried her to the fresher, starting the water immediately so it could warm up.
When he circled back around to help her undress, Jyn looked at him with pleading eyes, like an animal caught in a trap. His fingers quickly worked at the buttons of her shirt, lamenting that it was ruined and it was one she quite liked.
Cassian noticed the fear on her face, pausing to caress one of her cheeks.
“My love, what have you seen?”
Static.
Help, she mouthed.
Cassian continued the task, but slower this time. Like every movement was a well rehearsed ritual. This wasn’t like the other times they had shed their clothes for each other. This was sacred in a different way.
Her shirt was sticky from blood and sweat as he peeled it away from her shoulders. The white of her skin a welcome hue in the midst of all the red.
“Thank you,” she murmured as he unlaced her boots and gently cupped her calves, removing them one by one. Probably the one item that didn’t get completely soiled, he thought.
Cassian quickly stripped to his briefs and tested the temperature of the water with his hand before pulling Jyn in with him.
As soon as the water hit her shoulders, she drew them up in relief, leaning her head back to get under the stream even more. Jyn closed her eyes, and let the water cleanse her of the day. It ran rivers down her face and into her ears until she felt like she was submerged. The feeling of nothingness was a glorious reprieve. She just wanted a little longer before she had to face it all.
Cassian pulled a wide tooth comb off of the counter and began to work it through the bloody mess of her hair. The handle had small, crystalline shards of kyber in it. He had picked it up for her as a life day present a few years ago. With gentle motions, he separated out strands of her hair and brushed it straight beneath the shower stream. He raked water through her hair until the it turned from a deep rust to mostly clear once more.
He then reached for the good shampoo he had also picked up for her, squeezing a generous amount into his palm before working it into a lather, hoping the sharp smell of mint would mask the muck of the day. His fingers dragged against her scalp and down through the ends of her hair. She stood still as a statue, her eyes still closed, and he thought she looked beautiful.
Veins of ivory traced down her cheeks from the hot water, and he decided to clean the rest of her face next. Using a soft rag, he dabbed at her chin and forehead, taking care not to scrub too harshly and irritate her skin. She liked to joke about how he made her soft. Coaxing her into long showers and using soaps that smelled of far off worlds, of a quiet life away from the war.
Each drag of the cloth against her skin, and she became more herself again. The sins of the day ran down the drain to be forgotten and dumped into the sea somewhere.
Cassian was left staring at her soft lips and pinking skin singing a thousand silent hymns of praise that they had both made it through another day. That when this was over, they would crawl into the same bed and hold each other till morning. Till dawn breaks through the darkness, painting the sky bright and beautiful and anew.
When he shut the water off, she opened her eyes, trading a look of battle weariness for that of one ready for sleep. It was still early in the evening, but he would gladly shelve the rest of his responsibilities to lie there with her.
They dried and dressed in silence. Cassian offered her his favorite sleep shirt. It was pilling and fraying on all sides, but unbeatably soft. She took it with a small smile, one that barely upturned the edges of her mouth, and slipped it over her still damp hair.
It wasn’t until they were nestled under the covers with her face firm against his chest that Jyn finally spoke. Like his heartbeat shook loose everything stuck in her head and she could finally hear again. For just a moment, she indulged in only being able to hear the rhythm of his breath and the thump of his heart. She cherished the signs of life they shared. The rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his exposed skin on hers.
With a shaky breath she began, her voice smaller than she meant it to be, “It was bad today, Cass.”
He shifted under her slightly, turning his head to assure her that she had his full attention.
“What was bad?”
Jyn closed her eyes and swallowed. A long moment passed before she spoke again, this time with a steadier voice.
“There were groups of people petitioning to speak with the senate. They traveled for days, some weeks, to be there. Working people from the outer rim. It must’ve cost them a fortune just to get there. They told stories of imperial occupation. Stormtroopers raiding villages, stealing already scarce crops,” it was at this point the venom he knew well had crept back into her voice.
“These people work their whole lives away with nothing to show for it. They just want to provide for their families,” she said bitterly.
Cassian’s thumb rubbed small lines against the point of her elbow while he listened to her.
“There was one boy from Sorgan, and he— well this group of Rodians was getting rowdy when their time came to speak. They started getting violent, and then all of a sudden there were people firing off shots in a civilian area. One of them grabbed the boy and held a dagger to his throat while he made awful, impossible demands for his family. I tried to step in but,” she trailed off.
“They slashed his throat and then started killing each other. One of them held a gun to my temple while I tried to help him as his mother screamed from the sidelines. It was too late. He was already choking. Severed his carotid.”
Cassian listened intently.
“Melshi had to drag me back to the ship. We had to get Mon out of there, but. I should’ve been faster. I, I should’ve,” she stammered.
“You can’t blame yourself for that,” he said with a hint of incredulity.
“He was just a kid. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.”
Cassian thought of himself at fourteen.
“That could’ve been me. That could’ve been any of us. It was a massacre. The empire driving people to madness.”
She closed her eyes once more as a tear slipped out.
“And I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save any of them.”
“It’s not your job to save every person,” he reminded in a whisper.
“He was just a kid, Cassian.”
“And today, it was him or you. I’ll always choose you,” he said finitely.
Jyn frowned. She knew he was lying through his teeth, that he would lay down his life in an instant for someone in need.
But tonight, she would let it lie. She was tired to her very bones. Every thing that made her who she was was depleted. Her body, her heart, her convictions. Some days were easy. Some days she buried it deep, rationalized through the lives lost and the ground the Empire stole from innocent families. Some days she strategized and pulled the trigger without a second thought. But sometimes the loss permeated everything. It seeped under the door like a sinking ship about to capsize from all the unnecessary weight it was taking on.
She thought of coming home to an empty bed, and knew the fear he had carried on his back today.
“Cassian?”
“Yes, love?”
“Don’t let me go alone next time,” her voice wavered. The whole day, she wished he was next to her. She longed for his comforting touch and commanding presence. His safety.
“I promise,” he left a lingering kiss on her temple, squeezing her shoulders closer into his embrace.
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
prguitarman
kianamaiart
