don't just exist, live. be a voice, not an echo.

sam. she/her; they/them; ae/aer. writeblr. url from a sappho quote.

[memoriesofmidnight]

hi! i’m sam. i take writing requests, and i’m no longer writing an original work. you can find out more about my fandoms here. kinda gay, kinda transhet. just a dude who’s a girl. writing is tagged #sam writes stuff.

feel free to send asks!

prev url: sam-writes-stuff. current url is from sappho.

[memoriesofmidnight]

transcend

You don’t know how cold the lake-water is until you’re already choking on the frost crawling up your throat and flooding your sinuses. The thirst cracks your lips into the ground of your mother’s village and you can’t imagine a single plant would think to grow in this waterless place.

You need a sun to grow the forest but cannot commit yourself to the sacrifice of hard work: the self as the tree that grows too bent, falls off the edge of the forest. Hunger growls into your empty caverns and the sound rattles in as though it were taking place of your soul. Lonely, alone. You learn the difference, peel apart your skin, and watch yourself pour out like the juice of the oranges your grandmother would peel in warm summer afternoons. Eyesight replaced by TV static, ears humming with heat and the buzz of drowsy flies. Below your mortality lies a layer of ichor-veins thrumming at a frequency too high for you to hear. A trap. A cage. A body.

You would rather be impaled by the monsters you thought lived in your closets than be them yourself, and ascend into a form you would not despise. Flat. Sharp. A straight line, which you let rust and rot–break down your body into dust and a dotted dash. Hope. Love. The skies have been clearer lately, but your shoulders are getting tired; you wish to drop it all.

Above everything else, there is one higher-flying truth embedded in every tear, every seam; every tear, every scream; in the trees and the mountains and every dipped valley: you want.

[memoriesofmidnight]

transcend

You don’t know how cold the lake-water is until you’re already choking on the frost crawling up your throat and flooding your sinuses. The thirst cracks your lips into the ground of your mother’s village and you can’t imagine a single plant would think to grow in this waterless place.

You need a sun to grow the forest but cannot commit yourself to the sacrifice of hard work: the self as the tree that grows too bent, falls off the edge of the forest. Hunger growls into your empty caverns and the sound rattles in as though it were taking place of your soul. Lonely, alone. You learn the difference, peel apart your skin, and watch yourself pour out like the juice of the oranges your grandmother would peel in warm summer afternoons. Eyesight replaced by TV static, ears humming with heat and the buzz of drowsy flies. Below your mortality lies a layer of ichor-veins thrumming at a frequency too high for you to hear. A trap. A cage. A body.

You would rather be impaled by the monsters you thought lived in your closets than be them yourself, and ascend into a form you would not despise. Flat. Sharp. A straight line, which you let rust and rot–break down your body into dust and a dotted dash. Hope. Love. The skies have been clearer lately, but your shoulders are getting tired; you wish to drop it all.

Above everything else, there is one higher-flying truth embedded in every tear, every seam; every tear, every scream; in the trees and the mountains and every dipped valley: you want.

[memoriesofmidnight]

there's a house across the street. people have come and gone.

i knew a girl once. she had long hair, a favourite dress, and nine barbies. she didn't have a ken, and i remember her saying she didn't want one because then all her dolls couldn't share clothes. she'd feel bad for ken, sitting there in one shirt and pants and shoes.

she used to be clumsy. she came home every evening with scraped knees and torn leggings, and hair pulled out of ponytails with the rubber band nowhere to be found.

she used to dance, putting on music on her mother's old ipod and hopping around the room. there were videos of her dancing like that, grinning widely and laughing loud. nobody ever told her it wasn't okay to be weird. because it wasn't.

she did ballet for some months. she made friends in class, knew other pretty girls with their tutus and perfect plies. she dropped the class later. maybe she didn't like the teacher, or the lost time, or the pressure. maybe she just wasn't a fan of the colour pink.

she wasn't a big fan of wasted space, either. ...i wonder what she'd think of me now.

we lost touch, over the years. she moved away when i was a teen, but she still comes here sometimes on holidays. we catch up, and she tells me about the girls she thinks are pretty and the way her best friend's eyes light up when she watches a show she likes.

she's still got long hair, but now it's long enough to reach her back. if she cut off an inch, nobody would even notice, that's how long it is. she asks me to style it sometimes, and all i do is braid it out of habit. it looks pretty, but the other day when i looked at a picture of her i had to pause a second before i recognised who it was.

if she never visited again, i think i could forget her.

i don't think i'd ever forgive myself if i did. forget her, that is.

i know a boy. he only moved here recently, taking the house the girl left behind. he says he used to read but he stopped. he says he has a lot of friends, but i've never seen them at his door. i think he's full of shit.

one day, i let the girl and the boy meet. the boy accidentally ran off with her. at least, i think it was by mistake. i'm sure they never meant to leave me here.

this boy, he has short hair and wears pink shirts sometimes. his favourite colour is green, like the grass in his garden. he wears jeans and trims his hair every few months, when it starts to skate at his shoulders.

sometimes, i think i know him, whom i have known for a much shorter time, more than the girl. i think she'd be mad at me for that.

sometimes, the boy is angry. i don't know at what. i think he's angry at me. i get angry at him, too, so it's fine. i wish he would leave like the girl did, but lets the girl come back. i wish he stays forever and bars the girl from ever returning.

if i could, i'd forget him. i think he would want me to forget him, too. but i can't. he lives in the house i see every day, and i know he's there.

it's fine. i don't think i could ever forget him. if i did, i don't think the girl would forgive me for that, either. she's always been too kind for her own good.

sometimes i think she's known him for longer than i have. maybe they were friends, pen-pals. maybe they were cosmically connected because they lived in the same house across the street.

[zukoandtheoc]

anyway blackout poetry not just as an art form, but as an act of violence against other works of art

taking a piece of text that someone probably put their heart and soul into creating and using it as your raw material, cutting out everything that you deem irrelevant to the point you want to make

i mean imagine cutting up a painting and using it to make a collage, or taking a marble sculpture and carving pieces out of it to make a different sculpture

just to be clear: i love blackout poetry, im not criticizing it here. i am just waxing poetic about it. i dont really know where im going with this i just have Thoughts about art being destructive

[queerhollyleaf]

[inthefallofasparrow]

[memoriesofmidnight]

[memoriesofmidnight]

“The anti-sidekick sidekick club” sounds interesting! What’s it about?

Hello, and thanks for the ask!

The Anti-Sidekick Club (title subject to change) is a story I got inspiration for one night in the car. It’s about a girl, living in a city with her “family” in the Den. She’s the sidekick to the city’s villain, and the story is about her falling in love with her (the villain). Along the way she also falls for the hero’s sidekick so :) fun times :)

here’s the summary!:

There’s only two rules in the Den: 1- keep personal relationships off work, and 2- do not fall for Adrielle. It’s probably safe to say Aerona has broken both of them.

[memoriesofmidnight]

me writing a new original wip? it’s more likely than you think

[writerthreads]

How to self-edit your book

by Writerthreads on Instagram

After editing and giving feedback on a few pieces of writing over the last few days, I've identified some of the biggest problems people had in their writing and how you can possibly resolve them on your own. This is especially important if you're going to publish or submit your work somewhere, and works for both academic and recreational writing.

Read through what you write

Grammar mistakes can be resolved by reading through what you've written carefully, and by saying the words out loud, especially lines of dialogue, you can identify where you need additional punctuation marks or where they aren't needed.

This can be done by Grammarly if you're lazy, but I suggest only using it if your grammar skills are decent enough because it can offer wrong advice sometimes as it can't identify syntax that well.

Read from the perspective of a reader

Reading from the perspective of a potential reader can allow you to identify redundant lines or parts that don't make sense. You should also try to think like a reader—if your target audience is kids or teens, they might not understand harder words or can't tolerate run-on sentences and purple prose.

Use the right words

Everything you write must be deliberate and enhance the plot. Some lines of dialogue or descriptions can be omitted if they don't create an effect or show anything new that you want to highlight. Use adjectives correctly and sparingly, and try to choose better adjectives. For example, "burgundy" is better than "red" because it's more specific.

Sentence structure and paragraphing

Use structuring deliberately, especially if you're writing a short story. Make sure your entire page isn't one long paragraph, and start new paragraphs in the right places and when there's a new person speaking. Try to vary your sentence lengths to offer more variety and to highlight certain things.

Grammar and punctuation

As you might already know, I can't stand poor writing that lacks correct grammar or punctuation. Both of these skills take time to learn, whether it's from reading or practising by writing and getting someone to check it. Again, use Grammarly. If you don't want to, don't ignore the squiggly lines under your words!!!!

Learn the rules of punctuating your writing or basic grammar skills by searching it up online or getting help from a teacher or friend. Proper writing is, in my opinion, the most fundamental part of a story. World-building and characterisation are worthless without decent writing.

Do you agree with what I’ve said? Is your pet peeve also bad grammar/punctuation? What other tips do you have? Let us know in the comments section below!

[memoriesofmidnight]

Also!

Sometimes, ‘show, don’t tell’ makes the writing seem too clunky or too extreme; telling is sometimes the better way to go. 

For Example:

[Character]’s chair clattered as it fell to the floor, they got up with their eyes blazing. They spun around, taking long strides to the door. [Other Character]’s chair mimicked the other, and they got up, lips forming a silent ‘no’. [Character A] wrenched the handle to the right, flinging the door open. As they left, it slammed behind them. [Character B] rushed toward it, hot tears pressing up against their eyes. They sniffed, and followed [A], crying out loud for them to stop. Their feet hit the dark brown, patterned fuzzy carpet as they ran.

See? The paragraph has too much showing, slightly distracting from the plot. It makes the reader think everything is important, even though it’s not. A better way to write it is to just tell some of the words, and show others.. 

[Character]’s chair fell over as they got up with blazing eyes. [Other Character] mimicked them, getting up as their lips formed a silent ‘no’. [Character A] strode to the door, slamming it shut behind them. [Character B] rushed toward it, hot tears pressing against their eyes. Sniffing, they followed [A], yelling at them to stop. Their feet hit the ugly carpet as they ran.

Now it’s not as clunky and important details are mentioned, like the [A]’s anger and [B] being distraught over it. ‘Ugly carpet’ lets the reader imagine one, not shoving the author’s idea of ‘ugly’ down their throats. We can still see the emotions in the actions, but not so much that we get bored by the descriptions (I hope!).

[lady-grace-pens]

Doing one of those interact if you’re a writeblr posts because I need more writing moots or just blogs to follow on here, so don’t be shy ☺️