I am a Professional Blood Goblin (Lab Scientist). I geek out about anime/movies/cartoons/video games including but not limited to Transformers, One Piece, TMNT, Horizon Zero Dawn, Wander Over Yonder, Dragon Age, How To Train Your Dragon, Trollhunters, Good Omens etc.
None of these are poisonous to drink from or meaningfully radioactive, btw, but they will leech heavy metals into things stored in them the way that leaded crystal will.
I have a gift for falling in love with random objects. One time, my aunt got me a little rubber chicken, and whenever I squoze it, a little egg thing popped out. Very silly. Except that chicken became something like my best friend. I carried it with me to school, and I kept it with me in my pocket, and whatever social hazards there were about Being The Guy Who Got Stressed Whenever His Rubber Chicken Was Missing were far outweighed by being The Guy Who ALWAYS Had a Rubber Chicken On Him. There's a lot of comedic opportunity that comes with always having a good prop on your person.
Of course, the chicken did eventually. Explode. And such was my grief that I did not eat for 36 hours. This was very stressful for many people. Mostly my mom. I was a very strange child to work with. She took parenting so incredibly seriously, and then I'd pitch her these curve balls like refusing to eat for a day and a half because my rubber chicken died. No parenting book tells you what to do when that happens. You just have to feel it in your heart.
A less tragic story of an object that I fell in love with was a large, foam toad that I found in a trinket shop. The toad was the size of a very large grapefruit. Much too large to carry with me to school (thank god) but enough that I could move it around the house, to keep me company during my solitary pursuits. If I was reading, the toad was there, and if I was tinkering with legos, the toad was there, and even when I slept, I would wrap the toad up in layers and layers of blankets, and then spoon it. I did this until the rubber coating on the foam started to wear out, and the foam started to get brittle and break down and leak this repulsive yellow powder. Then I simply put the toad in the playroom and would consult it on matters of great importance. Eventually I stopped doing that, and someone took the opportunity to dispose of it. Not sure who. By the time I noticed its absence, too much time had passed for me to actually be sad. As an adult, part of me thinks I would have maybe liked burying the toad, but part of me also thinks I might have refused to part with the toad, which would have resulted in it leaking more repulsive yellow powder into the house. So I understand why that decision was made.
I want to state that this does not happen often, and it does not happen on purpose. I don't choose to fall in love with random objects. And it's always a little bit embarrassing when it happens.
Which brings me to my wife.
Before meeting my wife, I did not often go to places with crowds. I didn't really think of it as avoiding them - those places just didn't seem fun to me. But she liked those places, and I really liked her, and being with someone who really likes something can kind of sell you on liking it too, so I'd take her to places and watch her Visibly Enjoy the Fair and go: Alright. The fair is pretty sweet.
Which is a thing that happened. After fourish months of dating, I took her to the fair. And she fell very visibly in love with a large series of quilts, and she stayed near them for a while, which she thought was very embarrassing, and I got to pretend to be understanding as an outsider, because I thought it would be much more impressive than also being the type of person that would fall in love with a quilt.
Do not do this. The gods punishment for my hubris was that the room next to the quilts was full of butter sculptures, which was an entirely new thing to me, and I immediately fell embarrassingly in love with all of them. It was like the biggest, sappiest non-sexual crush you've ever had, but not only did the other person not recipropcate, they could not, because they were made of butter. I actually got yelled at for pressing my face against the glass, which is fair, but also, I hadn't realized I was pressing my face on the glass, I just started leaning forward because after approximately 30 minutes of staring wistfully at a cow made of butter my legs got tired. And I think I should be given some grace for that.
Anyway. My wife was very patient with me taking more time to look at the butter sculptures than the average person might spent at the Louvre, and she also felt much less embarrassed over falling in love with a quilt, and we had a good laugh about it on the ferris wheel.
A few weeks after that was my birthday. And I don't know what I expected, exactly - but I did not expect what she did.
Dear reader, she made me a butter sculpture. Of a duck.
She picked a duck, because our first kiss was at a Japanese friendship garden. It was our second date, and she'd made up her mind not to do any kissing until the third date, but as we sat on the grass, a duck walked past me, and I'd just seen the hold-duck-gentle-like-hamgurber meme,
so I sort of impulsively reached out and snatched it. I honestly didn't think it would work. I don't know who was more flabbergasted, me or the duck. But we looked at each other, and then I looked at her, and then she looked at the duck, and she looked so incredibly envious that I assumed that must have wanted the duck so I just handed it to her.
It turned out she was actually envious of the ability to just grab a duck as it walked by, but she accepted the duck and stroked it a few times before releasing it. (She also made up her mind to kiss me in that moment, which was very nice.)
Anyway.
She made me a butter duck of my own. Obviously, I fell in love with it immediately. I cleared out all of the freezer-portion of my mini fridge, and I put the duck in there, and for the next several months, when I felt sad, or lonely, I would open the door up and spent some quality time. Just me and my duck.
But this is, of course, not the end of the story.
Because.
After several months.
The mini fridge died.
I really didn't use it that often. It was mostly my duck storage container. But one day, I walked by it, and it struck me that it wasn't humming. So I opened the door, and it was just. Far, far too late. The duck was dead. Dead dead. Turned into a foul-smelling slime dead.
I cried. I did. After the rubber chicken thing, I thought I had changed, but I had not changed, and the unexpected death of my butter buddy left me pretty shook. I texted my then-girlfriend now-wife about how sad I was, and she actually came over to help me say goodbye. We didn't even bother scraping the duck out of the mini-fridge, we just said our goodbyes to both and threw them together in the nice dumpster behind the chapel, because it seemed appropriate to put it in God's dumpster. And it did actually help quite a bit. I certainly did not go 36 hours without eating again.
And that was, for some time, the end of the butter duck.
However. Three (or four?) years ago, for my birthday, my wife was looking around thrift stores. And she found something interesting.
The original butter duck had an odd pose. She'd sculpted it laying flat, intending to raise it up later. But the butter was less flexible than she thought, and she was afraid of cracking it so she left it down which left the duck with a very elongated, very in-motion appearance. And she found a brass statue of a duck in the same, running posture.
It wasn't the original. But it was oddly on the nose. It was a yellow brass, it had the same strange posture, the same crude little face feathers.
I think it was $3, but it remains perhaps the most thoughtful gift I have ever received. I got very choked up when I unwrapped Butter Duck, The UnDying.
I wish there was a website where you could input a character's description (height, weight, sex, medical conditions, etc.) And a situation (car crash, falls, stabbing, etc.) And it would calculate for you from most to least likely the injuries that character would receive, potential complications, and how long it would take recover. This would make writing injuries SO MICH EASIER if I wasn't guessing at everything
This tool would be so fun and I would definitely use it.
But ALSO! The best thing about writing injuries is that there is so much variation.
I spent a few years as an EMT, and I saw people walk away from vehicle rollovers with nary a scratch... and also, I saw people break their knees because they sat down. I've seen a guy get lifelong impairments out of falling off something twelve feet high, but I know someone who survived being stabbed over a dozen times with no lasting (physical) injuries. There's range.
In nearly any given situation*, a realistic level of injury is anywhere from "Dies within five minutes" to "Dies 73 years later surrounded by grandchildren and great-grandchildren, having zero long-lasting repercussions from that incident."
*Not every situation, mind you; papercuts are generally exempt
If you don't mind a ramble (because I haven't done a fun character injury ramble in a while so I shall use this as an excuse)...
The key to writing realistic injuries is to start with what you want to happen. It's your character and your scenario, so start with what you want to happen for Plot Reasons.
Example:
You know your character gets in a car crash with a wall, and you want them laid up for a week, but able to move around with minimal pain soon after. Cool. Now that you have your desired outcome, you can run through the scenario. You won't want your character ejected or to have a major head impact with the windshield, so they were wearing their seatbelt. You want them to still be able to walk, so the dashboard probably didn't crumple in on them. That means they were either in a car with good safety ratings, or they weren't going super fast, or a combination thereof. But you do want them a little bit injured, enough so they don't want to go on that hiking trip for another week, so make sure they were going fast enough to get some good ol' whiplash.
Another example:
You want your character to make a dramatic exit out the window, and you want them to be limping a little for dramatic effect as they head off into the forest surrounding the castle. Nice, we love a good dramatic window exit. But you want to make sure the character won't be out of commission for the battle in a fortnight's time. This could totally be a first-floor window, or even a second-floor one. But what if it really needs to be the fourth floor, for pre-existing scenario reasons? Well, maybe there's a balcony halfway down. Or maybe there's a nice slanted roof underneath that broke their fall. Or maybe the castle is built into a cliff so the windows on that side of the castle are only ten feet up. Or maybe they clung onto ivy outside, which ripped out of the wall a bit but was enough to slow them down. There's all sorts of ways you can play this off!
Rather than trying to make a scenario and then fitting the injury into it, come up with the injury (or at least, level of injury) and plan out the details of your scenario around it.
The only caution is to make sure to build scenarios realistically—like, I could totally see a character being able to keep going after being stabbed because it was a shallow wound. But if they get a shallow stab wound... and they only get ✨grazed✨ by a bullet... and they happen to survive a terrible car accident because they were in the best possible seat... AND they were pushed out of an airplane but their BFF managed to skydive right out after them and caught them... that's getting to be a little much. XD Any of those is realistic except maybe the last; IDK, I know injuries, not skydiving, but too many near-misses in a single story starts to feel like plot armor.
But yeah. The range of possible injuries from any given scenario is immense. But if you figure out how much you want to injure the character (or how quickly you want to kill them, you evil author you), you can then build out the scenario so it makes sense, and research gets a little easier too because it narrows down what you're looking for.
No for real this is just great writing advice on principal. Decide on what you want your outcome to be first, and then craft the events so that you end up with what you want in a realistic or believed way.
If you get caught up in all the nitty gritties first, then your story will be realistic, but maybe not so compelling.
My sycamore tree began life in the gravel at the edge of a parking lot. If trees can feel pain, that is a painful, unlucky death. I carefully dug it up and put it in a pot I made out of a disposable cup.
Hello small one. This world may be cruel, but I will not be.
I decided to take care of it, not expecting it to survive, and when my sycamore tree unfurled one tiny leaf and then another, it chiseled a tiny foothold in my terrified brain, the kind of brain that doesn't remember a world before the atomic bomb and before 9/11.
I googled the lifespans of trees. My neurons had to stretch and expand to accommodate what I learned: My sycamore tree may live five hundred years. It's hard to think something so big. In twenty years, my baby sycamore tree will be three stories tall, and the home of many creatures. In five years, my sycamore tree will be taller than I am. In one year, it will be summer.
There's this concept called sense of foreshortened future where people who have lived through trauma can't conceptualize a future for themselves because deep down they don't expect to survive, When I look forward, all I see is fire and death, melting ice and burning sky. We were raised Evangelical. All we see is Judgment Day, except there is no heaven.
But now there is a tiny gap in the wall, a crack in the door of my cell
and on the other side, I see a tree
There is, in the future, a great old sycamore tree, full of clean winds and the stir of a thousand wings. A hundred years from now. Fifty years from now. There will be forests in that world. There will be a world.
It takes courage, but we have to imagine it.
Most tree species can live in excess of three or four hundred years. I think I'm learning something. I think there are ancient voices saying hello small one, touch the dirt and the leaves, for now you are part of something that cannot die
in 2030 I will be thirty years old and the world will not have ended and there will still be hummingbirds, and we will have photos of the stars more beautiful than we can now imagine.
I planted an Eastern Redcedar; they may live nine hundred years. There will be nine hundred years. The people in that time will remember us. Maybe we will meet the aliens (hi aliens!).
I will blow out the candles on many birthday cakes in a world where there are wolves in dark forests far from home. I am learning to imagine the future. I learned recently that elk were reintroduced to the Appalachian Mountains after over a hundred years of extirpation, and that they are expanding their range.
That tiny crack I can see through now opens a tiny bit more:
Maybe elk will pass through my hometown, maybe there will be a forest where the pasture is on the high hill that I can see from my home
say it, say it, say it: ten years, thirty years, a hundred years from now
I am learning to imagine the future. There is a crack in the wall of this prison, of this machine, of this darkness, and through it, I see a tree.
stormborns
gummygunk
prguitarman
tangentwithtanner
andulkaphoto
