Hey, I'm Sabina Bardot, a YA fantasy writer who focuses mainly on queer themes, magic, and monsters. I'm very new here and i'm always looking for more writeblr friends so please interact with this post if you also love to write and I'll try my best to follow back!
sab - she/her
about my writing
I love anything with an interesting plot, bonus points if there's magic and mystery, but I personally will be writing a lot of YA queer fantasy
Magic and mystery; witches, mythology, folktales and folklore. I especially love Scandivian and Nigerian folklore, but anything passed down through generations is my jam
Fantasy and sci-fi; usually low fantasy but I've had my high fantasy moments
Diversity; I write about people being people, and people are diverse, so my characters are too
Horror; my books won't contain much horror in them, but I personally love to read it.
about me
I started off writing, and still do write, fanfiction in multiple different fandoms.
fandoms, currently: House, M. D / The Secret History / Moon Knight
what i'm looking for
More writers to follow!
Beta readers/Critique Partners (i also beta read for people!)
Vibes and frens :)
genres i read
Fantasy / Science Fiction / Contemporary / Mystery-Thriller / Folktales and Fairytales / Horror
Current reads: The Shining by Stephen King, Whichwood by Tahera Mafi, and The Cruel Prince by Holly Black
Current fave books: The Secret History by Donna Tart, The Binding by Bridget Collins, and The Familiars by Stacey Halls
WIPS
Project Autumn (wip title): In a world where marriage reigns above all and two is, by law, better than one, all August wants is to escape his mother's rule over his life. Enter Sorrel, a boy who harbors illegal magic and has a penchant for shifting shapes...
grabbing new writers by the shoulders. it is important to write what you love and to love what you write. if you spend all your time trying to make something other people will approve of you will hate yourself and everything around you. learn at your own pace. you have time. i’m proud of you
there’s truly nothing like seeing people read and enjoy something i wrote.
like…in the midst of all this chaos and turmoil, you chose my writing to help ease the weight of living??? in a world packed full of art and writing and stories, you chose to give mine a shot??? you only have 1440 minutes in your day, and you gave my art a few of them???
honored is a silly, simple word to describe how meaningful that all is.
Hello, Writeblr! I am Solveiga (she/her), writer of stories about folklore and horror and a drinker of tea. I am currently revising a complete draft of the manuscript, and I am looking to make some friends.
If you like stories with morally flawed characters full of sacrifices and betrayals, religious trauma, and found family, then you might be interested in my writing.
I am terribly afraid of lightning despite writing about the gods of thunder.
GOALS
Make some friends here in the community. Just want to scream and get excited about other people's WIPs.
Get my hands on the edits of my draft, and hone my writing skills.
Maybe query? We will see about that!
Read more books in 2024.
It means a lot to me when someone shows support or interest in my work. Feel free to interact or drop me a message.
Just as a reminder you can write entire pieces of JUST exploratory and speculation for your own WIP or story and they don't have to go anywhere. You are not beholden to a character arc or a rising and falling action with a conclusion. Sometimes you just wanna write a side scene with some characters doing some things. Or you need to just need to write what would amount to an academic paper about a certain landscape in your story. Like that's also fine.
Also these things don't need endings. When you finish them they're done. Even if it's in the 'middle' of something. You got out the part you wanted and now you're done and you satisfied the plot bunny demanding blood sacrifice of you writing that specific scene right now. Congrats you're done now.
Don't let the editor in your mind steal your joy of writing your silly little story. The mind editor is the thief of joy.
Over the years I've created some twitter threads on writing and history and I've decided it's a good time to start compiling and sharing them on this Tumblr. I'm going to tag them "writing".
-
Here's what I've learned about writing subplot romance. (People who write genre romance probably already know this stuff. It's those of us who are mainly leavening romantic subplots into fantasy novels that need this info).
1. Romance = fundamentally character-driven. All internal conflict & internal growth. (Can these two trust each other? Will their character flaws drive them apart?) The more study you put into creating characters and building character arcs, the better your romantic writing.
A romance arc is not the SAME as a character arc, but it 100% NEEDS solid character work undergirding it.
2. Romance needs two ingredients: a compelling reason for the characters to be TOGETHER, & a compelling reason for them to be APART. This forms the conflict in the romance so do not skimp on either.
Eg, a common mistake in male-penned stories: female lead has no compelling reason to want male lead. "He's a good-looking warrior dedicated to winning her throne!" Yeah nah, she's literally surrounded by good-looking warriors dedicated to winning her throne, why's he different?
3. Romance needs chemistry = a believable spark of attraction. Something that blew my mind when I realised it: romantic chemistry =/= sexual chemistry. Sexual chemistry (purely physical attraction) is simply PART of romantic chemistry.
Romantic chemistry is a good deal broader. (Read/watch some good romances to see how chemistry is built by different storytellers. One fave of mine is the Romola Garai EMMA. Peerless friends-to-lovers chemistry. Watch the actors' body language; the way they gravitate to each other; the way their faces light up)
Chemistry tip A: if the driver behind sexual chemistry is lust, the driver behind romantic chemistry is trust. Protag needs/wants someone to trust. It's the way you play with trust/distrust that will create romantic tension.
eg: love interest holds protag's hand. With sexual chemistry, protag simply feels a jolt at the contact. With romantic chemistry, protag feels comforted and trustful - then betrayed when it turns out LI is tracking her pulse to see if she's lying to him (see: MISS SHARP 😇)
Chemistry tip B: if protag is falling for someone, that person should occupy their mind. LI should be mentioned/thought of each scene, even when absent. When present: LI consistently provokes unaccustomed emotion - either positive or negative, depending.
Chemistry tip C: make the characters their best/most lovable/most iconic selves when with each other. Quirkiness, smarts, hilarity. Make these the most fun character scenes in the book & the audience will ship them. Passionately.
4. Build romantic chemistry/attraction through escalating moments of trust and tension. If aiming for happily-ever-after(HEA)/for-now(HFN), then the overall arc is towards greater trust, but you need those moments of tension to give the big payoff scenes appropriate catharsis.
OTOH, if you're writing a tragic/backstabby romance, you need the trust/comfort moments in order to sell the big tragedy/betrayal.
5. Trust, comfort, & happiness are POWERFUL. This is what genre romance thrives upon. Even in dark/spiky stories, the most surprising thing in the story can be the moment when the LI DOESN'T betray the protag. That too can be wildly cathartic. Use it.
6. Just as character-driven skills help you with romance, so if you master romantic writing, you'll be better able to write ALL types of relationship - platonic, friendly, hostile.
OK that's all so far. Two book recs: ROMANCING THE BEAT by Gwen Hayes & THE HEROINE'S JOURNEY by Gail Carriger teach you the rules/expectations of genre romance so you'll know what the rules are for a happy romance subplot & how to break them for a tragic version.
Speaking as an editor who edits romance primarily, these are important points for authors of genre romance as well. I see way too many published novels that went through a professional editing process that only have characters who have sexual chemistry but not romantic chemistry.
Writing romance is hard. Writing believable romance is hard. People focus way too much on the the lust and not enough on the love.
This is an old one by a few years, I realized I never actually shared it anywhere. I wonder if I'll ever rewrite it one day, I'd change a lot and lengthen it to its original plans (I had to shorten it drastically to a smaller word count), and my writing has greatly improved since finishing this. That said, I still love some aspects of this one. Wyrm Moon was intended for a short monster anthology, but the project dismantled before it took off.
I thought I would share part one of Wyrm Moon, a horror/monster sort-of-romance:
Phase: Sacrifice
It was the eve I prayed would never come.
My wedding night.
Bare and bewildered, a pale moonface floated in watery darkness. Hovering, foreign and distant, in a lone, oval mirror, pitted by an age of sand and rust.
A passive indifference belied by the dark rings beneath sandy eyelashes, blinking back the flood that sought to drown me. A dour reflection, swallowed by the draping, shapeless white of my dress. More death shroud than bridal gown.
“You are exquisite, Liesl,” the Sublime Sister reassured in her hushed tones, combing gingerly through my tangled locks, the same way she had done for me as a child, brushing salt from my tawny curls. Though there was little comfort to be found in the same gesture now. “How pleased He will be to receive you.”
I could hardly fathom what the Sublime Sister saw then, staring back at her through the smeared mirror, orange candlelight sputtering between us, the grim shadows carving out the harsh lines of her face, illuminating all of my softness.
My unending sadness.
Did my suffering suffice in love's stead?
Stepping back to admire her handiwork, the Sublime Sister surveyed me with a cold reverence and pride, her stark eyes matching the matriarchal grey of her robes, the only indication she was much older than I. "Exquisite," she repeated, a white and crooked smile like a crescent moon.
Trembling, lips wavering, blanched and stiff as my starched matrimonial gown, I looked nothing like a bride.
I looked like a corpse.
Bloated.
Bedraggled.
Fitting, perhaps, since I was to wed a god this night.
The Sublime Spirit, the Celestial Tide, the Transcendental Ocean. In unyielding and eternal matrimony.
To quell His rage and sait His unquenchable thirst.
To stop the Great Flood from drowning us all.
Whispered psalm swelled behind me, while my sisters splashed their faces with seawater, stinking of seafoam. Taking turns to dip their foreheads into shallow copper basins, into a baptism of dark, frothy brine.
They each bore flowers and stones as offerings, painted with the inky, ancient marks of the faith. Leaving tributes at my feet, uttering their private adulations, they had transformed the dingy, damp bridal suite of our convent into a glowering shore of a shrine.
Transfixed by my presence within their sacred chambers, pious and god-fearing, my sisters stared expectantly from the light of flickering sconces. It was the highest of honours for our House, to prepare me for the Sublime One. A Holy reward for their unshakable devotion.
Surrounded by their reverent love, suffocated by the heady fog of incense, sandalwood, lavender, the sickly scent of their bodies pressed tightly together in prayer, a faintness washed over in a crashing wave.
“Now, now,” the Sublime Sister hushed again, cutting through the high chime in my ears, cupping my face in her hands, the sharp pang of her nails kept me conscious. “You must be strong for the Celestial One, my girl.”
I nodded, fervently, if only to relieve her claw-like grip from my jaw. “Of course, sister.”
"He will send us all to watery graves should you fail.”
Her words stilled in me, envisioning a great tide, tall and white as the cliffside, breaking every draughty beam, bursting through the ancient brickwork, a swelling maelstrom collapsing the convent, while my sisters screamed and clawed at their clothes, their skin pale, turned blue, eyes bulging in their sockets like air-drowned fish, fighting for the last pocket in the domed ceiling…
"I will not fail you. I will not fail us," my words fumbled, as though my mouth was full of stones.
"May I?"
A sisterling stepped forward, wrapped in the deep ocean blue of youth. Presenting another gift for the pile. With a wide and innocent smile, she bowed her head low, took to her knees and raised a wreath, handcrafted by the youngest members of our Gnostic Order. “For the Sublime Spirit’s bride,” she said with breathless excitement.
An offering.
As I was.
With a curt nod of silent thanks, a fluttering wrist to usher the young girl away, the Sublime Sister placed the wreath tenderly upon my head. A crude coronation, their wreath my royal crown.
I did not feel regal.
I was rootless.
...Detached.
Driftwood floating in a turbulent sea.
The wreath the final piece to my bridal ensemble and the most decorative. Swirling creams and earthy browns, adorned with spiny coral and fanlike scallop shells. Two strings of pearls curved like curtains at my hairline, meeting at a central oyster shell, shimmering iridescent. I shrank beneath the romantic beauty.
“Thank you, dear one,” was all I could manage, swallowing hard at the film of tears in the girl’s admiring gaze, mistaking my grief for something awed.
How I wanted to say this was not spousal. This was sacrificial.
“You are ready.” It was an unwavering statement.
One I did not feel.
Not at all.
With a violent hiss, an icy gust swept away the warm glow of candlelight. Jolting at the boom of the convent doors, thrust wide open. Hazy moonlight spilled into the windowless chambers, a spark of far-off lightning flashed across the ribcage beams, dark clouds rolling waves in the distant sea. Swollen, heavy, like one giant silvery eye, the wyrm moon hung low in the sky.
The wyrm moon threatened flood.
"It is time."
Numbly, nodding limply, I followed my sisters to the entrance, where a crowd had gathered to bear witness to our House parade. They huddled, barefoot and bitten by cold, in white blouses and cerulean skirts, the modest uniform of our faith.
Flushed, worn and weathered, men and women alike. Eyes raked along the procession to find me and pin me, the murmur of their curious mutterings swept up in the wind.
“Is that the bride? The Lord's chosen?”
“She is larger than His last.”
"The sooner she sinks, love, the better for all of us -"
"May you satisfy our Lord, the Sublime One and spare us!"
My world opened and closed simultaneously, the moment I stepped out into the bitter breeze and onto the stony cusp of Stranding Bay.
The Sublime Sister accompanied me, her cloaked arm linked in mine, holding the wreath secure, tangled in the tugging wind and whipping my hair awry. The sky rumbled in response, almost mocking the toil of fear and rage that writhed in the pit of my gut, rippling beneath a solemn surface.
“Can you feel the tremble of our Lord's excitement?” The Sublime Sister crooned, curving into my ear.
“Excitement?” Almost a laugh. To me, it was nothing but wrathful.
“It would be wise not to keep you from Him for much longer,” she cried out over the sound of the coming storm, a spark in her slate-grey eyes. "He senses your presence on these shores! The Sublime Spirit grows impatient!”
My answer was swallowed by the bitter sea spray.
We moved in single file along the beach, led by my sisters and followed by the ambling lessers. Our shins splattered with mud, skirts soiled by the pendulous surf. My bridal attire weighed down like an anchor, clung and wound to my figure, snagging over slimy rocks and jagged shells. The spray flecked my arms, painfully, numbingly cold, teeth chattering till my jaw ached with it. Thighs raw, red and chafing.
Trudging through the broken, sodden harbour of Stranding Bay, we passed numerous empty homes nestled oddly into man-made caves. It was said the founders of the Gnostic Order had blasted into the cove many years ago, carving steep and slippery staircases along the ivory cliffside. Building their settlement as close as they could to such sacred ground.
Cursed ground.
Bleached by sun and stripped by sand, battered rowboats littered the lonesome beach, leading up to a single, gaping, natural cave. A deep ravine in the chalky earth. The Church of the Gnostic Deluge was buried a mile deep into the rockface. Accessible only at low tide, if one was brave enough to descend onto the narrow, slippery steps into stifling darkness. A trial and testament to those most faithful.
I faltered at the wide berthing mouth, sucking in through my teeth, tasting the tang of brine bellowing up from below. Watching, frozen with horror, as my sisters slipped blindly into the swallowing blackness.
“I can’t-”
“Liesl, you must.”
The Sublime Sister nudged me and I clung all the tighter to her slender frame.
“Please -”
“Liesl,” she said softly. “You are holding the line.”
Glancing back over my shoulder, I was met with the many absent stares of the lessers, silently and patiently waiting behind us. An eerie pilgrimage that voiced no complaint. There must have been a hundred, or more. In their silence, I had forgotten they had followed at all.
I had nowhere to go.
Nowhere but
d
o
w
n
Into the Church of the Gnostic Deluge.
The beginning of the end.
I don’t know for how long we walked, sinking step by step in the moist darkness, but I was relieved when we finally reached the dull, spattering light of candles. Iron sconces blazing gusts of welcomed warmth, fluttered across my face, drying the sore streams of my tears. The stairway snaked off into winding corridors, chants echoing like long lost ghosts, trapped on the deep ocean floor.
Would my own voice join theirs?
Would I haunt this ancient hall forever?
Fingertips sliding into the grooves of ancient carvings, centuries of religious fervency embedded the walls. Dripping stalactites above, pale, bloated corpse fingers that pried open the gigantic church cavern, until the steps levelled to a carpet of kelp and fossilised shells. The smears of dirty wax and endless ritual scuffed the slimy cave floor.
And in the distance, rising up towards the high ceiling and engulfing the room entirely, was the colossal obsidian statue of the Sublime Spirit, the One.
Yatan.
With the mighty head of a gargantuan wyrm, damp and gleaming. Iridescent mineral tracks ran like glistening tears from thousands of bulbous black eyes. Staring outward, in all directions, from all-seeing stone sockets. A vast, roaring mouth lined with shimmering crystal teeth. Pillared tentacles reached out from the knot of the long body, twisted and tangled against the canyon walls. Yatan clinged to what He had been carved. Was He holding the Church high or thrashing to tear it all down?
The Faith, my sisters and the lessers of the commune alike worshipped this unfathomable monstrocity.
The very same monstrocity to whom I was betrothed.
Dowdy, subdued by their dreary descent, my sisters trudged the open space, bare feet rumbling like thunder, dwarfed under the magnitude of their leviathan deity.
Swaying at the Grand Altar were the Elders of the Order - the Daughters of Sublime One - cloaked in black and swamped by the folds of their religious garments. Their faces concealed by masks, whittled from driftwood, rotten and barnacled.
My scalp prickled at the mere sight of them, those morbid, eyeless headdresses tilting my way.
“Liesl.”
My name reverberated off of every wall and winding passage. Stumbling back into the arms of the Sublime Sister, I veered from the swelling cacophony.
“Speak the Words of the Faithful.”
The Sublime Sister pinched my wrist lightly and squeezed.
“I am the wave of -” she offered under her breath, realising I had frozen, rigid, terror clamping my jaw.
“I am the wave of -”
The cave hummed with prayer, whispered in unison.
“I am the wave of the Sublime Spirit, Yatan,
He who swims the celestial seas,
He who is the ceaseless tide of transcendence,
He who is infinite and immeasurable,
Priest of foresight, emersion and illusion,
Please grant me Sublime consciousness,
I am a wave of the astral ocean.”
A recital of the same words I had been repeating since childhood. Over and over and over again. A shiver rippled up my spine at the final word, at the sound that ushered in from the disciples. The last, longing syllable. Pressing their tongues to the roofs of their mouths, breathing slowly and harshly, in and out. A chorus of coarse breath filled the space, a haunting likeness to the crashing waves at high tide, marking the end to Gnostic prayer.
“You have been summoned to the Grand church and altar, to behold the boundless, incorporeal union of the Sublime One, Priestly Yatan, the Celestial Tide and Endless Sea” - the pause lingered - “and Liesl of House Petcher.”
Sublime Sister squirmed at the fleeting mention of our House.
“Divine praise, offered to you by our magnificent and most wise Lord of the Seas, a show of His Supreme benevolence. Liesl, do you accept this unmatched gift and honour?”
A single dewy tear escaped through my squeezed lashes, cool and stinging, it glided down to my chin.
“I accept this gift, Sublime Daughter.”
My sisters were crying, awash with elation, a huffing sigh of relief. My heart sank like a ship at their wavering smiles. The waves would not come for them.
"Then we shall begin."
Approaching the altar, padding the floor, slow and uncertain, I was guided gently by Sister Sublime in a funeral march of a wedding waltz. Shrinking, smaller and smaller, under the constant, incalculable gaze of Yatan’s idol. Dizzied by the sheer magnitude and malevolence of the violent thrashing wyrm, captured, lifelike in stone.
“Leave her,” barked an order through the gnawing hole in the centre of the High Daughter's mask.
The circular headpieces were sculpted into a spiralling, toothy, jagged mouth. Fleshy human lips muttering within a tunnel of fangs. A mimic of an ever-hungry and gaping maw, the Daughters' ritual masks were horrific up close, sending a rush of vicious tingling over my skin, as if dropped into a sea of writhing, hungry lamprey.
"Now!"
Sister Sublime flinched away from the spittle, inching back to the shoal of disciples, to my sisters and lessers watching with macabre fascination.
Left, shuddering, to the eyeless judgement of three, and the thousands upon thousands of intricately carved iris, glaring ominously and deathly cold, from the high cavern roof. The impossibly humongous, wicked serpentine shape of my betrothed.
“Liesl, you shall repeat these words in their entirety, in both mind and spirit.”
“I am the wave who is one with His ocean.”
Who is one with His ocean.
I am the wave…
“I offer up all worldly delights to the Sublime Spirit, the transcendent, stupendous, undying Master of the cosmic seas, Yatan”
Stammering, I struggled to speak the verse aloud. Strange and otherworldly, it rolled like an ancient spell off my tongue.
“I renounce my earthly appetite, purifying my astral spirit for the elysian Lord Yatan-”
I renounce....
My earthly appetite… Purifying…
A breathless sob.
“Purifying my astral spirit for the elysian Lord -”
Where other vows could be broken in death, mine would be tied by it.
For eternity.
To a monster.
Procuring a small bowl from the slab of stone, the Priestess thrust it into my open, shaking fingers. Dry and delicately preserved, I twitched at the sudden needle-like twinge in my palms. In the dank lowlight I had mistaken the basin for wood, but by the twang of its sting, felt the brittle, hollowed out shape of a sea urchin, spines clipped into splintering stubs. A shallow pool of stinking liquid sloshing at the edges.
“You will bathe in these infinite waters and be reborn as Yatan's bride.”
The High Daughter brandished a sponge from the creases of her robes, yellowed and riddled with holes. Hard as bone, she dropped the fossil into my urchin pail, an elaborate flaunt of long, crooked fingers. A flash of translucent, veined skin between.
The splashback spattered my lips. Sea water. Slickness. Bitter squid ink. She continued to delve, weighing the pail in my hand until the urchin's spines were forced into my flesh. Deep enough to draw blood. My toes curled on hard, wet stone, watching in horror as beads of maroon dribbled in threads along the curves of my wrists.
My blood.
Satisfied, at last, by my wince of pain, the Daughter retrieved her sponge, sopping with the dark, sickly ichor. Squeezing it over my head, soiling my shell-wreath in rivulets of black, over my hair, face and stinging eyes, I choked on the steady stream of thick ink.
His waters.
Soaking my dress and plastering the gown to my ribs, the paleness of my own skin was stained grey with the filth. Hair soaked, face coated, my body bared before the faithful, before the entire commune of Stranding Bay. My gown bunched and slick, a meagre layer of grey-white film. My breasts, my nipples, coral pink smudges, hardened from cold. Thighs clamped together in fear. I clasped the bowl possessively to my chest with a gasp, desperate to hide my sudden wetness, my translucent nakedness.
The inhale and exhale of a hundred faithful filled the room at the sight, a choir of death rattles. The sound of the sea. My heart ebbed in my throat, thoughts swimming, dazed. The gazes were countless. Endless. My sisters, the lessers. The rising statue of the Sublime One, innumerable in number.
“Priest and Eternal Master of the seas, Lord Yatan! Hear us! Liesl of House Petcher offers herself to you, for your glory in most-sacred matrimony! She is bound to you in salt, in bone, and in blood!”
The High Daughter beckoned me to her side.
Stumbling forward, encumbered by the weight and tightness of my dress, I didn’t feel my steps on the damp cave floor, nor the bitterness of the howling breeze. Half-blinded by tears, limbs numb and frigid, I stood at the base of the shrine and idol. Beneath the gigantic sea-beast.
My mortal soul entwined for eternity.
The Daughters forced my frozen hands together in prayer, one against the other, threading thick sailor rope in a knot around my bloody wrists. Wrenched downward by a foreign heaviness, I gagged at the vision of the stone bauble netted to the end, swinging back and forth between my pale, silt-smeared feet. A pendulum of death.
A powerful, surging revulsion swept over me.
An angry ocean bellow answered from somewhere far away.
The storm.
“Hurry,” the High Daughter uttered, a glimpse of her twisted mouth inside rows of lamprey fangs. “You must experience Emersion, before it is too late.”
“Emersion?” I croaked, barely a sound. I had never heard of the term, in all my life in Stranding Bay, in the texts, teachings and glyphs of the convent.
The High Daughter's conjoined fingers dusted away at a petroglyph carved into the suckers of the Great Yatan’s tentacles. Scars etched into suction-cups the size of wagon wheels. It depicted a monstrous snake, swallowing the moon, figures dancing forever beneath it, spears flying from miniscule arms.
“What must I do?”
The Daughters worked together, pressing their whole weight into the circular stone. The draft on my face whipped into a gust. Sucking at my hair, tugging at my dress, a tiny crawl space opened up in the rock, revealing a pitch tunnel, boring deep, winding into the wall.
No.
No -
Bile burned in the back of my throat.
“Our mighty, empyreal Master awaits you.”
No.
Not this.
A sickening twist of my intestines, straining like rope on a mast.
They wished for me to crawl into this tiny hole without knowing where it led.
If it led anywhere at all.
The prayer-noise was overwhelming, mind reeling as I drifted towards the blackness, blasted by raw, ocean air. It smelled fresh, pulled in from somewhere above. The cove? To the outside? I clung to the thought for the little comfort it offered. A slither of bravery to keep me from mind-numbing terror.
Shrieks erupted from the crowd, rushing from the first, foamy sloshes of water trickling down the stairs of the Church.
“The tide has returned!” A sister cried out, hollow and fearful.
With it, the Great Flood would come.
I joined, subconsciously, instinctual, with the Gnostic prayer of the Order.
“I am the wave of the Sublime Spirit, Yatan…"
With nothing but my wet shroud, anchor and lovingly-made wreath, I clambered into the space, crouched on my hands and knees.
“He who swims the celestial seas…”
Horror strangled my words at the raucous stone scraping stone, the candlelight glower. A half-moon drifting into an eclipse.
“He who is infinite and immeasurable…”
The last blot of light dissipated, the phase of the crescent.
“Priest of foresight, emersion and illusion, please grant me Sublime consciousness -”
The voices peetered, my own cracking. A slither left as they sealed me inside.
Then, nothing.
Blackness.
The haggard mess that I was, wailed until I was coarse. Hammering until my knuckles bled, against the dark side of the stone door. Clinging to the cold side of the glyph for what felt like eternity. The impenetrable blackness was suffocating. Visceral. Thick and tangible. The density of the cave became physical. Touching, pressing, probing. I lost sense of whether my eyes were open or closed. It made no difference.
I laid, crumpled, sobbing, at the threshold of invisible markings.
Begging.
Pleading.
Screaming.
Praying.
Elbow-deep in sludge and crusted with wet sand, I succumbed to the twisting path of the tunnel, entrenched in mud. Following the moan on the briny wind, blinded and bumbling. The further I crawled, the stranger the sounds. The howling consumed my senses. Ravaged them. Hallucinatory in the absoluteness of the inky channel. The idol of Yatan flared in my mind, to a gale-like call. Sad, distant loneliness. A desperate cry into the reaches, I pictured the stars and aeons of the deepness of space through the cracks of the cave.
It was only the wind.
Wriggling through a particularly tight curve, panic struck again. Hips caught in the steep bend, mud squelched beneath my tearing fingers, scraping nails, knees burning as I pulled and pulled. And pulled. Twitching, fidgeting. Flailing turned to screaming and thrashing. A single moment of chaos and fury trapped in nothingness.
Then, I heard it.
A breath.
A smooth, calming inhale.
Followed by a grumbling release.
The deep, trembling vibrations shifted me free.
Spotting a pinprick of light that signalled the end of this nightmare, my resolve was reignited. I tore on through the tunnel, numbed and blind to all else but reaching the light, drawing close to the exit, towards the orange glow of fire. Dropping down into another room, my fear turned to rage in a flash. Disappointment dragging like a fisher’s hook. I was still inside the cave. Too shocked to cry. Too exhausted. Too fearful to try and go back the way I had come.
Another gust of wind scattered my hair, knocking the wreath from my head. Hitting the floor with an echoing crack, shards, shells and coral dashed at my feet. I had no tears left to grieve it, but my body wracked at the loss. The gift of my sisters, our convent House. Broken. Lost forever in a lonesome cavern.
Still, I couldn’t ignore the briny scent in the air. A vague hope.
It wasn’t a breath.
Waves.
The rushing and rolling. In and out. I trailed the path illuminated by spitting flames from torches. Shadows danced over the thick, moist mineral. Veins of crystal, refracting and reflecting. Winking starlight on a murky night. I found the swell of a lapping pool in a sparkling grotto. My suffering shrunk into insignificance at the painful beauty of it all.
Glowering blue plankton gathering at the edges of the surf. The icy bite of the sea nipped at my toes, submerging my feet, stripping away at the grime. If there was such a thing to be found in Stranding Bay, then this place alone was our sacred ground.
There were no other tunnels leaving the site.
No way out.
Flames licked and hissed at the walls, illuminating petroglyphs like the one hacked into Yatan's idol. A similar depiction of a beastly snake, arching and tangling over a curving ocean, the hulking head obscured beneath the water. The thick tentacles open, fanned. It was diving. Diving into the pool that stroked at my feet.
Blood throbbed in my ears at the impending and uncomfortable understanding. An unpleasant ringing ricocheting. I braced myself, ribs aching, wading into the water, reaching my shins, then thighs. The current pulled at my abdomen and lapped at my shoulders. Gasping, the cold squeezed the air from my lungs.
Heaving the anchor of the rock tied to my wrists, to wind a shaking finger along the engraving, carefully tracing the mighty wyrms head. Someone had carved this, in intricate detail, in the absence of light and warmth, so far from the sun. Every impossible, shimmering scale. Each and every vivid all-seeing eye.
With a sucking breath, I followed it under.
Shocked again by the frigid, terrible coldness, it stung to open my eyes. Swamped by sea-water, I could barely make out the rest of the stark chalky image, the wyrm deeper than it had felt by hand. Wavering. Distorted. Speckled with eyes, inconceivably detailed and real in their likeness. And beneath the hideous art, an open passage. An underwater cave, branching from the tiny pool.
Breaking the surface, gasping, rubbing salt from my streaming eyes, spluttering, choking on a pained and mournful sob. To my despair, I knew what the symbol instructed. Swim down into the duct, I knew, without knowing how far or how long I would be under. Take a dive of faith into the great unknown.
This was the Emersion.
Sacrifice.
The ceiling ebbed in the watery light, shadows shrinking the sparkling prison in upon itself. I could feel the weight of the earth, the rock, the cliffs above, a sudden longing to be groundside, within the confines of the commune, away from this suffocating chasm. As terrifying as it was to think of all the dangers, the death, that lurked in the cloudy waters, I sought freedom from this forsaken cave.
Taking one last breath of air, one which coursed through my chest and veins, I plunged.
I dragged my anchor through the rugged passage. Chest tight from the cold, watching little bubbles leave my mouth with every struggling stroke. Though I could swim, and quite well, my dress billowed out like a jellyfish, my stone anchor hanging down at my flailing ankles.
My lungs burned. My eyes. My blood. The sea throbbed against my eardrums, a war beat with every ragged thump of my heart.
The tunnel growing darker and darker.
There was no end to it's winding path.
There is no end.
There's nowhere to go.
Limbs alight, scrabbling wildly for somewhere to surface.
It was too late to go back.
Too late.
I was going to drown.
I am going to die.
Down here.
Far from all I've known.
A stranger.
In the
deep.
The shaft shook with a deafening groan, almost splitting my skull. Swallowing a lungful of searing saltwater, the swell of my dress caught the current, whipping me through a swirling labyrinth. Colliding with the tunnel walls, I was thrown like a doll in the surge and spat out into an endless ocean.
A black abyss.
S
i
n
k
i
n
g…
I am dying.
Submitting to this thought like submitting to sleep after a long and tiring day. In a smudge of red ink, my blood painted the sea. Beneath, stirred by life water, the darkness swelled, a deep and powerful undercurrent moved in its entirety, roiling an ocean of its own and from the black mass, flared open, a hundred thousand roving eyes.
Probably the single hardest lesson for me to internalize in writing was that you don’t design a character you design a character arc.
One reason you as a writer might end up stuck with a flat or boring character, or one that just isn’t doing the things you need to create a vibrant plot, despite working out all the details of their life for hours, is because you’ve made the mistake I always do. You’ve made a character who is a blend of all the characteristics you envision for them, rather than saving some characteristics for the end of their journey.
What do I mean by this? Maybe you envision a character who is a handsome prince, honest, brave, and true. In your plot, though, he’s going to be an antagonist for a bit but you don’t really want him to be seen as a bad guy, necessarily. But when you drop him into your story, he’s just… there. Being honest, brave, and true.
That’s because the prince has no character arc. He is a static figure, a cardboard cutout.
Let’s go a little deeper with a great example of one of the best character arcs in YA animation: Prince Zuko. He is, objectively, honest, brave, and true (to his cause of finding the Avatar) from the outset. But he’s also a dick. He’s a privileged, imperialist brat, who is rude to his uncle and vicious to our protagonists.
By the end of the series, though, Prince Zuko is still honest, brave, and true, but he’s also a good person who has learned many lessons over the course of his trials and obstacles. He has failed over and over again at his initial goal of capturing the Avatar. He has failed at winning his father’s regard. He has failed at numerous smaller goals of day to day adventures. He has learned from all of these. We have seen his journey. But, if you started your vision of how to write Zuko from who he ends up being, he’s got nowhere to go as a character.
It’s not just about what flaws he has corrected though. It’s about what lessons about life he has internalized. What flawed views of the world he has corrected and how.
Rather than saying, “The character starts out a dick and learns to be nice,” be more specific. “This character starts out believing the empire he is loyal to is morally in the right for its conquests, but over the course of working for that empire’s ruler and seeing his cruelty first hand, not to mention fighting the empire’s enemies and mingling with its civilian victims, he becomes a better person and learns the error of his ways.”
Already, right there, you have more than a cardboard character. You have a character who has an arc that molds to your plot.
How do these flaws influence the character’s mindset, perspective, intuition, and behavior?
What variables emerge, in the course of the story, that expose these flaws to the reader, to the character in question, or to other characters?
How does the character react to these inevitable conflicts? What are the consequences for how the character reacts to these conflicts or contradictions?
What are the stakes for staying the course? What are the consequences for thinking about change? What are the consequences for actually pursuing change? What are the consequences for pursuing change and failing (or succeeding) publicly (or in secret)?
Reassess: What flaws does the character possess?
How has the character’s experience(s) in confronting these flaws influenced the character’s role and interaction with the primary conflict set in the story?
Woohoo here we go. I expect this one to be a bit more controversial because I am using specific media as examples. I would really prefer if, when critiquing this post, you avoid defending specific media, and focus instead on what’s actually being said/represented about disabled communities. If you feel I’ve done a really grave injustice, you can come into my askbox/DMs/replies to talk to me about it, but I might not answer.
One more time: I am not interested in getting into a debate about whether something is a good show/movie/book/whatever. I’m not telling you it’s bad, or that you shouldn’t enjoy it! People can like whatever they want; I am only here to critique messaging. Do not yell at me about this.
Newest caveat aside, let’s get into it!
Inspiration Porn
Without a doubt, our biggest category! Term coined in 2012 by badass activist Stella Young, but the trope has been around for literal centuries. There are a few different kinds that I will talk about.
Disabled character/person is automatically noble/good because of their disability. A very early example would be A Christmas Carol’s Tiny Tim, or, arguably, Quasimodo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Real life examples include the Jerry Lewis MDA telethon, or children’s hospital ads that exploit sad-eyed kids with visible illness or disability.
Having a disability does not automatically make you a kind/angelic/noble person. This many not seem harmful, and may even seem positive, but in reality, it is condescending, inaccurate, and sets bizarre standards for how disabled people should behave.
This portrayal is often intended to elicit pity from abled audiences, which is also problematic.
In these portrayals, disability is not something to be proud of or identify with, only something to be suffered through.
Disabled character person does something relatively mundane and we all need to celebrate that. This is less common in writing, but happens in the real world when people do things like post pictures of disabled people at the gym captioned “What’s your excuse?”
This is condescending, and implies that anything disabled people are capable of, abled people are automatically capable of.
Makes it seem like it’s an incredible feat for a disabled person to accomplish tasks.
Uses people’s actual lives and actual disabilities as a reminder of “how good abled life is.”
The “Supercrip” stereotype is a specific kind of inspiration porn in which disabled people are shown to be capable of amazing things, “in spite of” their disability.
The Paralympics have been criticized for this, with people saying that advertisements and understandings of the Paralympics frame the athletes as inspiring not because they are talented or accomplished, but because their talents and accomplishments are seen as “so unlikely.”
Other examples include the way we discuss famous figures like Stephen Hawking, Alan Turing, or even Beethoven. Movies like The Theory of Everything and The Imitation Game frame the subjects’ diagnoses, whether actual or posited, as limitations that they had to miraculously break through in order to accomplish what they did. Discussions of Beethoven’s deafness focus on how incredible it was that he was able to overcome it and be a musician despite what is framed as a tragic acquisition of deafness.
The pity/heroism trap is a concise way of defining inspiration porn. If the media you’re creating or consuming inspires these emotions, and only these emotions, around disability, that is a representation that is centered on the feelings and perceptions of abled people. It’s reductive, it’s ableist, and it’s massively overdone.
Disabled Villains
To be clear, disabled people can and should be villains in fiction. The problem comes when disabled people are either objects of pity/saintly heroes, or villains, and there is no complexity to those representations. When there is so little disabled rep out there (less than 3.5% of characters in current media), having a disabled villain contributes to the othering of disability, as well as the idea that disability can make someone evil. There are also a few circumstances in which particular disabilities are used to represent evil, and I’ll talk about how that’s problematic.
Mentally ill villains are colossally overdone, particularly given that mentally ill people are more likely to be the victims of violence than perpetrators of it. This is true of all mental illness, including “””scary””” things like personality disorders or disorders on the schizoaffective spectrum. Mental illness is stigmatized enough without media framing mentally ill people as inherently bad or more suspectible to evil. This prejudice is known as sanism.
Explicit fictional examples of this include the Joker, or Kevin Wendell Crumb in Split.
People can also be coded as mentally ill without it being explicitly stated, and that’s also problematic and sanist. In the Marvel movie Doctor Strange and the Multiverse of Madness, Wanda’s appearance and behavior are coded as mentally ill. This is used to make her “creepy.” Horror movies do this a lot - mental illness does not render someone creepy, and should not be used as a tool in this way.
Visible disability or difference to indicate evil is another common, incredibly offensive, and way overdone trope. This is mostly commonly done through facial difference, and the examples are endless. These portrayals equate disability or disfigurement with ugliness, and that ugliness with evil. It renders the disabled villain in question an outcast, undesirable, and uses their disability or difference to dehumanize these characters and separate them from others. This is incredibly prevalent and incredibly painful for people with visible disability or facial difference.
An example of visible disability indicating evil is Darth Vader’s prosthetics and vastly changed physical appearance that happen exactly in time with his switch to the dark side. In contrast, when Luke needs a prosthetic, it is lifelike and does not visually separate him from the rest of humanity/the light.
Dr. Who’s John Lumic is another example of the “Evil Cripple” trope.
Examples of facial difference indicating evil range from just about every James Bond movie, to Scar in the Lion King, Dr. Isabel Maru in Wonder Woman, Taskmaster in Black Widow, Captain Hook in Peter Pan, and even Doofenschmirtz-2 in Phineas and Ferb the Movie. Just because some of the portrayals are silly (looking at you, Phineas and Ferb) doesn’t make the coding of facially scarred villains any less hurtful.
A slightly different, but related phenomenon I’ll include here is the idea of the disability con. This is when a character fakes a disability for personal gain. This represents disabled people as potential fakers, and advances the idea that disabled people get special privileges that abled people can and should co-opt for their own reasons.
In The Usual Suspects, criminal mastermind Verbal Clint fakes disability to avoid suspicion and take advantage of others. In Arrested Development, a lawyer fakes blindness in order to gain the sympathy and pity of the jury.
In much more complex examples such as Sharp Objects, a mother with Munchausen by proxy fakes her daughter’s illness in order to receive attention and pity. Portrayals like this make Munchausen or MBP seem more common than it is, and introduce the idea that parents may be lying or coaching their children to lie about necessary medical treatment.
Disability as Morality
Sometimes, the disabled character themselves is a moral lesson, like Auggie in Wonder. Sheerly through existing, Auggie “teaches” his classmates about kindness, the evils of bullying, and not judging a book by its cover. This also fits well under inspiration porn. This is problematic, because the disabled character is defined in terms of how they advance the other characters’ morality and depth.
In the “Disabled for a Day” trope, an otherwise abled character experiences a temporary disability, learns a moral lesson, and is restored to full ability by the end of the episode/book/movie. Once again, disability is used as a plot device, rather than a complex experience, along with more permanent disability being rejected as impossible for heroes or main characters.
Examples include an episode of M*A*S*H where Hawkeye is temporarily blinded, an episode of Law and Order: SVU where Elliott Stabler is temporarily blinded, and an episode of Criminal Minds where Agent Hotchner experiences temporary hearing loss.
Real life examples include sensitivity trainings where participants are asked to wear a blindfold, headphones, or use a wheelchair for a given amount of time. This does not impart the lived experience of disability. It should not be used as a teaching tool.
Disabled people as inherently pure. This is related to inspiration porn and disabled people as noble, but is different in that it is usually appears in combination with developmental, cognitive, or intellectual disabilities. These characters are framed as sweet, “simple,” and a reminder to other characters to be cheerful, happy, or grateful.
Examples include Forrest Gump, Rain Man, I Am Sam, and What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.
No matter what the stereotypes of a given diagnosis are (yes, I’m thinking of the automatic cheerfulness associated with Down Syndrome), disabled people have personalities. They are capable of being sad, angry, sarcastic, irritable, annoying - any number of things beyond good/sweet/pure. It is reductive to act otherwise.
Disability as Surreal
Less common than some of the others, but still worth thinking about!
Disabled characters are framed as mystical, magical, or other than human, a condition that is either created by or indicated through their disability status. This is especially common with little people.
“Disability superpower” is when a character compensates for, or is uniquely able to have a superpower because of, their disability. Common tropes include the Blind Seer, Blind Weapon Master, Genius Cripple and Super Wheel Chair.
Examples include Pam from Supernatural, Charles Xavier from X-Men, or the grandpa in Spy Kids.
Disability as Undesirable
Last and least favorite category here. Let’s go.
Disabled people as asexual or not sexually desirable. Disabled people can be asexual, obviously. When every portrayal is asexual, that’s a big problem. It frames disabled people as sexually undesirable or implies that it is impossible for people with disabilities to have rewarding, mutually satisfying sexual relationships.
Examples include The Fault in Our Stars or Artie in Glee.
Abandoned due to disability. Hate this trope. Often equates disability with weakness. Don’t want to talk about it. It’s all right there in the title. Don’t do it.
Examples: Quasimodo in Hunchback of Notre Dame, several kittens in the Warrior Cat series, several episodes of Law and Order: SVU, Bojack Horseman, and Vikings.
Discussed in 300 and Wolf of Wall Street.
Ancient cultures and animal nature are often cited as reasoning for this trope/practice. This is not founded in fact. Many ancient civilizations, including Sparta, cared for disabled people. Many animals care for disabled young. These examples should not be used to justify modern human society.
Disabled characters are ostracized for disability. Whether they act “““normal”““ or odd, characters with visible or merely detectable disabilities are treated differently.
Examples include pretty much every piece of media I’ve said so far. This is particularly prevalent for people with visible physical disabilities or neurodivergence. Also particularly prevalent for characters with albinism.
This is not necessarily an inaccurate portrayal - disabled people face a lot of discrimination and ableism. It is, however, very, very common.
Bury your disabled. What it says on the label.
Examples: Animorphs, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, American Horror Story, Criminal Minds, Dr. Who, Star Trek, The Wire.
Mercy killing is a subtrope of the above but disgusting enough that it deserves its own aside. I may make a separate post about this at some point because this post is kind of exhausting and depressing me.
Examples: Me Before You, Killing Eve, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Of Mice and Men, and Million Dollar Baby.
Disability-negating superpowers imply that disability is undesirable by solving it supernaturally instead of actually portraying it, and giving their character powers instead.
Examples include (arguably) Toph from Avatar: the Last Airbender, Captain America: The First Avenger, The Legend of Korra, Dr. Strange, and Daredevil.
Overcoming disability portrays disability as a hindrance and something that can be defeated through technology and/or willpower.
Fictional examples include WALL-E, Kill Bill, The Goonies, The Dark Knight Trilogy, Heidi, The Secret Garden, The Inheritance Cycle, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D, The Big Bang Theory, Dr. Strangelove, Sherlock, The Witcher.
Real life examples include videos of wheelchair users standing from their chair to walk down the aisle at a wedding, or d/Deaf children “hearing” for the first time through cochlear implants.
What Does This Mean for Your Writing?
First of all, congratulations for making it this far!
Now, as I have said again and again, I’m not going to tell you what to write. I’ll ask some questions to hopefully help guide your process.
What tropes might you be playing into when writing disabled characters? Why do you find these tropes compelling, or worth writing about? How prevalent are these tropes? How harmful are they? What messages do they send to actual disabled people?
Just because they are common tropes does not mean they are universally awful. Cool fantasy or futuristic workarounds are not necessarily bad rep. Showing the ugly realities of ableism is not necessarily bad rep. It’s just a very, very common representation of disability, and it’s worth thinking about why it’s so common, and why you’re writing it.
As always, conduct your own research, know your own characters and story, and make your own decisions. If you have questions, concerns, or comments, please hit me up! Add your own information! This is not monolithic whatsoever.
Since I'm working on a comic/graphic novel (and will be posting an intro eventually) I want to start getting involved not just in artblr but also writeblr!!!
If you like/write about these, please interact so I can find you!
Demons, fae, & other supernatural creatures
Portals & dimensional travel
Superheroes
Complex fantasy worldbuilding and religions
POC (especially black) characters
Family dynamics, found family, siblings
Zuko-worthy redemption arcs
Especially if you're making graphics novels/comics!!! I want to follow you!!!!
If you like/write these things, you'll also like my wips!! Which I will introduce... eventually... *sweats*
Currently very poorly, as I don't have a single word written. But that's mainly because I'm struggling to figure out a premise from a list of like 10 ideas.
I'm determined to settle on an idea today, though, because the book won't write itself. If I spend all my time agonising over every detail, it will never be finished. Hopefully, I can pick something I really like before I cry, lol
Can you give me one quote - from your story or just a famous quote - that perfectly encapsulates your WIP?
Happy Storyteller Saturday, Sam :D I'm currently very shameful and I have not one word of Project Autumn written, but here's a quote I have on the Pinterest board
This one represents at least one aspect of August, my main character, that I think I'd like to highlight in the book:
"I don't know what it is like to not have deep emotions. Even when I feel nothing, I feel it completely." -- Sylvia Plath
Join the team for @olly_ferrie 's June tour of Sugar People before June 27th.
To sign up to be a host click HERE
BLURB:
Kestrel has a lot to be worried about.
His best friend Tala has been struck by a severe mental illness, attempting suicide over the winter break. She has developed an obsession with making little sculptures she will not let anyone touch.
Meanwhile, Kestrel is struggling at university. His artwork has his teachers concerned, and he can’t explain any of it. But it’s not just him — all his friends are feeling strange this term, although none of them can place why.
After a chance meeting with the university’s charismatic religious counsellor, Daran Bailey, Kestrel becomes drawn back in to a world he had once left behind. As the term marches on, his dreams grow more uncomfortable, and he feels like he’s going crazy, until at long last, Tala lets Kestrel in on her secret…
This book contains depictions of abuse. Read at your own discretion. Treat yourself kindly.
Genre: Adult, Literary, dark fantasy, horror, coming of age
Representation: Gay main character, gay secondary characters, characters with PTSD/Depression, Chinese-Filipino secondary character
TW: suicide, depression, sexual abuse, Catholicism, drinking
