Thanks to everyone who gave me advice on side-blogging versus main blog!
So, if you don't already know, I kind of do my own original writing, too. And I've promised myself this is the year I start to put it out there and hopefully publish my first piece of fiction.
A huge part of this has been writing my main fic, That Ol' Devil Called Love. Because it's kind of proved to myself that I can write novel-length pieces if I'm obsessed with them enough <3
Big thanks to @avonne-writes @amiserableseriesofevents and @jjubilee-fluff for being so encouraging on my earlier post looking for advice, and smooches to @soliloquy-dawn who's had eyes on an old draft of my main original work and shared their very lovely feedback.
SO. If that's not your thing and you're here for MOTA, or any of the other fandom content I blog, then I'll be tagging posts with my original work with the tag #original writing. and the name of whatever piece it is I'm posting that day. Creative, I know. But just in case anyone wants to filter it out :)
Here's a little taster for my main work, called All Grown-ups Must Die, set in 1960s Scotland:
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She was silhouetted against the headlights. They were the only source of light on the back road.
Mama would be raging at her, being out so late.
The thought floated in some quiet space in her mind. It erased the pricks of rocks and pebbles and stones digging into her palms and carving a home for themselves in her knees. The car radio continued to spit out soft sounds.
The night we met I knew I, Needed you so. And if I had the chance I’d, Never let you go.
She watched the gnarled and matted mass of her hair catch the nighttime breeze. All her oils and sprays hadn’t held up to their end of the bargain. She laughed once. It was a gasping, rough sound. Maybe mama would writer her a letter to the manufacturer. Of all the things she’d had to endure tonight, she could have done without the split ends and tangles.
Her wrists were red and stinging. Her nails were scuffed and several were broken ragged. Her favourite ring—a sapphire that mama got from her mam, and her mam, and her mam—was covered in a dark splotch.
“-Enny?” The tinny voice crackled into life through the open door of the idling car. “Benny? –ick up…radio!”
Benny sat back on her heels. The spike of one pressed against the small of her back. If felt good, grounding. She gradually took stock of the cooling and sticky blood speckled on her skin and splashed in her hair.
So won’t you please, Be my, be my baby? Be my little baby, My one and only baby.
A leg hung out of the car on the driver’s side. She hauled in a ragged gasp of air and bared her teeth, pearly against her skin and the blood, in a snarl.
“Benny! Hey – give it!”
“Benny? Pick up the radio Benny. Will—fucking gonnae drive faster!”
Benny dragged and scraped her palms and shins as she crawled across the dirt and gravel road. Little pricks of pain left a red, spotted line chartering her progress towards the car, like a treasure map.
