#i cannot write for shit

[hookingminor]

u ever just read ur old works and ur like actually I hate this who let me post it I feel like that like all the time

[whimsycore]

Guess who failed their midterm and paper :)

[stupid-art-thing]

I just finished my short story for English and now I feel like death

[yoottoboot]

haha jk I'm not doing nanowrimo u totally fell for it PRAAAANKED

[dontcallmebugaboo]

I’m not ridiculous?

There are two sides to a few things; coins, stories, a deck of playing cards, someone’s personality. Yet perhaps the strangest thing to see is two sides to an entire bustling, proud and glorious city like Paris, France. When golden fingers of sunlight touch down upon her cobblestone streets; Paris is quite lovely with colorful flower bushes dotting the lanes, the Seine sparkling, and the tantalizing aromas of freshly opened bakeries luring in their morning customers with their siren song. Schoolchildren darting around commuting adults, their mischievous laughter filling the air while bells rang and teenage daughters of the high society practiced their ballroom dancing for the upcoming debutante season.

When the moon’s turn in the sky comes however, the city does not cool down; instead it is born again, more beautiful than ever. But this beauty is hidden from the eyes of those whom would not give dreamers a chance, who would instead steep themselves in tradition and conformity. This secret world lay beyond the magnificent Eiffel Tower, within its shadow, entrance bidden to only those whom received an invitation to step into a new and unknown realm of sorts. A realm rife with music and dancing beyond the ballroom’s boundaries, where the air was lit with light and color as illusionists were bid to work their magic, where stories were woven with more beauty and complexity than a spider’s web.

I guess I’m writing this thing after all.

Ooh, also, for later in the story...

She smiled weakly, embarrassed, “I’m afraid that underneath this mask I’m not much of a Lady beyond your nickname for me.”

“Status means nothing to me,” he replied with a voice full of honesty. “You’ll always be my Lady.”

[strayobject]

who wants to write my Karl Jaspers and Paul Klee paper 

[24ozsteak]

Wrists and hands. For hands writing counts.

Wrists: Do you/ have you self-harmed?

no

Hands: Are you an artist/writer?

i can write you a 13 page essay on why the human brain is fascinating to me but i cannot write you a fanfic

[betanoiz]

too much prose and not enough plot and dialogue. sigh