If you mean what keeps me going, it’s partly the reactions I get from readers, but mostly it’s the rush of a new idea, then writing it out to see where it goes. I might have a general idea, but the details are always gonna surprise me. Like, I never planned on Steve and Sigyn being friends, and I didn’t originally plan for Malekith to feature at all in Aimless Play and look how that turned out! There’s also the rush of writing something I’ve been waiting to get to for ages, like something that’s coming up soon in Roll the Dice, that I cannot wait for! I have to write linearly, and if I write the scene I’ve been dying for, it tends to kill the whole thing, so sometimes I’ve years of excitement leading up to a thing.
If you mean where I get my ideas, a lot of the time it’s random places, history, other fiction, coming across a random tumblr post that is just... blatantly wrong but might make me go ‘huh, but what if...’. Sometimes its a song that lends itself to a music video in my head, and everything unspools from there. Usually those ideas last me the longest because I can go back and re-listen to the song over and over. I’m not great at direct prompts, but I am good at latching on to something very random and building on it.
Thanks for the ask. Not sure I did a great job answering, but it is fun to think more positively about my writing for the first time in a while.
Stepping off of the train was at least as terrifying as stepping onto it. This time the fear of the unknown was compounded with overwhelming crowd that waved and cheered. I balked, my feet faltering, and I felt Mylar’s hand press into my back, guiding me forwards. I struggled to keep my eyes on the path in front of me, wanting only to look up. The skyline of the Capitol rose before me, glittering razor blades of buildings reaching up to slice the sky.
At home you could see the sky stretching on forever, no matter what direction you looked. You could see the land and the patterns it made as it reached for the horizon. The only thing that could block your view was a wayward storm cloud, or the fog that rolled during the fall. Here, here there were obstacles to keep you from the land. The buildings, the concrete walkways, and the people.
It was the screaming people that prevented me from thinking and made me want to freeze. Mylar spotted a man with a microphone and mercilessly steered me towards him.
“Mylar, Escort for District Nine.” She introduced herself with a business like tone and a smile that threatened as much as it invited. “This is Barley Sheaves, our beautiful female tribute, and she just wants to get home to her husband.” She gestured to me while talking, painting a persona on me as if she were Caravaggio and I, her canvas.
The microphone was pressed to my face almost immediately after she finished talking, the man holding it clearly more excited about the exchange than I was. A fact which seemed to cause my escort great displeasure. She’d worked hard to soak every ounce of potential story out of me while we road the train.
“Ms. Sheaves, what can yo-” He began his sentence only to be cut off by Mylar immediately, “Mrs! Mrs. Sheaves.” She corrected him shrilly. I tried to say that I really didn’t mind, but my voice was drowned out by the cheers of the people around us as someone set off a small confetti cannon.
It was at that point that someone dove in front of the reporter and he was knocked from my sight. A large woman shepherding three dark haired children blocked him nearly completely, and she encouraged her brood with a tired manner. “Go on then, she won’t be here forever, and I want to get home.”
The first child, a girl of about eight, handed me a small red book and a pen. “Thignature pleathe.” she lisped, missing her two front teeth. I smiled, and she smiled back.
“I’m sorry.” I bent down close to her, making sure she could hear. “I can’t really write. I can read some, and-” I was cut off by her oldest looking brother.
“It doesn’t matter if she can write. I just want a piece of her I can add to my games collection. Dad says that he might be able to get me a real piece of last year’s arena!” My stomach turned, what the hell did he mean by a piece?Then the second brother chimed in,
“She can’t even WRITE? Is she dumb?” He was clearly addressing his mother, but I took it upon myself to answer the question.
“No, I’m not dumb. I just had more important things to do than go to school.” I frowned, “And you would do better to be more polite to your mother.” I chided him as if he were on of my own little siblings. “Here.” I took the pen in my fist and carefully wrote a large capital “B” in the center of the page. I handed it back to the girl.
It was at that point that I realized the man with the microphone had been recording the entire interaction. Different people had begun trying to hand me things as well. Other things to sign, a flower or two, and I wasn’t sure what to do. A Peacekeeper stepped in front of them, attempting to calm their fervor. Spotting my escort I dashed towards her. Mylar took my wrist, and smiled a saccharine smile to the crowd. Dragging me away from them she patted my shoulder, as if to assure me I had done just fine.
