#metaphorically.

[seenfull]

[charlesemersonwinchesteriii]

[entropic-truth]

How to instantly kill engagement with your story

In a word: contradiction.

In more words: I've read a lot, and watched a lot, and a lot of stories. I have my gripes and my grievances and my happy places. If the overall experience is strong enough I can forgive a fairly significant number of oddities because the experience in totality is so worthwhile, or the characters are so compelling, or the themes just resonate with me in a meaningful way. I can get through a lot of stories I'm not necessarily super into as long as they're entertaining enough, or there's something I can care about to take me to the end.

Usually even with a bad story, I push to the end to give it a fair shake, or at least be able to properly articulate why I'm upset. But there's one thing above all else that will cause me to tap out early, and that's contradiction.

I don't mean a character being contradictory-- humans are ridiculous, a good character should struggle with their own contradictions. Or even contradictions in the story, although if the plot hole is deep enough I will stumble into it and never get out. The kind of contradiction I'm talking about is narrative contradiction-- when you are reading something on the page, but the author is trying to convince you of something else entirely.

Have you ever watched a character who, frankly, nobody should sympathize with-- who is selfish and cruel, who always puts themselves ahead of others, who constantly makes poor decisions and blames others for their faults-- and yet the narrative treats them like a hero? Every other character is constantly comforting and bolstering them, reassuring them of how great and wonderful they are?

But you're watching the events unfold and you know better.

And it's not a case of other characters being tricked, or missing the details, no. They're present, they're watching the same as the audience, but instead of ever holding this jackass to account they just coddle them and reassure them, or even worse, try to recontextualize them as an unfettered hero.

This is narrative contradiction-- when you've written one set of events but are trying to convince the audience that the implications are something else entirely.

This is oftentimes the core of some of the most aggravating characters; people who are, frankly, terrible human beings, but who for some reason are forgiven or even rewarded for every failure while t he author tries to insist that they are in fact somebody worth rooting for. (Sometimes you even get it the other way around; a character who is blatantly doing the right thing but the narrative tries to convince you they're actually the villain.)

When you encounter this contradiction in a story, it immediately shatters an audience's immersion; they are no longer experiencing the narrative and coming to their own conclusions, they are fully aware that you, as the author, are trying to lead them to specific conclusions without having actually done the work to earn those conclusions.

I'll use an easy punching bag-- Twilight. We are told constantly that Edward is the epitome of a gentleman, straight for another time, the most gorgeous sand fascinating creature on the planet, and if you happen to think Robert Pattinson is hot I guess that works out for you. But a lot of people came away thinking that Edward was a deeply creepy (and shockingly dull) stalker, and this causes a narrative contradiction; we not only fail to get invested in the story, we chafe under the idea that it's trying to convince us to believe something against the evidence of our own eyes.

This is also why a certain type of antihero is so difficult to appreciate; the kind that regularly kills enemies, kicks puppies, sets houses on fire, but then turns around and gives you their sob story and demands your sympathy while never actually changing their ways. (The latter point is crucial; a redemption arc can make this premise work, but if you just have a character who's a right bastard but the other characters try to tell you to like him because he had a rough childhood while he himself does nothing to confront his actions is a different beast entirely. Watching somebody struggle and overcome their contradictions is compelling; watching people tell you to feel bad for a guy who clearly has no moral compunctions about his evil is something else entirely.)

One way to avoid this is to have your characters always be perfect and never wrong so any time they're glazed by the supporting cast or narrator they can't be lying. But that's its own problem.

My actual advice is twofold, depending on your needs. One thing that any story can do is just balance the conversation; some characters aren't going to like each other, or disagree with one another's decisions. This includes the good ones and the bad ones; you can absolutely have a selfish, cowardly character who somebody does try to bolster and reassure, as long as the rest of the cast treats them appropriately for their actions, and a character who does the right thing but in a way that somebody else doesn't approve of. These inter-character arguments are a natural way for people to interact. You can also make it clear that the specific relationship between two characters is inclined to function this way, as long as the narrative itself doesn't imply this is necessarily a good thing.

This is the second factor: don't use any subjective or judgmental exposition. This is much trickier if you happen to be telling a first-person story, where the narrator's perspective is bleeding directly into the prose, although you can use this to your advantage if you want to build up the narrator as unreliable or emphasize their own personal justifications in intentional contrast to the reader's awareness (just make sure you've properly communicated this intention). In a third person story, however, it's quite easy to pull back from judgmental language or exposition and just let a scene play out and leave it to the audience to come to their own conclusion.

As I said, the important part is always communicating your intent. There are few things you absolutely cannot do in any creative, and intentionally weaponizing this dissonance is certainly an option, too, as long as you can make it clear that there is an intent. But in most stories, you want to make certain that what your characters are doing is consistent with the narrative intent of what you want them to be doing.

[the-toxinz-arcade]

ranbicblooded ..!

(ranbic-blooded) NOT FACTKIN NOT FACTKIN!!! LITERALLY CANNOT EXPRESS HOW NOT FACTKIN THIS IS!!! I AM JUST REALLY REALLY NORMAL ABOUT MY HYPERFIXATIONS GUYS!!!

a term for when one has the blood / DNA of Ranboo (METAPHORICALLY!!!) running through their veins.

[dnfity]

omg wait true :D. hru doing :)

im good!! me rn:

[caramello-koalas-for-feminism]

first time the depression has let up in MONTHS gang I feel GREAT

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Broken Things (Resident Lover)

Pairing: Very much platonic Mia and Miranda (I am rotating them and their dynamic in my head) Rating: G for General Audiences Warning: HEAVY SPOILERS for Miranda's route, mostly implied but this won't make much sense if you haven't finished it. I recommend also getting the cult ending for maximum clarity. Summary: For two people that hate each other, Mia and Miranda have more in common than either of them want to admit. The night before an important (but heartbreaking) ritual, they share a few moments together. Alternatively: do you think they ever talk about being the only two to really know the MC? I think it hangs over them, equal parts comforting blanket and burial shroud. Exploring their dynamic a lil bit. Also, this is probably the longest thing I've written in one sitting in ages, so... cool. Noice. Just over 1.2k words.

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If she had bothered to knock, there would have been no answer at best, and a flurry of feathered rage at worst. No point in entertaining that formality; not tonight, the eve of another undoing. Few things had any point tonight. But Mia had never been one to overthink things, never one to bother drawing up reasons for her behavior. That was what made her so charmingly irritating. Or just plain irritating, if you asked the headmistress whose office is now being invaded.

“I’m not in the mood for company,” Miranda warns from where she sits at her desk, the barest hints of exhaustion bleeding into her normally veiled expression. Even Goddesses get tired, it seems. Cruelties stir in the back of her throat, vile words and heavy hexes, but she doesn’t waste any energy on letting them spill out. Simply swallows, hard, and crosses one leg over the other. A stiffness occupies her bones this evening.

“I know,” Mia answers, without any snark, carefully setting down a couple glasses where there’s room. The bottle in her other hand has already been opened, the contents mixed with other things, and hastily sealed again. For once, Mia bothers to wipe the condensation off the bottom before setting it down. “Neither am I.”

This time, her lips curl up at the edges, but the downturn of her eyebrows betrays the bitterness she feels. Another thought dances on her mind, and her mouth makes it halfway open before she discards it, playing the movement off as an exaggerated sigh. Pushing Miranda’s buttons is easy… achieving anything else is Herculean. Part of Mia wonders how far she’s already pushing things, not because she cares about the consequences, simply because she can’t tell.

Leaning her weight against the desk (avoiding the side table like a single touch would kill her), Mia grabs the bottle again, popping the cap off with a flick of her thumb. Almost immediately the smell of strong whiskey drifts around the room. Miranda’s nostrils flare, briefly, the purse of her lips growing tighter. But she says nothing as Mia pours drinks for the both of them, eying them closely to make sure they’re filled evenly. A moment passes, then two, before Mia nudges one of the glasses closer to Miranda.

“I don’t know why I keep you around,” the headmistress says, bringing a little bite to her words to show dominance, her posturing a sad show of deflecting vulnerability. They both know exactly why Mia is still alive, why she’s here, in this town, in this day, in this life. Why she doesn’t slip out the door without a word and disappear forever. All the same reasons keep Miranda here, urging her hands to continue pulling strings, weaving and undoing and weaving and weaving and unmaking with the same heart that compelled Penelope to do the same.

Mia chooses not to point it out. Bites her tongue, nurses the mixed whiskey like it was her last. Lets the burn linger on her tastebuds. Breathes in deep, turning her gaze to the dark sky beyond the office window. A few tiny figures move across the campus grounds, returning from parties or maybe more clandestine affairs, utterly unaware that everything was going to be reset tonight. None of them have even an ounce of worth in her eyes, nor in Miranda’s.

“Nobody else has a clue, do they?” Mia muses, somewhere between a sneer and a giggle. Both halves sound forced. For a moment, she basks in the silence, only to remember she wasn’t one to find comfort in such things after all. A glance towards her companion reveals a raised eyebrow, Miranda not yet parsing her words. The details of the reset were a closely guarded secret, to prevent dissent, but most of her flock understood that something important lay past the dusk. What they didn’t understand is all the more fundamental, built into the very cause they pursued. “They all think they know what we’re missing.” More bitterness in her voice this time, acidity on a slow-drip to her veins, a scoff kicking out some of the weight from her chest.

Something clicks, then, an idea alongside Miranda’s tongue. Dimitrescu imagines her daughters. Beneviento’s grief haunts everything she makes, but the feelings fold into different shapes. Followers flood their senses with Mother’s goals, with her purpose, but they are driven by their devotion to her. Not to her. All the lives in the world, vast and uniquely faceted, and only the two in this room have a clue.

“You don’t love her the way I do,” Miranda whispers, nail guards finding places to pinch her own flesh. Slowly, she uncrosses her legs, and finally reaches for her glass. If there’s any fragility to the way she holds herself now, Mia is kind enough to ignore it, and uncaring enough to leave the pain without relief.

“Mmm, and you don’t love her the way I do,” she breathes. Neither of them are lying. Oddly enough, nor are they challenging each other. Just declaring their surviving differences in this moment of alikeness. “Salut,” Mia adds, ignoring the huff (of irritation or amusement, she cares not to differentiate) from Miranda, but cracks a smile when their glasses raise in sync. A toast to the heart of their shared world, to the central victim of the reset.

There’s no hiding the way Miranda recoils at the concoction, almost a snarl with glinting teeth, the strength of the cheap whiskey hardly diluted by whatever was added to it. Hardly her drink of choice. Yet she runs her finger around the rim of the glass, mirroring the way her tongue flickers across her teeth, savoring the misery of it all. Hauntingly familiar, the closest Mia had ever come to recreating a cursed relic from their past. At least it will get us drunk fast, she had once said, with this same grimace, the icon of their love cheering on the words. Teasing gently about her obsessions with efficiency.

By the time the memory moves beyond her eyelids, the glass in her hands is almost empty. Mia hums a halfhearted tune, pouring another round for Miranda, before pushing herself up from her perch. A few wrinkled papers get left behind, without anyone batting an eye. Everything was pointless tonight, remember? Beautiful nothingness, even stale blood gushing like ichor, almost all things rendered equal.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some poor decisions to make,” Mia suddenly chimes, face twisting up into a visage of mischief, brushing the last of the dust off of her mask. One hand snatches up the bottle, the other smoothes over her leather jacket, subtly ensuring she could still feel the presence of her switchblade in one of the pockets. WIth unabashed glee, she waltzes through the doorway, off to draw blood and make merry with the worst of what the university has to offer.

She only hesitates for a microsecond, as she goes to close the door behind her. Glances back to meet Miranda’s gaze, all-knowing and piercing as ever, the two of them exchanging silent assurances. Their beloved would be remade, eventually, no matter how long it takes. No matter how many times they have to start over. A determination only matched in each other, as universally true as it is unspoken.