Colouring practice~

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Colouring practice~
Victory Red
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader.
Warning: I don't think this should have any?? Light Sexual Tension, Kisses. FLUFF
~
Author Notes: This turned out longer than I expected. I enjoyed writing it. :)
I did not write the AD to the lipstick, I have its source, and the lipstick that is used linked in the story below.
The necklace that is mentioned: I feel like Bucky would choose something like this because it's a bit reminiscent of his dog tags.
Please feel free to let me know your thoughts!
This Gif has nothing to do with the story, but mannnnn look at that smile.
~
Bucky had mumbled it in passing to you one morning, when you had asked him what was on his mind,
Just wonderin’ what it would’ave been like to come home from the war a winner? Instead…
You filled the silence as he trailed off…
What would you have wanted to come home to, Buck?
Just a thought, honest, it doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t have been there, darlin’.
Over a few weeks, his just a thought bloomed into a full-blown obsession for you. The idea was like a burning inferno in your mind; no matter how you tried to douse the flames, it only grew hotter. So much so, you found yourself combing through tons of antique shops, hunting for the perfect dress… Then one day, on your walk home, the dress was hanging off a mannequin in one of the many shops you had already browsed through.
A perfect vintage baby blue dress, reminiscent of Buck's eyes on a clear, warm, cloudless day. The dress was the perfect size for you, it hugged your hips nicely, the skirt flared and landed a bit below the knee, a sweetheart neckline graced your collarbones…you knew it would pair perfectly with the double heart pendant necklace Bucky had gifted you for no other reason than just because I love you, doll. Also, those silver kitten heels had sat in your closet for way too long, untouched.
~
Tapping the tip of your pen against your lips, as you browse through social media on your phone, your mind was racing; it felt like you were missing something for your outfit, but you just couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Then pausing as something catches your eye, then scrolling back…It was an ad of a woman in a dark green army uniform, her eyes raised to the sky. Your eyes glinted with glee as you read the article:
—--
Introducing 1941 Victory Red Classic Color Lipstick:
From: Bésame Website
BEAUTY AS DUTY
The glamour of gorgeous red lips lifts the spirit. Like all expressions of glamour, a classic red lip elevates the morale of the woman wearing the lipstick, as well as all who see her. That’s why we are proud to introduce Victory Red to the Bésame collection.
The name references the Allied Victory in World War II. We painstakingly researched our red, based upon our collection of historical samples and lots of study. Our Victory Red is an absolutely faithful color-match to the original 1941 classic shade.
—--
It was the one touch you needed! You place the order before you can change your mind, and choose to have it delivered to your office, you can unbox and stash it away in your bag before coming home. Bucky would be none the wiser about your plans. It was hard hiding things from a super soldier.You keep the new dress and lipstick tucked away in the very back of your shared closet, in a place you are sure Bucky will not go.
Bucky had informed you with some grunts and a grimace that he was due to an event in DC this coming week, so he wouldn’t be returning till Friday afternoon. It was planned a bit last-minute, but he felt he needed to do what he could to rub elbows with “other interested parties”; he had said it with his hands in the air, doing finger quotes. You had only giggled and said. I will be here when you return.
You mulled over the idea of saving his surprise for his birthday, but it was just now rolling into October, and March was so far away, and you were terrible at keeping surprises. You also debated about keeping it for when he won his seat in Congress, but there was always a tiny, slim chance that he might not win. It was Wednesday, and he was due home in two days. As you toyed with the pendant necklace around your throat, you were agreeing to the idea before it had fully formed in your mind. You’d do it just because you love him, and why wait? You’d do it the day he arrives home from traveling.
~
The morning of the day he’s due home, you go out to the grocery store, purchase fresh plums, his favorite box of pancake mix, even though you swore they tasted the same, and a top-shelf bourbon to replace the last bottle he had finished before leaving. Before making it back to the small apartment you both shared, the flowers blooming in the florist shop window stopped you in your tracks. In that window sat blooming victory roses, and a grin took over your face. The roses were white bleeding into pink ends, the smell soft, delicate, and would be just strong enough to not bother Buck's enhanced smelling. You had asked the florist to put them in a crystal vase, and had bought as many as the vase would hold. The walk home left you giddy, the air crisp, cool, and comfortable.
~
Time is ticking closer to Bucky’s homecoming, and your excitement is hard to contain; it's pouring off of you, scenting the air. You were hoping the cool shower would help calm you down, but it had not. You plop down on your vanity chair, after drying your hair, your heated curling iron waiting for you. Your hair curls perfectly, in tight spirals, and you pin a small piece back and out of your eyes. As you set the curling iron down and turn it off, your phone lights up, and a message flashes onto the screen.
Be home in 30, Doll.
Bucky was not one to text often; typically, he preferred the intimacy of a phone call, but for once, you were grateful he had decided to embrace modern technology, because you were sure if you had spoken with him, he would have been able to hear the giddiness in your voice. You decide not to respond, as you set the phone down, and apply an unscented lotion, a few swipes of deodorant, and then you work on fanning yourself down with your hands, to help everything sink and soften your body. Feeling relatively dry, you slip on simple, cheeky, white lace panties, you wiggle into the blue dress, sans a bra, since it offers enough support for your breasts, and then push your feet into your silver kitten heels.
You peer at yourself only for a moment in the mirror, as you hook your necklace on, it dangles right above where the sweetheart neckline ends. Opening the vanity drawer, the gold lipstick case sits waiting for you. You had moved it to your vanity once Bucky left, so he would not accidentally stumble upon it. Bucky liked to restock any of your items he saw running low, and your makeup and self-care were ones he found replenishing enjoyable. He had told you it was because he loved seeing you care for yourself in whatever way felt best. Your heart warms as you think of this moment, remembering the way his eyes had crinkled with his smile when you had first caught him in the act of restocking for you. You hope you see that smile tonight.
Uncapping the lipstick, you stare a bit, mesmerized by the bright hue. The red spreads across your lips, smooth, creamy, and you grin. You look good, you feel good, and now all that's left is to set the atmosphere and welcome your soldier home. You peek at the time on your phone, and you have at least 15 minutes, unless traffic is good. Unless Bucky is driving just a tad bit too fast to get home sooner.
Deciding not to risk it, you shuffle to the living room, flip through the records sitting below the player, and your fingers find the one you want to play. You set the record down, but do not place the needle just yet. Vase, and flowers in place, check, bourbon and Bucky’s favorite cup on the coffee table, check. One more glance at the phone, you then shut it down, set it on one of your shelves out of sight, 5 minutes…or could be sooner, so you drop the needle on the record, as a gentle song begins to play, your nervous hands smooth the puffy skirt down.
You position yourself in line with the door, and wait…
Almost as if you, yourself have super sense, and can hear his dress shoes in the hallway, see the turning of the knob, you smile as he steps into the opening door, softly a feminine voice fills the air, as he calls your name…
Well, what do you know,
He smiled at me in my dreams last night,
My dreams are getting better all the time.
“God, Doll”
His long hair curling at his ears is a mess. He stands half in the door, and half in the apartment, frozen, stunned eyes roaming up and down, his pupils growing larger by the second. To your surprise he's clean shaven, his suit jacket unbuttoned to open to a white under shirt, and to your delight his suit is a deep dark green, instead of his usual black or navy blue. You want to squeal at how well the universe has aligned for this moment, but you hold it back:
“Welcome Home, Sergeant Barnes.”
The words drop from your lips, and they snap him out of his momentary trance. His hand that had been holding the door shuts it quickly and softly, as he advances towards you, his long strides eating up the entryway. He drops his helmet, his keys, and then his duffel bag from his vibranium hand, before you can even comprehend how fast he’s moving, he has his large hands on your waist, and he’s lifting you from the floor, twirling you around, the grin on his face looks young, boyish, and for a second, you see his hair short, his eyes light, his body clad in his army dress unform, and as soon as the image appears its flees, and you see him as he is, warm blues, long hair, and a smile that could certainly power the whole city.
“All this for me?” Bucky’s voice is damp, warm, as he lowers you down out of the spin and pulls your body flush with his; he has not lowered you far enough to touch the ground, your feet dangling above the hardwood. “Of course, Sergeant Barnes, I've been waiting for you to come home to me.” With your hands resting on his shoulders, to give you a bit of leverage, you feel the shiver rush through him at the usage of his title. Happiness is radiating off of him, his ears burning red, as he fully slides you down his body, back to the ground, relinquishing a bit of his hold. He glides his metal hand up to the back of your head and tilts your face to look up at him.
“I would've driven faster if I knew you were waiting like this.”
Before your lips can break into a full smile, he captures your mouth in his, pressing his fingers into your hip, pulling you right against his chest. Bucky dips your body back a bit with his, as he licks at your lower lip, and once his tongue comes into contact with the lipstick he realizes:
This is what victory tastes like.
His Victory.
Sohee ₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ mdni!! 18+ currently listening to: ゆめうつつ - LAMP word count: 4.9k bb note: tried something a little different with this one
The first time Sohee sees you he doesn’t actually see you. It’s the first day of his Drawing Foundations class and truly he would rather be anywhere else. He’s so shit at drawing and art, but he needed it to fill a gen ed requirement and he’s heard that the class is an easy A. The professor is reviewing the syllabus and everything inside him wants to drop the class. It’s a studio art class meaning it’s 3 hours long, the class is smack in the middle of his day on a Monday of all days, and every assignment the professor reads off sounds terrifying. What the fuck is conte anyways? Sohee’s never heard of it and he’s not sure he gives a shit about it. Sohee wants to roll his eyes when the professor is expecting an assignment completed by the end of class because of course he would ask something like that on the first day. He’s assigned an easel where he props up a rather large drawing pad. Sohee dreads the thought of having to fill such a large space with artwork when he can barely draw a straight line. Sure the class is for beginners, but Sohee feels like he is embarrassingly bad.
honestly i wish there was tutorials on shading, not exactly on how to shade (light,midtone, dark, etc) but how to CONCEPTUALIZE shading? understand how to structure it? like demonstrating on a complex object where and why you would place the shadows there that is a bit more than "the light source is up here". does that make sense? like the shadow shapes on a fabric fold, and why they must be placed there and no where else. perhaps im asking for a tutorial on observation..
i can relate to this! i know in theory how to shade but i struggle with identifying and breaking down values from irl references and translating that into art. a lot of artistic rules are often pinpointed from observation but its hard to define why so... if it helps any i like to try noticing smaller details from irl and trying to define why something looks the way it is: the contours and shapes involved in different clothing materials, why flowers have certain folds and similarities, etc. it wont make you draw from memory but it will help in translation of references
{ flesh }
"You can only love with your flesh." In that place, not a single sound surrounded him: no rustling of leaves, no whispering of the wind -- all the clamour of life seemed to have lost the chords of its melody, causing the spoken phrase to hang in the air too sharply, like a shot that forced the rest of the sounds to fall silent. The words reached him, though he wasn't sure where they came from -- it felt like they were both far away and all around him -- so it took a few moments for him to even comprehend them. With each passing second, as his head gradually cleared, those words began to take on a more stable, meaningful form in his consciousness, and at the same time, at some point -- like a sudden flash of light on a foggy night -- he felt them sharply scratch something inside his chest. "What.." he muttered, barely able to open his lips. With great effort, as if it were a lump of rock, he squeezed a broken sound out of his throat, enough to be counted as an attempt, and yet -- too foreign to his own ears. With a blurred gaze, he looked around in confusion, trying to pinpoint the source of the stirring in the air, before settling on.. the shadow of a person, he assumed, which stood directly in front of him. He was sure he knew this person, and even more than just casually, but as soon as his eyes drifted away even for a moment, the whole focus faded away, like a puff, all thoughts slipped through his fingers, and before him was once again only an achingly familiar mirage. He had no desire to ask who it was -- that was the least of his concerns at the moment, and it was unlikely that this information would be of any significance when he might well lose it in the next blink of an eye amid the flood of other uncontrollable thoughts. No, what he wanted to know was why, for what merits, had they so arbitrarily thrown these.. these.. With a sharp rustle of fabric, his arm rose into the air, his index finger trembling, as did his voice, no matter how hard he tried to hide this manifestation of unwanted weakness behind shades of irritation and furrowed brows. "Take back those words.." he croaked at the silhouette, not really bothering to think about whether he could be heard or not. As expected, there was no response from the shadowy figure. The indifference of the reaction gave Goffredo a slight boost of confidence, and he took a sudden step forward, which from the side resembled more of a convulsive jerk. "Take them back.. riprendile, in questo istante!" And again, silence, which, like pure kerosene, saturated and incited rage. "You-.. Whoever you are, e non me ne può fregare di meno, take your words back!" With each passing second, which flowed in silence and a complete lack of verbal response from the silhouette-interlocutor, his voice began to gain strength -- like a bonfire that was constantly fed with pinches of apathy; his tone sounded more confident with each phrase, and in particularly emotional moments, like a raging river, it changed to more passionate, more colourful expressions. "What do you possibly know about me, huh? What do you know- what, I ask you?!" Goffredo’s hands flew through the air, his abrupt, lively gestures forming patterns with a clear accusatory undertone. "Carne.. I love with my flesh, what does that even mean?! Completa assurdità, ti dico- idiocy in its purest form, that’s what your words are!" In a burst of emotion, he took a few more steps closer, jabbing his finger straight into the person’s chest; a slight tingling sensation ran along his fingertip, as if he had touched something icy, something so distant -- like a faraway star -- but he was now too caught up in more tumultuous feelings to indulge in sentimental thoughts and comparisons. "Because, e te lo dico io, because there is no such thing! There isn't, and it's not even worth delving into! And I- io amo normalmente, come tutti gli altri, okay? Like all other men, I love, do you hear me?! Mi senti o no, disgraziato mentecatto?! Or are you- oh, no, of course, you're tired of listening to me, aren't you? Aren't you?!"
From the depths of the cardinal's throat came a short, barking laugh, in which there was not an ounce of genuine satisfaction, but rather pure mockery and sarcastic ridicule, and even.. some slight notes of offence.
"Once again, I’m talking too much, too much of me! Go ahead, complain about it, about how much you’re fed up with it, how much you’re fed up with me- A questo punto, onestamente, non so nemmeno se sono ancora importante per te, o se mi stai solo sopportando!" He felt, in some distant and insignificant part of his consciousness, that he was beginning to cross the line, but this flow was unlikely to be stopped by anything. "Go on, go on, play the scene out -- say that it’s not true. Mentite, mentite, mentite a me, perché è tutto quello che mi merito, è tutto quello che siete disposti a fare per me -- shower me with filth like the l'ultima feccia della cucciolata!" For some reason, it felt as if his words were familiar -- as if he had already said them to someone, more than once, more than twice, more than dozens of times, to someone.. close enough, or even too close.. "Sono tutte bugie, dannazione! Your words are lies, do you hear me?! All, all of them! About your worries, about your love- about my love. You.. You know what? Know what?! Your statement that I only love with my flesh, whatever the hell that means, take them back. Ritirale in questo preciso istante! Perché anche loro sono tutte bugie! They- They're not true at all -- not true!" For whatever reason, the last word resonated too loudly, making him feel.. ill at ease. The realisation of what he had just so vehemently declared left an unpleasant residue in his chest and on his tongue, and he couldn't help but grimace slightly; Goffredo didn't even understand how it happened that everything got out of control, turning into a truly enraged conflagration, he didn't understand -- and he had no interest in trying to understand. All this time, during his tirade and afterwards, there was still no response from the mysterious person opposite him; reason enough to doubt that he would be able to get any response from them at all. And because of this, his attention shifted focus to his speech, and, truth be told, he didn't particularly like the thoughts that began to surface from the darkest reaches of his consciousness. As his ardour cooled, a weak stream of thoughts rose and sank back into the depths, hiding behind the next ones, whispers of more troubling ones coming to him from distant corners. But there was one that made itself known most noticeably, even though it remained the quietest of all: "..is that really so..?" A slight shiver ran somewhere inside him, and he hastily tried to drive it away -- in vain, however, as if someone had nailed it directly to the main screen of the broadcast, and even other thoughts were unable to overshadow it. It was nonsense, from a certain point of view, even taking into account the fact that he did not fully understand the meaning of that phrase. "To love with the flesh.." he repeated mentally, turning his head away, occasionally glancing at his interlocutor, "La carne.. that is, the body? E cosa potrebbe significare, per carità, questo?" With an irritated sound, Goffredo shook his head, causing his grey curls to bounce slightly, before barking at the silent apparition: "And what does that mean? Hm? Cosa?" The silhouette said nothing, but the voice in his head, despite numerous objections, began to ponder the answer. To say that he liked those comments would be an understatement of how much the sparks of fury still flashed in him at such wordless accusations directed at him. "You dare accuse me of my feelings for you? So that’s what this is, you.. you-..!"
And yet.. What if it's true..? Like a light slap on the cheek, he shook his head hastily, his eyebrow twitching in indignation. "No! No, io.. they're not fake, not fake, capisci? We.." The words died away, cut off as if in the middle of a thought that had suddenly lost all its value -- it became irrelevant, because he felt that they didn't believe him. The irritation that had gripped Goffredo began to take on the contours of panic, while the silhouette remained silent, as if mocking him. "No, don't even dare look at me like that. Questo non ha nulla a che fare con me, in any sense, in any way, no!" The hem of his robe whispered softly as he took a step back, his hand unconsciously reaching for the cross -- a grounding, pious gesture -- as if trying to affirm the validity of his words, to calm himself. Although subconsciously he knew, with a disgusting, repulsive thought in his mind, that he was wrong.. but he didn't want to admit it -- it wasn't true. And why should he defile himself with such.. such ridiculous slander?! Ridiculous, simply vile falsehoods! Right..? "Why are you silent?" he hissed through clenched teeth, his dark eyes staring straight into the ever-changing, blurred features of the face. "Why are you.. Please, say something -- say you don’t believe it!" Goffredo felt his chest tighten, as if someone's invisible hand had closed its icy fingers around his lungs. Together with that, small, insignificant, first glimmers of tears began to form in the corners of his eyes, and he was not sure if it was because of how intense his gaze was, or because of.. "Non tacere.. You know that’s not true, don’t you? You know, know, I’m sure you know.." It became harder to breathe, each subsequent word seemed to carry more weight, and his head was reeling from such overwhelming emotional outbursts. He tried to hide the moist veil over his eyes with a hasty movement of his hand, which was followed, in a matter of seconds, by a burst of anger: as if someone had reawakened his rage, and without thinking twice, he lunged at the silhouette, clutching it with a firm, painful grip, shaking it several times. "You think it’s so funny -- paragonarmi a una specie di sgualdrina, as if I’m incapable of deeper feelings! You believe that, huh? È in questo che credi?! That’s all I’m capable of?!" Silence; only a voice responded, so familiar, so dear.. he wasn't sure if it was a memory or a mocking product of his paranoia, but without question and without a doubt, he could say that the answer sounded like one, brief.. .."yes".. A sudden acute pain pierced his chest, mercilessly gnawing at its sting right to his very heart. The cardinal pushed the apparition away from him, staggering backwards as if struck by lightning; his eyes were wide open in shock and his lips slightly parted. "No.." he squeezed out in a weak, chocked voice, as if clinging to the last thread of hope that it wasn’t true, even though all the evidence was against him. Predictably, the blanket of silence fell on their shoulders, so unbearably heavy, and even that was enough for him, far too much. It was as if something had broken inside him -- the walls of dignity and aplomb had been destroyed, shattered into pieces, and in place of the open wounds, a wave of despair washed over him, scorching him so unbearably. His strength suddenly left him, his legs weakened, and with a quiet thud, he fell to his knees. Between convulsive breaths and gurgling sounds -- as desperate as was futile his attempt to hold back tears -- fragments of phrases and words flew chaotically from his lips. "No.. no, ti prego, ti supplico.. I- io ti voglio bene, you know that? I love you.. ti amo- ti supplico, credimi.." Goffredo clenched his eyes shut tightly, as if that would somehow save him from his predicament. For some time, the only thing he could hear was someone's distant whisper -- his own, a loved one's, or a stranger's, he couldn't tell for sure, it was difficult to distinguish in this cacophony -- accompanied by the deafening sound of his own heartbeat in his temples.
Thump Thump A sharp intake of breath Thump A sob, pitiful, miserable Thump Thump "..per favore..", trembling, barely audible Thump A sharp intake of breath- And he woke up.
So abruptly that he felt suffocated even in the well-ventilated room, so he spent the first few minutes after waking up taking deep breaths. His heart was pounding wildly against his ribs -- too loudly, even vulgarly so, in the embrace of the night's silence. Suddenly, someone stirred beside him, muttering something indistinctly in their sleep. Unconsciously holding his breath, Goffredo cautiously reached out and touched someone's body. The body he loved with his flesh. Memories of their evening were filled with contentment and bliss, even a certain pride in what they had shared. And yet, in a matter of moments, it all smoothly morphed into a oppressive sense of wrongness, tinged with shame, which squeezed the air out of him and settled heavily in his stomach. As much as he didn't want to, he couldn't help but think about the recent nightmare. How strange -- the apparition hadn't made a sound the whole time, and yet it had managed to make him feel more vulnerable than he had ever felt before. Was he really.. that callous? No matter how hard he tried to recall, he couldn't come up with a single argument against this statement, quite the contrary. "Lo amavo.. o mi godevo solo la sensazione del suo corpo?" With a slightly trembling hand, he ran his fingers through his tousled locks, which, like short serpents, twisted and curled around his fingers. With a jagged sigh, Goffredo lay back and felt a nasty sweat -- so cold, a sweat of panic and anxiety, not like the one that had glistened on his skin just a few hours ago. The echoes of a tormented dream hung over him like a heavy cloud, causing his insides to twist unpleasantly, and he, settling on his side, curled up, his shoulders hunched tensely. By the time he fell asleep, or perhaps it would be better to say -- exhausted himself with unease -- on the other side of the bed, under the blanket, the second person stirred again. He, once again sinking into the realm of murky dreams, did not feel this, nor did he feel the arms that wrapped around him, his chest and shoulders, and, with less passion but no less affection, pressed closer to Goffredo. Le braccia di colui che lo voleva bene con tutto il cuore e l'anima, che lo amava nonostante tutti i "nonostante", che lo amava per quello che era.
Ten Things We Hate About Trad Pub
Often when I say “I’ve started a small press; we publish the works of those who have trouble breaking into traditional publishing!” what people seem to hear is “me and a bunch of sad saps couldn’t sell our books in the Real World so we’ve made our own place with lower standards.” For those with minimal understanding of traditional publishing (trad pub), this reaction is perhaps understandable? But, truly, there are many things to hate about traditional publishing (and, don’t get me wrong - there are things to love about trad pub, too, but that’s not what this list is about) and it’s entirely reasonable for even highly accomplished authors to have no interest in running the gauntlet of genre restrictions, editorial control, hazing, long waits, and more, that make trad pub at best, um, challenging, and at worst, utterly inaccessible to many authors - even excellent ones.
Written in collaboration with @jhoomwrites, with input from @ramblingandpie, here is a list of ten things that we at Duck Prints Press detest about trad pub, why we hate it, and why/how we think things should be different!
(Needless to say, part of why we created Duck Prints Press was to...not do any of these things... so if you’re a writer looking for a publishing home, and you hate these things, too, and want to write with a Press that doesn’t do them...maybe come say hi?)
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1. Work lengths dictated by genre and/or author experience.
Romance novels can’t be longer than 90,000 words or they won’t sell! New authors shouldn’t try to market a novel longer than 100,000 words!
A good story is a good story is a good story. Longer genre works give authors the chance to explore their themes and develop their plots. How often an author has been published shouldn’t put a cap on the length of their work.
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2. Editors assert control of story events...except when they don’t.
If you don’t change this plot point, the book won’t market well. Oh, you’re a ten-time bestseller? Write whatever you want, even if it doesn’t make sense we know people will buy it.
Sometimes, a beta or an editor will point out that an aspect of a story doesn’t work - because it’s nonsensical, illogical, Deus ex Machina, etc. - and in those cases it’s of course reasonable for an editor to say, “This doesn’t work and we recommend changing it, for these reasons…” However, when that list of reasons begins and ends with, “...because it won’t sell…” that’s a problem, especially because this is so often applied as a double standard. We’ve all read bestsellers with major plot issues, but those authors get a “bye” because editors don’t want to exert to heavy a hand and risk a proven seller, but with a new, less experienced, or worse-selling author, the gloves come off (even though evidence suggests time and again that publishers’ ability to predict what will sell well is at best low and at worst nonexistent.)
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3. A billion rejection letters as a required rite of passage (especially when the letters aren't helpful in pinpointing why a work has been rejected or how the author can improve).
Well, my first book was rejected by a hundred Presses before it was accepted! How many rejection letters did you get before you got a bite? What, only one or two? Oh…
How often one succeeds or fails to get published shouldn’t be treated as a form of hazing, and we all know that how often someone gets rejected or accepted has essentially no bearing on how good a writer they are. Plenty of schlock goes out into the world after being accepted on the first or second try...and so does plenty of good stuff! Likewise, plenty of schlock will get rejected 100 times but due to persistence, luck, circumstances, whatever, finally find a home, and plenty of good stuff will also get rejected 100 times before being publishing. Rejections (or lack there of) as a point of pride or as a means of judging others needs to die as a rite of passage among authors.
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4. Query letters, for so many reasons.
Summarize all your hard work in a single page! Tell us who you’re like as an author and what books your story is like, so we can gauge how well it’ll sell based on two sentences about it! Format it exactly the way we say or we won’t even consider you!
For publishers, agents, and editors who have slush piles as tall as Mount Everest...we get it. There has to be a way to differentiate. We don’t blame you. Every creative writing class, NaNoWriMo pep talk, and college lit department combine to send out hundreds of thousands of people who think all they need to do to become the next Ernest Hemingway is string a sentence together. There has to be some way to sort through that pile...but God, can’t there be a better way than query letters? Especially since even with query letters being used it often takes months or years to hear back, and...
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5. "Simultaneous submissions prohibited.”
No, we don’t know when we’ll get to your query, but we’ll throw it out instantly if you have the audacity to shop around while you wait for us.
The combination of “no simultaneous submissions” with the query letter bottleneck makes success slow and arduous. It disadvantages everyone who aims to write full-time but doesn’t have another income source (their own, or a parents’, or a spouse’s, or, or or). The result is that entire classes of people are edged out of publishing solely because the process, especially for writers early in their career, moves so glacially that people have to earn a living while they wait, and it’s so hard to, for example, work two jobs and raise a family and also somehow find the time to write. Especially considering that the standard advice for dealing with “no simultaneous submissions” is “just write something else while you wait!” ...the whole system screams privilege.
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6. Genres are boxes that must be fit into and adhered to.
Your protagonist is 18? Then obviously your book is Young Adult. It doesn’t matter how smutty your book is, erotica books must have sex within the first three chapters, ideally in the first chapter. Sorry, we’re a fantasy publisher, if you have a technological element you don’t belong here…
While some genre boxes have been becoming more like mesh cages of late, with some flow of content allowed in and out, many remain stiff prisons that constrict the kinds of stories people can tell. Even basic cross-genre works often struggle to find a place, and there’s no reason for it beyond “if we can’t pigeon-hole a story, it’s harder to sell.” This edges out many innovative, creative works. It also disadvantages people who aren’t as familiar with genre rules. And don’t get me wrong - this isn’t an argument that, for example, the romance genre would be improved by opening up to stories that don’t have “happily ever afters.” Instead, it’s pointing out - there should also be a home for, say, a space opera with a side romance, an erotica scene, and a happily-for-now ending. Occasionally, works breakthrough, but for the most part stories that don’t conform never see the light of day (or, they do, but only after Point 2 - trad pub editors insist that the elements most “outside” the box be removed or revised).
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7. The lines between romance and erotica are arbitrary, random, and hetero- and cis-normative.
This modern romance novel won’t sell if it doesn’t have an explicit sex scene, but God forbid you call a penis a penis. Oh, no, this is far too explicit, even though the book only has one mlm sex scene, this is erotica.
The difference between “romance” and “erotica” might not matter so much if not for the stigmas attached to erotica and the huge difference in marketability and audience. The difference between “romance” and “erotica” also might not matter so much if not for the fact that, so often, even incredibly raunchy stories that feature cis straight male/cis straight female sex scenes are shelved as romance, but the moment the sex is between people of the same gender, and/or a trans or genderqueer person is involved, and/or the relationship is polyamorous, and/or the characters involved are literally anything other than a cis straight male pleasuring a cis straight female in a “standard” way (cunnilingus welcome, pegging need not apply)...then the story is erotica. Two identical stories will get assigned different genres based on who the people having sex are, and also based on the “skill” of the author to use ludicrous euphemisms (instead of just...calling body parts what they’re called…), and it’s insane. Non-con can be a “romance” novel, even if it’s graphically described. “50 Shades of Gray” can sell millions of copies, even containing BDSM. But the word “vagina” gets used once...bam, erotica. (Seriously, the only standard that should matter is the Envelope Analogy).
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8. Authors are expected to do a lot of their own legwork (eg advertising) but then don't reap the benefits.
Okay, so, you’re going to get an advance of $2,500 on this, your first novel, and a royalty rate of 5% if and only if your advance sells out...so you’d better get out there and market! Wait, what do you mean you don’t have a following? Guess you’re never selling out your advance…
Trad pub can generally be relied on to do some marketing - so this item is perhaps better seen as an indictment of more mid-sized Presses - but, basically, if an author has to do the majority of the work themselves, then why aren’t they getting paid more? What’s the actual benefit to going the large press/trad pub route if it’s not going to get the book into more hands? It’s especially strange that this continues to be a major issue when self-publishing (which also requires doing one’s own marketing) garners 60%+ royalty rates. Yes, the author doesn’t get an advance, and they don’t get the cache of ~well I was published by…~, but considering some Presses require parts of advances to get paid back if the initial run doesn’t sell out, and cache doesn’t put food on the table...pay models have really, really got to change.
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9. Fanfiction writing doesn't count as writing experience
Hey there Basic White Dude, we see you’ve graduated summa cum laude from A Big Fancy Expensive School. Of course we’ll set you up to publish your first novel you haven’t actually quite finished writing yet. Oh, Fanperson, you’ve written 15 novels for your favorite fandom in the last 4 years? Get to the back of the line!
Do I really need to explain this? The only way to get better at writing is to write. Placing fanfiction on official trad pub “do not interact” lists is idiotic, especially considering many of the other items on this list. (They know how to engage readers! They have existing followings! They understand genre and tropes!) Being a fanfiction writer should absolutely be a marketable “I am a writer” skill. Nuff said. (To be clear, I’m not saying publishers should publish fanfiction, I’m saying that being a fanfiction writer is relevant and important experience that should be given weight when considering an author’s qualifications, similar to, say, publishing in a university’s quarterly.)
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10. Tagging conventions (read: lack thereof).
Oh, did I trigger you? Hahahaha. Good luck with that.
We rate movies so that people can avoid content they don’t like. Same with TV shows and video games. Increasingly, those ratings aren’t just “R - adult audiences,” either; they contain information about the nature of the story elements that have led to the rating (“blood and gore,” “alcohol reference,” “cartoon violence,” “drug reference,” “sexual violence,” “use of tobacco,” and many, many more). So why is it that I can read a book and, without warning, be surprised by incest, rape, graphic violence, explicit language, glorification of drug and alcohol use, and so so much more? That it’s left to readers to look up spoilers to ensure that they’re not exposed to content that could be upsetting or inappropriate for their children or, or, or, is insane. So often, too, authors cling to “but we don’t want to give away our story,” as if video game makes and other media makers do want to give away their stories. This shouldn’t be about author egos or ~originality~ (as if that’s even a thing)...it should be about helping readers make informed purchasing decisions. It’s way, way past time that major market books include content warnings.
Thank you for joining us, this has been our extended rant about how frustrated we are with traditional publishing. Helpful? No. Cathartic? Most definitely yes. 🤣
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i'll find you (across five hundred lifetimes)
He remembers her smile, her laughter, and the indescribable feeling of being loved and loving in return.
"Ha! You can’t get rid of me in any lifetime, scumbag!"
(A multiple reincarnations AU wherein Scaramouche takes a glimpse of his many lifetimes, and finds out how fate makes it extremely hard for him just to be with some girl.)
Read on: AO3
A Dwarf and His Fairy
A/N: Here it is! The Fíli x Fairy piece I've been working on! This piece taught me a LOT! About editing, plotting, character work, etc., and though it's not perfect, I'm still really proud of it and happy with it. Thanks to all who supported me with this one. I hope you enjoy it :)
Pairing: Fíli x Ivy (my fairy OC)
Word Count: 3,780
Warnings: None!
Summary: Even Fíli needs someone to remind him that self-care is a requirement, and not a reward. Good thing he has a somewhat relentless, but very loving fairy friend to remind him.
Fíli slid the book away in defeat. It was as heavy as stone and full of numbers and dates and plans and problems. Even as the wicked pages turned by, they let out a nasty hiss and the scratchy old leather cover whipped around with a solid, successful splat, fighting Fíli until it’s last breath.
Once it was done, his surrender official, Fíli’s head fell into his hands and he groaned, making one of the last candles in his chambers flicker in his breath. Truthfully, the nub of wax, short wick, and tiny flame was barely a candle at all. It hardly resembled the tall, radiant torch it had previously been. But it wasn’t alone. Similarly, as the night went on, Fíli’s resolve had melted away and his shoulders warped and rounded like hot wax until there was very little light to give.
All because of that damned book.
“I need a break,” he said to no one but the silver platter of untouched goodies sitting on the corner of his desk. There was a small, shining jug of sweet milk, a tiny jar of honey with a miniscule spoon to match and a delicate bowl of crumbling honey cakes. It was all left waiting, as was Fíli.
He stared at the treats and swore he saw them move. But he dismissed it, ascribing it to fatigue, and closed his eyes, leaning his heavy chin on his wrist.
Then something struck him.
It was a scent he’d long been familiar with. Despite its peculiarity, he could always pinpoint its source from the first time he witnessed it and matched it with its meaning. This was the smell of magic- frozen as fresh winter frost and balmy as sun bathed flower petals- and it effortlessly roused him from his near nap and provoked him to sit up straight and search the room.
At first, he saw nothing, though he did recognize the swishing sound of her clothes rushing through the air. Every spent candle in his chambers now roared to life with new flame and an endless wick. The room glowed as if it was midday, not only with candlelight, but with the hope and warmth of company.
“Oh, my friend,” Fíli said. “Make yourself known to me. I’ve longed to see you again.”