you know how they say well rounded writers read a lot? does fanfic account for some of it or do you think it’s mainly published literature that counts?
all fanfic counts!
it depends on what it is. well-written fanfic would for sure count.
no. it does not count. only published literature counts.
if you squint, sure. why not. it depends on how i feel in the moment.
i have no opinion/show results
i have an opinion not listed (leave an explanation pls)
I've been a reader and a writer for a little over a decade. I get it. On the reader side of things, you discover amazing stories. You immerse yourself in more of the author's work. You might even take a break from writing. Reading is an excellent way to "study" literature, but there is a huge danger that comes from too much reading and not enough writing... writers may plagiarize more than they realize. It's not a crime to admire the style and story details of an author. Many writers "borrow" ideas from other writers. However, for the majority of your own writing, you want the story to be unique. You need to develop your own style.
You shouldn't abandon reading for the sake of writing. You can, however, practice healthy tips that will keep your story from sounding like every other story.
Branch Out
Don't limit yourself to one genre, a handful of writers, or a certain aesthetic. If your mind is occupied with a plethora of imaginative scenes, it's a lot harder to plagiarize. If you do "borrow" ideas from a multitude of writers, it will sound more original than basic, cliche ideas from a few authors, depending on how you mix it. Add your own thoughts and plot twists, too. The more you force your brain to think, the more creative it will become.
Breathe
Do not read right before you write. Give yourself some time to breathe, letting go of your favorite scenes. You don't want it sneaking into your work. It doesn't matter if you are gradually working through a book or if you've just finished one. It's in your mind, whether you like it or not. Start writing the next day, pretending your reading never happened. Sure, you can be inspired by what you just read, but let it be fuel, not a means to plagiarize.
Fan-Fiction
This may sound dumb, I know. Some people call fan-fiction lazy. I call it practice. A writer can still use their creativity to come up with unique characters in fan-fiction. Additionally, it's extremely hard to stay true to an unoriginal character's personality. You don't want to change what's demonstrated in that particular fandom, but you also want to have fun and add twists and turns, too. While it sounds as though fan-fiction would only help plagiarizing along, it's not true. Depending on how you write, of course. Go crazy with the original plot. Anything to satisfy your love of reading while still practicing writing. That fan-fiction may never meet the eyes of another person, but it doesn't have to.
Evaluate
Many read for entertainment, which in turn encourages writing for entertainment. If you are simply a reader, it doesn't really matter. If you want to be an engaging writer, you should be aware of what you consume and how you consume it. Think about what you're writing as you're writing it. You glance at the paragraph before... is it sounding like someone else? In the dead of night, right before falling asleep, you think of an idea that you quickly discard, realizing it's been done before. The next morning, you figure out a way to make that idea more unique. If you are treating every word you put down as a precious piece of your puzzle, you're bound to get excited over your work. Eventually, you'll get so excited... you almost forgot about the writers who inspired you. Chances are, you'll re-read sections and laugh over how bits and pieces of other stories made their way into yours, but no one besides you would know, because you changed the expected outcome.
Write!
Force yourself to write. I'm not a mood reader myself, but I know many people are. When it comes to writing, don't let mood control you. Write whether you like it or not. Something, anything. You don't need "just the right book" before writing your own work. Keep the two separate. If you read certain books when you feel like it, there are no issues. If you do the same for writing, gradual plagiarism may follow, or expectant readers will grow tired of your progress. For your own sake, be consistent.
pairing: Jameson Hawthorne x (first person) reader
synopsis : you are at a bar with the Hawthorne brothers who you’ve grown up friends with. But being with Jameson Hawthorne has always been a little different than the others, it’s always felt like there is something more…
warnings : drinking and alcohol
a/n : this is my first ever time writing in this platform so idk if this is too long or really rubbish, I just hope you enjoy and I’m always open to feedback
tag list : there is no tag list but let me know if you want to be on it :)
The music was so loud I could feel each beat in my chest. The pounding of the song was beginning to match the pounding in my head. I could feel my limbs beginning to ache. I needed to get out of hot, sticky, sweatiness of this place. I knew I wasn’t even the slightest bit tipsy, I’d only had one drink and I’m glad, it was easy to get lost in this place. Eventually I find the door to exit. The cold air laps my exposed skin, drinking up the humidity greedily and I’ve never been more grateful. I tip my head back, shutting my eyes and take a deep breath in. I allow the oxygen to fill my lungs and feel a little calmer, a little less achy. I exhale, thankful for the cool breeze of the night. But it’s not longer before my kind begins to wander as it often does when the rest of the world is silent and it always directs me back to the same train of thought. Jameson Hawthorne.
I’d grown up by his side and him by mine. We had always gotten on, always been like minded people with a high aptitude for various subjects. Tobias had always had a liking for me, approving of one of the family’s few outside connections. I’d always been close to all the Hawthorne brothers but Jameson… Jameson was so different. It never felt like just a friendship, the bond was too strong, too emotional for just that. His familiar smirk often laced my dreams and his bright eyes constantly plagued my imagination. Things like that don’t just happen. From the day we met and every day after, there has been a spark. I can feel the electricity pulsing through my veins when I’m around him and I don’t know if he can feel it too. So I say nothing and of course he says nothing and so we live on. Me, imagining the impossible and Jameson… being Jameson.
Suddenly, reeling me out of my thoughts quite literally, my body jerks forward as I feel something hit my back with force. I slam into the pavement, the impact hard, but break my fall with my hands.
“Oh shit shit shit, I’m so sorry,” a familiar voice says.
My head whips around and my eyes widen, “Jameson?”
‘Huh just the person I was thinking about…’ I think, ‘Fate? Nah.’
I look up. There he is, standing there. He’s just fallen out of the door of a bar but somehow still looks like some sort of Greek god. His face so perfect it’s unfair, eyes so bright it gives the sun a run for her money, a smile so alluring that I’d sell both my kidneys just to see it once.
“Oh hey there Y/N!” he grins as I stand up wiping my hands on the bottom of my dress, “didn’t see you there.”
“You don’t say,” I reply, analysing him. His face was red and rosy, his eyelids drooping slightly and I could see the sweat dripping off of his forehead.
“What?” he asks, cocking his head to one side
“You’re drunk,” I state.
“Nooooo,” he slurs, grinning as he stumbles towards me. He’s about to fall over before I act fast and catch him. I underestimated his weight and falter slightly but managed to pull him back as he’s wheezing with laughter.
“What’s so funny Jamie?” I ask, not bothering to suppress my smile.
“I fell over,” he laughs, “and this is the second time now!”
I sigh, “How many drinks have you had?”
“Four…” he says, hesitating a little while, “…bottles.”
“Jameson!” I exclaim.
“Y/n!” he yells, mocking my shocked tone.
“Four whole bottles!”
“Nash had double,” he defends, putting his hands up. His hair, as unruly as ever, look particularly good tonight. I don’t know what he’s done with it but it made him look so beautiful.
“Is that why he’s cowboy dancing?” I ask, recalling the routine if previously witnessed, that will be engraved into my brain for the rest of my life.
“And screaming Taylor Swift,” Jameson tells me, “I believe when I left it was ‘picture to burn’ but by now it could be anything.”
“Damn I missed that,” I say.
“Gray probably got it on video,” he shrugs, tapping one hand on his leg in a rhythm, like he often does when he’s nervous or distracted or just needs to burn some energy.
“Where’s Xander?” I ask him.
“I don’t knowww,” Jameson slurs, his eyes darting from my eyes to my lips and back again, “but I know where you are!”
I smile softly, folding my arms and leaning on the wall behind me, “and where am I?”
His eyelids fall down and then pry open slowly before he slumps down against the wall, hitting the concrete with a thump. That’s going to be a painful bruise tomorrow.
“You are here, with me,” he laughs, “and I’m really happy you’re here with me.”
“You are?” I ask, my eyebrows flying up, caught off guard at the comment
“Yep, can I tell you a secret?” he asks me, his green eyes sparkling as my stares up at me, clinging to my forearm.
“What’s your secret?” I whisper.
“You have to come down here to hear it,” Jameson giggles, tugging twice on my arm. I oblige and sit down next to him, my back against the wall. He takes my face between his hands and I’m taken by surprise. He’s so gentle and soft. My brain is telling me to pull away but our eyes connect and my brain doesn’t seem to work much after that. I’m staring into pools of lush green emeralds, hypnotising me from any logic I may have had. All I can hear is my heart is thumping loudly in my ears.
“What’s your secret?” I whisper, our faces inches apart, almost touching but not quite there.
“You are my favourite person,” he murmurs, “ever!”
His hands no longer cup my face and instead the tip of his finger is booping my nose. I scrunch up my face and try not to laughs. This was probably the most drunk if ever seen Jameson.
“Really?” I ask him.
“Yep,” he nods.
I can’t believe what he’s saying. I can’t let myself, it would be too cruel. He’s drunk. So very drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He won’t remember a word of it and he probably doesn’t mean it. But he possibly does. Hope blossoms in my chest and it feels so much better than the doubt. My heart is still racing, my cheeks from heating up. Thank god he won’t remember.
“Well that’s nice to know,” I say, “you want to know my secret?”
“Yeah!” he says, like an excitable puppy, practically jumping up and down in anticipation. It’s adorable. But I can’t afford to think that.
“You’re my favourite person as well,” I tell him quietly.
“Really?” he makes her, tipping his head to the side.
“Yuh-huh,” I say.
“That made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside,” he muses, “like a kitten.”
I can’t help myself as I let out a giggle. Drunk Jameson is completely random, spouting absolute nonsense but I love it. I love him. But I can’t love him because he’s just a friend. My smile fades slowly and I sigh silently staring up at the stars in the night sky. Maybe in another life, some other universe we’re written in the stars but in this one… no.
“Don’t stop,” Jameson says suddenly.
I stare at him, confusion painted across my features, “Don’t stop what?”
“Smiling,” he replies, “you’re so pretty when you smile…I mean you’re pretty anyway,” he rambled on, “but that smile…” he sighs as he trails off.
“You’re definitely drunk,” I scoff, getting to my feet.
He quickly scrambles up after me, grabbing my arms so I’m staring right at him, “this is the most sober I’ve felt all night.”
“After four bottles?” I chuckle, “yeah right.”
“Has anyone ever told you how gorgeous your eyes are,” he asks suddenly.
“What?” I ask, getting whiplash from the turn of conversation.
“Your eyes…” he murmurs, his finger grazing my jawline.
“Jameson stop this,” I say, pushing him away despite wanting nothing more than his fingers on my skin, “you don’t know what you’re saying.”
I can’t afford to have my heart broken again. I can’t take it. I won’t let myself fall. I replay those sentences in my head over and over, sounding like a mad woman but not caring for a second because I’m too stubborn to let myself go through the pain again.
“I think I do,” he replies, “I could talk about you for hours.”
I have to keep reminding myself he’s drunk. No matter how hard I want to believe that this is real, I know better than to be fooled. Things like this only happen in fiction, not in the real world. Never lose your heart to a Hawthorne, the words are etched into my brain and yet somehow I’m managing to ignore their overbearing call.
“That’s very sweet but you should probably go home and get some rest,” I say, wishing I didn’t have to take responsibility, wishing I was more reckless and selfish so that I’d just take this as my opportunity. But I’m not like that.
“Come with me,” Jameson shouts, a clear desperation in his voice, despite the fact that I wasn’t going anywhere and didn’t plan to. He grabs my hand and pulls me closer to him.
I shake my head, “no Jamie, not today.”
“But I’ll miss you,” he pouts, his hands travelling down my body and stopping at my waist, “and then I’ll get sad.”
I bite back the shiver that is begging to run through me. We’re so close. Butterflies dance around in my stomach, almost as chaotically as Nash when he does his cowboy routine to Taylor Swift. My rational mind is telling me to break free from his grasp but I feel so nice, it feels too natural that I stay.
“You’ll manage,” I tell him quietly.
“I don’t think I will,” he says. I can feel his thumb rubbing circles on the small of my back, “when I’m without you I’m so…” he struggling to find the right word, “down. Nash keeps telling me I should just tell you how I feel but what does he want me to do? Tell you that when you’re not around everything that’s meant to be colourful looks grey or that I spend most of my time thinking about the way your hair curls in the rain or the way I’ve noticed that you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re nervous. Or the dreams I’ve had about you dancing in my arms, your voice calling me yours and the sunset beaches we lay on whole we talk about everything.”
“Jameson…” I whisper, reaching out and touching his cheek tentatively.
“I love you Y/N L/N,” Jameson tells me, looking me dead in the eyes.
“You’ve had a lot to drink,” I reply sharply, shaking myself from his gasp. I’m suddenly cold without his warm hands situated on my waist, but I refuse to shiver.
“No! Listen to me! It’s always been you, I truly think it has been,” he says, so convincingly I almost believe him, “from the day we first met there’s always been something there. I felt it and I know you did too,” his voice, so determined, so passionate, “there was no way you couldn’t have. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to tell you all of this but it’s only taken me this long to express it because I’m too much of a coward to try when I’m sober,” he admits, honesty in his shining green eyes, “but I know what I’m saying, I know what I’m doing and I’m so crazy on this high of love that I don’t think the alcohol is even working anymore.”
“I want to believe you, really Jamie, I do,” I murmur, “you don’t know how badly I want this but…” I trail off, unable to finish what my brain wants me to say, getting distracted by the way he’s looking at me.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks me softly, his eyes flicking from mine to my lips.
“Jameson-“
“Your lips look so beautiful,” he says, “Can I kiss you?”
For many authors, writing is an intensely person endeavour. It reflects not only their experiences but also their beliefs, emotions, and temperament. However, these things are not static. As we grow older, we acquire new experiences, and these can change our beliefs, emotions, and even our temperament. This means that an author’s writing can, and often does, change over time.
Likewise, reading can also be a very personal activity. How we interpret, appreciate, and enjoy a story depends on our experiences, as well as our beliefs, emotions, and temperament. As with authors, these can change for a reader over time.
So what does this mean?
It means that sometimes, as readers, our preferences can change not only because an author’s writing can change but also because how we interact with their writing can change.
I’ll give you an example. One of my favourite authors of all time is Stephen King. When I was in my teens, I absolutely devoured every book of his that I could get my hand on. Indeed, my early writing style was heavily influenced by his more folksy approach, which led to some frankly bizarre efforts since I was also heavily influenced by Tolkien (note: Tolkien and King do not mix very easily). However, over time, I noticed that I wasn’t enjoying his newer stories as much as I’d enjoyed his previous ones.
Part of it was my tastes changing. I used to read much more horror fiction than I do now. I liked the thrill of the strange and terrifying. In fact, there was a time when almost everything I read was horror, but that changed as I got older. However, I would later discover that Stephen King had gotten hit by a car. As you can imagine, this was a life-changing experience for him, and I noticed that almost everything I liked had been written before he’d been hit by the car whereas I liked relatively few of his works that had been written afterward. It wasn’t that he suddenly became a bad writer or anything like that. His skill was every bit as great as before, but apart from my changing tastes, it also felt to me that the focus and ‘feel’ of his stories had changed. It wasn’t necessarily a huge change, but it was definitely something that I picked up.
Let me emphasise again that this is not a criticism of Stephen King. Instead, it is an example of how a reader (me) and an author (Stephen King) both changing can lead to a mismatch.
There are, of course, more innocuous examples. When I was young, I used to find the Goosebumps Series to be quite interesting. However, as I got older, I just couldn’t enjoy them to the same extent anymore. I had outgrown them, a process I’m sure most of the series’ readers go through.
However, you don’t always outgrow stories. Sometimes, they grow on you. Shane by Jack Schaefer is probably my favourite novel of all time. I loved it when I first read it as a teen, and I go back to reread it regularly. Yet as I’ve grown older, I think I’ve come to like the book even more than when I first read it. Now that I’m older, I’m not longer limited to the perspective of the young protagonist. I’ve got enough experience under my belt to appreciate the way the older characters must have felt.
Writers change, and so do readers. But that doesn’t mean a book that you once thought was good suddenly become bad. It’s a matter of context. It’s about finding the right book for the right person at the right time.
If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.
You can find my original fiction on Amazon here.
P. S. I should have an interesting announcement to make in the next week or two.
I want to begin by letting you know / that the title is no lie, even though / this poem is not quite a portrait of / reader and writer.
Dean Rader, from Self-Portrait as Wikipedia Entry (Copper Canyon Press, 2017), featured in Page One in the March/April issue of Poets & Writers Magazine
