working title: The Girl and the Typewriter (probably going to change it at some point)
genre: fictional autobiography
setting: late 1920s - 1990s in various countries
status: beginning to write
POV: first person limited
themes: bi protagonist (girl is my alter ego of course she is); expensive fur and perfume; pearls and diamonds; swing music; parties where everyone is invited; 1940s & 1950s glamour; travelling on old steamboats; being fed up with people and relationships; the overwhelming feeling that whatever you do; you’ll always be alone
summary:
This is the fictional autobiography of writer Louise “Plummy” R. Waverly, the daughter of Lord Alexander Waverly and Blume Feingold, a good-for-nothing aristocratic drunk and an opera singer from Vienna. She tells her story from her earliest childhood in Mayfair, London and the various travels with her parents over her time in Paris in the résistance, her first published novel “Mephisto and the Lady”, her part in the Cuban Revolution and of course the many famous and interesting individuals she meets along the way.
*wip playlist*
taglist under the cut (ask to be +/-)
general taglist: @wherewindysurgeswend @gothicgibsongirl @bookphobe @sadsentinel @mcximilians @tragediesoftory @euphoniouspandemonium @ortolon
(adding the cosmopolitan taglist as well bc why not)
╭﹒❍﹒𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖕𝖎𝖓𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖊𝖑 — a writeblr re-introduction.
⋆˚﹆⟠﹒𝕮HRISTENING !
hi, my name’s aurora (aura / rora) and i use she/her pronouns! i was previously @winteranarchy on writeblr but i’ve decided to rebrand and reintroduce myself. my writing will be posted here on this blog and a list of my current projects can be found on this page, but i’ll also start being more active on my writing twitter @rorawrites. you can also find me at my main @warstorm which is my litblr where i post and reblog edits.
i’m a scorpio, slytherin, i/entj and vietnamese-australia. i’m a lover of literature and mythology as well as classical and fantasy novels and some of my favourite books include the night circus, the picture of dorian gray and perfume: the story of a murderer.
please feel free to add me to any of your tag lists or chat with me through my inbox or dms, i’d love to get to know more you lovely people and get acquainted with your writing too !
projects and taglist below the cut.
⋆˚﹅♡⃕﹒𝕿HE 𝖁ISION !
₀₁・𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐
— The first installment in the Iron Star Duology.
Crimson Falling is the story of tempests, of serpents and of saints. It is the story of blood and the tragic fates of the decadent and the cunning. After a night of hallucinated memories leading to their nemesis’ body found floating in the school’s lake, a group of seven students become ensnared within a plot to cover up what they believe to be blood upon their hands. They soon begin to realise that their academy is not what it seems upon the surface, as they begin to unearth the curious evils that lie within the institute and the secrets thought lost and buried alongside the dead heiress.
introduction (coming soon!) | wip page | wip tag
₀₂・𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚜
— The first installment in the Silver Sun Trilogy.
The court has descended into madness. In a land where daylight rises and cedes in a cycle of seven weeks, a kingdom has awoken at the first fall of sun to their beloved monarchs beheaded; murdered by their own son and heir to their throne. The crown now falls into the lap of the youngest prince, a boy who never planned to hold such great power and had no clue on how to keep it. Amidst the battle for his rightful throne, Prince Castiel must not only deal with the rebellion that his brother ignited and his sister’s mysterious disappearance but also travel to the ends of the land to find the last enchantress, the only one who can save his decaying soul, before the sun sets on the seventh week. In a land of deceit, ambition and betrayal; with only one crown to be claimed and a desperate, incumbent prince determined to keep it in the wake of his parent’s assassination, tensions have never be higher within the Court of Silver Suns.
introduction (coming soon!) | wip page | wip tag
₀₃・𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚢𝚙𝚛𝚞𝚜
— A short story retelling of Pygmalion and Galatea set in the Decadent Era and inspired by Frankenstein, The Picture of Dorian Gray and Perfume: the story of a murderer.
When a single drop of blood falls into a sea of foaming sapphire and azure hues, a monster of beautiful destruction is created. The Birth of Venus catalyses within its sweeping strokes, an even greater beauty that it beholds; but even from the same likeness of the goddess, the Mériadec portrait outshines its predecessor both in aestheticism and in gore. At an Italian gallery exhibit in the year 1817, French portrait painter, Pascal Mériadec, is challenged by scornful critics to commission a portrait more beautiful than Venus herself. With each brush of paint upon his canvas, Mériadec slowly begins to fall obsessively in love with the woman in the frame; spending every waking hour with the girl whom he has named Eglantine, the Lady of Cyprus. Filled with the desperate desire for the love he shared with Eglantine to be real, the artist would do anything in his power to bring her to life, even if it meant leaving death in his wake.
introduction (coming soon!) | wip page | wip tag
₀₄・𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚡
— The first installment in the Pantheon Duology.
A world basked in ivory and gold, painted with age old myth upon every surface; hides the flaws of a government whose corruption will cause the downfall of their people. Unbeknownst to the revelling and immoral power of the city, the seeds of rebellion have long since been planted, flowers now blooming in the cracked pavement where blood and tears have watered them. The House of Pollux, one organisation in a triumvirate of self-proclaimed saviours, has set their sights on overthrowing the government and fighting the rising discord that threatens the city. Seven abducted prodigies, stolen from homes that have never belonged to them and from names they will never remember, are tasked with the infiltration and assassination of their country’s leader. These gifted individuals who have grown where the light has not found them, have now come forth to reclaim the world that belongs to them and to save the country from the clutches of beautiful tyrants. And thus glorious mutiny arises, in the name of the Pantheon.
introduction (coming soon!) | wip page | wip tag
₀₅・𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚢
— Standalone Novel (possibility of a prequel novella).
Eternity appears to be a rather long time for punishment, no matter how malicious the criminal was, however, in her liminal state drifting between immortality and mortality, the Empress didn't care, rather she loved it. The Duchess of the Netherworld floats between beautiful places, corrupting them with her presence, rendering victims mad only for her mere entertainment. And when she tires of her station, she finds herself a new arena for her twisted games, each time a new setting that she has only dreamt of in her eternal torture.
She does not greet you as you are welcomed through the entrance of The Winter Anarchy; an opera house of such opulence and decadence so uncommon to mankind. The vestibules of hell embrace your tortured and devious soul and you are welcomed like the mad sinner that you are. You are not dead though, not quite yet at least. She has saved you from such a fate for now and you really ought to thank her for her ill intended grace. You are a puppet, merely here to play a game… her game. Win and you shall be graced with the eternal glory, freedom and power of beings such as she is but lose and you must pay the most treacherous price for every drop of unholy blood running through your veins.
introduction (coming soon!) | wip page | wip tag
taglist. (tagging a few friends, mutuals and writeblrs that i admire. let me know if you would like to be added or removed from future taglists!)
@vaelinor . @kalliopeian . @veiliza . @rapunzelle . @aeternve . @laythe . @xiyais . @queen-of-dust . @bintiskandar . @theheartbreakclub . @elizaabennet . @duskbourne . @ortolon . @sourrcandy . @atelierwriting . @sprigofbasil . @serpentarii . @herondalelucies . @thetragediies . @chuchoters . @parsel-tongue . @arkicts . @ikilledmyocs . @hiswraith . @oasis-of-you
Some wars perhaps never end when they are thought to have.
As the story goes, its been ten years. Ten years since the sudden war between Vaatika and Orden. Ten years since the defeat of Vaatika. And ten years since the kingdom of Vaatika has been left in ashes.
But there are secrets. And there's much too many mysteries left behind in those ashes.
Kiran, on a mission, is wandering outside her kingdom, Orden, where she gets entangled into the lives of three Vaatikans searching for a way into Orden. When she gets recruited by them, she soon realizes that the kingdom of Orden might not have been the saviour ten years ago as everyone believed. As the consequences of ten years prior starts to cause chaos, it falls on Kiran, Vihaan, Alisha and Afreen to bring out the truth. But in between people who have trusted and told her the truth more than anyone else in her life, Kiran is holding a secret. A secret which threatens their shaky alliance. One, she is determined to not let out.
CHARACTERS :–
Kiran Shah: Stuck between court schemes, secrets and lies, she has to make her own choice, and choose her side before its too late.
Kingdom: Orden
Vihaan Bakshi: Heart full of love for his kingdom and vengeful for its destruction, he awaits the moment when the kingdom of Orden falls.
Kingdom: Vaatika
Afreen Ali: An artist stuck between her duty and passion, yearns for freedom of those wronged ten years ago.
Kingdom: Vaatika
Alisha Basu: Haunted by her past, a soldier biding her time by waiting for her moment of glory to come, she wishes for revenge and to see the kingdom of Orden burn.
Kingdom: Chaalki
Taglist (ask to be +/-): @opes-magnas @taqdeers @jiangsziyas @kishons @gnymedes @zoya-writes @seas-dubh
Tagging some amazing writeblrs: @rhikasa @mshelleys @yaqarah @the-unwrittenwriter
Special thanks to @myhollowcries for always helping me out <33
@authorsnet event 01: first meetings — Najm Abbas and Sana Ahmed
Prequel to OUR VENGEFUL DESIRES
When one takes the pledge of the Dhimr Academy, one should not intend to break it.
Najm supposed intention was too big a word here. He had not planned to break the pledge, nor had he known that he would. But time had the tendency to alter plans.
Seven exits. Twenty-four guards on duty. Thirty-six classes in session. One Qubba—one, one, one.
He gasped, hand flying to his head as a blinding pain erupted at his right temple. Najm reached for something to hold onto, trying to steady his steps as fire spread through his mind, his own skin hot to the touch.
Focus. Let the details come to you.
Seven exits. Because this was the largest academy in Arijwan, the most prestigious. One only highly qualified Sahera—or in his case, highly rare—were privy to attend. Twenty-four guards. He had counted the few lining the roof, as well. For insurance. Thirty-six classes. Because he had memorized the Academy’s schedule his first night here. One Qubba, because there was only one word he remembered his mother shouting on the night she died.
Najm dropped to the floor, his knees hitting the tile with enough force to make him gasp. The pain was receding, white spots now littering his vision instead. He tried to focus on a small beetle, pleasantly tottering along the seam where stone met tile. He let his mind calm for a minute more before trying to stand again.
His professors had developed many words to describe Najm since his arrival—special case was the one he’d come to expect. Ticking bomb was one they favored in his absence.
None of which seemed to adequately clarify why Najm’s affinity was the only one that brought about so much pain.
The Dhimr Academy was an ancient, large building that seemed devoid of light at any time of day. Stone arches made up the halls, diamond-shaped porcelain rising up from the sides in decorative circles. There was no effort spared in perfecting such a prestigious academy. And Najm should have loved it. The Najm he used to be might have. He might have marveled at the intricately carved birds raised against the inside walls. The swirls of color exploding beneath the high-raised dome at the main entrance. Or the library with levels of shelves too high for his reach, and too advanced for his mind.
But he had not been that boy for many months.
He rose on shaky legs, leaning heavily against the wall. If his memory served, and it always had, there were eighteen minutes left before someone—likely a guard, possibly a professor on his way to his next class—noticed that Najm was not where he was supposed to be. And if the headmaster’s threats served as well as Najm’s memory, then he had to get back before then.
“I was told you were clever, but only an idiot would try to sneak past the headmaster’s own office and expect no consequences.”
Najm startled, his legs nearly giving out under him as he whipped around to face the voice.
A short girl, years too young to be on this floor, with hair cropped under her chin and an amused glint in her dark eyes stood there. Her arms were crossed, head tilted to the side.
Najm tried to prevent his mind from springing into details but it had already slipped its leash—her concealed fists were clenched, meaning her abilities were currently in use, and since Najm had not heard her approach, that meant she was a Silver. The beige dress she wore fell loosely around her, short sleeves connected to the fabric giving the appearance of a bird’s wings mid-flight. And the Silver threads weaved around the neckline confirmed his theory about her Sahera affinity. A Wielder of Winds. She was too young for this floor, but evidently, her control surpassed her age. She had been moved up a few levels.
And the only reason she would know the concealed back door to the headmaster’s office was only a few steps away, was if she had been one of the students who had played a prank on him months ago.
“Sana Ahmed,” he said, wincing. He forced his breathing to even. Let the details come to you.
She hummed, a small smile curling her lips, “you are not supposed to be down here.”
Najm swallowed. He was still recovering from his last burst of power, and he knew that any response his mind might generate now would be a lie. He settled for a shrug.
“What happens if they find you?” she said, apparently happy to keep active a one-sided conversation.
Najm said nothing. It hurt too much to lie.
“I’m told I can be reckless,” she added thoughtfully, raising a hand and uncurling her fingers one by one. Around them, abandoned classroom doors were being pushed open by an invisible hand. “Do I want to be here when they find you?”
Najm watched her for a moment longer. There was a door at the end of the hall flanked by two guards on the outside. If she wished to allow it, that door could burst open and they’d both be caught out of class. She looked much too amused at the situation, and Najm had heard enough about the students here to realize none of them truly cared to mind themselves.
But then, none of them were being forced to come here against their will.
“What do you want?” he said finally. He doubted she even realized what he was offering. A truth. Truths didn’t hurt. Truths were easy, the world was made of them. Truths were the details his mind overflowed with. But not everyone deserved the truth, just because it was there.
Her eyes gleamed with victory and a flick of her wrist slammed shut the few doors she had opened. “Is it true you are a Gold?”
Najm clenched his jaw, the word had already become a sore bruise against his thoughts. “Yes.”
“Will you let it kill you?”
Najm was struck for a moment by how matter-of-factly she spoke. When the Kashif had revealed to Najm what his affinity was, his tone had been grave, almost sad. He had told him, your mind is not your own. And then paused. It had occurred to Najm then that at this point an adult might stare meaningfully into his eyes and demand he never forgets their words.
But he had not understood then that being a Gold meant never forgetting.
When he spoke again his words were quiet, filled with the fire that haunted his dreams and filled his thoughts. Those same flames turned determined.
“Never.”
Sana watched him for a moment, her gaze curious.
“Good,” she decided finally. She turned away as if to leave before hesitating, glancing back once. It occurred to Najm that while him being there at that exact time, in that exact place was entirely purposeful, Sana had appeared there by coincidence.
Coincidence, the thought echoed in his own mind, almost mocking. The world is hardly ever that careless.
“Stay,” Sana said, at last, her words quiet. “Neither of us needs to be here alone.”
ft. the exploration of love, life & death, and feelings, among other things.
— CONTENTS ;
ONE: MEMORY LANE ISN’T THE SAME WITHOUT YOU.
TWO: HALLOWEEN PARTY IN SUMMER.
THREE: BEHOLDEN TO THE ONES WHO LIVE NO MORE.
FOUR: YOUR SEASONS! THEY’RE OUT OF ORDER.
— WARNINGS ;
· there are many, many mentions of death and methods of dying; please read with care. [ if you are easily triggered, please skip TWO. ]
· mention of gambling [ please also skip TWO if triggered. ]
· if there is anything i may have missed, feel free to drop me an ask and i’ll get right to it!
— OTHER ;
· song recs: best read with running with the wolves (AURORA) | monsters (ruelle) | virtual reality (renforshort) | &burn (billie eilish ft. vince staples)
· thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a like + reblog, and/or drop me an ask with your thoughts!
· you can also find me on twitter @zhenkexia
— TAGLIST ;
GENERAL (ask to be +/-) : @lefttigerobservation
ONE-TIME (ily) : @charles-joseph-writes
Deep in the forest, through a barrier, there was a glade where his demise awaits.
There was a graveyard with no crosses and tombstones. It was located deep through the thick woods and greenery of the forest. A clearing where the moon served as its marker, for those who’d want to lead themselves astray and for him.
No prayers were offered, no candles were lit. Even if anyone did, it’s not what they wanted. Its existence remained a mystery. The villagers stood countless warnings around the forest to keep everyone safe. And no one ever went there, not since few town daredevils never came back.
The civil guards stationed in the village were on the lookout for a criminal, a serial murderer. He was the first one in the history of the entire colony. He was a menace, targeting women and children. No matter who they are, how rich or poor, as long as they’d satisfy him. Their pleading cries and muffled screams for help were music to his ears. No one had escaped his grasps.
He was fast like the wind, slippery like an eel. A master of disguise too. On most days, he would be an Indio, a sweaty native plowing the fields, seemingly hard at work, but attentive to any unfamiliar onlookers and civil guards out of uniform. Sometimes, he’d be an Ilustrado, prim and proper. One of the young men in line for succession clad in suits, privileged with the highest quality of education available. And no one would ever think such a man would taint themselves with blood and crime. An immature notion, really. Around these parts, intellect comes with power. And power deranges a man.
No one knew what he really was.
With the number of lives increasing than their arrests, the civil guards grew mad and strict. They were ordered to patrol for longer hours, even beyond the pay grade they received. The first murder was that of a native woman, but no one seated in law enforcement cared. Not until a Principalia had demanded his daughter’s assailant be found. Ever since then, civil guards had taken records of every murder committed with the same motif.
Tonight, he was on his third kill of the year, seventeen overall. He carved the number on the back of the body, keeping count of his deed. And a reminder of his pursuers’ incompetence. The blood streaming off the woman’s body colored the white sheets like art often seen inside the Galleons.
With his bloody shirt and knife in hand, he carefully slipped out of the victim’s home. But the natives have prayed every day and night for his arrest; and for Sitan to take him to the depths of his punishing realm and make him suffer after he dies. And when he heard the shouts of civil guards, he ran.
His fast steps took him through the farming field towards the forest, confident of his speed to stir away from the bullets’ path. No one had ever caught sight of him before, and he’s determined to keep it that way.
He rustled through many bushes and skipped over dead woods. The forest was oddly loud, as if the guardians were helping him escape the guards. Or perhaps protesting his inhumanity.
Then, everything went silent—no stridulating of crickets, footsteps of the civil guards, or even the low howl of the wind.
He passed through the barrier, finally.
The moon shined brightly where he stood as he composed himself. The civil guards seemed to have lost their way when he reached the clearing. But he remained on alert. The area was quite odd, it looked as if it didn’t belong with the rest of the forest. It was a world of its own.
And it felt too familiar to him.
A thin mist was masking the woods around the clearing and the dew sparkled like crystals reflecting the moonlight. He felt as if the guardians of the forest were indeed helping him escape his demise.
But he stood corrected.
A floating ball of blue ligh—No, a floating blue fireball appeared in front of him. He was frozen, the proximity of it too close.
Everyone who grew up in the village, in the entire archipelago knew what it is. To outsiders, it could only be a mere weather phenomenon. But to natives and believers, they’re much more than what the current science perceived it to be.
Santelmo, a fireball soaring above ground. The same one in front of him right now. He never believed those folklores. Those tall tales. Stories elders used to tell children to keep them inside at night. Deranged narratives fishermen rambled on while they drown themselves in Tubâ.
Natives believed that a Santelmo brings bad luck to those who’d see it, causing confusion and misdirection, especially to travelers. A creature derived from the soul of those who was murdered, their graves unmarked in isolated places such as this mystic glade.
Another fireball appeared behind the first one. Then another. And another one, until the whole clearing seemed to be filled by its blazing blue light.
Slowly, the first one turned to face him. Its calm visage and long limbs finally in sight. It had a face of a woman, much like the one he encountered earlier; the blood of her still drying on his clothes, sticking on his skin.
Something was drawing him to touch the glowing creature. And he did. True to what the stories told, the fire didn’t burn him, but he felt extremely cold; colder than the sea at night.
He held the creature in his hands, completely captured by its light. The Santelmo’s eyes opened abruptly, startling him. He took a step back but he couldn’t remove his hands. He was starting to feel much colder than a moment ago. Its long limbs reach out to his face, imitating his action. That’s when he realized, he was done for.
What he didn’t know about these particular Santelmos, was that they existed for a reason—revenge. And this glade was made specifically for him.
Once his eyes were locked with the Santelmo’s fiery ones, and his hand completely intact with it, he was sent to a deep spiral of memories. Reels of someone else’s life kept flashing in front of him at the speed of light. It felt like he was reliving her life from the moment her eyes laid upon the world until the moment she died.
But her death wasn’t natural. She was murdered. The poor woman was taken advantage of when she was sleeping. She was tied with the rips of her thin sheets to the frame of her wooden bed. She pleaded for him to stop, for mercy. But the man holding her down was getting worried the neighborhood would wake. He was quick to shatter the lamp on her bedside and used the largest shard to strike her heart and stop it from beating.
He was the man. He killed her.
The man stumbled back, out of breath and in excruciating pain. He was mortified, questioning everything he’d ever done. The pleasure all those crimes gave him was replaced with horror. Every hit he had on those women, he felt it too. And he didn’t want them for himself.
But it was too late for him to realize that. Too late to turn a new leaf, too late to ask for forgiveness. The gods had already sealed his fate.
The rest of the Santelmos, closed in on him., surrounding him with their cold heat and blinding blue light. All of them had their limbs reaching down for him, eager to have him a taste of what he had done. To feel the knife on his back, carving a number with a knife. To have him feel the blood spilling out of their bodies with his every strike.
That’s what they all wanted. Something a prayer nor a lit candle could never achieve.
Every blazing hand that touched him made him go through all their lives at once. He kept shouting for help, hoping the civil guards could hear him beyond the barrier of the glade. Whatever verdict they plan to cast upon him was certainly better than this.
There was no hope for him, not anymore. He took the hope of many, hope for a future. Hope for many things. So why would he deserve it?
His mind couldn’t take much more of it, but he kept feeling every emotion they had while still alive. The pain he caused coursed through his body until his whole being gave up, eyes rolling to the back of his head.
And died.
One by one, the Santelmos disappeared, their purpose finally achieved. The barrier of the glade was no more. And when morning came, civil guards had found the body of a man, crows gathered around him. He was the man they were pursuing all night. The man who was a serial murderer, the first one in the history of the colony.
And he will never kill again.
Glossary:
I threw a few terms in the story (all italicized) that might not be familiar to everyone who read it. So, here’s a list.
Civil guards – or guardia civil, the law enforcement during the colonial era in the Philippines.
Indio – a term Spanish colonizers used to refer to the locals and natives of the archipelago, usually with the intent to insult.
Ilustrado – basically those who were able to avail education during the colonial era.
Principalia – the noble, ruling class.
Galleons – in the story, I was referring to the cargo ships used in the Galleon Trade.
Tubâ – a Filipino alcoholic drink made from the sap of palm trees. I tried it before, not my drink. LOL.
Sitan – basically, Satan, guardian of Kasamaan (which is Hell.)
Santelmo – I describe this creature as a blue fireball, with a face and long limbs. In the illustration of this book, a Santelmo looked like this:
A note from Aye:
Thank you for reading! I met the deadline! Honestly, I was struggling to finish this very very short story. I hope the story was an interesting read and I hope it was okay overall (especially to writersnet. Thank you for having this event! Hope y’all are well and having a great day/night!) This is the first time I’m submitting my work for a writeblr event so I’m kind of nervous about it.
Again, thank you for reading. Have a great day/night!
(3/10) Sorry this is a bit late! Anyway I’m gonna start dating these so I can keep track of them better.
Here’s the link to the last update.
Word count: 72k
Chapters: Fifteen complete, three in progress
Okay honestly this week I just drew a bunch of portraits instead of writing, but in my defense I think they’re pretty pretty.
But I really need to get back on the drafting train because my girlfriend resident editor is all caught up.
The good news is that I’m drafting chapter 16 and that’s when Malory comes back into the plotline 🎊
Anyway, here’s an excerpt:
Behind me, Lœthekate’s hand fell on my shoulder. “What a sight isn’t it?”
In the distance, water dripped.
“It’s enough to make a man furious, isn’t it? Sure, you can fix this. But what a waste, don’t you think? A waste of weeks of careful therapies. Do they care for you, your education, so little? It’s enough to drive one to violence, I would think.”
What do we build on?
As artists, as authors, as writers, how do we create in this digital age, where everything lasts forever but nothing is immortal?
Stop caring about the immortal. While the Kings of Medieval Europe were downing gold leaf trying to expand their fleeting lifetimes, Christine de Pizan sat at her writing desk, toiling away at her manuscript. The Romantics died early from consumption and vice. Their virtue, though, is in their legacy: nothing is immortal, not on this planet. Alchemists did not find immortality in a Philosopher’s Stone. No one has ever found immortality. It was not meant for mortal worlds.
So what do we build on? Foundations are key to legacies, and must be long-lasting. How do we leave our mark if it won’t last? And if it won’t last, why bother writing at all?
That is the point: it will not last. Not forever. It could last the twenty minutes it’s posted to Archive of Our Own, or centuries in a cave covered in sea salt.
The point is that it will not last into forever; the point is that it exists now.
A writer doesn’t need a foundation to build on. I don’t need a foundation to build upon.
I don’t need a bedrock to anchor my writing to.
Laptop, pen and paper, chalk to a wall, it doesn’t matter. I just need something to write with.
— details
hello— i’m jane, xix, from canada. i’ve been writing for as long as i can remember, and this is just carrying on a habit that i can hopefully turn into a tradition. i mostly write fantasy & short stories, with a little bit of other genres mixed in.
so, here we are— welcome to my writeblr! since it’s new, there will most definitely be a few kinks to iron out, so please bear with me. so far my about and projects pages are completed. the tags page isn’t done at all, and neither is my character page; those will come somewhere in the near future.
— projects
BRIGHT THE MOON —
DAGMAR WAS NOT A DREAMER.
high fantasy, na, novel-length.
A SILVER FORTUNE —
TAKE UP THE PEN FOR A FORGERY.
alternative historical fiction, na, novel-length.
CROWNS LAID BARE —
BROKEN HEARTS, GREEDY CROWNS.
high fantasy, ya, novel length.
