Seeds of Inspiration: Never Force Quit! Go Questing
We’re getting ready for Camp NaNoWriMo this April! Every writer carries seeds of inspiration; today, Kara Bodegón, NaNoWriMo participant, writer, and visual artist, tells us why writing a novel is a series of quests:
You’ve tripped and fallen into a booby trap in the middle of conceptualizing your manuscript—it’s okay, we’ve all been there. There are those who find themselves in the ditch, then wind up hitting the force quit option to dwell there forever. And then there are writers—brave writers—who rise to find ways to climb out to freedom and run until they come across a huge cliff where, sure, they might drop to their gruesome deaths but they’ll just respawn to find a way to reach the other side.
Writing a novel is like jumping into a grand RPG adventure, where your quest is to shape a tale you’d want to read. Now, figuring out how to build these page-turning stories is all about accepting multiple side quests: gathering seeds of inspiration, fighting self-doubt, and coming out alive as a stronger writer.
He isn’t sure when his feelings begin to shift. One day his hatred for the crowned king of Hell is almost palpable every moment that his thoughts turn toward him, and the next day he finds himself somewhat yearning to share a quiet moment in Diablo’s presence. He assures himself the strange influx of tender emotions has been a slow, gradual case, but there’s doubt in his mind. Although he has lived for a little over a hundred years, every day passes by in such length it would be difficult not to notice the difference in the way he resents his king. Perhaps he’s thinking too much. After all, since their hellish leader has returned from the underworld and has taken residency in the human’s home, he has had to face Diablo on more than one occasion multiple times a day. Of course he would think too much on it.
Despite this, Francis still collects his novel and wanders around the estate until he happens upon the king himself.
He would imagine Diablo might spend his time improving his dark powers and studying some sort of ancient text, but his expectations are lost against reality. In fact, he seems to be more interested in intense human battles between chefs and singers playing in an almost constant loop on the television. It’s kind of ridiculous and almost hilarious how strange the image is, but he figures he has seen stranger things since his death some time ago. Francis drums his fingers against the smooth hard cover of the book and steps forward into the living area, his eyes narrowed toward the screen in some display of mild interest. He takes another step inside, and finally Diablo takes notice of his approaching figure.
“Oh,” the king hums, “hello, Francis. What is it?”
Francis glances toward his king and feels the edges of his mind begin to fray at the question. How can he handle himself if he cannot even answer a simple question? He feels like some maiden stalling for time in front of her love interest. Frowning, the demon shrugs. “Do you mind if I read in here?” He winces the second the words leave his mouth. There is over a good fifty empty rooms in the entire mansion, and the only other occupants of the house are busying themselves in Hurbert’s private bedroom. He has no good reason to desire reading in the same exact room as his hated enemy, but stuttering and stumbling toward an excuse would only rouse more suspicion.
Diablo sends him an odd look. “I don’t mind.” He replies, leaning further back into the couch.
Grateful for the lack of questions, Francis moves forward and settles beside his king. He imagines an awkward silence that would perforate the entire room and leave him more distracted than he wants, but to his surprise, a comforting calmness sits between them. The demon opens the novel and he finds it easy to pick up where he’s left off, enveloped in the gentle atmosphere that wards off the concerns of his mind. He reads of knights and armor and fantastical dragons guarding the cliché princesses awaiting for true love, and by the time he finishes the story, the sun has set and warm shadows grow across the floors and the walls. He closes the book and switches his gaze forward, only to find himself surprised at the black screen of the TV. He anticipates Diablo to be gone elsewhere, but his king remains by his side, studying the title of his literature with quizzical eyes.
“I didn’t know you liked to read fairy-tales.” Diablo remarks, his tone curious and light and otherwise not as cruel as it could have been.
Embarrassed at his own choice for entertainment, Francis averts his eyes and glares at the corner of the room still illuminated with soft light. “I don’t.” He murmurs defensively. He can feel the incredulous stare his king gives him, and before Diablo can press further, he adds, “What does it matter?”
A few, quiet moments pass by. “It doesn’t,” Diablo responds. Foreign fingers crawl against his wrist and intertwine into his own. Cold palms pressing against one another, he continues, “Tell me about them.” It’s hardly an order, but his wrinkled heart feels as though it may begin to beat once more. Adonis has never inquired about his tastes in novels, though he doesn’t doubt his brother would poke fun at him for it if he did pay attention. Hurbert, despite his best intentions, can not keep his interest high enough for Francis to be fooled into thinking the human is any more inquisitive about it than his own twin. There is no one else after them that has stayed long enough to notice the kind of books he reads, and no one else for Francis to confide into about it.
So Francis tells him. He avoids casting his own enjoyment in his explanations, but after the encouraged and curious looks from his companion, he can’t help but become more enthusiastic with the stories. After only a hundred years, there has been so many remakes and remodels of the books that he feels he could never read enough of every interpretation recorded. He asserts this much to Diablo, who in turn nods in agreement and chips in with his own ideas of human logic and how these stories could survive time and live for just as long as they have. Francis squeezes his hand in his excitement and smiles at his king, finding that that face and that voice much more appealing than he remembers yesterday.
Title: idk idk
Fandom: Hatoful Boyfriend
Rating: ??? T???
Pair: Shuu Iwamine/Gender-neutral Reader
A/N Notes: this is not finished i don’t care anymore take this away from me i finished holiday star MONTHS ago i haven’t touched this story in so long goodbye
At the King’s trembling request, you find yourself travelling about in the Crystal Forest. Shards of translucent particles decorate the woodwork and mushrooms surrounding you, and above, the neighboring stars glimmer brighter than they had previously in the village. However, no matter how awe striking the scenery and equally toned atmosphere is, you still find edges of frustration crumble inside you. The King has asked you to investigate a particularly questionable restaurant just outside of town, and that’s all fine and whatnot, except you can’t find the restaurant. Within the last thirty or forty minutes you’ve spent directionless among the vibrant greenery, all you’ve managed to catch is a bad taste in your mouth via a rather hostile pollen attack from an alien flower. You wish someone would stop by and point the way.
And then within a matter of seconds, the trees grow sparse and upon an opening you wander across a large brick building. The appearance is so jarring and sudden that you take a moment to pause and wonder how surreal it is to have just been wishing for civilization and finding it a little ways after. Briefly you wonder if this forest grants wishes, and you close your eyes to wish for what comes at the top of your head. When you open your eyes and find yourself still considerably empty-handed, a slight embarrassment clouds your expression and you decide to move on.
At the top of the door illustrates a partridge with a chef's hat and cleaver. To your left, a simple sign welcomes with swirling font, “Chateau Chukar.” Pleasantly tasteful. You’re reminded of a familiar chukar partridge that runs the clinic in St. PigeoNations. If this is a dream and not some freak accident that you’re not aware of, then you have a very good feeling of who’s inside. Iwamine Shuu has never been your favorite, but you would be the first to admit how alluring the bird’s chirping is. If it can be called that.
You push the door open. Instead of a welcoming area widening into an inevitable dining room, you face a plain hallway, a simple door, and a standing picket-sign. Upon closer inspection, the sign reads, “This shop has many orders. Please be patient.” If it’s so popular, how are people disappearing under such watchful eyes? You haven’t seen a line, but it is getting late. The last of the patrons must be straight ahead into the main dining area being served, surely. You step past the post and push the door open--
A plain hallway, and simple door, and a standing picket-sign greet you once more. The only initial tell-tale difference is a steaming bucket by the side, supplied half way with pristine water. What are you supposed to do with that? You inspect the post and find it reads, “Please clean yourselves here.” Clean yourself? That seems rather rude--your hygiene isn’t something to sneeze about. If this uppity owner is so concerned by bacteria left by guests, then perhaps they should move on to another profession. After all, managers and chefs alike shouldn’t be picky about those who are willing to pay a price. You ignore the sign and move forward.
You come across two more corridors, one supplying a uniquely smooth cream and the other with salt. You deny both requests on the displayed signs with an uneasiness that settles in your bones. Cleaning and slathering yourself in cream and salt seems more or less a preparation process for the food itself. You aren’t assured about Iwamine’s ethical side, and you wouldn’t put it past him to play this morbid joke. You’re about to move on ahead, but the last line on the wooden surface catches your eye. “We’ll be so happy to have you for dinner.” You aren’t fooled.
The door gives way after some pressure and you find yourself led directly into a kitchen. Straight ahead, a large pot boils with a low fire set beneath it. Various spices align the top shelf above it, and to your right is a spacious table decorated with wooden cups, steel pans, and an oversized mallet leaning against the wall. The combined scents create a rather pleasant, homely feel to the place. You approach the boiling water and peer over the edge. Although there’s no distinguishable meats in it, you do spy lettuce and carrots and a light sheen of seasoning over it.
“I see you have trouble following directions. What a disappointment.” A familiar voice attunes your attention and you spin on your heels. Your eyes fall to the floor where you expect the owner to be, but instead you catch only the shine of human dress shoes. Blinking in shock, you raise your gaze. There stands the visage of a man. Slender and tall, with long brown hair tied into a simple ribbon close to the nape of his neck. Underneath the blood-splattered apron and pressed white top-shirt, you notice a discolored vest beneath, complimented with a pin-striped tie. A chef’s hat stands proud on the crown of his temples.
The stranger sends you a rather tiring expression and pauses in the motion of cleaning his cleaver. He nods toward the back door and with a tone so startlingly familiar, he continues, “Please return the entrance and try again.” Under the cloth, he begins to wipe again at the red specks from the steel with cautious care.
You hesitate and ask if he is Doctor Iwamine.
The chef raises his gaze and cocks an eyebrow. “Was it obvious?” He inquires with a hint of amusement coloring his tone. “Opposable thumbs do make experiments go much smoother. I’m almost jealous.” It sure is the doctor. His monotone and dry demeanor is the exact same. You have never spent much time fantasizing how the pigeons may look in human forms, but you definitely would not have expected a chukar partridge to look so slim. Not to mention, you think quietly to yourself, so attractive. You avert your eyes and stare at his weapon of choice, considering why the cloth is coming off so red. There’s no question about it--he is the reason so many people have gone missing.
You think how to word your next few thoughts. Upsetting the doctor is definitely not a sound idea, especially when he proposes that you repeat the last few hallways in preparation to be simmering in no doubt a black cauldron. After a second or two, you simply ask if he could stop butchering his arriving customers.
“Although I commend you for your honesty,” Shuu's disinterest is almost palpable, “I’ll pass. Please leave.” He turns his back to you and begins to walk away toward a separate room, his shoes clicking with a slow pace. What a rude chef. No hospitality? You frown and hesitate to follow him in fear of inciting his anger, but it occurs to you then that this isn’t the clinic. You have your legs and if push comes to shove, you would bet you could at least dodge him long enough to escape and lose him in the woods. With renewed confidence, you call after him and jog to catch up.
All at once, Shuu switches his pace and he advances toward you. The sudden change startles you so much that all your plans to dodge and escape disperse as fast as he moves. You register the distorted shine of his cleaver and the tempo of the click of his feet match the beat of your heart. You stutter in your footing and stumble backwards blindly until the dull edge of the counter bites against your hips and all that once, the doctor is towering over you with a stern expression and a cold blade up against your neck just a hair above your collarbones.
“Unless,” he continues, peering down at you through red-rimmed glasses, “you would prefer I prepare you myself?”
The little proximity between you two gently heats your face, and you avert your eyes. Shuu stares at you intensely, waiting for an answer, but your throat is too dry to work with. It’s too difficult to even maintain any dignity for yourself. You scrabble for purchase behind you and press the palm of your hands against the wood top, leaning further back to gain some space to breathe. Swallowing hard, you shake your head in a feeble refusal.
#there comes a time in every fandom#you have reached the last ao3 page#when the well has run dry#you look out at that barren plain#heave a sigh#go back to the first page#lower your standards#and start again (via archnemeton)
these are the truest fucking tags.
we have all known this painful lowering of standards.
As his knuckles rap against the polished brown surface of the door, he ponders if perhaps it would have been much wiser to phone first before making the visit. He himself knows he would be slightly put off by a surprise guest, but as it stands, he doesn’t actually have Hurbert’s number to have made the arrangements. He supposes he could have walked to his classmate’s house who only lives a block away, but Sebastian always puts him on edge and it’s not fair of him to simply demand knowledge and then leave. Anyway, he’s certain it wouldn’t have mattered--it looks as though no one is home.
Lucifer considers lingering for a while longer, but if Hurbert is busy then he won’t make a nuisance of himself. Pressing the textbook more firmly into his side, he spins on his heel and makes it down the elevated porch. His steps pad over the concrete of the walkway, but before he can make it much more, a lock clicks out of its place behind him and the telltale sign of a hinge creaks painfully. Relieved to have not made all of this walk for nothing, Lucifer turns back around with a bright greeting at the tip of his tongue.
However, his words escape him. Standing in the doorway isn’t his friend, but rather a peculiar looking man with a firm frown on his features. He stands tall, practically looming down from his place. Dark hair accompanied with dark eyes compliment the angular jaw he possesses, but there’s a mysterious dread that creeps up Lucifer’s spine as he meets his gaze. He looks as though he hasn’t seen the sun in years and intends to never walk into a lit room lest he wither away like a shadow from his seemingly slight frailty. The stranger continues to glare, refusing to speak first, which Lucifer takes as his cue to smile nervously.
“Um, hello, sir. My name is Lucifer Osborne. Is Hurbert home?” Despite taking strides to be as polite as possible, his voice is still small. He patiently holds his tongue for a response, and it’s then he notices that the stranger is no longer holding him in an intense stare. Rather, something below his face seems to have caught his attention. He drops his gaze to his own chest and feels a spike of uneasiness crawling right down to his fingers at the sight of his steel crucifix necklace. Judging by the man’s look, it doesn’t seem to be a favored object. Lucifer quickly slips his fingers around the cross and hides it beneath his shirt.
“No.” The stranger finally replies, speaking as though he loathes him already. “Is that all you wanted?”
“Well, um--” Lucifer fumbles with the worn school book. He thinks he would like more than anything to excuse himself and take his leave, but he knows his friend absolutely needs this book before class tomorrow and he has the feeling he won’t find the strength to make this visit twice. “I would like to, ah--” He pauses and presents the textbook in his clammy palms while he takes reluctant steps up towards the porch, “I would like to deposit this in Hurbert’s possession. May I leave this with you?” Approaching the dark figure, he pictures himself as a vulnerable animal waltzing into the predator’s trap.
Instead of offering to simply take the book off of his hands and close the door in his face, the stranger steps to the side and holds the door open wider. Lucifer begins to protest in embarrassment, but the man’s unblinking and cold expression cuts off any words he may have started to say. It would be foolish to deny this courtesy, and he suspects that his relationship with his friend will suffer if he persists in a refusal. Besides, he’s nothing if not mannerly. Unwilling but without any other choice, Lucifer walks through the doorway and pretends to ignore the breeze of the door shutting and the lock clicking back into place behind him.
The house itself is startlingly large and vacant. The thinly concealed ambiance calls to unfamiliar tunes of fear and sadness that play along the plaster of the walls. He knows the bullying alone that Hurbert endures, but then to come home to this? What an awful routine. “Such a beautiful home,” Lucifer murmurs. His polite words seem to fall short as the stranger moves past him with brisk feet and an arrogant downturn of his lips. Not wishing to be left behind, he hurries after the stranger and continues to study the surroundings.
In what seems to be a much more condensed dining room, though not any more lavish than the rest of the home, both of them stop. Taking the hint, Lucifer moves forward to place the textbook on the table, but as his eyes raise he pauses in alarm. Seated upon the opposite end of the table is another stranger, aesthetically identical to his host with his feet kicked up. “Oh!” Lucifer breathes, “You two are twins?” He’s only ever witnessed twins in media outlets and the mention of them in biblical verses.
At his voice, the man across the table tosses a curious glance upwards. A rather unsettling smile stretches over his lips as he tips forward. “Oh,” he isn’t sure whether this is said in genuine surprise or if he’s being mocked, “yeah. Hey, you’re a cutie. I’m Adonis, what’s your name?”
Before Lucifer can gather his wits fast enough to form a greeting in return, his host cuts in with a sharp, “He calls himself Lucifer.” The words sting with an double sided edge of disgust and amusement. His brother seems shocked for a second before he snorts and laughs.
The film, he comes to realize, is dreadfully fucking boring. The theme of horror is beaten mercilessly into every scene, which has not only desensitized him completely from the fear factor, but it has also irritated him for quite some time now. From hyped up disappointments to a ridiculous magnitude of blood, David cannot fathom how anyone could enjoy it.
Which poses a problem, by the looks of it. Kevan is seated by his side, quivering in his seat and holding himself with a desperate kind of grip on his arms. Figures. His partner has never expressed even remote interest in the horror genre for as long as they have known each other. In fact, this strange change of heart from the terrified Irishman is more surprising than what jump-scares the movie has to offer. This poses a problem because he himself is the reason they’re spending a Saturday night indoors instead of going out drinking to warm themselves up. Winter has been particularly brutal this past week, and although it was very difficult to pass up the opportunity to liberate himself from the stress of days gone by, he talked both himself and Kevan into a movie night.
No doubt if he voices his obvious boredom, his partner would become upset and nag him over it.
Desperate to find some other release for his restlessness, David leans further back into the cheap, stone hard sofa and casts his gaze around. The entire living room is enveloped in shadows, only dimly lit by the large, bulky television box. He can see the silhouette of his keys on the counter accompanied with two glass bottles of beer that he had convinced himself he would throw away before passing out in a drunken heap a few long nights ago. Close by, on a love seat against the wall, he can spy where Kevan left his thick jacket and scarf still drying from the blizzard some hour or two since. His eyes cross to the window, but to his dismay, the reflection of the TV blocks the snowy street.
Gradually, the room darkens and the atmospheric music vanishes. Painted around cave walls and jagged floors, a woman breathes ragged and small on the screen. David glances to his side and rolls his eyes at how Kevan is just about curled in on himself, no longer cradling his own body but opting instead to cover his eyes. It would be a downright shame, he muses, if something were to frighten him. Smirking, David slouches a little further and lifts his arms. His hands hover just outside of his partner’s tense frame and it’s then he raises his eyes and waits.
In a moment of sweet irony, David shouts boo! coincidentally at the same moment an instrument blares the arrival of the murderer on screen. His hands dive down to grip Kevan’s sides and his fingers dig into the chilled skin.
Just as expected, the Irishman jumps a mile out of his skin and screams with pure, unadulterated terror. It’s so fucking funny that David snorts and laughs fully, leaning back to bask in the satisfaction. Kevan whips around, hand clutching his chest and eyes torn between horror and frustration. “David, that wasn’t funny!” He reprimands, voice trembling. David’s frame shakes with amusement and he truly tries to reign in his laughter, but he’s unsuccessful. “You always do this,” Kevan whines and shifts with embarrassment. “You’re not funny.”
“Tell you what,” David sneers, regaining control and smirking at his distressed partner, “I’ll stop doin’ it when you stop bein’ so damn gullible.” A sharp edge of mock overlays his snarky expression. His humor is honestly unappreciated, as it turns out Kevan does not find this comment amusement nor entertaining. Instead, the Irishman glares hotly but flushes and cross his arms, choosing to turn his head away.
Not concerned in the slightest about the resentment his partner displays toward him, David reaches out with his large arm and wraps Kevan closer. He teasingly pinches the flesh of his hip. “Aw, you know I ain’t meanin’ no harm. You’re jus’ too easy, Kev.” Playfully he puckers his lips for a kiss. Kevan chances a glance back toward him with a pout working its way on his features. A delayed moment passes, where he is certain he may be rejected, but all his worries are set aside when Kevan leans up and returns the affection.
Sometimes I feel like I need to add more to each sentence when I'm working. Like there's not enough in a sentence or that a paragraph is too 'thin' or something. I know quality over quantity and all that, but is this a usual feeling?
It’s a very common feeling. If you get that urge, ask yourself a few questions:
Does the sentence convey the information the reader needs to know what’s going on and why it’s happening?
Does the sentence contain excess information that serves to convey the mood of the scene or emotions of the characters?
Does the sentence contain excess information that is repetitive, irrelevant, or cliche?
Ideally, you should be answering yes to the first one 95% of the time, yes to the second one sometimes, and no to the last one all the time. If what you’re getting the urge to add falls into the third category, stop yourself because the reader doesn’t need to hear about your protag’s stormy grey eyes three times in a paragraph (wow, I found one that hit all three items in that point!). If you’re making your sentence longer by adding in things from the second category, you’ll probably be okay, but keep an eye on it and rein yourself in if necessary. You might find it useful to highlight those sentences and go back to them later to see what you were adding in (to see if there’s a common thing). Or you could highlight them, keep writing, and come back to it later with fresh eyes. You may find at that point that you’re actually satisfied with the sentence.
Paragraphs are the same concept, with the added criteria of containing similar information or complete ideas. This will vary a lot depending on your style and story, but in general paragraphs are used to group your ideas and manage the flow of the writing. You can use longer or shorter paragraphs to control the pacing - longer paragraphs should contain more information (rather than being longer for the sake of being longer) and will slow the reader down. Short paragraphs are often used during action or scenes with lots of movement (verbal, physical or emotional).
