@madi
she/her; 31; behavior analyst
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writeblr, maybe?
i don't know what i'm doing
very much under construction
i follow back from madeyemadii
As I went through and followed a bunch of people yesterday, I realized I never introduced myself here on this side of Tumblr, so hello! Have a pinned post!
I’m Madi, I’m 32, and I’m a behavior analyst. I love writing but I very much struggle with finding / making time for it around my other commitments, and my sporadic activity here is very indicative of that. This blog is in a state of perpetual WIP.
CURRENT WIPs; updated 2/15
MALIGNANT VIRTUES; the eternal wip
genre-fluid, guaranteed to have at least one of your favorite tropes
wip hub // general tag // moodboard tag // playlist tag // excerpt tag
INFERNAL; the superhero wip
na urban fantasy
wip hub // general tag // moodboard tag // playlist tag // excerpt tag
You’re off to confront your tenant about their unit exceeding capacity. You’ve seen at least 3 people living there who aren’t on the lease. When you finish dressing him down for the violation, all he says is, “You can see them too?”
For purposes of crime prevention, the police puts random people into hyper-realistic simulations where they have the motive and opportunity to commit a crime. Based on their choice, they are let go with their memories erased, or punished as if they commited the crime in reality.
As a little kid, you liked to pull harmless pranks on the local cryptids. As you grew older you realized the danger of going out into the woods and stopped visiting them. Turns out, the cryptids had fond memories of your antics and want to come and see you again.
A multi-generational legacy of ashen hair and bad decisions, guaranteed to feature at least one of your favorite tropes, the occasional hint of organized crime, and a little bit of magic.
Act I: Taz. The daemon formerly known as Tzuriel has started a new life in a new city with a new name, determined to break away from his family's legacy and establish a story of his own. Between juggling a series of dead-end jobs and navigating the rocky waters of romance, he begins to suspect there may be more at play than just a string of rotten luck, but despite every misstep along the way, he remains determined to find his footing and leave behind a legacy to be proud of.
tag list: still figuring out this whole writeblr thing, but! let me know if you’d like to be added!
As the god of reincarnations, when neither Hell nor Heaven want a soul, it is your job to reincarnate it appropriately. One specific soul keeps coming back to you not so long after each reincarnation. After a while, you decide to investigate why the soul keeps coming back to you.
Aldreda closed the French doors behind her as she stepped out onto the terrace, the sounds of the party behind her muted through the glass as she crossed the stone to where her son was sitting on the top of the steps leading into the garden. He didn’t make any motion to indicate he’d heard her, tapping his wand against the palm of his hand as he looked out across the lawn. She noted that several of her topiaries had been transfigured into particularly large snails and were inching their way across the grass.
“You’re so like your father, you know?” She sat down on the topmost step beside him, folding her hands into her lap as she watched the snails. “Although he prefers frogs to snails.”
She glanced sideways at her son, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, but Hadrian still hadn’t acknowledged that she’d arrived, except to stop tapping his wand against his palm, holding the thin piece of wood between both his hands. She watched him out of the corner of her eye for a moment. “Are you going to hide out here all night?” She waited a beat, but her son didn’t seem keen on responding. She looked down at her fingernails, examining her cuticles. “You know, your father had hoped you might want to meet--”
“I don’t want to meet more of his fucking friends--”
“Language.”
Hadrian closed his mouth, his eyes still fixed on the wand between his hands, his face reddening in the dim light of the terrace. She watched as his thumbs pressed against his wand, and for a moment, she thought it might snap in two -- the wand was long and rigid, not unlike him, useful for the careful precision required for transfiguration -- but then he loosened his grip and went back to tapping his wand against the palm of his hand. “I hate him showing me off like I’m part of his collection.”
“He’s proud of you. That’s his way of showing it. He wants them all to know what a wonderful young wizard you’re growing into--” He ducked his head as she reached out to brush her fingers through his hair, and Aldreda let her hand fall back into her lap. “He’s proud of you,” she said again. “And so am I.” She reached out to put her hand on his wrist, and when he didn’t pull away, she slipped her hand into her son’s and gave it a squeeze. “Maybe we don’t tell you that enough, but we are. We couldn’t ask for a better son.”
He leaned into her, letting his head rest on her shoulder, and for a moment, he shrank, and he wasn’t her lanky teenager; he was six years old again, crying over a skinned knee and a sprained wrist, glasses broken from where he’d fallen off a broomstick. A quick reparo for his glasses and an episkey for his wrist, a bandage wrapped around his knee, and he was off again, ignoring her calls of not so high, Hadrian! as he swooped upward to join his father in the air. But her little boy was long gone, replaced by a sullen teenager that towered over her, his smiles and laughter replaced by scowls and brooding silence. He still flew -- always too high for her liking -- but he flew alone while his father’s feet remained planted firmly on the ground.
“I’m proud of you,” she said again, and pressed her lips to the top of his head.
He didn’t respond immediately, and for several long minutes they watched the snails creeping through the garden in silence, only the sound of leaves rustling in the light summer breeze disrupting the quiet. The door opened behind them and some noise from the party drifted out. Hadrian lifted his head from his mother’s shoulder as she turned to see who had stepped out onto the terrace, but whoever it was had already retreated back into the party without a word.
“I think that was the Burke girl looking for you.”
Hadrian groaned as she gave him a wink and bumped shoulders with him, burying his face in his folded arms again. “Mum, please, can we not? Dad’s bad enough--”
She cut across him with a pointed sigh, her smile gone. “What happened, Hadrian?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” he asked, jerking his head back up with a frown. “I got seven bloody O.W.L.s and five of them were Os, I’m a prefect, I’d have been Quidditch captain if they hadn’t given it to some bloody half-blood third year who can hardly hold onto a broomstick, I’m sure I’ll be head boy next year, I’ve got top marks in transfiguration and in potions, and none of it’s good enough for him. It’s just work on your form or you’re looking sloppy or do better next time. None of it’s ever good enough.” His brow furrowed and his frown deepened, color rising to his cheeks as he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I just -- I want to be good enough.”
He’d said it so quietly, she almost thought she’d imagined it. She glanced sideways, and saw that his eyes were trained on the stone steps beneath his feet, his shoulders hunched forward, and for a moment, she saw her little boy again, imitating his father’s every move, from the way he mounted his broomstick to the anxious bounce in his knees to his love for transfiguration to the way he flourished his wand. She put her hand on his knee, but he didn’t look up, and his knee continued to bounce. Behind them, the door onto the terrace opened again and the sounds of the party spilled out into the darkness.
“Mrs. Werley?” A pretty brunette had stepped out onto the terrace behind them, holding a champagne flute, looking unsure. “Gwendolyn Burke,” she said, holding the glass out to Aldreda. “Your husband asked me to bring you this, and said he was looking for you?”
Aldreda gave the girl a gentle smile and stood, straightening the hem of her dress before accepting the champagne from her. “Gwendolyn,” she said. “Such a lovely name. Have you met my son, Hadrian?”
At the sound of his name, Aldreda was pleased to see Hadrian sit up, his shoulders straighter, his knee still as he turned to look up at the girl, offering her his hand to draw her down onto the step beside him -- calm, collected, just as his father had taught him. Aldreda crossed the terrace, back toward the French doors, pausing with one foot in the doorway to look back at her son and the girl seated on the step beside him, giggling and pointing at the snails inching their way through the garden as Hadrian raised his wand and turned them each a different color of the rainbow.
Hadrian’s attention turned back to the champions’ tent ahead of him at the voice, and he grinned as he saw Rosie jogging across the field toward him, brushing her hair out of her face.
“There you are! Weren't you going to find me and tell me to kick some ass?” She leaned around him, frowning. “Where’s Griffin?”
“I tried getting him in with me, but Volantes wasn’t having it…” Hadrian trailed off, glancing back over his shoulder to where the flying instructor was standing at the fence, shouting away a gaggle of teenage girls that had presumably come to wish one of the contestants good luck. “I had to drop Dad’s name to get him to let me in, and then he just refused Griffin, sent him off somewhere to wait -- I’m sure he’ll try to sneak in, but he said if he doesn’t make it in to give you this--” He pulled Rosie into a tight hug before holding her back at arm’s length to survey her. She’d be fine. “--and tell you good luck. You’re going to be fine, yeah? You’re not too nervous?”
“Nervous? Me? I eat fear for breakfast,” Rosie answered, miming shooting a pair of pistols at him with a grin, but the grin quickly faded and she dropped her hands, shaking her head. “No, uh, for real -- I’m pretty nervous. I mean -- I don’t know what to expect in this thing and then, well, if I fail this… I don’t want to be turned into a bug again, you know? Or -- or worse, I guess.”
Hadrian watched a reporter hurry by them into the competitors’ tent and put an arm around Rosie’s shoulders to steer her to a shady spot away from any stray listening ears. “You’ll be fine. You’re trying, and that’s what matters. I mean, you know, obviously we hope you succeed, but if you don’t…” He trailed off and cleared his throat, dropping his arm from around her shoulders to lean against the fence, folding his arms across his chest. “The bug thing was because nobody had bothered trying, yeah? I mean, when the Seven told us to--”
He broke off, watching another reporter slip past Volantes at the gate, but she, too, headed for the tent in the middle of the paddock.
The reporter had been well out of earshot, but Hadrian still dropped his voice before continuing. “When Murray died, that wasn’t… we’d tried before, and it didn’t work, but the Seven didn’t care because at least we’d tried. You’ll be fine. No more bugs, and nothing worse.”
Rosie nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “Okay. Trying’s good, got that. I can do that, for sure. I mean, this thing has a money prize and everything, I think, so that’s enough motivation in itself.” She gave him a small smile, joining him in leaning against the fence. “And it’s just games, what’s the worst that can happen? Penny had to face a dragon in the first round and everything, and she was fine. It’s not like the, um -- the Foundation is asking me to do something like -- you know, Murray, or Barrows, or -- or something like that.”
“Yeah.” Hadrian rubbed at the back of his neck, knowing it was just a matter of time; all the rest of them had done it -- it was inevitable that she would, too. “If we were going to ask you to do something like that, you’d already know -- probably. I mean, you’ll probably be asked to sometime, but not -- not here.” He gave a dry laugh and dropped his hand from his neck, jamming it into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m not great at pep-talks. Guess that’s why I was never Quidditch captain.”
“Yeah, no offense, but I’ll definitely never hire you to write a speech for me when I’m rich and famous,” she said, nudging him with her elbow.
“You’ll be fine, though, really. No needless waste and all that, so even if things are dangerous in the Games, it’s not likely that anything tragic will happen.”
He saw a shadow cross her features, her brow knitting, the corners of her mouth turning faintly downward. “Have you done anything to make up for it?” she asked quietly. “I mean -- for the things you’ve done, like have you… I don’t know, have you -- tried to make things -- a bit better? A bit more -- more even?”
“Make up for it?” he repeated. His brow creased, his grin faltering. “I don’t… we are making things better. We’re leaning so much about magic, and doing incredible things, and sometimes there’s a price to pay for that -- but we are making things better. Sometimes things get… messy, you know, or you have to do things that aren’t -- that aren’t good things…”
How many nights had he lay awake, afraid to shut his eyes, knowing he would see a flash of green illuminating the trees of the forbidden forest, see Pennington falling through the branches of the Whomping Willow, see Alis Murray laughing until her breath caught in her throat, see Philippa Knight collapsing on the floor of the owlery? How many times had he woken up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, heart hammering against his ribs, breath coming in ragged gasps as he gripped his sheets, trying to orient himself back to reality?
But eventually, the nightmares had stopped, and he knew it was worth it, all of it, all of the sleepless nights, all of the things they'd done -- Eleanor and Jacob were evidence of that; a squib with her magic returned, a man brought back from the dead -- the Vindication had already achieved the impossible, and was still seeking more answers, more truth -- virtus, vindicta, victoria.
“We are making things better,” he repeated. “And it’s not always easy, but we do what we have to.”
Rosie bit her lip, crossing her arms, and didn’t respond immediately, looking out across the field where Volantes was doing his best to block another group of well-wishers from getting to the champions’ tent. “Calhoun told me,” she said quietly. “I mean -- she told me a lot about -- about what it’s really like. Taking a life. It’s… for what we’re doing, it’s a pretty huge price to pay, isn’t it?”
“We do what we have to,” Hadrian said again. “And that’s all. Not any more than that. It’s not easy, but--”
It had been easy, though -- a few words, a flash of green, and that was it -- it was so simple. That was a better word, he thought, simple. It had been quick, but it hadn't been easy. There was a time when he thought the nightmares wouldn't end, but they did, and he could live with himself again; we look out for each other, that's what we do. They protected each other; they protected their work; they protected Griffin, whether he knew it or not, and that, more than the rest of it, was worth everything.
“It’s worth it,” he said. “To protect the people we care about, and protect the work we’re doing. We gave a little girl her magic back. Ira brought someone back from the dead. Isn’t that -- wouldn’t you do anything to protect that? Don’t you want to know what else is possible? There are people in the Ministry who work for years to understand all these big mysteries and answer all these questions, but we're finding those answers and we're putting them to use, not just letting them sit around in some big underground vault, we're learning things and making things better -- and people like Murray and Barrows and Knight…” He trailed off. “I’d do it again,” he said, quieter. “If it meant protecting that work and protecting the people that matter to me -- Griffin, you, Sowilo, Jera, Pepperup -- I’d do it.”
Rosie dropped her eyes to the grass, her arms still folded tightly across her chest. “Yeah, I know.” She was quiet again for a long moment, and glanced back up at the tent. “Shit, I should -- I should probably--” She broke off, turning slowly to look up at Hadrian beside her, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed. “Hadrian,” she said slowly, “what exactly have you done?”
I did what I had to was the answer Hadrian wanted to give -- it was the answer he’d given when Avaritia had asked about the owlery; it was the response he’d given when Invidia had tried to tell the rest of them how well he’d done; it was what he’d told himself when he couldn’t sleep at night -- but something in the look on Rosie’s face told him she wouldn't accept that as an answer.
And why not own up to it? They’d spoken candidly enough about Murray and Dragyn and the rest of it, about Barrows’ death and the Vindication’s involvement in Waite’s kidnapping, the cryptic messages around the school, the vandalism of the divination tower, even Rosie’s attack on Keara -- why should this be different?
Because this was on him -- just him. Invidia had been the one to give the order, but could he say he’d have acted differently if she hadn’t been there? It didn’t matter -- he’d done it; he’d do it again; he’d do it a hundred more times if he had to, if it meant protecting the people he cared about.
He cleared his throat and reached up to adjust his glasses, glancing around to ensure they were still alone. He dropped his hand from his glasses and folded his arms across his chest, meeting Rosie’s eyes as he said, “I killed Philippa Knight.”
She gave him a slow nod. “Right.” She cleared her throat. “Right,” she said again, and closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. She opened them again and met his eyes and said carefully, “I’m sorry you had to do that. I -- I think I have to go now. Wish me luck.”
Hadrian caught her arm as she turned to go, his mouth half-open, but the words were lost somewhere in his throat. He closed his mouth; what more was there to say, except--
“Good luck, Laguz. Your friends are cheering for you.”
He gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, something like a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and then released her arm to let her join the other competitors in the tent.
Entering her last year at the Academy, Mina has all but mastered her cryokinesis. Calm and collected under even extreme pressure, there’s little doubt that she has a bright future ahead of her as one of the next great heroes of New Bastion -- but she’s not so sure she’s ready to put her own life on the line to serve the needs of the many.
tag list: let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!
Act I: Wilhelmina Robbins is entering her final year at the Academy, best friends Jacob Monroe and Flannery Adams at her side. But when staffing changes threaten to shake up the delicate balance of power within the Academy, who will be left standing when the smoke clears?
Act II: Two years have passed, and the fall of the Academy is still fresh in the survivors’ nightmares. The remaining alphas have fled to nearby Acropolis, where a new power calling itself the Syndicate is rising in the underbelly of the city, threatening the new life Mina and her friends have built for themselves.
Act III: The Syndicate's actions have driven the alphas into hiding, but a select few are ready to fight back. Mina must turn to old friends and new allies alike to help combat this new threat and restore the careful balance between humans and alphas. But along with old friends come old enemies, and Mina may be facing more than she bargained for.
tag list: still figuring out this whole writeblr thing, but! let me know if you’d like to be added!
if you haven’t read stephen king’s book on writing, here are the most useful tips i found after completion:
write your first draft “with the door closed”. that means don’t show it to friends, family, tumblr, etc. until it’s finished to its completion. the second draft is when you can bring it into the light. just get the words down on paper and don’t worry about editing it until it’s all out of your system.
the road to hell is paved with adverbs. everyone loves using adverbs in their work, but it’s often the sign of lazy writing or the inability to express what you’re trying to say. for the first draft, it doesn’t matter; on the second draft, try to eliminate as many as you can and rewrite the sentence to work without it.
the second draft should be 10% less than the first draft. depending on how long your story is (wordcount), this is easy math. when editing, you should be trying to eliminate redundancy, make things easier to understand, and simplify.
kill your darlings. this is by far my favorite piece of writing advice. sometimes, as writers, we become attached or even obsessed with pieces of our writing — a scene, a character, a passage of text — when it doesn’t add anything to the story. i always make a separate document called “outtakes” and put everything i took out (but still loved a lot) in there. that way, it’s out of the story, but you have it saved to be used somewhere else.
identify your ideal reader. this is not someone who loves everything you write and it’s not someone who hates everything you write. an ideal reader is someone who generally appreciates your ideas and wants to give genuine criticism on a project. you must always trust their judgement, even if it means cutting a scene you loved or eliminating an entire chapter for clarity’s sake. in the end, they want what’s best for you. having three or four ideal readers is a key component during the editing process. hang on to these people.
read a lot and write a lot. even if it’s bad, it’ll always teach you a lesson. because screenwriting is radically different than writing a short story or a novel, read more than you watch tv. you’ll avoid the stereotypical “cliches” of movies and tv shows.
after you’ve finished a draft, put it away for awhile before you edit. king says a min 3 months, but it’s honestly whatever you think is best. this means you shouldn’t even open up the document, no matter how tempting. eventually, after some time has passed, you’ll be able to look at it with “fresh eyes”; even though you’re the writer, it’ll look brand new to you and give you a better perspective on editing.
establish a routine. this is one of those tips that everyone has controversy about, because for some people, it’s nearly impossible to write every single day. however, you should identify what times of the day are better for you (daytime vs. nighttime) and where you feel most inspired to write. and if you feel overwhelmed with a “routine” (i.e., writing every single day at 6pm after dinner), try to establish some goals for your novel or short story to keep you on track.
finish it. for most writers, it’s hard to get to the end of the first draft. king says it takes about 3 months for him to finish a novel before he starts on a new project. if 3 months sounds impossible, try to find a goal that fits your schedule but still allows you to get the first draft done before you lose inspiration on the project.
try not to overplan. for some writers, the aspect of planning every detail helps them put the words on the page. everyone is different. but knowing how something is going to end or every single detail from point A to point B can drain your inspiration for a project and make it harder to finish it. instead of planning out everything, try to find a basic idea and run with it — things that don’t make sense or drabble on can be cut out later. just have fun and surprise yourself.
do your research when necessary, but don’t try so hard. most people think they can’t write about certain topics because they “don’t know enough about it”. and while it’s true that you should write about what you know, there’s just a lot of things that you don’t know and won’t ever know, and that shouldn’t stop you from writing about it. king once wrote a novel about a police department without any background information about how it worked in that specific area — he did what research he could and then made the rest of it up. honestly, it doesn’t matter. unless you’re talking about something sensitive — like medical conditions, cultural practices, or anything like that — people won’t care that you mess up the little details. and if you do, your beta readers will likely catch it before you submit to a publisher.
a good idea starts with a “what if” question. it doesn’t need to be this fully-formed, blockbuster idea that’s multi-dimensional and completely fleshed out. king often begins his novels when struck with a passing thought, and he builds off of it during the writing process (getting it down on the page) and not before.
have fun with it. the moment writing starts to become a “chore” is the moment you’ll lose drive for a project. don’t be afraid to just get it down on paper even if you think it might never go anywhere. you are your own worst critic.
