DEAR READER
Claire Keane
Cosmic Funnies
Love Begins
pixel skylines
★
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
No title available
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
No title available
todays bird
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
trying on a metaphor
noise dept.
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Discoholic 🪩
Keni
we're not kids anymore.
Kaledo Art
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
seen from Germany
seen from Canada
seen from Germany
seen from Switzerland
seen from Brazil
seen from Tunisia
seen from Japan
seen from Malaysia
seen from Spain
seen from Argentina
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Singapore
seen from Argentina
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from Germany
@whymanwrites
Being a writer is finding a typo on your casual correspondence (whose instead of who's) and briefly spiralling into imposter syndrome shame only to correct yourself ("this isn't a Word Doc, it's a fucking WhatsApp message"), ready to repeat again next typo...
“But in the end, stories are about one person saying to another: This is the way it feels to me. Can you understand what I’m saying? Does it feel this way to you?”
— Kazuo Ishiguro, in his 2017 Nobel prize acceptance speech (via smiththeteacher)
CW: heroin, addiction, addict trauma, requesting experiences with addiction
I have kind of a personal request. I'm working on the second draft of a story about an addict in recovery and I believe the story (and therefore hopefully the readers) would benefit from some deeper realism. My guiding principle for this particular novel-length project is to present addiction as it is to addicts not the media/mainstream narrative. Obviously, every addicts' experience is very different, but I am doing my best to represent real addicts.
I've interviewed a couple of people in recovery (as well as engaging someone in recovery as a sensitivity reader) which got me through the first draft but now I'm working on the second draft and expanding/deepening the manuscript, I feel a broader range of experiences would be more honest to the story.
I have a set of interview questions for two types of experiences:
1. People who have personally struggled with addiction, and;
2. People who have a close friend/family who has struggled with addiction.
You do not need to be in recovery to respond. You do not need to be in a program/at rehab. Any and all stages of the process are welcome. My protagonist is a heroin addict but again, all substance dependency experiences welcome!
The interviews are completely anonymous as I understand there are complexities involved in talking about this. The person in my life who inspired this story (consequently the strongest, and most courageous person I know) has been sober 5 years. Their changes and honesty and dedication to making amends is indescribable (says the author writing a 70k book about it) and I hope to tell a story that shows that. If you fit one of the above categories, I would so appreciate your help in making this happen.
***Please understand, anything submitted in the interview may make its way into the story, with the obvious caveat that names/places will be changed (if you choose to supply them, you 300% are not required to).
“But in the end, stories are about one person saying to another: This is the way it feels to me. Can you understand what I’m saying? Does it feel this way to you?”
— Kazuo Ishiguro, in his 2017 Nobel prize acceptance speech (via smiththeteacher)
30 is months away and boy is my glasses prescription feeling it...
Calling writeblr mutuals and followers!
I’ve gone and entered a writing comp— despite the 4 month old making actual writing properly hard. For real, you’re more likely to see Big Foot than me writing these days. But here it is, fresh from its foggy, mythological genesis: The Curse of the Cold Cook! 2,500 words about white guilt, colonialism, owls, and curses…. Set in a funeral parlour. Did you know morticians used to be called “cold cooks” as slang? I didn’t! Thanks, Google.
Now this comp has a panel of judges BUT in the event that the judges tie in their scoring, they look to engagement as a tie breaker. On the Vocal platform that means reads and hearts.
If you have a spare moment or two, I’d be chuffed if you could visit the link (thereby giving the story a “read”) and hit the heart button <3
Calling writeblr mutuals and followers!
I’ve gone and entered a writing comp— despite the 4 month old making actual writing properly hard. For real, you’re more likely to see Big Foot than me writing these days. But here it is, fresh from its foggy, mythological genesis: The Curse of the Cold Cook! 2,500 words about white guilt, colonialism, owls, and curses…. Set in a funeral parlour. Did you know morticians used to be called “cold cooks” as slang? I didn’t! Thanks, Google.
Now this comp has a panel of judges BUT in the event that the judges tie in their scoring, they look to engagement as a tie breaker. On the Vocal platform that means reads and hearts.
If you have a spare moment or two, I’d be chuffed if you could visit the link (thereby giving the story a “read”) and hit the heart button <3
The Bread of Aset
And so they told the Story of Aset.
The Goddess was often represented as the perfect traditional Egyptian wife and mother— wise enough to stay in the background while things went well, but able to use her wits to guard her loved ones and adherents should the need arise. The shelter she afforded her children gave her the character of a goddess of protection, but her chief aspect was that of a great magician, whose power transcended that of all other deities.
Aran hires a new baker who cooks loaves fit for the gods. An ode to Ancient Egypt, the life and death cycle of bread, and love that spans eons. Rated R for adult content.
Read here!
If you enjoyed The Bread of Aset, follow here here or subscribe / tip me at Vocal!
depiction is not the same as glorification and I need people to get that
depiction from the POV of a character who thinks it’s okay is still not glorification
It's been a long time since I've entered a writing competition but when you're on maternity leave and money's tight-- why not! I hope you didn't misread the last word in the working title the way I do *every* time I open the Word Doc...
Making up creepy, ye olde verse for Vibe.
I haven't written historical fiction in a hot minute but with Australia Day/Invasion Day coming up, it feels like the right time to be working on a story that doesn't ignore this country's uneasy relationship to its past...
Writing attention-snagging, alive first lines has always been one of my favourite challenges of storytelling. It takes practice and rewrites (rare are the ones that come fully formed in their first incarnation) but its where I first try out the narrator's voice and get a feel for its vibe (in this case, a little cheeky with a hint at the mysterious).
It's been a long time since I've entered a writing competition but when you're on maternity leave and money's tight-- why not! I hope you didn't misread the last word in the working title the way I do *every* time I open the Word Doc...
Making up creepy, ye olde verse for Vibe.
I haven't written historical fiction in a hot minute but with Australia Day/Invasion Day coming up, it feels like the right time to be working on a story that doesn't ignore this country's uneasy relationship to its past...
It's been a long time since I've entered a writing competition but when you're on maternity leave and money's tight-- why not! I hope you didn't misread the last word in the working title the way I do *every* time I open the Word Doc...
Making up creepy, ye olde verse for Vibe.
It's been a long time since I've entered a writing competition but when you're on maternity leave and money's tight-- why not! I hope you didn't misread the last word in the working title the way I do *every* time I open the Word Doc...
Between Doing & Being
I was woefully unprepared for motherhood, we all are; fawns taking our first brave, faltering steps into a new world. Birthing and being birthed. A new adolescence. A messy, heartbreaking, heart-filling storm of contradictions.
I break.
I am remade.
Only to break once more.
Motherhood is hard, made harder by the unceasing struggle between Doing and Being. You ask me to slow down— stay longer, be softer—when the ghosts of my former life— my before-life—call me to get Done. Do. Doing.
There are a hundred opinions on our Being, yours and mine. Doctors, nurses, specialists, family, friends, strangers, social media… a hundred, no a thousand, ways to Do Being Better. When you were round in my belly, swimming and kicking, I listened. I took in. I strove to learn.
But now you’re here. And I am a doe-made-fawn. These antlers are to shelter you and to ward of the hundreds and thousands that would intrude on our Being. Now, I listen to me and I listen you. Now, I have whole days where the conflict between Doing and Being is a distant storm, far away from where we lay together. Sleeping you on me— a crime according to the H & Ts— because it’s what you need. Then can wait, this non-existent, future-Then I am meant to guard against.
Now is now.
I was woefully unprepared for motherhood but I am Being where once I was Doing and it’s the only way I can weather this learning. Messy, heartbreaking, heart-filling storm that it is.
They can wait. Then will keep.
Let’s Be.
"It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. I was so preposterously serious in those days… Lightly, lightly – it’s the best advice ever given me…So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly my darling…"
Aldous Huxley - Island
Rediscovery. Recovery.
How important place is to memory. Cheap, beer-stained carpet, Keno ads, and drunken laughter on a State of Origin night has a real and uncomfortable recollection for me.
I sit in it. Let it crawl up my spine and beat in my chest. Get out. Get out. It is uncomfortable. I want to leave. I want to go. A few years ago— months ago— I would have. I would have fluttered with the anxiety away from the discomfort of staying into the relief of Elsewhere. Elsememory.
But I have realised now that which perhaps I couldn’t have then: that pruning diseased branches is never a painless process. And it shouldn’t be. Growth isn’t, is it? I’ve had cheek-splitting joy and moments so tender my heart bruised like a peach. With joy comes sorrow. With laughter, tears. With discomfort, growth.
So I sit in it like a bath long since chilled. And as I marinate in all the familiar fear and panic and disgrace, my man plucks a string and sings a song about men who heal, instead of harm.
In this place of pain— a pub on Origin night— there is a voice that has heard my tears down all these years and he tells the story of each drop.
Other memories come. Every moment of threat where I became prey in ways small and large. That time a friend tried my lips through a no. Walking home at night with the steel of my keys cutting the heat from my fingers. Sorry-I-have-a-boyfriending my way through nights out because another man’s woman is respected more than a woman in her own right.
I begin to realise I can’t feel my breath in the root of my belly because its hiding, panicked, in my throat. Or that the dull roar of the people behind me feels more sinister than the raucous joy of a family of five should do. The door to the deck opens too violently. Men pass by too close; sharks pass by their prey, it’s said, before they attack.
And I realise its because I’m clamping down on the highways between my surroundings and me. Making Me separate. Other. Out of sync with that around me. Because it hasn’t always been safe. God knows I’ll never feel the sane ignorant comfort of the time before. Prior. Then.
I can’t have that back and these days I find I don’t even want it.
I want now.
Because I can make now safe. Because I’m not broken and beaten anymore, I choose not to be. I am whole. And God knows there’s nothing stronger than a shattered woman who has put herself back together. Piece by jagged piece. — Emily Whyman
Some gold advice from Margaret Atwood from her Master Class on creative writing trailer.
