Gillian DO NOT READ THIS
EVERYONE ELSE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK. It’s for an erotic writing challenge. 1550 words. Not rated R.
The awkward moment when you’re actually quite proud of something you wrote last minute as a throwaway story
It’s not done yet but I’m hopping it doesn’t get too torn apart. Now if only I could get the characters to at least be alone in his quarters…
looking for a beta
Anyone up for a quick beta read?
It’s original fic, looks like it’s going to be 1000-1250 and it’s due tomorrow night, for an erotic fiction challenge. I’ve kind of given up on the erotic part, so nothing explicit but I still want it to be good. Best way to reach me is on twitter @walshcaitlin
Obligatory question mark?
red: when and how did you first realize you loved writing?
orange: who is your greatest literary inspiration, and why?
yellow: what is your favorite style?
green: whose style do you imitate the most?
blue: what is your favorite genre/subject on which to write?
indigo: what do you think is the greatest flaw in your writing?
violet: what is your favorite thing about your writing?
pink: what attracts you to writing in general? why do you love it?
silver: top three sources of inspiration
black: your dreams! be published, be a critical success? what?
lemon: do you write fanfiction? if so, what genre? otp?
lime: what are some of the most prevalent themes in your work?
brown: three favorite novels
rainbow: three favorite authors
white: weirdest thing you’ve ever written
You’re a writer. Claim the title.
Writers write, so make time for it every day.
Set realistic goals. Embrace the ecstacy of writing.
Read, read, read, read, read, read, read.
Follow your heart, not the market.
Don’t just start stories. Finish them. Dream big.
Learn the rules. Follow the rules. Break the rules. Constructive criticism: solicit, accept, manage.
Put your ego in your back pocket and sit on it.
Writing is a journey, not a destination. Enjoy the scenery.
Give back to the writing community. Write scared.
Remember you are the master of inspiration, not its slave.
Set your stories free. Send them into the world.
Don’t slack on the hard stuff: outline, research, rewrite.
Build a lifestyle that nurtures and supports your writing.
Love what you do. Write with joy.
A wordplayer’s manifesto.
Now this is what I call a manifesto. Also filed under: perfection; read every day; memorise. Can we pin posts to Tumblr? Because I’d like to pin this one.
yeah I pretty much want to put this up on the wall. I’d stay stitch it onto a pillow but it’s way too long for that.
"I’m a geek. I’m a writer. I spent all of my time in my childhood obsessing about Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Who. I was alone, I was an outsider — what do you expect? I was that bullied kid at the back of the class weeping for loneliness. I don’t think, generally speaking, people become writers because they were the really good, really cool, attractive kid in class. I’ll be honest. This is our revenge for people who were much better looking and more popular than us. I was a bit like that, I suppose."
- Joss Whedon: Hey! You guys wanna write a book together?
- J. K. Rowling: Sure.
- Suzanne Collins: Why not?
- Shakespeare: If it is to be of a tragical nature, then I doth not protest!
- Beginning of the book: Unimportant characters die.
- Middle of the book: Favorite characters died.
- End of the book: Everyone is dead.
- George R.R. Martin: They didn't suffer enough.
You were on your way home when you died.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.
You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”
You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”
I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”
You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.
“I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”
You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
And I sent you on your way.
I am always getting plot ideas whilst in the shower. Today was two ideas: one was a POV (maybe set up like a blog) piece for Martha as she struggles to sort out her feelings after leaving the Doctor and finding Tom for real. There’s some discrepancy between the Tom she met during the year that never was and the /real/ Tom. That’s why the engagement gets called off. And that’s why she falls in with Mickey so easily: because he’s had his own experiences with the Doctor and with an existence that only he remembers. He gets it.
Then drawing from that I had an idea for my own protagonist. What of he had found a girl and was maybe engaged or in a serious relationship but she couldn’t handle his time traveling (he wasn’t exactly forth coming when they first met) and they have since broken up. I think I’ll name her Kathleen.
