#writers Tumblr posts

  • So About Those ‘Daddy’ Issues…

    So, one of my favorite writing troupes is adopted families. I love them, especially when it’s a parent/child bond. They make me feel all warm and fuzzy. However, what I absolutely despise is when the child begins calling this new parent figure 'mom/dad’ right off the bat, or even at all.

    Please, please, please don’t have your characters start calling new parental figures 'mom/dad’ right away. Whether they’re about to pass out or are in the middle of a mental breakdown or whatever, just don’t do it. It is unrealistic. (And can be a slap in the face to some kids, because we want to call our parental figures mom/dad or we think of them that way, but it feels wrong or weird, and it just makes us feel guilty or even a little annoyed or jealous.)

    Now, has it been several years and lots of therapy and healing? Maybe this parental figure has earned that title of mom or dad. Maybe not. This can depend on a lot of things.

    1. The character’s age. I guarantee you, a preteen to teenager will not be breaking out 'mom/dad’ any time soon, or likely at all. If the character is younger (think 7/8), then mom/dad might be a possibility. Might. But that’s still gonna take some time. Anyone above the age of 9/10 is likely going to be grown up enough that suddenly calling someone mom/dad is going to feel weird/wrong/awkward.
    2. The character’s relationship with their biological parents or any past parental figure. Even if the bio fam is an abusive mess, if the character grows up calling their parents by mom/dad, they aren’t going to adopt those titles to any new parental figures. Those titles become associated with the bio fam, and even if the character sees their new parental figure as their mom/dad, they likely won’t use those titles. If the character is still fairly young and has never had a parental figure before, mom/dad may be in the realm of possibility, but it will still take time.

    I have daddy issues that might top even Luke Skywalker’s. My biological dad led to a lot of hurt, so daddy/abandonment/commitment issues and I go way back.

    However, I met my stepdad when I was four years old. I barely remember living without the man. He is an amazing guy. 7/10, because no one’s perfect. I can admit we have issues. But he’s still the only real male role model I’ve ever had in my life. 13 years, a cross country move, and a nasty family court battle later and… I still don’t call him dad.

    It’s not that I don’t see him as my dad, because I do. When I talk about him to people, I refer to him as my dad. But I still call him by name the majority of the time. The mere idea of calling him dad just doesn’t compute, because even with the daddy issues galore, I grew up calling my bio dad 'dad’. It just feels wrong to call my stepdad that. So it’s his name and an occasional 'father figure’ when I feel like being obnoxious.

    Do I sometimes wish I could call him dad? Of course. That’s what he is to me. Will I ever do it? Probably not.

    This does vary from person to person. Some people may jump at the chance to have someone to call mom/dad. But when you’re writing, please take in your character’s background, personality, and situation before having them adopt the titles mom/dad. Please.

    Tl;Dr: Characters likely aren’t going to go around calling a parental figure they meet after the age of 8-10 'mom or dad’ because they likely associate those titles with other people and establish a habit with calling their new parent figures by name. Nicknames are much more personal and will tell your reader a lot more about your characters and their relationship.

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  • do y’all have any ideas for at home photo shoots? i’m so bored!

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  • Broken stones that stay in the same general shape are wonderful. There’s an opportunity for something beautiful to grow in between the cracks of something so tragic.

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  • AH it’s Autism Acceptance Month, and I have not a thing written to celebrate the first day!

    Maybe I’ll use some autism prompts I’ve seen floating around and write something everyday? I can’t promise anything, but I can try my best!

    *If anyone knows someone who would be posting neurodiverse writing prompts, please tell me! As a possible autistic, it would make it much easier to plan out writings!

    #possiblyaustistic #autism acceptance month #autism acceptance #writers on tumblr #writers#creative writer #writing autistic characters #creative writing
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  • Sure enough, some people wouldn’t stay, even if you have poured a lot of love on them.

    can’t take anything back // ma.c.a

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  • If you have any questions, please ask

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  • Day 1 of Camp Nanowrimoanowrimo April 2020

    day 1

    word count: 2050

    yes! I’m so happy with what I achieved today! I love how the story is turning out.

    I hope all of you guys’ writing ventures are going this well too :))

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  • How can this be? This is the fifth report that I’ve gotten.

    “May I ask you something?” I questioned the highwayman once we stopped to rest.

    “That depends on what you’re asking,” he mumbled as he laid back and draped an arm over his eyes.

    “I have been hearing reports of periodic darkness in areas that we have traveled through.” The smoothness of the stone that I was sitting on was a little bit of comfort.

    “That isn’t a question,” he retorted. There was something off in his voice. He almost sounded like the nymphs that gave me the reports and sightings.

    “Did you cause those periods of darkness over those areas?” There were a lot of things I needed to know but the first was if he was the cause of it. “There aren’t any plant mages in the area to cause that and it’s too far away for me to do anything like that.”

    “I shouldn’t be the source of it, no.” He sat up and rested his head against the palm of his hand.

    “Is it bad? Will it be harmful to those living in the area?”

    “How did you even hear about the darkness forming?”

    “The plants have a complex system for communication through their roots. They talk to each other that way. The nymphs live inside the trees and they told me.”

    “How long does it last?”

    “Almost a whole cycle.”

    He sat there in silence before raising his head and answering, “They don’t have to be worried. It isn’t anything dangerous. It’ll keep happening and probably follow us. I don’t know why it does but… It’s nothing to worry about and they can rest during that time.”

    I moved so I was seated next to him. “But what is it?”

    “A myth for you and reality for me.”

    I knew he wasn’t going to say anything else about it and deadpanned, “You’re helpful.”

    He flashed a smile as he said, “I try, sweetheart.”

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  • “You’ve been on my mind,” I told the summer time peanut butter-colored woman on the other end of the Campbell Soup can with the string attached. I felt like a child calling her out of the blue, but the skies have been leaking for several hours on the other side of the Starbucks window, and I don’t do so well with keeping secrets during rain times.

    She didn’t mean to answer, but I forgot to tell her I changed my number, and she was hoping I was someone calling with a potential job. “I can’t do this with you right now, “ she exhaled. She’s with someone who loves her, but not as much as I did. He’s not a writer, but she can understand the life of a bookkeeper, so she equates his showing up for her book club meetings ever fourth Sunday with love, and my absence and an attempt to distance myself from a situation she feared I feared. “It was always you,” I told her.

    She can’t hang up because I may never call back, and secretly that would kill her. It’s been years since we’ve talked, but that was on some social media site and nothing we said sounded like “I miss you.” But I did tell her I’d be in DC in a few months and I’d love to see her. She never responded and this was the first conversation since then. But she didn’t mean to pick up. She fears I’ll hear the red drippings running down her arm and tears that follow closely behind. I heard them drop into a sink with no water.

    “Are you in the bathroom,” I asked. The acoustics.

    She doesn’t want to meet me because she’s in love with a man who loves her, but not as hard as I did. He’s just able to tell her more than I could. She believes actions speak louder and written words, and I gave up writing letters when they stopped working. She doesn’t want to meet because I remember her old dreams. I remember the girl who got excited at the thought of becoming the kind of woman who carried around a zoom lens that would allow her to sit on a cliff and take photos of lions, tigers and antelope. She doesn’t want to remember that girl. She wants badly to believe she’s always been happy with never knowing international calling codes.

    She became a girl who tapes razor blades to her thigh in case she cuts too deep one day and someone mistakes her actions for a failed suicide attempt. She just needs to know I wasn’t the one who cut her deepest. I call her to remind her I was the one who hurt her the most. I put her dreams on that string between out two cans and let them hang there until she grabs them or until she’s bold enough to change her number so I may never find her.

    And I know I’m fucked up for reminding her that no one will ever love her as hard as I did, and she’ll cry most nights when he’s paying too much attention to her instead of ignoring her and writing in some Moleskine journal, and she’ll convince herself and her friends that those are tears of joy because she’s finally found the one who dared to let her be his one and only.

    “I guess that’s it. I just wanted to say I’ve been thinking of your face.”

    #Darnell Lamont Walker #love#relationships#writers#writing
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    Nathan is charming and collected as any good Wall Street resident should be. But make no mistake, has crawled his way to the top of the world tooth and nail. He is the founder of a multi-billion-dollar software company, which makes his secrets all the more ironic. His home, unbeknownst to his enemies, is a safe haven for the hacktivist group known as CatchMe. And as the ring leader, CatchAlpha is the greatest threat to cybersecurity that thee NSA has ever seen. 


    “Don’t stress, we have the contract bagged.” 
    “Wyatt Stride’s gonna call me tomorrow, regardless of whether or not we’re contracted. I’ll ask about the CIA, he’ll bullshit me an answer. There’s nothing to tell from a phone call.” Nathan ran down, “But if we get approved, he’ll bring the offer to my front door in person. Can’t risk sending this shit over text, you know?” 
    “You’ve got DC Kissing your ring.” While Nathan grinned at Jess’ praise, he stepped up and let the meaning of her words sink in. The tall man paced twice around the couch before settling into a standstill, staring out into the rainy city of riches. 
    “It’s one thing to work as a private security firm,” he murmured, his fingertips racing the raindrops across the glass. “But if we really do get the opportunity to work from inside the NSA, the CIA, whoever the hell hires us-”
    “We’re the best in the industry, who else are they going to crawl to?”

    (Ask to be added to the taglist)

    @ratpark505 @aziz-writes

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  • Does it frighten you to know that she is a demon in disguise? 

    She masquerades around with angel wings, but they were cut from the sinew of their owner and melded into her back with the pain and tears of her conquests. 

    She doesn’t know how to feel emotions and only brings pain and death. She kills with a smile and wounds with her eyes; you see the muses have inspired delicious melodies based on her behaviors. She’s ruled over centuries of men and their lover’s hearts.  

    Don’t fall into her web of lies and deceit. You think you can change her but you’ll discover you are tragically misguided. And it will lead to nowhere but your demise, destruction, and decay. 

    Run. Run from the demon in disguise.  

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    Y en estos tiempos si quieres: llora, porque no está mal, por qué, quién no lo haría. Porque seremos más humanos, más empaticos, más sensibles ante el otro, pero siempre y cuando la armadura se deje de lado.

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  • Ink

    A poem by Tuesday Hofmann

    I’ve come to find that each passing season is an aesthetic in itself, each month is sitting on your doorstep, a love letter waiting to be opened.

    January and February were much more meticulous, written with pen as dark as midnight, containing words that were straightforward and honest. April resembled that of a 12 year old girls diary, hopeful and romantic, I’s dotted with hearts, simple and sweet, like a childhood dream.

    October’s printing was dark and messy, containing more black scribbles than words. The hot- blooded scratches and tornados pressed against the page seemed to grab you by the braids and spit in your face. The words of august were light and barely visible,written playfully with yellow pastel crayons, but as you traced your finger along the paper you felt the sun and jovial nature blazing through your fingertips.

    July’s words washed over you like San Diego waves, July was full of short sentences, but there was so much among the unspoken. The ink of December smelled just like hot coffee and melancholy.

    November’s words were too big and they seemed to burn and rip apart the page, November’s love letters made you feel like a campfire trying to survive in the pouring rain. November’s words felt like drowning, June’s, on the other hand, felt like taking your first breath.

    Do not let the years fly away,

    Do not let the days pass you by,

    because, I’ve come to find,

    Love letters, though seemingly dormant, if ignored, will grow blue wings and kiss you goodbye.

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    Originally posted by wonderworldmotion

    Sweat seeps through the blue fabric of my T-shirt. My heart beats against my chest and tears pool in my eyes. I stare at the blanketed figure of my friend sleeping peacefully in her sleeping bag. The darkness that hangs from the roof of the tent is chased away by the occasional peep of moonlight creeping between the waving tree branches.

    Outside the tent,twigs snap, leaves crunch, the dying fire embers crackle, tree branches knock against each other. The grass carries whispers of wind as it watches the dancing creek water.  

    snap… snap… snap… 

    I bring a hand up, closing my fingers over my lips, trying to control my rapid breaths. I hear a huffing noise and the crack cracking of clicking nails. Something scrapes across the stones of the camp fire and over the night breeze I hear a whine as the creature outside touches the hot embers. I hear the crashing of collapsing camping chairs and our cooler being overturned and ransacked. 

    I feel something press against my back. The tent walls ripple as the creature prods the thin fabric with dreadfully long claws. The claw drags up my spine, through the tent, and stops at the base of my neck. The heavy breathing of the creature echoes right through the canvas and caresses my ear. I shiver and just as the gripping trembles crawl up my backside and reach the claw, the creature chuckles. 

    The deep throaty laugh is enough to wake my friend. She rolls over in her sleeping bag and glares at me with tired eyes. I quickly bring a shaky finger the rest vertically over my lips. My friend’s glare goes from irritated to quizzical to frightened in a matter of seconds. Her eyes dart from my finger to directly behind me and widen. My whole body begins to shiver uncontrollably  as we both begin to panic. 

    The claw retracts and the creature leaves. Seconds later I hear another deep laugh. Then a scream. Then the unmistakable rip of canvas. The volume of the terrified shrieks grew louder and louder until they vanished in a squelch of silence. My friend and I remained stiffly straight in our sleeping bags, mouths covered and eyes closed, tears leaking from our squeezed eyelids. 

    The morning sun rises over the tree coated mountains. The gleam of the saving grace of the blinding star paints the hills. My friend works up enough courage to slowly unzip the tent door. The paleness of the world outside seeps into the near pitch black interior of the tent. She peers outside and sees nothing but the scraggly, bare trees. She carefully stumbles out of the tent. She stands up and looks around with worried eyes, the edges of her button up pajama shirt crinkling in her fist. 

    “Let’s get out of here!” She harshly whispers. “Right now!” 

    I scramble out of the tent and we sprint for the truck that is parked a short distance away from our campsite. As we’re tripping up a hill we hear a wicked scream. Too high pitched and feral to even remotely resemble a human voice. I squeal and sink my feet into the tough dirt. Heavy feet thud against the ground, tearing through leaves and yellow grass.

    My friend races around the truck as I dive into the passenger side. My friend drives and drives until she reaches a ranger’s station. She runs inside and returns a while later. We drive home.

    At the campsite, no creature was found. However, the bloodied bodies of our other friends were scraped up from around the campsite along with out camping gear. All that was found of the ‘beast’ were trails of bizarre animal tracks and deep scratches carved into the surrounding trees.

    Late at night, or I should say early in the morning, my friend and I were eating leftover cake from our other friend’s funeral and ranting about heinously perfect girls at our school. The subject of the conversation drifts from the bleach blonde cheer captain to the deaths of our friends. Our voices lower as we begin to talk about the creature. I’m telling her about the claw running up my spine when, speak of the devil, we hear a blood chilling screech. We both whip around to the sliding glass door. 

    Standing outside, in the freezing autumn air, is a hunched, pale, bony, figure. The large dark eyes, sunken cheeks, and grimy teeth twist around in a rabid grin. Wickedly long claws dangle from its scrawny hands. It begins to take very uncoordinated and large steps for the door. We yelp and turn to run. Our fingers reach for the door handle of the front door as the glass sliding door shatters.

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  • Take One Down

    this ring melting in my hand like a candlewick

    drowning the memories that left me sick

    trading smiles for sighs

    while I watch you with the other guy

    another reason for me to raise another glass high

    to the wasted times and wasted nights

    in the corner of this deserted place

    I’m an island of despair and better days

    where empty promises came from shared lips

    and diamond eyes told tales of another life

    fake tears fall like the rain we danced in on our first date

    where you whispered that this meant forever and always

    Ironically I sink here and wash away

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