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22

Jul

Anonymous said: If you're taking prompts, can you write a zombie apocalypse au with Eponine and Enjolras.

wearenotmagnificent:

i could be the whole of heaven (e/é one-shot)

I tried anon, I really did. Thank you for the prompt, by the way.

There are moments made of marble in Enjolras’ mind, delicate, breathing things that are sewn into the fabric of his being so very much. It’s a gallery he walks through; tracing the masterpieces with his fingers and counting the things that are in the moment, the eyes, the mouths, the words. Strange how different things can seem the more you look at them.

Yes, moments are marble things and Enjolras sometimes wants to crawl out of his skin because you don’t look at them hard enough until you lose them.

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i want to get lost in you      i’m nothing without you
i want to get lost in you      
i’m nothing without you

textsfromumbridge replied to your post “In Words”

You will not BELIEVE the smile on my face right now… This is so awesome! BEYOND awesome!

Oh thank god. I was a bit nervous posting it since it’s a bit off the walls bonkers and because I directly put my fan-worship of Run Away With Me in there. 

I’m so happy you liked it :)

In Words

AN: Happy birthday Inge. I wrote this crackfic satire in one massive sitting for you because you’re awesome-sauce. I hope you don’t mind that I did a little “borrowing” and that you have a wonderful day. 

“And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in love with you.”

She tried to smile once more and expired.

-Victor Hugo, Les Miserables, pg 754

The world went black with a resounding and angry thud. It was something that Eponine no longer took personally, and over the past 152 years, had learned to take as a compliment. Still, she laid in Marius’ arms for another few seconds just to be safe—you never knew when a reader might come back. Sometimes they just popped off for a few seconds to the toilet, other times they left for weeks before returning. The worst were the Double R’s—repeat readers—who liked to scour over their favorite bits over and over again with hardly a moment’s notice. 

Sometimes, they never came back at all but those were usually the overly ambitious students, people who had no idea what they were getting into and ultra pretentious literary types who liked to list all the difficult-to-read books they’d pretended to have read at dinner parties. They usually stopped somewhere around page twenty—a fact that made the Bishop of D— very upset. Often, during the great lulls when nobody was reading, the Bishop drank himself silly at Corinthe, moaning to anyone who’d listen about how young folk today had no appreciation for great literature.

“Great job today,” Marius said after a few beats. He helped her sit up, brushing some of the gunpowder off her hand, which magically healed now that the reader had left the book for the night. “It’s been a while since we’ve gotten this far.”

“Thanks,” Eponine replied. “This one is a close reader too. Makes it harder to fudge.”

“Yeah. I noticed,” Marius grimaced. “And I don’t think she likes me much. She keeps imagining me with this ridiculous hair and freckles.” 

Eponine rolled her eyes. They’d been through it a million times before. “It’s the movie Marius. They watch the movie and then we start looking like movie Marius and movie Eponine.”

“I still don’t get it. Pictures that move? Are you sure?”

She shrugged. The details of how reading actually worked was fuzzy and after 152 years, they still hadn’t figured it out. The creator, a rather grumpy looking bearded man, had written them into being and then suddenly, they were alive. Theoretically, Eponine knew she was little more than a jumble of words describing an idea of a person. For the longest time, she hadn’t even been totally sure of her own face. That depended entirely on the reader. Sometimes she was little more than a waif with horrible teeth. But more recently, she had become prettier. Less emaciated, her hair less prone to falling out and sometimes, when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she reminded herself to thank Samantha. Whoever she was.

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21

Jul

25 Steps To Edit The Unmerciful Suck Out Of Your Story

chasingriversong:

Chuck Wendig on editing. A good read. NSFW for language, if you care.

centrumlumina:

This is part of the 2014 AO3 ship stats. For a guide to what each column means, click here.

This list shows the 100 most popular relationship tags on AO3. There are 3 F/F pairings, 23 F/M, 3 Gen and 71 M/M.

Of the 200 names, 29 belong to women - down from 32 this time last year. 11 of the 200 names are POC, compared with 11 last year.

Pythons memorialize Graham Chapman, December 1989

Reblog if you count yourself as “a writer.”

martin-j-christopher-freeman:

I’m just curious about how many of us are actually on this site. It doesn’t matter what you write, if you see yourself as a writer please reblog. 

lilyismilesaway said: S-T-O-R-Y ?

S: Would you let a stranger off the streets read your first drafts?

Oh dear god no. First drafts are shit. No one reads my first draft except for me. Once I’ve edited it, then I let other people read my second draft (though sadly I have no beta at the moment). Then I post the third and “final” draft. All of my fics are just edited by me, so sometimes typos get through. And I pull my hair and want to gouge my eyes out. 

T: What’s your favorite part of the writing process?  Why?

Envisioning the broad story arc, characters and then world building. There’s something exciting about getting that flash of inspiration and seeing the entire story in your head and where its going to go.

Also, I’m more of a “write and see where the characters take you” type so sometimes I’ll have the characters do something I totally didn’t see happening, but is 10,000 times better than what I had originally dreamed up. Those moments are the best. 

O: What motivates you to write?

I wouldn’t say things motivate me to write. I’d much rather sit on the couch with a tub of ice cream and potato chips. But I literally get antsy when I don’t take the time to write. It’s more of a compulsion than anything else and I get really bitchy if I don’t let it out in some form. 

R: What genre do you write in?

All kinds. My original works are primarily in the vein of magical realism/urban fantasy, ie some weird dark demon baby of Marquez and Gaiman. At least, that’s how I’d describe it. My fics run the gamut, though my Enjonine stuff is mostly Modern AUs or AUs of a sort. I should write more canon era stuff. 

Y: How would you describe the perfect prose?  How would you describe your own prose?

The perfect prose is illuminating but not stuffy. When you read it, you are transported. The author describes a marketplace and you are there—you can smell the food, hear the sounds, feel the people and taste the air. Every so often, an idea or phrase is expressed so exquisitely it takes your breath away and you’re left raging at the world because you didn’t think of it first. But the author never resorts to word gymnastics to prove they have a wide vocabulary. 

In essence, I prefer:

Amelia looked down the platform and shuddered. Trash littered the rails, which had once, probably hundreds of years before, gleamed pristine and new but were now rusted and covered in a thick, black sludge. Every so often, a rat popped out to grab a discarded morsel of someone’s forgotten lunch, its fur thick with grease and bits of its tail missing. Glancing at her watch, Amelia crinkled her nose. Summers were humid in the city, so the subways were always blanketed in the stench of the homeless. That was the thing about cities—they always buried their dirty secrets.

to this:

The city’s subways were a swirling, labyrinthian mess of dark tunnels and causeways, putrid refuse—both human and otherwise—leaking up from the rusted pipes. Amelia gagged as she breathed in the air, her olfactory senses protesting wildly against the offense. In the oppressive summer heat, they subway catacombs billowed with the warm stench of rotting garbage and as Amelia glanced at her watch, she pondered whether this was a metaphor for the state of the city. Peering down the tunnel, she sighed. It was like staring into the abyss and seeing its obsidian ennui reflected back at her.

Neither is better than the other. It’s just what I prefer.

I would describe my own prose as “in the works.” I try to do the former, but occasionally slip into the latter.