Yes I wanna see! Question, does anyone know an actual writing program that works like the Notepad on Windows? (Where I can make new documents easily and don´t need to worry about saving or titles, and also can have stuff open next to each other and colour coded.) It´s the only thing I can seem to write on...
I'm guessing you're talking about a program that you can just download without having to pay. In that case I can recommend LibreOffice Writer or Notepad++, depending on what your needs exactly are.
is this the wrong place to ask whether anyone would be up for beta reading? I'm working on a nsfw aziraphael/crowley fic and am a)massively sleep depped and b)have the flu so it'd be good to have another pair of eyes to look at it and make sure its not babblepants.
@Lissiel i have no clue if this is the right place but I don't even care, hit me uppppp, I am all about that ship Is it on gdocs? I'll PM my email to you if you need that :O
@rats alternately we could go strictly over pm if thats easier? Im pretty sure it shouldn't jank up formatting or anything to just post the text in a pm if you dont want to share your email.
keyboard issves have realy pvt a da^^per on ^^y writes. Sha^^e. Went back and looked throvgh so^^e of ^^y stvff, and I actvally kind of like so^^e of it? Spoiler: old old rvnaways fic [Start this off better, set the scene a bit. It's a warm night, her house is large and quiet and drafty, full up with bric a brac(keepsakes from movies, art pieces, stuff she feels connected to, happy with) The others are rustling about, making noise, invading a place she feels safe in, and it sets her on edge. She keeps her rooms, parents and hers, for herself, gets sort of snappish and angry about it, no one challenges her for them.] Her hands are shaking, she notes distantly. She's pawing through her mother's bedside table, rattling bottles of pills and packets of gum and wondering what exactly she's hoping to find. Nothing, the tremor in her hands seems to say. She picks up a bottle and struggles to focus on the tiny print, trying to recall when she'd last seen her mother pop a pill. The Deans have always been an oddly healthy family. Every single bug that ever ravaged her school skipped her over completely. She's never even had a cold. An old familiar fear drapes itself over her shoulders and sinks its claws into her chest at that thought. Her hands spasm and the plastic creaks. She's perfectly normal. She sets the bottle down gently between a stack of old magazines and a packet of her mom's favorite all-natural, cruelty-free spearmint gum, and sits down on the bed. She's perfectly normal, absolutely average in every possible way. There's nothing wrong with her. Sure, she's a Hollywood kid, but, you know, not really. She's seen others on trashy television talk shows and gossip rags, never for anything good, and she knows that calling herself normal might be a bit hard for some people to swallow, but she's the exception to the rule. Her parents always made time for her, always kept her far enough from the spotlight, kept themselves from the spotlight they adore just for her sake. They raised her as normal as they could manage, and she loves them for it. She's always been more comfortable overshadowed. Nothing wrong with that. She swallows past shards of fear lodged in her throat and feels shame congeal, chilly and damp, deep in her belly. [Nico shouts up the stairs that she's coming up, she won't touch their personal spaces, but she's help case the joint. Gert loudly grumbles about how Karolina doesn't want to find anything and should let someone else look.] Of course Karolina doesn't want to find anything. No sane person would. She's not like Gert. Karolina is normal, unthreatening, easy to overlook. Gert's proudly, loudly, weird. She's aggressively off-putting, taking a savage kind of pride in mocking laughter and stares. Gert seems almost giddy with the revelation that her parents are... whatever it is that they are. Weird. Bad? Gert's shameless and solid, with a kind of gravitational pull all her own, content to revolve around her own ideals. Gert's got a core of molten steal, but Karolina... It's an unbelievable situation. Ridiculous. The kind of thing you'd read in one of those half-baked kiddy adventure books she'd been addicted to in third grade. The Mystery of the Malevolent Matriarchs or something equally tacky. Silly. Childish, even. The very idea that she and her little pack of not-quite-friends might actually get wrapped up in something like that, it's just. It's dumb. Her actual friends would laugh. She drops heavily onto her parents bed, soaking in the warm, familiar scent of her mother's floral soaps, her father's organic shampoos, the biting, electric undercurrent that others have always lacked, that uniquely Dean scent that... That no one else shares. No one notices, but she can't not. They used to notice, back when she was young and stupid and inexperienced. Not the scent thing. One of the first thing she learned was how others never seemed to notice them the way she did, not even after the rain, when scents pop like everything is shouting loudly its identity to whoever can hear it. But the other stuff, the kind they could see. The snappy, twitchy way she moved way back when she was first learning how, back when even setting foot on the ground felt almost insulting when the sky was so close at hand. Or maybe the way she fussed and fought over being confined to classrooms and buildings, too small too dim too wrong in ways she never had the words to articulate, always hated that she needed to explain what was so blatantly, obviously alien. She'd been a weird kid, yeah, but she's learned, sanded off the edges of herself that caught and chaffed against the rest of the world. She's watched and listened and shaped herself into someone not worth scrutiny. Just cool enough to enjoy moderate popularity, too skinny to be really pretty, bright but not blindingly so, moderate, average, palatable. Nothing special. Nothing worth looking at too closely. It doesn't mean anything. Kids are weird. It happens. Some kids eat dirt, some kids smear paints all over the walls, some kids dream of light and heat and a sky that stretches endless in all directions. She's not weird anymore. She's not going to be weird again. "Hey, Karolina?" Nico whisper-shouts from the hallway. "-" Karolina feels guilty about her crush, gets up, moves out of her parent's room, goes about her biz. "[Whatever Alex yelled up to her]" Spoiler: RWBY ^^eets Weiss at a svpport grovp for disabled ex-hvnt^^en, ^^akeovts ensve At ten, Ruby is full of energy, overflowing with Aura and a drive to succeed that spills out with every movement she makes. Overabundance is writ in the clumsy force of her every motion, a wealth of life that she has not yet learned to cherish. At fifteen, Ruby is refined. Years of schooling have hardened her muscles and strengthened her grasp on her future. She know who she is. She knows what she wants. All she has to do is make it there in one piece. At twenty, Ruby is scarred. She's done fantastic things. She's seen more in her short life than she'd ever imagined possible. She's saved towns, kingdoms even. Made wonderful friends. Lived through horrors thought unbeatable. And all of it has etched lines in Ruby, body and soul. At twenty-five, Ruby is done. Ruby doesn't like the exosuit. It's a technological wonder, a marvel of science, the miracle that allows her to walk when she had thought she'd be forever bound to a bed or a chair. Still. Still. She hasn't been able to feel anything but the barest hints of a prickling numbness in her legs for months. The suit doesn't change that. She'd known that beforehand, but somehow she'd still believed that just being able to walk would make her whole again, and the disconnect is jarring. She doesn't like the chair, but she finds she prefers the totally new challenges it presents to the achingly familiar wrongness of walking. Yang doesn't get it, but she accommodates her anyways. Yang has always been keen on letting her sister make her own choices, and Ruby is grateful that that at least hasn't changed. Yang is the one who told her about the Center, but that's all she's done. She hasn't been like Dad, pushing and pulling her towards whatever 'solution' he's devised for her, sending her email after email about programs and colleges and scholarships when most days she can't even bring herself to do more than doze without feeling like the world is caving in around her. Yang trusts her, and that means the world to Ruby. And she supposes that's why she's here, instead of on an airship to Dad's place back on Patch. 'Here' being a sidewalk on the western end of Vale, close enough to the docks that the air smells more of salt than ozone. 'Here' being on the way to a support group meeting for former Huntsmen. Ruby hates how that phrase makes her feel. Somehow when she was younger she'd never once imagined being a 'former' Huntress. Her Dad, her Uncle, most of her teachers at Beacon and Signal had been former Huntsmen, technically, but they'd still been fighters, warriors, heroes. The fight lasts till you're dead. But she's not dead. She's just done. It's not just her back, or her dulled reflexes. It's how sleep eludes her for days on end, how dreams haunt her waking hours, how sometimes someone touches her wrong or makes the wrong noise and she just loses it. She's untethered. That's what she is. She's got nothing to look forward to anymore. No plans, no hope, no future. That's a bit of an exaggeration, she thinks with a wince. The problem isn't that there are no opportunities, the problem is that contemplating them makes her feel like she's about to vomit herself inside out. Spoiler: apparently I ship Nvx/Fvriosa? I'^^ trying to fill two pro^^pts for it, at least. It's like she's seventeen again, chrome sparking from her teeth through the tangled wiring of her nervous system making her chest thunder like an overcharged V8, bruised and battered and shining bright against stone and steel rank with old blood and brain and waste. Her teeth buzz with the half-forgotten high, the glimmering knife edged pleasure of power, of pain inflicted and received. The knife bobs against the pup's narrow throat, each frantic breath stifled against its cutting edge. Furiosa watches, feeling something as urgent as thirst tug insistently at her belly. It's a useful feeling, the high. Not just the high of paint fumes curling white hot and bitter down all the chutes and pipes of her body, painting her insides chrome. The blood high, the meaty, dirty, human high of fighting tooth and nail, the ragged bitter knowledge of the mundane enormity of her actions that religious fervor obscures. It is useful, the clarity, the speed, even the rotten-tooth pleasure of hurting, when you live in the Wastes. Out here, everything hurts. Out here, you have to take what is offered or you'll go mad. But the taking is mad too. The thirst so deep you can drown in it. She certainly feels mad, contemplating. The blade dips, and a drop of brilliant red bubbles up from beneath the Boy's paint. Blood he can ill afford to lose, from the looks of him. Furiosa licks her lips, mouth suddenly dry.
I finally updated my Mass Effect fic. It's been literally like a year. >_< If anyone would like to read and review please do so....
Not sure if this is the right place for this, but if not maybe someone can nudge me in the right direction? I'm writing a thing where a family has a tongue in cheek Latin family motto that translates to 'No Take-Backs'. I've been using the placeholder 'Nilus Backus', though that's not what I want in the final version (mainly because the tiny amount of Latin I know tells me that it doesn't actually make sense). Does anyone have any suggestions for phrases that are Actual Real Latin and mean the same thing?
Is anyone around that could beta a very short idw mtmte drabble? Cyclonus/Tailgate, no smut content, about ~500 words. Want to make sure my characterization is on point and that I haven't used wrong words for parts. XD
So I totally just published my first fanfic online in ages New Star Wars stuff, major spoilers obviously http://archiveofourown.org/works/5480153/chapters/12663095
do... do any of you have a way to shut up your internal Serious Literary Editor? I have an idea for a fic and i keep swinging between 'i love it i wanna read it and i am the only one capable of writing it!!' and 'this is garbage it doesnt start in an action its boring and people wouldnt want to read it. its longfic you have to Grip Them before they Wander Off this is a cutthroat market and your writing is just Not Up To It".
I dunno if this will help for you, but when I start getting that bullshit with various (non-writing, cos i still havent gotten the courage and time together for writing) projects, I tend to go for the "I didn't write it for you" approach to that voice/the audience it is supposedly speaking on behalf of.
someone please come help me figure out how to make this like thirty times grosser because it's not yet as gross as it deserves to be Spoiler Eden brushes some leaves off his shoulders and looks in the mirror. He opens his mouth, but before he can do anything else his body spasms as he coughs horribly. He spits up a few crumpled petals. Damn. It’s killing him from the inside out. There’s a pair of scissors on the table. He can only hope they’re sharp enough. He positions himself in front of the mirror and carefully reaches down his throat. He pulls up the flower carefully and cuts the stem quickly, letting out only a whimper of pain. He tries not to think about how it’s attached to him, which organs might already be covered in rose petals and thorns. “Let him touch you,” the unnamed voice says in a pleading tone. “Let this pain end, for both of you.” “Shut up,” Eden murmurs. He brushes through his hair with his fingers, tearing out the roots that have poked out in the last day or so. When he looks at his fingers, they’re bloody. “This is unnatural.” He leans in closer to the mirror. No. No, that’s not fair. There’s a thin vine poking out from under his eyeball. As he watches, it grows tiny leaves. “You’ll lose that eye. Immortal or no, you don’t want to spend eternity half blind.” “You don’t know what I want,” Eden tells the voice angrily. “You don’t know shit about me.” And he grabs the vine and rips it out of his head, screaming with the pain. He stares, uncomprehending at the eyeball in his hand. “No. No, it’s not supposed to be like this.” He can see his eyesocket in the mirror. It’s not bloody, isn’t it supposed to be bloody, oh god, it’s just filling with hundreds and hundreds of tiny leaves.
Spoiler: oh my I get what you mean about how it could be grosser. I'm seeing it, but it's more like Ghibli than Akira in my head right now. More of a sense of bulging body horror. Are the roots only under the hair, rather than writhing under visible skin?
It's like. Hm. I've described it before as, he is literally so full of life that it's killing him. All of the extra living in him is spilling out in plant form, and he's tearing out what of it he can find because he's too stubborn to allow the person who could stop it all with a touch to touch him.
I guess the relevant question here that I should've asked first is, what kind of grosser are you looking for?
