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On staying home (despite your best intentions)

another day - angus and julia stone / look who’s inside again - bo burnham / reasons not to be an idiot - Frank Turner / all my favorite songs - weezer ft. ajr  / nobody really cares if you don’t go to the party - courtney barnett / excursions - keaton henson / the deepest sighs, the frankest shadows - gang of youths /  tomorrow - jack and the weatherman / kyoto - Phoebe bridgers 

My whole WIP is about this! Set during the idustrial revolution, magic has become a tool, something to be used or maybe even ignored, forgotten and discarded. But then the Romantics rise and magic gets an impulse. It is intertwined with art: art as a spiritual power, something connected to feeling and expression and just a little out of reach, always at the edge of incomprehensible. My OC thinks about it like this: ‘Once, when religion had still been tangible and water could change in wine in front of your eyes, magic had been spiritual, an amazing, supernatural power. Later, miracles became stories. Churches rose, priests preached their psalms and every spire pulled mankind further from her faith. Magic was sacrilege, then utensil. Now philosophers and scientists held truth in their fingers, and magic, God and the occult should all be sweeped into a dark corner. Tungsten did not believe in God – at least, he didn't think he did. But magic was different. It was human and more than human, like love, or art‘.

I have always felt art is the closest we can get to magic!

I have a lot of feelings about how witchcraft and art are similar and intertwined, but I can’t exactly articulate them

send me an ask directed at one of my ocs and i’ll answer it in-character

But this is a paradox, is it not? Because what is braver than admitting you are not brave? If you can’t face the truth in the mirror, at least you can face the truth right here, in this piece of text. You have shown us. You have told us writers -  scared, trembling, bold writers - that you are afraid to speak out. And in doing so, you have confronted us and yourself with such a vulnerable, honest thing. 

Maybe you cannot stand up to anyone (yet). Maybe you cannot raise your voice (yet). Maybe you cannot confront (yet). But you can write about it. You are doing it right now. You are giving us the murky depth of your heart and you are defying the norm by admitting your doubts.

Why do I write? Why do so many writers write? Because we see the things that are wrong - with the world, with ourselves. And we cannot speak about them. So we put them on paper. Instead of yelling, arguing, confronting, we create a story, a poem.

They say the pen in mightier than the sword. You just told us that you are not a fighting, sword-wielding knight. But you have used your pen, and you are most certainly a writer.

I am not bold

There are a lot of things a lot of people say about how to be a writer. Write every day, get published, get readers to love you, win awards and whatever. But for me there is one thing that all writers, actually all creative people, seem to have in common.

They are bold.

They defy the norm, they defy the conventions, they defy the universe itself.

Writers write from the murky awful depths of their hearts. This goes for all writers not just some genres. There is unique courage in writing a story that tears your own self apart. But they do it anyway and then they stitch themselves back together by writing more! 

Here’s my problem. I am not bold.

I am a coward. I would be the first to say that. I hate confrontation. I don’t ever point out anything wrong. I cannot stand up to anyone without having a complete panic attack. I cannot even stand in front of a mirror and face the truth of myself without my knees shaking. I stay quiet when people around me raise their voices. I stay quiet when saying something would mean something. I stay quiet even if my heart is breaking, especially when my heart is breaking.

I don’t confront. I don’t question. I don’t refuse.

This might be conditioning from my upbringing. This might be the weight of expectations thrown on me. Or this might just be who I am.

At the end of the day, all this means is that I pull back when I should write honestly. I step aside when I should forge on. I delete the words that must have stayed.

At the end of the day, I am not bold enough to be a writer. And I probably never will be.

For the engineer, Lydia Preston, by @lethalblizzard. I hope you like it! Requests for OC aesthetics are open.

Towards the end of a cold day. Värmland, Sweden (December 4, 2023).

Reblog if youd be totally fine with someone you dont know tagging you in a tag game

I had a sweet Nonny the other day asking how to get started, and honestly posts like this are a great way. I know games go kinda fallow during school and events like NaNo, but we can get this one circulating and building up a list of folks to tag when were ready to get back to it :)

The real horror of The Magnus Archives is having to listen to your favorite characters breaking down live on tape and sobbing their eyes out. You can’t reach them. You can’t hug them. You can’t even make them tea. 

What kind of author are you; the “I write a lot of conversation” kind of author or the “I can’t help to put too much description”. 

Oscar Wilde, De Profundis // @i-wrotethisforme // Jorge Louis Berges // @smokeinsilence //@viridianmasquerade //Jorge Louis Berges // @honeytuesday // Kaveh Akbar // F. Scott Fitzgerald // AKR //Olivie Blake, from “Alone With You in the Ether” // Kaveh Akbar, Pilgrimage