Do We Know What Happened To Them? A Part Of Me Hopes They Will Return Someday. I Still Reread Their Work,

Do we know what happened to them? A part of me hopes they will return someday. I still reread their work, all of it is incredible.

Thinking about @feynites and hoping they are happy, safe and get to experience DATV with joy. They kept my love of DA alive when there was no new content and we were all starting to feel like DATV would never come out. Thank you for being a candle in the darkness, my favorite fic author. 🫶🏼

Honestly. People have bee unfairly criticizing this game for months and reacting in ways that are WAY too big.

Don’t get me wrong, I am disappointed about there only being 3 choices from Trespasser that we can select, and it does feel like that is mostly for new fans. I don’t like it and I wouldn’t have made that decision personally, but people are acting like BioWare personally insulted their mothers.

Sincerely, to the people getting upset about the dragon age news...please take a step back to breathe. Take a break, please, it is not in any way worth it to get this worked up over fiction.

Disappointed I can understand. But if it is affecting your well-being, then it's time for some introspection.

“i am a monument to all your sins” is such a fucking raw line for a villain it’s amazing that it came from halo, a modernish video game, and not some classical text or mythos

🌙 "I'll sew my own dang dress" solavellan enjoy🌙

It is Lavellan's idea of a compromise: she'll use the same colours and fabrics, but she will not be caught in dress blues and riding boots.

"Elgar'nan did not give me the shoulders for that."

Elgar'nan gave you nothing, he wants to tell her. Nothing but blood and murder and deceit. Your people do not call him the god of vengeance for his gifts.

Instead, once they're alone, after they bathed and he rubs lavender oil into the skin of her back, he tells her with teasing touches how she was given wide, soft hips, a narrow waist, a supple bottom and round breasts and to dress them however she likes. Let them know it was a Dalish Elf who saved their Empress, though he does not get to finish the sentence before she is on her knees between his thighs and his hands in her hair.

She insists on sewing her robes by herself. She sucks at her teeth with her tongue as she lays out the heavy, bright red velveteen, the blue silk and golden brocade, lambswool dyed a muted, almost muddy brown.

"Do you require assistance?" He knows she doesn't, but her annoyance at the fabrics roll off of her like thunderclouds that crinkle the pages of his book.

"You'd think three shem nobles who busy three runners all day everyday for three weeks could settle on a colour scheme that doesn't look like the remains of a bluebird caught by a wolf. Or one that doesn't make me resemble a washed-out bog corpse."

"I do not believe the Spymaster is of nobility, vhenan." When he looks over the edge of his book, Lavellan frowns at his wry smile.

"She spent enough time at court; might as well be." She sighs as she gets up from the ground, steps around the yards of cloth and walks over to pick up her haphazard sketches; those she dreams up on the roads, then turns into reality in the hold.

In another world, she might have been the most prolific seamstress in the empire. Every day, one of the Evanuris would have sent for her, for her inspired clothing concepts. He himself would have dressed her in fabrics brighter than the whites of her eyes, magic woven into the threads that her clothes may as well have had minds of their own.

In this world, however, he must content himself with watching her squatted over the floor, muttering in fragmented elvhen as she transfers the scribbles onto the fabric with chalk and then cutting with a dull blade.

"But no. I don't need your assistance. Thank you, though." She holds him by a shoulder, presses a kiss into his scalp as she walks past, kneels back down.

"If it's any consolation: You do not look like a washed-out bog corpse in your nightgown."

"That's because its a muted burgundy satin nightgown, and not apple-red velveteen," she does not even look up from her transferred lines, "and you don't see me wearing it much anyway. If anything, you spend more time taking it off of me than viewing me in it." The hint of red on her eartips matches his.

"I see a lot more than you think." A hiss, she wets her thumb and forefinger with her tongue and scrubs at the velveteen until the line can be redrawn. "I did not take it off last night, did I?"

She barks out a laugh.

"Fair."

She does ask his assistance, eventually, to hold the fabric taut behind her and mark off where to trim so the dress sat on her the way she wanted it to.

He excuses his poor lines by her naked back beneath his fingers, a glimpse of her bare chest through the mirror as she pulls at the neckline just a little too harshly.

"You are a master with fabric, my heart." His breath makes her shiver, though he knows it's not from the cold. The knot in her hair unravels over his shoulder as she leans back.

"I know. But do shower me in compliments, if you please."

"It is a rather heavy fabric, compared to what you prefer to use," he thinks back on silk and satin, chiffon and muslin, "but you make it look like barely more than tulle and the sky at sundown over the coast. I try to imagine what you could do, given enough time and the fabric you wanted, and I fall utterly short."

Loose, flowing chiffon, he thinks, a high, snug waist, a low, deep neckline, decorated straps that hold or hide nothing. The fine gold jewellery she prefers. Though, in his mind, there is only the feeling and vague, blurry patterns of what he knows to sit inside Lavellan's head with perfect clarity.

It makes sense they would find each other in this life, he half-thinks. Artists flock together. Like moths to flame, no matter the medium, his mother would say to him, deep purple smudged over her nose and in her hair.

He drops the velveteen unceremoniously. Their eyes meet through the mirror, and she does not cover up. Unashamed, as she should be.

"Also, if you look like a washed-out bog corpse in bright red, what chance do I have?" He pokes her ribs with a finger; the tannest part of him against the palest part of her, and yet, if they were trees, she would be rosewood and he birch. She snorts.

"Don't they say being pale means you never had to work a day in your life? Looks like you lived the good life, once, wherever your village is." She reaches for him blindly, backwards, one hand on his chin, the other playing at his waist. Her fingers twist underneath his tunic.

"I said it was a small, boring village, not a poor one." Solas kisses her neck, and his fingers crawl around her waist, dig into the flesh of her belly, just a little, before he tears himself away. "I shall let you get back to it. I do not wish to be at fault if you have to appear naked before the Empress."

Lavellan swats at him, laughing, slipping back into leggings and breastband and measuring out grommet holes to his sloppy lining.

Still, before she forces scissor points through the fabric, even before he returns to his spot in the corner of the settee, in front of the fireplace and behind his book.

"Vhenan?"

"Yes, my heart?" No reply, so he turns over the back of his seat.

She looks so small, so young, and yet so wise and confident and larger-than-life.

If anyone should be revered as a living deity, it should be her, right now, with the dark rings under her eyes and the messy hair and the animal hair on her clothes.

"You make me so happy. I don't think I could do this - any of it - without you."

She walks up and grasps his outreached hand like it was all she was ever made to do.

"Don't sell yourself short. All you did, you achieved of your own efforts." He turns her hand, kisses her palm. "Though it does make me happy to hear it; that my presence fulfills you as much as yours does me."

She leans over to him and kisses him, and it takes everything in him to not pull her over the back and into his arms.

"I'm trying to be sweet, and sincere, and you just unpack your eloquence and outdo me." There is no bite in the retort.

"I thought you wished me to shower you in compliments."

He does not have to pull. She climbs over the back of his seat.

"You, my love, may shower me in whatever you wish."

His book only narrowly misses the fire in the hearth.

but also another fic on ao3 [love song for the admiral / cullen x josie] where josie contemplates on the dress blues and i was ALSO like 👀 i see you the inquisition should be a visually joined force

🌙

inspired by a fic on ao3 im reading [the truths between / solavellan] where they put lavellan in a gown and i was like 👀 i see you lavellan should be in a gown

so im about to put lavellan in a gown in red, blue, gold and brown, even though there's only two people in the inquisition who can wear that colour combo and its josie and cully wully :)

then just the usual they horn knee for each other kaboodle dont @ me

I’m so confused, do they think that anti-aging products *aren’t* purely for cosmetic purposes?? Like thinking that they are actually doing something to prevent the body from physically aging rather than just like… preventing wrinkles?? ¿¿Huh??

scrunching my face real hard rn

The Neurodivergent Writer’s Guide to Fun and Productivity

(Even when life beats you down)

Look, I’m a mom, I have ADHD, I’m a spoonie. To say that I don’t have heaps of energy to spare and I struggle with consistency is an understatement. For years, I tried to write consistently, but I couldn’t manage to keep up with habits I built and deadlines I set.

So fuck neurodivergent guides on building habits, fuck “eat the frog first”, fuck “it’s all in the grind”, and fuck “you just need time management”—here is how I manage to write often and a lot.

Focus on having fun, not on the outcome

This was the groundwork I had to lay before I could even start my streak. At an online writing conference, someone said: “If you push yourself and meet your goals, and you publish your book, but you haven’t enjoyed the process… What’s the point?” and hoo boy, that question hit me like a truck.

I was so caught up in the narrative of “You’ve got to show up for what’s important” and “Push through if you really want to get it done”. For a few years, I used to read all these productivity books about grinding your way to success, and along the way I started using the same language as they did. And I notice a lot of you do so, too.

But your brain doesn’t like to grind. No-one’s brain does, and especially no neurodivergent brain. If having to write gives you stress or if you put pressure on yourself for not writing (enough), your brain’s going to say: “Huh. Writing gives us stress, we’re going to try to avoid it in the future.”

So before I could even try to write regularly, I needed to teach my brain once again that writing is fun. I switched from countable goals like words or time to non-countable goals like “fun” and “flow”.

Rewire my brain: writing is fun and I’m good at it

I used everything I knew about neuroscience, psychology, and social sciences. These are some of the things I did before and during a writing session. Usually not all at once, and after a while I didn’t need these strategies anymore, although I sometimes go back to them when necessary.

I journalled all the negative thoughts I had around writing and try to reason them away, using arguments I knew in my heart were true. (The last part is the crux.) Imagine being supportive to a writer friend with crippling insecurities, only the friend is you.

Not setting any goals didn’t work for me—I still nurtured unwanted expectations. So I did set goals, but made them non-countable, like “have fun”, “get in the flow”, or “write”. Did I write? Yes. Success! Your brain doesn’t actually care about how high the goal is, it cares about meeting whatever goal you set.

I didn’t even track how many words I wrote. Not relevant.

I set an alarm for a short time (like 10 minutes) and forbade myself to exceed that time. The idea was that if I write until I run out of mojo, my brain learns that writing drains the mojo. If I write for 10 minutes and have fun, my brain learns that writing is fun and wants to do it again.

Reinforce the fact that writing makes you happy by rewarding your brain immediately afterwards. You know what works best for you: a walk, a golden sticker, chocolate, cuddle your dog, whatever makes you happy.

I conditioned myself to associate writing with specific stimuli: that album, that smell, that tea, that place. Any stimulus can work, so pick one you like. I consciously chose several stimuli so I could switch them up, and the conditioning stays active as long as I don’t muddle it with other associations.

Use a ritual to signal to your brain that Writing Time is about to begin to get into the zone easier and faster. I guess this is a kind of conditioning as well? Meditation, music, lighting a candle… Pick your stimulus and stick with it.

Specifically for rewiring my brain, I started a new WIP that had no emotional connotations attached to it, nor any pressure to get finished or, heaven forbid, meet quality norms. I don’t think these techniques above would have worked as well if I had applied them on writing my novel.

It wasn’t until I could confidently say I enjoyed writing again, that I could start building up a consistent habit. No more pushing myself.

I lowered my definition for success

When I say that nowadays I write every day, that’s literally it. I don’t set out to write 1,000 or 500 or 10 words every day (tried it, failed to keep up with it every time)—the only marker for success when it comes to my streak is to write at least one word, even on the days when my brain goes “naaahhh”. On those days, it suffices to send myself a text with a few keywords or a snippet. It’s not “success on a technicality (derogatory)”, because most of those snippets and ideas get used in actual stories later. And if they don’t, they don’t. It’s still writing. No writing is ever wasted.

A side note on high expectations, imposter syndrome, and perfectionism

Obviously, “Setting a ridiculously low goal” isn’t something I invented. I actually got it from those productivity books, only I never got it to work. I used to tell myself: “It’s okay if I don’t write for an hour, because my goal is to write for 20 minutes and if I happen to keep going for, say, an hour, that’s a bonus.” Right? So I set the goal for 20 minutes, wrote for 35 minutes, and instead of feeling like I exceeded my goal, I felt disappointed because apparently I was still hoping for the bonus scenario to happen. I didn’t know how to set a goal so low and believe it.

I think the trick to making it work this time lies more in the groundwork of training my brain to enjoy writing again than in the fact that my daily goal is ridiculously low. I believe I’m a writer, because I prove it to myself every day. Every success I hit reinforces the idea that I’m a writer. It’s an extra ward against imposter syndrome.

Knowing that I can still come up with a few lines of dialogue on the Really Bad Days—days when I struggle to brush my teeth, the day when I had a panic attack in the supermarket, or the day my kid got hit by a car—teaches me that I can write on the mere Bad-ish Days.

The more I do it, the more I do it

The irony is that setting a ridiculously low goal almost immediately led to writing more and more often. The most difficult step is to start a new habit. After just a few weeks, I noticed that I needed less time and energy to get into the zone. I no longer needed all the strategies I listed above.

Another perk I noticed, was an increased writing speed. After just a few months of writing every day, my average speed went from 600 words per hour to 1,500 wph, regularly exceeding 2,000 wph without any loss of quality.

Talking about quality: I could see myself becoming a better writer with every passing month. Writing better dialogue, interiority, chemistry, humour, descriptions, whatever: they all improved noticeably, and I wasn’t a bad writer to begin with.

The increased speed means I get more done with the same amount of energy spent. I used to write around 2,000-5,000 words per month, some months none at all. Nowadays I effortlessly write 30,000 words per month. I didn’t set out to write more, it’s just a nice perk.

Look, I’m not saying you should write every day if it doesn’t work for you. My point is: the more often you write, the easier it will be.

No pressure

Yes, I’m still working on my novel, but I’m not racing through it. I produce two or three chapters per month, and the rest of my time goes to short stories my brain keeps projecting on the inside of my eyelids when I’m trying to sleep. I might as well write them down, right?

These short stories started out as self-indulgence, and even now that I take them more seriously, they are still just for me. I don’t intend to ever publish them, no-one will ever read them, they can suck if they suck. The unintended consequence was that my short stories are some of my best writing, because there’s no pressure, it’s pure fun.

Does it make sense to spend, say, 90% of my output on stories no-one else will ever read? Wouldn’t it be better to spend all that creative energy and time on my novel? Well, yes. If you find the magic trick, let me know, because I haven’t found it yet. The short stories don’t cannibalize on the novel, because they require different mindsets. If I stopped writing the short stories, I wouldn’t produce more chapters. (I tried. Maybe in the future? Fingers crossed.)

Don’t wait for inspiration to hit

There’s a quote by Picasso: “Inspiration hits, but it has to find you working.” I strongly agree. Writing is not some mystical, muse-y gift, it’s a skill and inspiration does exist, but usually it’s brought on by doing the work. So just get started and inspiration will come to you.

Accountability and community

Having social factors in your toolbox is invaluable. I have an offline writing friend I take long walks with, I host a monthly writing club on Discord, and I have another group on Discord that holds me accountable every day. They all motivate me in different ways and it’s such a nice thing to share my successes with people who truly understand how hard it can be.

The productivity books taught me that if you want to make a big change in your life or attitude, surrounding yourself with people who already embody your ideal or your goal huuuugely helps. The fact that I have these productive people around me who also prioritize writing, makes it easier for me to stick to my own priorities.

Your toolbox

The idea is to have several techniques at your disposal to help you stay consistent. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket by focussing on just one technique. Keep all of them close, and if one stops working or doesn’t inspire you today, pivot and pick another one.

After a while, most “tools” run in the background once they are established. Things like surrounding myself with my writing friends, keeping up with my daily streak, and listening to the album I conditioned myself with don’t require any energy, and they still remain hugely beneficial.

Do you have any other techniques? I’d love to hear about them!

I hope this was useful. Happy writing!