
This blog will combine three things I love dearly: writing, talking about writing, and aesthetics. So if you have an amazing OC for which you crave an aesthetic moodboard or Instagram page - tell me all about them, and I will make you one! After all, every writer needs fanart.
187 posts
Fer Describing My MC Tungsten To Silver (all From Elementary) :I Know You Think He Is Spoiled And Ungrateful,
Fer describing my MC Tungsten to Silver (all from Elementary) : ‘I know you think he is spoiled and ungrateful, but I see something else: I see a lonely boy. Look at him stumble over his words. He might dress fashionably, but he’s a misfit as much as the rest of us.’
Let’s play a game!
Describe your MC in the voice of any secondary character, using no more than three sentences!
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More Posts from Everywriterneedsfanart


posing questions to a silent universe // my very thoughts are cursed - Bears Den
(requests for OC aesthetics are open)
If you write a book with a male protagonist and he never cries during the entire book sorry I’m bored!!!! I’m super bored, like extra bored, disinterested, not loving it!! Next

For Dores, who is very much sixteen
Waterwegen: [4/7] [1/7] [2/7] [3/7]
a tip for writing female characters: don’t be afraid to make her feral. just absolutely batshit. her actual intelligence? that can vary. but bring out the chaotic stupid tendencies. embrace her as a one brain cell enemy of the state
My battery is low...
Today, a collection of cameras and steel was pronounced dead. She sang to celebrate herself, survived a marathon of miles, shared, and showed her redburned hollow home. We gave her iron claws to drag along a planet's spine, and when, one morning, the sensors would not wake, we shouted out a thousandfold: 'Are you okay?'
To no response.
She had a name. Between hurricanes and stars, we tend to love what kills or dies, ripping up our teddybears in Sunday morning rooms till stuffing snows and tickles throats, brings water to our eyes.
Stuck on an arbitrary globe, we compose 'Space Oddity'. Dream of escape, at least embrace the ache of rust she cannot feel. There is both humor and humanity in loss.
She might be us. Cross-winded, heading straight into the dust. We weave the trails into a 'why', frantic scramble metaphors, and with our scraped up hands, mold her dying code into a poem.
...and it's getting dark