Narrative - Tumblr Posts
I wonder if there is any fictional depiction crush syndrome?
On one hand, it's gruesome medical condition (when a limb is compressed with heavy object, so no blood flow goes in out out of limb. Tissues get full of metabolic products. Rest of body however is remotely fine. There were several historical records of people being okay and even commanding other people to get press from their limb. When heaby object is taken off, people lose consciousness within minutes, because toxic metabolites ebter their blood stream and cause system shock). On another hand it's not rare case in natural disasters and war conflicts. And seems to add up realism, gore or emotional contrast (from narrative perspective)
Traumas I'm thinking about in context of superhero media:
all kinds of effects from jerk (whiplash, acceleration of acceleration) and g-force above human tolerance
suspension trauma/orthostatic syndrome (trauma from hanging with no moving)
crush syndrome
post-concussion syndrome. There's plenty of shock waves in superhero medium and that will definitely cause that
writing tips - dialogue and character continuity
this is something that's a bit more nuanced when writing characters, but it makes a huge difference. basically, character continuity is keeping the character's actions, dialogue, and inner thoughts consistent with their profile.
'well, that's just writing a character, pygmi, what else would you do?'
well, sometimes it's not that easy.
Biggest point i'm gonna make (if you get nothing else from this, at least get this): keep your feelings out of it. your opinions as an author don't have anything to do with the story, because you aren't in the story.
When it's obvious that the author is inserting their feelings and perspective into the narrative, it gets really muddy. lemme show you an example.
for the sake of this post, this story is 'narrated'/told from the perspective of a six year old named Lacy.
"Lacy watched her father tinker with the car, wondering what he was doing. He'd taken a socket wrench to the engine and was removing all of the nuts and bolts, lining them up in his toolbox. She thought that was strange, because weren't the parts supposed to stay in the car?"
this is an inconsistent piece. it's 3rd person, but it is told from her perspective and using her thoughts.
Problem: A six year old (or at least none of the ones I've met) aren't familiar with the insides of a car. I don't think Lacy would be very good at describing in detail what her dad was doing, and definitely couldn't identify the tools he was using.
Yes, this paragraph is okay, but it creates a level of distance between the character (Lacy) and the story. We feel removed from her head because it doesn't feel like she's describing it.
Let's try this:
"Lacy watched her father tinker on the car, wondering what he was doing. He'd rustled around his toolbox before pulling out a long, metal stick with a loop. Whistling, he started pulling grimy silver trinkets out of the open car. They plinked gently on the cement floor. She thought it sounded like bells in the church."
Little kids don't have the vocabulary and sentence structure to describe things like the first paragraph (obviously, some are more advanced, but for explanation's sake). However, they are great at describing things with comparisons and colors/shapes/sizes. With Lacy, I picked a more general vocabulary that focused on what it looked like, not what it was.
I'm not here to tell you how to write small children, but you need to understand how to tailor the perspective to the character. A little kid won't be thinking with complete, highly educated theoretical thinking. An old wizard won't be cracking jokes like a teenager. To create juxtaposition, you could work with that, but it needs to make sense. If you just don't know what to do, that's different.
this also applies to interactions with other characters. You can have a hotshot girl with perfect body and sexy hair, but if it's told from her brother's perspective, he's not gonna describe her that way. That's not the nature of their relationship.
Understand the context and background from which the characters come from before using their narrative.
let me know if you want me to elaborate, but that's a summary
xox love you
I’ve been thinking a lot about this move lately to sanitize all media. I don’t like it. It’s giving--slow slide into nazism--but hey that’s just me. I don’t know why we are on a censorship train in every sector of media--and I do not like it.
"sex scenes have no narrative purpose" is such a funny take on so many levels. people will really believe that the whole human experience is valuable to portray artistically except sex, which of course has never held emotional weight or significance for anybody
excerpt from a "Kara actually got to Earth on-schedule and now she's got a baby cousin to raise" AU:
Kara doesn’t understand the aliens’ language, which is fine. She didn’t expect to. She watches them interact and listens as they speak, familiarizing herself with the cadence and pitch and rhythm of their voices and doing her best to pick out individual sounds and patterns. She likes languages well enough. She did pretty well with Daxamite dialects in school last year, anyway.
The aliens are kind, at least so far. They found her and Kal curled up in the remains of their smashed-up ships in their ruined field and brought them into their home despite the mess. Kara thinks they’re farmers, probably? So probably Laborer Guild, or whatever this planet has instead of Laborers. The House of El is mostly Thinkers, but Kara isn’t worried about that. She’ll figure something out, as soon as she figures out how to communicate with the aliens. Pantomime has not been all that helpful, at least not so far.
They gave her a warm, unusually sweet drink that might have some kind of milk in it, with soft white pellets in it that are even sweeter. It’s not quite like anything she’s ever tasted before, but she likes it. Kal really liked it, though the aliens seemed to think he shouldn't have too much and gave her a little cup of just milk alone for him instead. Or she thinks it's milk, anyway.
It's white. And very thick, and almost creamy? Though it tasted good too, when Kara stole a sip to make sure it wouldn’t upset Kal’s stomach if she gave it to him.
"Pye," the alien that Kara is assuming is female announces in their weirdly simple-sounding language, putting a round plate with a slice of something on it on the table in front of her. Kal reaches for it from her lap with a burble. Kara peers at it too. The slice is triangular, with a crisp crust and an oozy red filling. She wonders why the plate is round, if the "pye" is meant to be sliced and served triangularly. It seems a little disrespectful to the cook–or baker? Or at least the artisan who made the plate, which was clearly painted with very dedicated care–painted by hand, even, not a pre-programmed design reproduced by a machine. That’s very luxurious for Laborers to be offering unexpected guests who just destroyed their field.
Maybe they’re overcompensating, Kara thinks. Or maybe the aliens are really just that kind.
Maybe.
She thinks they’re little flowers, the designs around the edges of the plate. Or at least they look like they could be flowers. They’re flower-like, if nothing else, and all the weird colors of them might just be a stylistic choice.
They’re pretty.
She wishes she could show her mother.
Kara crushes down the grief for the thousandth time and smiles at the aliens. They smile back.
It helps, almost.
Almost.
The “pye” tastes very good.
been thinking about fantasy/scifi rule systems and free will
Fog-Borne Snapshots
All would be consumed by shadow if not for an unseen, smudged streetlamp blanketing all beneath it in everlasting burgundy mist. In some space-time ripples, it is evergreen. For other eternities, it is cerulean. Despite the variance, universal commonality is found in its blurred glow.
This light delineates all forms, together interlocked in a state of static, monochrome bliss. These relics change, but never while I see them. Those that have graced my apertures in eye and mind include wet playground equipment, monoliths with tops trapped in mist, and abandoned antique cars.
The aura that permeates my body remains the same. It is the tinge of warmth felt within someone’s embrace, somehow gleaned from facing someplace where this had last occurred at least a decade ago. It is a sign of life found in one of countless mounds of dilapidated structures in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. It is a spiritual sign of the possibility of solace within the cold, concrete walls of an insane asylum whose inhabitants offer only volatility. It is an infinitesimal, but nonetheless unmoving constant in the midst of chaos, contained and concealed forever from the surrounding universe.
In my disillusion, I believe in the approach of a day when I may graze my fingertips across all of the surfaces. Thought ensnares me while my frozen body maintains a glassy stare as my daydreams and memories, whether fabricated or true, turn to burning rubble where no flame dances. I once again watch the fog-borne snapshots fade to charred blackness behind my eyelids.
https://twwrt.wordpress.com/2023/08/04/fog-borne-snapshots/
Writing Tips Master Post
Character writing/development:
Character Arcs
Making Character Profiles
Character Development
Comic Relief Arc
Internal Conflict
Character Voices
Creating Distinct Characters
Suicidal Urges/Martyr Complex
Creating Likeable Characters
Writing Strong Female Characters
Writing POC Characters
Building Tension
Plot devices/development:
Intrigue in Storytelling
Enemies to Lovers
Alternatives to Killing Characters
Worldbuilding
Misdirection
Consider Before Killing Characters
Foreshadowing
Narrative:
Emphasising the Stakes
Avoid Info-Dumping
Writing Without Dialogue
1st vs. 2nd vs. 3rd Perspective
Fight Scenes (+ More)
Transitions
Pacing
Writing Prologues
Dialogue Tips
Writing War
Writing Cheating
Worldbuilding:
Worldbuilding: Questions to Consider
Creating Laws/Rules in Fantasy Worlds
Book writing:
Connected vs. Stand-Alone Series
A & B Stories
Writer resources:
Writing YouTube Channels, Podcasts, & Blogs
Online Writing Resources
Outlining/Writing/Editing Software
Writer help:
Losing Passion/Burnout
Overcoming Writer's Block
Fantasy terms:
How To Name Fantasy Races (Step-by-Step)
Naming Elemental Races
Naming Fire-Related Races
How To Name Fantasy Places
Ask games:
Character Ask Game #1
Character Ask Game #2
Character Ask Game #3
Miscellaneous:
1000 Follower Post
2000 Follower Poll
Writing Fantasy
What do you call the male version of a “Mary Sue”?
The protagonist.
How to come up with a story based on vibes that (probably) doesn't suck aka how to come up with a plot
First, identify the vibes. Maybe you already know. If so, great! If not, well that's what I'm here for. What are books/movies/shows that have what you're trying to achieve? A song or an image? Come up with a list of as many things.
YAY now you know what vibes you want.
Then you are going to make a list about the things (or your favorites if you have too many). Look at themes, characters, genres, settings, style, etc. If you have no idea where to start, pull up their wikipedia pages and read them. Anything similar WRITE IT DOWN (you will forget, don’t lie).
Take that list and find your favorite/most common things. These will be what gives you your vibe.
Take this list and invent a little guy who lives in this list. YAY now you have a character. What does this guy want?
It wants to live.
Now look at me. No. Look at me in the eyes. Stare into my soul.
You’re gonna let him live.
Use your vibe list to create a little world. Do you mostly like horror/mystery? BAM this guy lives in a horror/mystery. Do you mostly like historical fiction? BAM this guy lives in the past. Do you like dystopian things? BAM this guy lives in a dystopian world. Do this with whatever genre you want.
Now what does this guy in this world want most?
And how are you going to do everything in your power to stop him?
I think finding your pace in life is so important. Because then we don’t get swayed. It’s true that it becomes easier once you know yourself. You know what you want. And you find your pace. And it just makes dealing with mental illness, issues, struggles a bit easier? You’ll have clarity. A narrative. A new narrative, one that you’ll like because you’ve paced yourself according your capabilities and capacities. You’ll have enough time to cope and catch up with yourself when you find your pace in life. With pace comes a sense direction.
Knowing yourself, finding your pace and a sense of direction in life can give so much self reliance and sustainability to yourself and you have the time and engery to cope with whatever you’re facing.
We don’t have to live like the people we see on social media. I think that’s where I have in I guess. Their narrative is theirs. It is also not “the ideal one”. Because it’s not our life to even compare or comprehend what’s ideal.
I just keep having random thoughts like these lately. Maybe I’m finally breaking out of this bubble of expectations I built for myself.
It’s impossible while working 12 hours, a demanding finance job, paying bills and then travelling like 4 times a year. No one backing me up financially. Not happening here. I should be glad that with a desk job like mine comes a some certainty in life. Some skills I’ve gained. A job I have so an income. Stillness and stagnancy but it’s also comforting? But this year I did travel lots more than my parents did their entire lifetime. I even was lucky to go to a bts concert in another country. With steadily saving money, finding my pace at doing other things I was able to tick something’s off my bucket list? So it’s not all that bad. This is my my narrative.
what’s yours?
*this is speaking solely from my experience. This is my story. For me.
The Lemonade Stand Larceny
It was an odd day for the residents of Windbrook Drive. By odd, I mean busy. Busy wasn’t common for the people here. They were older, most of them retired or close to it. These residents who were accustomed to the routine of quiet, were startled when the cars that usually flew down Route 20, were veering onto Windbrook Drive.
They were pulling over for my family’s yard sale.
There were baby swings, toys, and clothes to rifle through. The TVs, computers, and kitchen appliances were set up for any passenger’s scrutiny. The amount of foot traffic rose as steadily as the sun in the sky.
My parents weren’t the only ones profiting. The sun brought not only business, but also late summer heat. It beat down on both surveyors and purchasers. My sister and I have always been a cunning duo. I set up the stand and she grabbed the lemonade. Before we knew it, our piggy banks were stuffed full with change. Ariel and I couldn’t believe it! But it was growing more and more difficult for us to man the booth...
Before she and I could make a plan of action, two older girls approached our stand. We quit squabbling immediately. Mother had always told us that whenever we fought, we sounded like seagulls squawking over a stray potato chip.
Besides, as Dad always said, a happy customer is a paying customer. Behind closed doors, my sister was as sour as a lemon. However, there was nothing Ariel was better at then making people happy.
“Would you like to purchase some lemonade?” My sister asked in the most sweet tone one could expect of a four-year-old. I was rather sure that everyone within earshot instantaneously sprouted cavities.
“No thanks,” one of the girls curtly replied. She hastily continued, “but we’re here to offer a business proposal.”
Neither Ariel nor myself had seen these girls before, so we were quite the skeptics. Although, they were able to see past Ariel’s sugary facade. That was something to marvel at.
So, I leaned forward, interlacing my hands together on top of our stand. “What is this proposal you speak of?”
This time, the other girl spoke. “My friend and I here, we’ve run our fair share of lemonade stands. To put it simply, we’re professionals in this matter. If you guys want, we can help you out. All we want in return is a share of the profits.”
I looked over to my parents who were struggling to serve the onslaught of yard-sale goers. They were too busy to be able to help. My grandma and grandpa were chatting up a storm with Carol, the trailer park owner who had allowed us to do the yard sale in the first place. Our grandparents were out of this too.
For the first time, I noticed the girls. They were older, taller, and looked like fourth graders. The girls even had a twinkle in their eyes, like they had known my answer before I could even ponder it in the first place.
Begrudgingly, I painted my face with a smile and said, “We’d love to have your help!”
I was lying through my baby teeth.
The four of us worked in harmony, making sales left and right. The girls had even brought a Hello Kitty lunchbox where we could store our precious bounty of dollar bills, quarters, dimes, and nickels.
Just as the sun rises, it must set. The yard sale and the fun and the chaos had come to an end. My father had come to collect Ariel, who was long overdue for a nap. My mother called me over to help put tables and chairs away.
I hesitated. I looked back over to the two girls, and one of them gave me a thumbs-up. The other smiled. I figured it’d be fine, and that I wouldn’t be gone long, anyways.
Mere minutes later, I returned to the site of our stand to thank the girls. The girls had disappeared, along with our piggy banks and the Hello Kitty lunchbox.
My sister and I had been robbed.
Brad text the photo of him in full costume over to his agent. Was the wardrobe 20th century ironic overkill or post-post-post modern Madonna blatancy?!
For Brad to really WERQ this Dollar Store photo shoot, he needed to know the backstory behind the costume and it’s designer, as well a passable fabricated construct of the social media campaign.
Who was the creator? What drove he/her/them? Influenced he/her/them? Inspired he/her/them? Made he/her/them who they are?
After wondering briefly if he left out too many pronouns, Brad then text the words “storytelling” “impact” and “authenticity” exactly five seconds apart. While he found intention rarely mattered in life, he knew buzz words always got you places.
Sooooo… Where was that exactly?
Brad would learn from AI that afternoon it was a public pool in the Valley about 20 min from Kim K's mansion in regular heavy traffic.
Five minutes later, his agent would call to commend him for 'the richness in texture of his texts.' Apparently, contrast was everything when it came to... well, everything.
Wowsers! Being all over the place was finally paying off.
Brad would gleefully repeat the phrase ‘texture of texts’ until just before dinner when his boyfriend Chris told him to ‘cut it out’ Full House style. Brad had just enough time to research the gesture on the internet before sitting down but couldn't decipher if it was offensive until he pushed his kale salad around the plate long enough to feel full himself. Then it just clicked.
There’s a whole rant in me about this, but I can save myself a lot of typing by just saying “you should watch this OSP video about it.”
Bottom line, always ground the stakes in personal issues that emotionally resonate. Despite its ridiculously convoluted plot, Kingdom Hearts manages to stay emotionally resonant because at its core it’s always “I’ll fight for my friends.” Find that emotional core and stay on it.
Another storytelling rule I think people should remember is the law of diminishing returns. If you keep on ramping up the stakes higher and higher and higher, after a point it gets to where the audience can’t really care anymore.
When People Fall
I'm not a ball
You can throw upward
With all the accuracy
You can manage.
And when I'm gaining speed;
Falling freely,
Irrevocably,
You step back
And let gravity
Do the work.
Balls bounce back
Upon hitting the ground.
People don't.
You know what happens
When people fall?
THEY BREAK!
-Stormykatie
The Bats of Senegal
Every morning, I wake up and sweep the bat shit- or guano to be more technical- out of my hut. This process has become something of an art form for me, an art form that I have perfected. I know where the bats like to hang out (I mean hang out in a very literal bat like sense), such as off the nail I hang my hat, or along the string I hang my dirty laundry on, or at the base of a world map I have strung up against a wall. I visit these bat rest stops daily, and I sweep the little piles of shit that have accumulated overnight into the center of my hut. At times, when I’ve been away for a few days, I arrive home to find the little piles as little mountains, which will then require a deeper more thorough sweeping.
The wind here, in this corner of the world, flows assiduously from east to west. I’ve never seen it flow any other way. The wind blows across the Sahara Desert, across the Sahel, out into the ocean, sometimes it carries massive walls of sand and dust with it, and I’ve been told the dust particles will ultimately pick up water droplets out on the ocean and dump them in the form of a hurricane season along the eastern coast of my home, North America. This makes me homesick each morning as I sweep, from my hut’s eastern door to the one on the west wall, following the channel of the ever-present breeze that keeps me cool at night. I use the air flow like a wizard to help drift the dust and bat shit out of my little hut. I like to think this dust I sweep along the mud floor and out my west door gets picked up by the wind and finds its way to my home thousands of miles away in the form of a cold autumn rain.
In Jaxanke, the language I speak in this village, the word for west is Tiloolaata, “where the sun sleeps”.
I have a peaceful relationship with the bats in my hut. Even just one bat sighted in the home of a typical American would likely leave them terrorized until it is found and exterminated. But for me here, where I am constantly surrounded by the ethereal little demons, I’ve grown used to their presence. Despite their constant proximity, I don’t think I’ve ever actually touched one. However, I often feel their presence, in the form of a slight breeze from their tiny wings brushing the hairs on my skin as they fly around my body. The bats are like water, or maybe more like air, wrapping themselves around things with such unimaginable flawless dexterity, they never seem to touch anything. They move like shadows. I’ve been told they can catch and eat a thousand mosquitoes an hour. I like to imagine what the sound of the buzzing mosquitos’ wings, that sound which irritates me every night, must sound like to the delicate ears of a bat, how it must guide the little demons right to them. The fact that the irritating ringing buzz in my ears may well be the mosquitoes undoing brings me solace. Each morning, I sweep up thousands of mosquitoes in the form of guano and ship it off with the western wind, where it follows the sun back home.
I’ve learned to never go to the bathroom during dawn or dusk. This is when the bats commute in and out of my toilet hole in which they live.
At night I bathe myself, with water from a bucket I carried earlier that day atop my head a hundred feet from a well, an uncapped well that I drew the water out of with a rusted squealing pulley. As I bathe myself with the water left out to be warmed by the Sahelian sun all day, dumping it over my head, the bats swirl and dance around me, plucking mosquitoes out of the air, guarding me from their bloodthirst, and fanning me dry with tiny wings.
The northern wall of my hut is painted black, and there is a grid drawn in with chalk, rows and columns and squares with big Xs crossing them out, counting down days until future days. I have lived here for seven-hundred and thirty days, twenty-four months, two years. I avoid counting the days. I have a fear that the days I will miss the most are the ones I disrespected with a big chalk X. The days I waited to have ended. I try to stay present while I am in my village, but thoughts of the future ambush me constantly. Thoughts of cheese, hot showers, clean bed sheets, and sitting on cushions. Thoughts of protein, hygiene, good sleep, and comfort.
I know I will miss village life. I will miss living in a place without time. Where the only time is the position of the sun. It awakens in the morning in the east and goes to sleep in the evenings in the west. The only calendar here is the faces of the moon. In Jaxanke, the word for month is Carro, which literally means “moon”.
I fear that this chapter of my life, my Peace Corps experience, when all of it is said and done and I return home, that the things I miss the most won’t be the extravagant grand moments of my time here, but rather the simple and mundane. Such as the cracking of peanut shells with my host sisters in the shade of the peanut shelling machine, a machine we simply never use because then we’d have nothing to do. What I’m going to miss are the moments which so easily pass by me unnoticed unless I am actively there. I fear the days I miss the most will be the days on the calendar I count off until the next time I get to eat a cheeseburger. What I will miss are the moments that fleetingly get passed by time; unnoticed and at times not even remembered, but simply seen as features of a chapter in my life. Features like being fanned dry by bat wings, carrying water atop my head, or watching the sun go to sleep on the horizon.
“I photograph because I am interested in people, what it means to be alive, and how we make sense of the world. Whether I am photographing on assignment, or for personal work, the same ideas direct my attention. On the psychological and narrative level, I am interested in looking at states of being: birth, childhood, aging, physical fragility, death, sensuality, the animal world and people in nature.”
Jocelyn Lee
(Fiona & Michael - 2005 © Jocelyn Lee)
