reverse hades/persephone, where the young daughter of summer uses plant magic to ensnare the lord of darkness and keep him prisoner in a beautiful garden above ground. Eventually, enchanted by her cleverness and wild youth he agrees to eat six pomegranate seeds and stay with her for half of every year.
# ID READ THE FUCK OUT OF THAT # HE TRIES BEING ALL IMPOSINGLY MIGHTY AND WRATHFUL WHILE PERSPHONE JUST GOES ON WATERING THE FLOWERS OUTSIDE HIS CAGE # HE PETITIONS TO AT LEAST GET SOME DEATHBELL AND NIGHTSHADE AND ASPHODEL GROWING IN THERE BUT IT’S ALL LOTUSES AND SUNFLOWERS AND APPLES # AND LIKE CORN EVERYWHERE HE FUCKING HATES CORN # THEY COMPROMISE ON POMEGRANATES (x)
It hurts. Hearing a cute voice say such foul things. It makes me sad.. If you want make to me sad be a girl and swear..
shut the fuck up
You poxy carping sniveling mawworm, what bollocks-pickling right have you got to puke your bullshitters’ comments regarding anything women say? Take your pissing sermonizing anus of a mouth and bleeding sores for eyes and go contemplate your lack of standing as an intelligent human being, fucktard. You’re dismissed.
(makes appreciative notes). :)
Oh, wow, it got better.
Popular sci-fi site Tor.com (est. 2008) is launching a new book imprint called Tor.com: The Imprint and has posted new submission guidelines to help unagented authors propose their book manuscripts to the editors.
Now until August 31, 2014, the editors will review…
Where’s the acronym for “Gut Everything, Tear The Book Apart, And Put It Back Together Like the World’s Least Visual Jigsaw Puzzle While Eating Chocolate and Crying?”
immortal characters having really strong relationships with mortal characters [starts to slide down the wall] immortal characters seriously and constantly worrying about the mortal characters they’re really attached to [continues to slide down the wall with face in hands] immortal characters asking the mortal characters to become immortal like them so they can be together forever [slides to the floor and sits there with face in hands for several hours]
IMMORTAL CHARACTERS WATCHING AS THE MORTAL CHARACTERS SUCCUMB TO THEIR MORTALITY AND NOT BEING ABLE TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT [SITS THERE FOR SEVERAL YEARS]
I would like to share this beautiful passage with all of you, it’s long, but worth it. And I swear to god I didn’t alter any of this.
Her long hair, still wet from the shower, had been combed down her back in a wet swath. Hilda was sitting on the floor, her round, wet boobs still wet from the shower’s water. She dried off the water with a towel, which then became wet.
Hilda gasped when she saw a reflection in her bedroom mirror: through the slightly open door, she caught a glimpse of the chiseled abs and square jaw of the mysterious stranger who shared her cabin. She stood and spun around, her breasts swinging heavily with the momentum. She grabbed the door and flung it open, revealing shirtless Torolf (which is seriously his name) quivering with desire in the hallway.
Torolf was ashamed at being caught, but his shame made him even hotter – hotter for sex. He stepped into the room, and his bulging abs accidentally smushed into Hilda’s rich chest.
As Hilda’s buttermilk bosoms squished up against his granite abs, Torolf almost had a dick aneurysm.
“Hilda,” Torolf murmured thickly, his throbbing meat wand pressing against Hilda’s warm thighs. “There is a secret I need to not tell you: You are my forbidden desire.”
Hilda had been waiting to hear these words. Her heart was lifted on golden wings and soared toward a radiant sun of perfect joy. She saw herself and Torolf happy together, bathed in the golden light of love. Her snooch got all warm, too.
“Torolf,” Hilda moaned, her lush teats straining with desire. “I need you.”
Torolf, coarse abs pulsing softly in the moonlight, stood silently.
Hilda looked at him expectantly.
“Oh, sorry,” she added. “Torolf, I need you – sexually.”
At hearing those beautiful words, Torolf flexed his rough-hewn abs and Hilda found herself being guided to her soft bed by the sheer force of Torolf’s undulating midsection. She parted her thighs in anticipation, exposing the soft pink petals of her clunge.
Torolf entered her like she was a lottery. His engorged pecker pushed inside her and she felt fulfilled with sexual fulfillment.
Hilda clutched at the bedsheets with lust and ecstasy and her hands. Her spongy love mountains hurled to and fro with each pounding. Her body was like a beautiful flower that was opening and somebody was pushing their dick inside it.
Then Torolf moaned, arched his back, and suffered from dick Parkinson’s. He pumped in all of his hot pearlescent sperms as Hilda spasmed with so many orgasms!
The two lay still for a moment as the stinky scent of lovemaking billowed around the room.
Hilda got out of bed, still shimmering with orgasm. She glowed with contentment, like a cat who ate the cream of the crop.
She walked across the room and picked up her towel, still wet with shower water. “Torolf,” she said softly, “there’s something I have to tell you…”
But her bed was empty.
Torolf was gone, escaped out the bedroom window. In the distance, Hilda heard the fading sound of galloping abs.
Who told this lady she could write?
Why did she ever stop?
IT GETS WORSE THE FURTHER IN THE PASSAGE YOU GO OMG
i fukcing lost it at meat wand
This is the best thing I have ever read
This stuff. This, right here, is inspirational.
No, I’m serious. I’m not even making a joke right now. Whenever you feel down about your writing, or when you feel like you’re not good enough, just remember:
Books like this get published ALL THE TIME. Yours can too.
Straight people you nasty
what are galloping abs and how do I get them?
I just. I just. LMAO “I need you sexually” LMAO omg
I’m in tears just from the 5 uses of ‘wet’ in one paragraph.
This is… ineffable. :)( “HE ENTERED HER LIKE A LOTTERY.” Oh, my stars and garters…)
We think of men as antiheroes, as capable of occupying an intense and fascinating moral grey area; of being able to fall, and rise, and fall again, but still be worthy of love on some fundamental level, because if it was the world and its failings that broke them, then we surely must owe them some sympathy. But women aren’t allowed to be broken by the world; or if we are, it’s the breaking that makes us villains. Wronged women turn into avenging furies, inhuman and monstrous: once we cross to the dark side, we become adversaries to be defeated, not lost souls in need of mending. Which is what happens, when you let benevolent sexism invest you in the idea that women are humanity’s moral guardians and men its native renegades: because if female goodness is only ever an inherent quality – something we’re born both with and to be – then once lost, it must necessarily be lost forever, a severed limb we can’t regrow. Whereas male goodness, by virtue of being an acquired quality – something bestowed through the kindness of women, earned through right action or learned through struggle – can just as necessarily be gained and lost multiple times without being tarnished, like a jewel we might pawn in hardship, and later reclaim.
Look at your stories - don’t just count who gets to be the hero and the villain (what kind of hero? what kind of villain?); count who gets the redemption arcs.
… the most recent story I’ve been reading has the recentish Guardians of the Galaxy runs.
Where we have Gamora and Moondragon both, in arcs that are definitely redemption ones. Even Phyla, after making a bad choice, keeps on fighting and trying to be a hero.
Some authors, some stories, do let the women have such arcs. Not as many, granted, but still.
(Sure, one can argue that Gamora needed ~a man~ to reach her redemption arc, but in his way Rich did it to Peter, too, so.)
Not all stories have this flaw, and we so need more stories that overcome the flaw to love!
Being a good writer is 3% talent and 97% not being distracted by the internet.
Some words were like that. Whole lives attached to them. Ghosts and lives and ecstasy and sorrow.
Found this article. Found it incredibly helpful. Be sure to go read the full story, but these are the ten questions the author (Lydia Netzer) covers in it:1. At what point did you feel like “Ah, now the story has really begun!”
2. What were the points where you found yourself skimming?
3. Which setting in the book was clearest to you as you were reading it? Which do you remember the best?
4. Which character would you most like to meet and get to know?
5. What was the most suspenseful moment in the book?
6. If you had to pick one character to get rid of, who would you axe?
7. Was there a situation in the novel that reminded you of something in your own life?
8. Where did you stop reading, the first time you cracked open the manuscript? (Can show you where your first dull part is, and help you fix your pacing.)
9. What was the last book you read, before this? And what did you think of it? (This can put their comments in context in surprising ways, when you find out what their general interests are. It might surprise you.)
10. Finish this sentence: “I kept reading because…”
Apparently it’s time again for the annual “Kids these days don’t read Heinlein” argument, which—to be honest—I don’t even understand why it’s an argument. Kids these days don’t read Heinlein, and you know what? That’s their privilege. Heinlein doesn’t speak in any meaningful way to their concerns. (As a heavy teenaged Heinlein reader my own self, I, personally, am a little sadder that kids these days don’t read Zelazny, Le Guin, Delany, and Bradbury, because I think they’d have more to offer that’s relevant, including less tiresome pontificating—as well as a larger serving of actual writing chops—but I also suspect that the people now sadly bewailing the long slide of Heinlein out of the canon of indispensable authors got a ration in their own youths about being insufficiently invested in E.E. “Doc” Smith. Though I also suspect the generation gap was less, for reasons I will explore below.)
Back in the dim mists of history, about ten years ago, when dinosaurs still roamed the internet and Livejournal was where the cool kids hung out, I used to get into arguments with certain people who opined that there were no young SFF writers. I would present them with a list of SF writers under 35 (myself included) only to be told that they meant writers under thirty, or maybe twenty-five, and that those writers didn’t count because they weren’t “Hard SF Writers” (whatever the hell that means), and because they weren’t being published in Asimov’s and Strange Horizons (still one of the bastions of young writerdom in the SF world) didn’t count.
And when I pointed out in return that Asimov’s was a hard market to crack (it seems more welcoming to new writers these days), and that literary and craft standards are higher now than they were in 1940 and correspondingly it takes longer to develop a professional skillset—and that maybe the problem was that my correspondents weren’t reading the markets that were publishing the young writers, I would generally find myself greeted with the wail, “Where are the Bob Silverbergs?” (Or, from slightly younger handwringers over the Incipient Death of SFF, “Where are the Neil Gaimans?!”)
Way to shift a goalpoast, honey.
Because we get more than two or three prodigy geniuses in a generation. And because we can identify them from the scrum of young writers when everybody is not-quite-thirtyish and shooting rockets of possibility everywhere.
Well, I’m older now, and I’m feeling pretty safe in saying that (among many others) Scott Lynch, Seanan McGuire, and Catherynne Valente (All still only in their mid-thirties, ten years later—hell, I think Seanan wasn’t even a thing yet when I was still bothering to get in these fights) have some staying power. Also, today is Sam Sykes’ 30th birthday, and Max Gladstone just turned thirty last month. Happy birthday, Sam and Max.
It finally dawned on me that the people I was arguing with could not be convinced, and their opinions didn’t matter anyway. The best of them, I think, were arguing out of nostalgia. They wanted stories by young writers that would make them feel the way the young Silverberg’s stories made them feel when they were twenty. And that’s not going to happen, frankly, because they aren’t twenty anymore, and because my then-peers (and the writers who are now the generation* after me, to whom I feel an obligation as older colleague now, and how the hell did that happen?) aren’t writing out of the concerns that were current and pressing in 1956.
The worst of them weren’t willing to accept this new generation of writers because the lists of names I kept handing them were full of female, queer, and person of color names. Because that is what my generation of SFF writers looks like, in large part.
This was around the same time that I got into a certain amount of trouble by pointing out that many of my age-group peers don’t read newer work by our older colleagues, and the older colleagues often don’t read us at all. Which wasn’t meant as a value judgment, but it seemed like one to many people, and no less a light that Bob Silverberg took me to task for it. (There he is again. And as a certain recent publication of mine may seem to indicate, I have been, am, and remain a fan.)
But my point then stands: there is no due diligence to be a fan. And trying to force fans to consume stuff that doesn’t speak to them is, well, pointless and alienating and will only drive them away.
I do feel like the standard is a little more exacting for professionals in the field—writers and critics owe it to ourselves to have a foundation in the history of the genre. But I will be the first to say that that is our own responsibility, and our choice, and how we handle our own professional development is our own lookout. I’m going to tend to give more weight to the opinions of a critic who demonstrates herself to be knowledgeable and well-read—but that also means being well-read among current writers, and I’m afraid we probably have as many critics in the field who judge everything against the standard of Poul Anderson as we do critics who haven’t read very much published before 1990.
(1990 was twenty-four years ago, by the way, for people my age and older. Just a little bullet of perspective there. When I was a freshman in high school, the equivalent year would have been 1961.)
So I fully encourage people who want to develop a sense of the history of the genre to go back and read, say, Fritz Leiber. Hell, I regularly read Fritz Leiber, and I’m hugely fond of his work. Not in the least, because Fafhrd is a great big fluffy feminist. (Mouser is friendzoned forever though; man, what a douchecanoe.) But even with Leiber, who wrote strong female characters with agendas and agency, I have to keep myself firmly in rein sometimes and remember that he was writing for a predominately white heterosexual male audience that was un-accepting of seeing anybody else placed in the role of protagonist. The white dude always has to save the day, no matter how cool everybody else is. And he usually has to get laid along the way.
And you know, if you don’t want to read that, who the hell am I to tell you otherwise?
Which leads me to a point about privilege, before I end this rambling dissertation and go for a nice long run before it gets too hot outside. I too-often see (almost always white, almost always male) commentors and bloggers saying that they don’t have a problem reading books in which the protagonists are aliens, or elves, or women, or black people—so why is these so much fuss about the need for diversity and representation in literature? Isn’t it about getting out of your own skin and seeing somebody else’s point of view?
Other people have tackled this far more in depth than I have time or patience for, but I’m going to take a swing.
It’s easy to say that when one has never found one’s self in a position of being disenfranchised and erased. When one has that safety of an entire world that considers you the default to return to. When what one is is assumed to be normal and comfortable.
All I can think is that somebody who says he’s not worried about representation has never found himself placed constantly in an object position, which is, quite frankly, unpersoning. He’s never been told over and over again that he exists only as an accessory to somebody else’s story.
Stories are important. Stories are the mechanism that our pattern-making brains use as an engine to understand the world. And our stories need to show all people that they have an important place in that world, and that they are the heroes of their own narratives, not the color in somebody else’s.
And I think writers with privilege in any given situation—be it gender, gender presentation, sexuality, race, class, ableness, what-have-you—have the responsibility to make space in our work for readers who do not have those privileges. And I also think that we have the even more important responsibility to make space for the actual voices of other writers who come from different backgrounds, and that the onus upon us to read widely is even more important when talking about writers of our own generation who come from less-widely-represented backgrounds than it is when talking about writers from the depths of the 1930s.
Everybody deserves stories.
And to anyone who is tempted to argue with me on that point: Hey. Isn’t it about getting out of your own skin and seeing somebody else’s point of view?
*writer generations are a funny thing. They go by publication date rather than chronological age. Which makes me the same writer-age, roughly, as Scott Lynch and as Peter Watts, even though there’s about a sixteen-year spread on our physical ages.
I just want to point at this whole thing and say, “What SHE said.”
(Granting that the whole “senior colleague” thing can feel very strange. And equally strange is reflecting that some of the people presently acting most problematically are more or less the age I am, and I really keep finding myself muttering “How can the world look so different to you?” …and sighing sorrowfully at the answers I’m forced to come up with.)
"Careful, the tale you tell,
That is the spell.
Children will listen.”
- From Into the Woods
Assaulted by original story idea.
Where two friends are really close, investigating stuff. The kind that ends up with a wall with facts and connections and maps and pictures of suspects and victims, and they do that for years.
And then, later, one of them stepping back from adding a scrap of something to another such wall, and the picture of the other friend is in the middle. And they’re devastated (either by the loss or the betrayal?) but keeps on working the case, anyway, because that’s their job…
… yeah, maybe I should just sleep instead. (unsure)
THAT FIRST SITE IS EVERY WRITER’S DREAM DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I’VE TRIED WRITING SOMETHING AND THOUGHT GOD DAMN IS THERE A SPECIFIC WORD FOR WHAT I’M USING TWO SENTENCES TO DESCRIBE AND JUST GETTING A BUNCH OF SHIT GOOGLE RESULTS
It’s missing “Curled Up in the Fetal Position Under the Table Crying into A Beer Writing”.
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