Cheiloproclitic - Being attracted to someones lips.
Quidnunc - One who always has to know what is going on.
Ultracrepidarian - Of one who speaks or offers opinions on matters beyond their knowledge.
Apodyopis - The act of mentally undressing someone.
Gymnophoria - The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you.
Tarantism - The urge to overcome melancholy by dancing.
Autolatry - The worship of one’s self.
Cagamosis - An unhappy marriage.
Gargalesthesia - The sensation caused my tickling.
Capernoited - Slightly intoxicated or tipsy.
Lalochezia - The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain.
Cataglottism - Kissing with tongue.
Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss.
Brontide - The low rumbling of distant thunder.
Grapholagnia - The urge to stare at obscene pictures.
Agelast - A person who never laughs.
Wanweird - An unhappy fate.
Dystopia - Am imaginary place of total misery. A metaphor for hell.
Petrichor - The smell of dry rain on the ground.
Anagapesis - The feeling when one no longer loves someone they once did.
Malapert - Clever in manners of speech.
Duende - Unusual power to attract or charm.
Concilliabule - A secret meeting of people who are hatching a plot.
Strikhedonia - The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”.
Lygerastia - The condition of one who is only amorous when the lights are out.
Ayurnamat - The philosophy that there is no point in worrying about events that cannot be changed.
Sphallolalia - Flirtatious talk that leads no where.
Baisemain - A kiss on the hand.
Druxy - Something which looks good on the outside, but is actually rotten inside.
Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.
lionheart191 said: How do you get over being over-critical of your own writing? I try, but sometimes I can't even put out a paragraph it's so bad.
I remind myself that no one day of writing matters all that much. A story is built somewhat like a stalactite - one little drip of mud and grit at a time.
I remind myself that the first few drafts are just for me. That gives me permission to let it be an ungodly mess, full of shit sentences and crap ideas, whipped into a creamy froth with the occasional bits that do work. Later I’ll winnow out the stuff that was no good. What remains will be (I hope) fun, economical, and lively.
It helps (me) to write longhand. I know no one is ever going to see my longhand draft but me. That’s a free pass to suck.
Also, though, I try and work small. If I think a scene blows dead rats, I’ll stop thinking about the big picture, and just think about the next sentence. If I can get down one sentence that really excites me, sometimes it will throw a spark powerful enough to bring a dying moment back to life.
WHAT HE SAID.
I think that may need more emphasis.
WHAT HE FUCKING SAID.
Good reference for writers OR artists.
for myself AND any followers who might need it
Yeah, here it is, another of these lists. (sigh)
Let me just put a note in here for the attention of the cautious-minded or skeptical. Every single one of the indicators listed above can mean something entirely different from the “received” definitions in a person or character depending on their individual cultural context and how they were raised at home. When training in psych nursing, my classmates and I were repeatedly warned not to take these generic and frequently misunderstood stances, gestures and mannerisms as they’re “read” in popular culture. Every person, and hence every character, will have their own individualized body language which you must familiarize yourself with to have any hint at all (in the strictly physical sense) about what’s going on in their head. (In this particular regard I’d really like to grab the showrunners on “Lie To Me” and shake some sense into them… but that’s a fantasy for another day.)
There is no magical touchstone, no Rosetta Stone of human kinesics that works cross-culturally or even within specific cultural boundaries; the science is far too subtle, varied, and complex for that. The list above is as likely to be wrong on details for any given person as it is to be right.
So you should give some thought to what you’re doing before you plaster this stuff all over your characters.
A novel in progress is a box of holes. As you go along you keep trying to fill them, until you run out of stomach, patience, or box. You never run out of holes.
I am in the middle of rewriting my first draft and nothing has struck me as truer than this.
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.
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