me writing dialogue: “what is man but a vessel through which a higher entity may see? what is his purpose? must he find a purpose? we are but stardust; the universe comprehending itself.”
me writing action: they ran real fast from the bad men aand legs hurty
me writing action: Her legs pounded against the earth, the familiar jolt grounding her like nothing else could. Magic, gods, royalty—she didn’t know anything about that. But running? That’s something she’d been doing since day one.
me writing dialogue: “I dunno man whatchu wanna do” “I dunno. What do you think?” “Hey man I don’t know”
me writing descriptions: The morning sun streamed in through the stained-glass window, a thousand jewel-like reflections dancing across the tiled floor.
me writing action: one person hits other person uhhh then they both run from bad guy
me writing dialogue: “hi” “hi” “bye”
Accurate.
I am simultaneously all of these at any given moment of writing. There is no consistency in the first draft, only authorial suffering and wandering exposition.
The real writer experience is standing in the shower and coming up with the most authentic dialogue with perfect phrasing and raw emotion in your head, then stepping out and drying your hair, putting on some clean pajamas and opening a word document to write down all your perfect ideas only to realize everything has evaporated.
This is true btw. I did a report about Ann Boney in school and Read actually liked her back so they ran away together and were considered the two most terrifying pirates across the seven seas
Lesbian Pirates
Give us this film
Just fyi - many of the illustrations and statues of them show them with their breasts exposed. This is not because they are sexualising lesbians but because these women often used to open their shirts and expose a breast when they killed a man just so the man’s dying thought would be the realisation that he was killed by a woman.
today i found out that when monarch butterflies migrate south for the winter, all the ones that go across the middle of lake superior suddenly stop going south and go west for five miles and then continue south. which really freaked scientists out cos like What is in the Middle of Lake Superior what do Butterflies know that We Dont Is This The End Times etc. anyway turns out about a hundred million years ago there was a mountain there and the butterflies still think they gotta fly around it. classic butterflies
combine this with the fact that caterpillars literally turn into bug soup in their crystallis, meaning there is no central nervous system to carry over any information, but they seem to retain memories from caterpillar life regardless…
and it brings up a lot of questions about what kind of information can even be stored in genes, like… does genetic memory really exist? what does this mean for humankind? could a race of people develop an instinctual memory of the land like this? are there people whose bones tell the stories of ancient mountains? what about my people? is the diaspora something that can be felt among every one of us? are we all the living cumulation of hundreds of thousands of ghosts?
i am simultaneously fascinated and frightened by this. classic butterflies indeed
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This is true btw. I did a report about Ann Boney in school and Read actually liked her back so they...](https://64.media.tumblr.com/237c7eab894752ae03e724ab499c20ce/tumblr_p1yqh71QMU1rhavdko1_500.png)