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A lot of people talk about . The secret is to write, not talk. JACKIE COLLINS

Labour Manifesto provides the kind of Community I want to live in: where contracts are given to small businesses, not only given to large Corporates; where hospitals,schools, social care& police are well funded; where my Library,Youth/Community Centre is not closed. 4JC

Stamps are not cheap these days, second class is cheaper. Why bother , when we can text, email etc some may say. Joining the Letters is a lovely way to stay in touch or make a new writing buddy. It is wonderful to get a letter through the post too! Give it a try!

As I leave the amazing with the incredible tutors I’m ecstaticly happy to start saying “I’m a writer”...Yes I’m at the beginning, but sweet Jesus: what a journey it’s going to be!!!

My room with a view at the lovely Westerwood Hotel for the SAW conference!

the weight of darkness becomes a bearable comfort while staring at the face who reflects light as it hides and reveals, slips away and returns like an old friend

There are infinite ways to write something. But sometimes, a certain way may change our work in a way we don't like:

Retweeted Novelicious (): The important thing is to keep the fire in your heart and be strong to overcome hard moments. Paulo Coelho

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You said this was unhealthy,

My mind constantly riddled with thoughts of you, the hopes of us one day being together.

You say that what almost was, could never be again

But why….

Why is it that you call me in the early mornings of my random days.

wake me around 2am, 4am, 5

Drunk, sober, I always answer even when beckoned by the deepest of sleep.

You remind me of the painful times I reminisce upon so fondly as though you wish for me to recall what it was like to feel your touch and know your scent.

You remind yourself in the process and somehow this maddens you but you remain smiling.

I wish to know what it would’ve felt like, what could’ve been and where we could be now.

I wish to know you, to validate this ever longing sensation that bellows within my soul.

I love you and I have no redeeming grace for this love.

I promise you this, my dear, I’ll never stop trying to enter the castle which outlines your heart.

I will climb the mossy walls, swim across every mote and knock on its chambers repeatedly, proving that I belong with you in your must vulnerable of states.

catchthespade  asked:

3, 5, 9, 29, 40 ohoho


3. Is there a trope you wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole?

Uhhhh underaged dating and dub/non-con lmao, I feel like that’s obvious though.

5. Share one of your strengths.

I feel like I do a pretty good job with introspective pieces!

9. Which fic has been the hardest to write?

Honestly it would be my newest fic And at once I knew (I was not magnificent). It’s a piece I’ve been working on for months but I was chasing such a specific vision in my head, that I hit a wall a few times. I actually walked away from it for,,, close to 2 months? I also dealt with a new writing style that I’ve always admired but rarely implemented in my own work, so I was worried about putting that out for people to read in case I bombed it.

Ironically, I feel like it’s one of my best KBTBB fics to date.

29. If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?

I can’t think of anything I personally would write, but I’d love to see you do a sequel for half-finished, half-empty since it’s one of my favorite fics by you and I love the style you explored in it. Basically I didn’t want it to end so I want more lmao. Or If you could write a sequel to (Re)cycle that’s another Big Fave.

40. Write an alternative ending to [insert fic title] (or just the summary of one).

I’m going to pick my fic Gate 73 and either MC gives him one hell of a monologue before boarding the plane or he somehow manages to stop her. I think the first choice is better, though :^)

why does Wrench help Nikki? 1. good fella, for a hitman 2. relatable content 3. probably just likes her 4. what else does he got going on anyways

yoonseok4lyf  asked:

Did you still accept request? If yes, Yoonseok with photographer (yoongi) and dancer (hoseok) they go to the same uni

Their schedules are always so hectic that sometimes texting each other was their only way of spending time together but in rare days like this, when the university finally gives them a holiday—even if it’s just for two days, they find comfort in each other’s arms under the warm shade of a cherry blossom tree. The grass is smooth and it doesn’t prickle the skin underneath their layers. Hoseok’s arms are wrapped tightly around his lover’s waist, chin resting on the older man’s shoulder. “This looks good, yeah?” Yoongi muses out loud, leaning back against Hoseok’s firm chest as he browses through the pictures in his camera.

They had just came from Hoseok’s dance studio after the younger man invited Yoongi to watch his choreography for the upcoming dance competition and being the hype boyfriend he is, Yoongi couldn’t resist. Plus that means more pictures of Hoseok for the collection he keeps in his file on his laptop with multiple heart emoticons as the file name. “I look angry there,” Hoseok comments, his laugh vibrating against the blush on Yoongi’s cheek. “I think you look sexy, what about this then?” Yoongi clicks to the next image that focuses on Hoseok with his hair tousled, heart smile in full display and eyes filled with so much adoration and fondness for the man behind the camera.

“Yeah,” Hoseok smiles, head leaning against Yoongi’s cheek. “I like that one,” Yoongi smiles back, taking a few moments to stare at the picture that really captures how much Hoseok loves him. “I like it too,” and then he puts his camera down and turns his head to press his lips with Hoseok’s in a soft and slow kiss.

You never gave me a prompt so idk how to write this but i think it turned out well! I did my best ㅠㅠ i’m sorry if you didn’t like it though ;~; but thank you for requesting! (:

give me a pairing, a prompt and i’ll write a 3-sentence fic!

Extra Short Story (2): Nothing Here.

Sid M

“You’re nothing.” She said it as if the words would change flavors. She said it as if saying it again would elicit a revelation, or a pivotal moment in the story arc. It changed nothing, and as she stared into two empty crystal balls, she wondered if living was nothing more than being.

It’s terrifying to think that being is the only thing that is. The whole process of screaming into the void only served to make her into a martyr. Self-pity is for cowards, and her partaking only served to show that she could never truly hate herself. Never brave enough to end what seemed to be a never ending loop.

She was more than nothing, surely. No number of bitter, jaded thoughts could change her state of being. Still, she had to think she was something. How could someone so self-aware be so useless. The worst part of it all was that she didn’t want to be anything she knew. The world was ugly, and she wanted no part of it. How could she become what she never knew. What shrouded avenue would she have to trek before this feeling dissipated?

“You are nothing.” Words spoken in anger. She didn’t mean them. No. She didn’t hate herself, she hated what the world thought of her. Perception. That cursed indifference. She had so much to say, and to give. The hadn’t ears to hear. Explanation too complex to package in shock value, or sell under the guise of entertainment. More to read than that could be said. They haven’t the capacity to absorb her subtext. A million words to say the same thing. A point that bounced from every heart that crossed her path.

Nobody loved her! WHY? She was worlds ahead of them. Light years away from the smoke that curled from their tongues. The world is static. White noise could say more than the flood that fell from their lips. How does she let the blind call her ugly? Or worse yet: boring.

Its so funny! They find things boring! Yes, let them fill their bellies with lust and self-indulgent gluttony. The grotesque, bloody beings that find themselves so enlightened as to call her mind worthless. She could spit bile at the stark realization: they would die in their ignorance.


Shattered glass is but a stereotype. Who doesn’t love a good stereotype these days? She lets herself wallow in the self-pity that she so despises. What could matter anymore?

Meaning has no value here.

It isn’t me who needs to lighten up. You, on the other hand, need to lighten up and realise that she is using you. I am done trying to drill sense into you, Adley. If you want to die via a brutal warmonger, then do it. I won’t have a word in it.
—  Aaliyah Harvey, V&B
Tired (Jessica Jones Drabble)

Characters: Jessica Jones
Inspured By: Looking For by Saro
Word Count: 659
Tag List: : @captain-purpledino @melody-of-scream @cantankerousintrovertedpumpkin @katierogersstuff @myriadimagines @cleverruinsbear @the-force-of-imagines @belissimabitch

A/N: I haven’t been feeling well for a while, but I think writing is the best form of therapy :) and this helped in a lot of ways. Please tell me if you’d like to added to/taken off the tag list 💜

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Dear you,

Fuck. Fuck. Why am I constantly being pinned as the bad one? The one in the wrong? The one who needs apologize when nothing I did was wrong? The one who needs to drop her feelings when you hurt me? Because you don’t apologize and you don’t spill your heart on every word that comes out of your mouth to me. Why does it hurt so much when you acknowledge that I don’t think you love me as much as I love you. That you would do the same for me as I do to you. I love you so much but you fuck me up. You fuck my brain up

You fuck my heart up

You fucked my life up

And I still fucking love you


Love is not something that comes easily to Jace nor is it something he willingly embraces. A lot of that is contributed to Valentine and the way he treated him growing up. Any time that allowed himself to love someone or something his father came back and punished him for it. The incident with the falcon is a good example of the sort of love Valentine showed to his children. Jace was instructed to train it and when he loved the bird like one would do to any pet the bird was killed in front of him to prove a point. Valentine made it clear to him that love was a weakness and that it could be used or exploited by anyone.

As an adult, the idea of love was something he continued to push down within him. Even though the Lightwoods had shown him the sort of love that Valentine never could, he knew it would always be something that could be used against him. Jace embraced it the best he could but he couldn’t ever accept it as something that he could feel. A part of him does want to know what love is. He’s seen it in his daily life, he knows what it feels like based on his parabatai bond with Alec, but he knows it won’t ever happen for him as Valentine’s lessons always come back to haunt him in the end. Love is a weakness and to give that power to someone gives them the power to destroy him.

Any personal relationships he has won’t ever be based on love because he’s never know what real love is. Or if love ever does enter the picture it’s something he will need to learn and will always take more time than most people would think it’s worth.

“i used to measure my worth

by the callouses on my hands

and the production of means given by my soul

my hands, cracked and rough, bleeding from the tightened grip on reality

they were my pride and joy

until a fire tragically consumed me

until my hands burnt from the flames licking away at my palms, muscles aching, bones crackling, eating away my ability to work

i stumbled out of the fire-

my broken hands cradled against my chest, i cried,

how will i ever be worth anything


i didn’t want to live in a world where my hands were merely shadows, rising ashes drifting into the sky

i didn’t want to live.

when the skin grew back over the fragile frame of my hands, it was soft

not strong like it used to be

and i had to learn how to renavigate the world with soft hands

i had to learn that hands with soft scars cannot do the same work as the hands before them

that soft hands produce smiles on the faces of people i love

soft hands help gently rouse laughter from soft boys

that productivity measured in how many burdens i carry and how many cracks in my palms is not a valid measure of my worth

that my soft hands are capable of producing love- in the corners of the universe id otherwise disregard

i learned with these scarred palms and lithe fingers, that maybe being soft is no longer disadvantageous”