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Writing, like any art, is a paradox of absolute control (you’re in charge of your characters) and mastery (of your craft) versus complete submission (to the process and where the story wants to go).

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So much of the work of writing goes on below the floorboards of the conscious mind. I toss enough food through the cellar trapdoor, and after a while something down there hurls up the next line/scene.

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A lot of writing became easier after I made the decision to turn things over to what I call “the subconscious engines” when a certain type of resistance crops up.

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I need to marinate this scene a little more before I can write it. Plus it’s the end of the day and I’m getting punch-drunk, I think.

@mwlucas Tonight at dinner the Princess was telling me about a Steven Universe bit where Steven and Amethyst were yelling compliments at each other while fighting because that’s how they express affection…

…and it made me think of you and our compliments war.

You’re so cool and I’m glad to know you on this-here social network, sir.

it's only a roguelike if it's compiled in the rogue region of france, otherwise it's just sparkling permadeath

Favorite line from today’s work: “But when a prayer was answered, you had to use the gift—or know the truth about your own cowardice much more deeply than you already did.”

When you’re writing along and all of a sudden guano becomes a plot point…

And up comes Cowboy Junkies’s “Anniversary Song.” A brisk bit of dancing around the office is called for.

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Lunch consumed, urge to sob retreating, concomitant urge to stab retreating as well, fresh cuppa achieved.

However, the urge to go back to bed is rising…

Maybe it just needs to be an after-lunch thing. Food will probably help.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed right now, you’re absolutely not alone.

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It’s not that I dislike it. I don’t even know why this is the thing that tips me over the edge. What the hell, brain?

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One of the things on my to-do list today is to attempt the monthly newsletter again.

Guess which thing on my to-do list today makes me feel like sobbing.

The Selkie knew too many stories of deceitful men. This one, pleasant as he was, clearly hid something.
"I must go," she said.
He let her.
But he howled when he saw her change: "Come tomorrow!"
When she did, under the full moon, a huge labrador jumped into the sea to greet her.
#MicroFiction #TootFic #SmallStories

In which I go from R.B. Greaves to the day’s workload, with stops at mad scientist, citric acid, and avoiding social media.

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Ragged Feathers

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