Writing Practice - Blog Posts

Gonna hold onto this

Writing Weapons (1): Swords

The Thrusting Sword

Type of fight scene: entertaining, duels, non-lethal fights, non-gory deaths, swashbuckling adventure

Mostly used in: Europe, including Renaissance and Regency periods

Typical User: silm, male or female, good aerobic fitness

Main action: thrust, pierce, stab

Main motion: horizontal with the tip forward

Shape: straight, often thin, may be lightweight

Typical Injury: seeping blood, blood stains spreading

Strategy: target gaps in the armous, pierce a vital organ

Disadvantage: cannot slice through bone or armour

Examples: foil, epee, rapier, gladius

The Cleaving Sword

Type of fight scene: gritty, brutal, battles, cutting through armour

Typical user: tall brawny male with broad shulders and bulging biceps

Mostly used in: Medieval Europe

Main action: cleave, hack, chop, cut, split

Main motion: downwards

Shape: broad, straight, heavy, solid, sometime huge, sometimes need to be held in both hands, both sides sharpened

Typical Injury: severed large limbs

Strategy: hack off a leg, them decapitate; or split the skull

Disadvantage: too big to carry concealed, too heavy to carry in daily lifem too slow to draw for spontaneous action

Examples: Medieval greatsword, Scottish claymore, machete, falchion

The Slashing Sword

Type of fight scene: gritty or entertaining, executions, cavalry charge, on board a ship

Mostly used in: Asia, Middle East

Typical user: male (female is plausible), any body shape, Arab, Asian, mounted warrior, cavalryman, sailor, pirate

Main action: slash, cut, slice

Main motion: fluid, continuous, curving, eg.figure-eight

Shape: curved, often slender, extremely sharp on the outer edge

Typical Injury: severed limbs, lots of spurting blood

Strategy: first disable opponent's sword hand (cut it off or slice into tendons inside the elbow)

Disadvantage: unable to cut thorugh hard objects (e.g. metal armor)

Examples: scimitar, sabre, saif, shamshir, cutlass, katana

Blunders to Avoid:

Weapons performing what they shouldn't be able to do (e.g. a foil slashing metal armour)

Protagonists fighting with weapons for which they don't have the strength or build to handle

The hero carrying a huge sword all the time as if it's a wallet

Drawing a big sword form a sheath on the back (a physical impossiblity, unless your hero is a giant...)

Generic sword which can slash, stab, cleave, slash, block, pierce, thrust, whirl through the air, cut a few limbs, etc...as if that's plausible

adapted from <Writer's Craft> by Rayne Hall

Take a piece or dialogue (or write one) and add details between each character's responses that describe their reactions to what was just said, what they do physically, and/or what memories the conversation is triggering for them. How much can you add before it starts to annoy you as a reader?

Write a scene in which a character realizes they were wrong about something. Concentrate on what they are feeling. Here are a few examples:

--thought they were in danger but realizes they are safe

--thought they were safe but realizes they are in danger

--dreaded something that turned out to be fun

--looked forward to something that turned out to be awful

You get the idea. Bonus points if you do the exercise and its opposite.

“She forgot her knife that morning.” Some things come out pretty fucking ominous when I narrate my day.

Even more of this guy. Probably the last I'll do of him for a little bit

The being was larger than most skyscrapers. Its teeth usually were soaking red with blood but were currently dry, showing the yellowing of the fangs underneath. The lack of blood may at first seem calming to the unknowing but all residents of hell knew this meant it was looking for something, or perhaps more accurately, someone to re-wet its teeth. The large lizard-like eyes decorating its head were looking back and forth for any sign of something that drips red when pricked. Soon it saw a small humanoid shape coming towards its domain. It contorted its body getting ready to pounce, before realizing the being it was so excited to gauge was none other than head honcho of hell, Lucifer Paradiso. As Lucifer came closer the thing’s disappointment turned to fear as the king of the damned's details became clearer. While Lucifer was usually someone to not be afraid of with his calm, charming, and honestly sometimes a little pathetic demeanor, today was clearly different. His thick eye-brows were lowered, his arms swung violently by his side, and every step he took left a little crater. Even worse than that was his outfit and the object grasped tightly in his hand. He was wearing a suit, he never wore a suit, and was holding a bouquet of once nice looking flowers that were all wilting now. The only thing scarier than the hulking beast with bloody teeth was the same beast but with yellowed teeth. The only thing scarier than that was a pissed off Lucifer and the only thing scarier than that is a pissed off Lucifer after a bad date. The thing quickly dashed out of the way even though he was still a good two miles away. Lucifer finally got home not 10 minutes later. The man was definitely quick for all his flaws.

He angrily opened the door, slammed it shut, and fell on the couch sobbing. Faust could hear the whining from his quarters but pretended he didn't hear it. For the first decade working the soul contract for Lucifer, Faust couldn’t help but feel bad for his master, that was long ago now. Lucifer’s cries nowadays dug up more anger from his heart than compassion. This was the third date this month that ended poorly. Faust wished he could tell Lucifer maybe there was a reason for his consistent failing but he knew that it was best to bite his forked tongue. “FAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUSSSSST.” the voice of hell rang out through the house. Well no more avoiding it Faust thought. When he arrived at the living room he could hear Lucifer mumbling to himself in between sobs. The strong gruff voice no longer felt as authoritative as it was most hours of the day, yet it still felt like he had a level of charm in its sadness which weirdly annoyed Faust quite a lot. Faust could smell expensive wine on his master’s breath as well as blood but that wasn’t unusual for dates in the underworld. “Faaauuusst, bring me the emergency stuff.” by emergency stuff he meant the cookie dough ice cream stuffed in the freezer. Many found his little substitute words cute, for Faust it drove him insane. The only thing that gave Faust joy in this infernal job is apparently God was also annoyed by little things like that and ripped into Lucifer often. Though apparently the other angels defended Lucifer from these attacks, Faust took what he needed in short time. 21.2 seconds from living room to kitchen, new record Faust thought to himself. He handed over the tub and a spoon. He didn’t even bother to get a bowl knowing it was a fruitless offer. In the time it took for him to get the ice cream Lucifer had managed to turn on one of his comfort movies. It was one of hallmark fame. Lucifer both liked to quietly make fun of the film while also clearly becoming deeply invested in the love story. In the early years Faust found the movies slightly annoying if not charming in its own little way. Now in these years he found them unbearable. If he could scream through them he would but that would just get him in trouble. Lucifer was cuddling in a large, fluffy, glowing white blanket decorated with red pentagram stars that seemed to drip and move as the damned king cuddled into himself. Within the little blanket hole he was holding a little three-headed dog plush. Some days Faust wanted to burn that dog, actually scratch that, most days Faust wanted to burn that dog. Faust handed him the ice cream. He grabbed it quickly and tightened the blanket around him. Faust tried to leave, walking in long quick strokes, but before he could leave the gruff voice spoke sadly. “Faust, if you weren’t bound to me through your soul contract, would you leave?” Faust thought the answer of “God, no” would be the first to shoot to his head, but it took him a second of pondering to think of any answer at all. “No, sir. Now enjoy your movie and please sober up.” Faust quickly exited himself from the situation before slowly walking to his room and quietly closing the door.

more writing of this guy because I really like him. :P

“FAUST, bring me my cologne” Faust was sick and tired of working all day but obliged nonetheless. Johann G. Faust was used to being a servant for Lucifer, but today was extra demanding. The fallen angel apparently had a date tonight and was taking it very seriously. “OH MY, UNDER MY CHIN HOW DID I FORGET TO SHAVE UNDER MY CHIN. FAUST, BRING ME MY RAZOR!” Many found his gravely New Yorkin accent charming, but to Faust, it had become extraordinarily grading on his ears. Like a ringing chirp of broken alarm clock that formed a polycule with nails and a chalkboard. “FAUST!! Oh, there you are.” He took the cologne and razor from Faust with not as much as a look or nod of gratitude. His usual Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts were replaced with an abyssal black suit jacket and dress pants that made his usual blazing red skin pop. He had a glowing white button up, that was borrowed from Michael, under his jacket topped with a black tie that itself was decorated with a blue flame pattern at the bottom. “Faust go get some horn cream from the hallways closet… please.” Faust thought that if he put this much effort into the monthly meeting, God might respect him more, but he kept that thought to himself. As Lucifer was applying the cream to his tiny coned horns, Faust noticed that his hair didn’t seem to be as thin as it usually was; he must have used some sort of magic instead of his usual comb over technique. Lucifer started to use an eyebrow pencil to fill in his pencil ‘stache before looking at Faust halfway through. He chuckled awkwardly at his soul-bound companion “Too much?” “You'll look good either way, sir. It’s up to your personal taste.” Faust talked in his usual quiet reserved manner; the only remnants of his once German accent was the fact he still pronounced his w’s as v’s. Lucifer finished his mustache filling and for the finishing touch put on some mascara and eye-shadow. As Faust waited at the door watching his master leave, he couldn’t help but notice how the king of hell and punisher of the damned had his spaded tail wagging in excitement. 

Little writing I did of a character I made. He's so pathetic I love him :3

The man was tall now that he was standing straight. Under his chin was filled with stubble, looks like he forgot to shave under there. He had a pencil mustache above his lips. His grin showed teeth a blinding white unusual for his unkempt demeanor. He had a comb over, hiding his quickly fading hair, two devil horns sprouted from his head matching his blood red skin. He wore a black and white Hawaiian shirt with a couple unbuttoned buttons on the top and bottom to give room to his prominent gut. His cargo pants allowed people to see his hairy legs covered in bruises and scabs in the process of healing. He looked like he was going for Gomez Addams, a mafia boss, and retired cop all at once. “Elizabeth, good to see you. Can your uncle give you a hug?” His accent was one of a gruff New Yorkin, that noticeably sounded like he was holding back tears. “Of course.” She opened up her arms and wrapped them around his abdomen including his large and squishy stomach. He wasn’t really her uncle but Lucifer Paradiso was referred to as uncle by all undead creatures. “Hey, have you seen your dad around? I need to talk to him.” His mouth smiled, his eyes did not. “Oh, I um.. No I haven't… sorry…. If you don’t mind me asking, why do you need to see him?” His face showed the aura of grimness behind his fake grin, it always did. “Oh, you know the big G upstairs…” he cleared his throat as he often did before one of his moments. “He told me not to call him that by the way, HA, can you ‘magine. Like sorry for trying to commit divine regicide about a trillion years ago, like I said sorry. Can’t even use a cute little name like ‘big G’” Eli knew rambling was the next stage before the meltdown. Now he just needed to mention Jesus and he would let go of his thin faux mood. “I mean JC never treats me like that. He is very forgiving. Why can’t it be like father like son, am I right….?” 1, 2, 3 “God, Eli” He placed his face in his palms. Tears didn’t leave his eyes but his gruff voice was weak in its affliction. “The reason I need to see your dad is because I’m kind of in debt with mister, God almighty.” His voice was in a mocking tone when he said “God almighty” but his heart clearly wasn’t in it. “Apparently I haven’t been getting enough souls of late. I miss the days of Faust where someone wouldn’t question too hard about selling their eternal soul for limited mortal power and riches. Now everyone is always like ‘why would I give you something infinite for something that lasts only a lifetime.’ Like shut up and just give me your soul, I’m in severe debt and need it more than you.” He kept rambling till Eli’s dad returned to find a sobbing Lucifer Paradiso on his couch with his 16 year old daughter comforting him like a therapist.

Pride month writing thing (specifically transfem :3)

The small droplets of water ran down my cheek. From the water radiated comfort. Not a release of dismay but of elation. My watered eyes, for the first time in what feels longer than my memory can withstand, wept tears of joy and not repression, or pain or stress or anything like that. In the mirror I do not see a hurt sad boy, but a strong brave woman. Despite all the hate she got. Despite all the friends and family she sadly left behind. Despite the countless doctor appointments that felt like they went nowhere. Despite the anxiety of going out dressed in a way that felt real and right. Despite the nonsense politics. Despite her own lack of faith she would or even could survive. Despite everything she stood happy and proud. Through all the change I could still see the person I once was, the once sad boy. From the boy I saw not fear but relief. Despite what my parents had told me, I had not killed the boy. The boy was never real. The boy was nothing more than a mask and after all this time there stood the person who was always underneath. The girl smiled. I smiled. Happy pride month. 

Writing stuff. why yes I did learn too many of these words from Chonny Jash, how'd you know?

I scream and scream and scream till blood pours out my mouth. I don’t care, I continue to scream. I scream till my head pounds and my eyes blur. The pain is immeasurable but it's nothing but drop in the bucket compared to why I’m screaming. So I scream till the world melts away, till all that is patternly and logical falls into dissolution and cacophony. I scream till I snap back into reality, where not a word nor noise leaves my raw throat. I want to scream till the pure and predictable melts into entropy. I want to scream till the world around me has no choice but become geocentric. I want to be catered to, but being dependent is far too terrifying. I know if I want help I need but ask but that thought is one unthinkable to me. Like an idea from a foreign system. I give advice I dare not follow, I preach what I would never practice.  My logos guides me to the easy and correct path. Yet my pathos dare not go out of fear of when we leave that path we shall no longer know how to clear a way for ourselves. I know I’ll break down eventually, hopefully my logos will get control over me before then but till then my mind will continue to scream into a mouth unable to project. 

writing and transness my two favorite worldly desires.

I don’t know why I always gravitate back to writing about being trans. On one hand it is quite the unique and different experience and I would add it’s fair to say it’s pretty all encompassing in my life whether I like it or not but it’s not like I don’t have anything else in my life to write about. I could write about my weird need to be independent or how differently I act by myself versus with even my closest companions. I do try to write about those things but then I get distracted and before I know it a week has passed but something weird happens when I write about being part of this strange little group. I’m able to let the words just flow out and almost nothing could distract me from finishing. If I had to guess why this happens I would presume it’s because of how inescapable it has felt in this point of life. I’ve barely just completely grasped my transness about a year ago (though I've been questioning since 10) and I’ve only really toyed with my name which didn’t take long considering I’ve always been weirdly drawn to the name Katherine. Recently for the first time I've had good enough friends I can tell and they’ve been wildly helpful yet still I feel as if I haven’t had enough initiative in a year of fully accepting myself. For make-up I’ve tried lip-stick once when my family were somewhere for a few days and I’ve been doing my nails more frequently but that's about it. I shave my face almost everyday to keep it at bay, but I don’t really have the tools for shaving anywhere else. And for clothes I have done zilch. It’s not like I haven’t done these things out of lack of effort, it's just hard to do them when in a packed house, when in constant fear, and having a lack of expendable income in a slew of more important expenses. With all this writing is my way to express these feelings I can’t in daily life. I’ve never been adequate at drawing and while I have been doodling more, I don’t think I care to really put a ton of work into it. So with the physical medium out of the way that leaves words. I’ve always been very creative with a lot of thoughts yet I’ve never had a great way to express it. I always thought I hated writing. Always forced to write a long drawl of something I truly feel passionless for. The odd free writes were always fun but the piles of essays and grammar mistakes were always there to make sure I always hated writing. Thank the stars, that recently for the first time I had a teacher who made me realize the joy that can come from writing when you care. Sadly that was last year's teacher but the essays don’t feel as grueling to get through and when we’re doing a paragraph on occasion they feel fun. Now with both these discoveries of late, both from last year interesting enough, I have been going through a bit of a change in how i am. For the first time in my life there is a very clear goal to why I should keep going to get out of this house. 1) so I can be who I want to be 2) so I can write. I've promised myself at the very least I’ll try to get myself there. No matter the obstacle no matter the strife I have to try because in the end memento mori.

wow more writing practice this time about my dislike for AI

One thing I’ve had to grapple with during this surgence of AI is that not everyone wants to be an artist or creative. I’ve always just assumed people take other jobs to sustain themselves, but truly many if not most people don’t want to do something creative with their life or leave any sort of lasting impact. Most people just want to enjoy life to the fullest or at the very least just survive. My understanding as art being the ultimate dream is my own experiences clouding my judgment. Despite this art still defines our culture an insane amount along with being a representation of the times. As silly as it is to say stuff like “Seinfeld” reveals us a look into 90s culture just as a more seriously taken art piece like the “Merchant of Venice” can give us a look into the late 1500’s/early 1600’s. Most importantly to me it’s an expression and a look into a part of the human experience. AI is more or less a pattern machine. It takes what it's been fed and finds patterns to make something ““new””. There is no motivation behind what it’s doing. No need to scratch a creative itch or want to share and express one's life. It does what it does because it was told to. With this realization it not only delegitimizes the point of art but also shows that in the end these soul crushing recent events comes not from the AI but still the greed of the richest amongst us (I swear to god if I get one comment about that stupid game)  and the misunderstanding of art by business people. Even if AI art was just as good as a lot of human art, it is not, it still betrays the very core of what art is. Despite what the CEOs of the biggest media companies may think, art is not just entertainment but an important part of the human condition. Of course for the many creatives in every corner of the world but also for everyone in between. More than likely you’ve seen a piece of art that's connected with you. It’s shown a part of you or your experiences that you may have not been able to explain or maybe it’s made you feel for someone in the story evil or good, personal or universal. Isn't that kind of amazing. That us humans’ empathy sense is so strong that even to a character we know isn’t real we can still have an emotional reaction as big as crying or laughing or tensing up or whatever. AI has none of this. It is not a being capable of emotion, free will, or expression. We can not allow these old greed bags to take more from us than they already have. We can not have tech bros decide our culture. We can not have the representation of our culture be made by an emotionless, moralless, and uncreative being incapable of moving things forward. Only by taking the old and rehashing just enough to seem distinct enough. Some may say that humans themselves have no originality but I disagree with our distinct ways of taking old formats and archetypes, then mixing, adapting, and changing the very foundation of the original work. We are not a pattern machine but a remixing artists that take many different ideas and motifs, add a bit of our own likes and experiences and make something wholly distinct from its inspirations. Don't let any billionaire tech bro tell you differently.

A little vent I did with a bit of a happy ending (don't worry btw it's just nice to write about it)

 I look into the mirror, and a tight knot is tied into my stomach. A bubbling starts in the depths of my gut and crawls up my body into my chest. It was very similar to how I felt when I got car sick on summer road trips as the feeling of throwing up grew inside me. The big difference is that it’s much more concentrated and there's a lower likelihood of throwing up. Much lower but not none. There was the obvious fact I’m quite fat or “chubby” if you didn’t want to be too blunt about it. Maybe I could deal with that if it was distributed more femininely, but I guess it makes sense why it wasn’t. My stomach bulged out, and the fat pushed out the side, messing up my back as well. There’s a unique torture in understanding you’re trans but not being able to do something about it. You have a need you can not fill. A hunger while the apple’s branch pulls upward every time you reach for it. Having no mouth and an intense need to scream. My family might be accepting, but there’s definitely the chance they’re not, especially with some things I’ve heard dad listen to. Even if I came out today and they embraced me as Kathrine fully, the next problem is the problem of money. The idea of insurance covering HRT is almost laughable, and even with how it would improve my well-being, it would be selfish to ask for it while we have more pressing payments and medical problems. Just two more years, I suppose. Two more years of hating the name everyone but my friends call me. Two more years of cuddling in my bed pretending to be a pretty girl to soften the blow of reality. Two more years of feeling like a creep when I imagine myself as that girl. Two more years of making social media accounts under Kat to feel any amount of euphoria. Two more years of telling my friends to call me that horrible name around my parents. Two more years of hiding my google searches and YouTube recommendations from my family. Two more years of hating every atom of me when my grandma calls me a nice young man or a fun boy. Two more years of writing stupid words in a google doc to vent. Two more years sound like a long time when you put it like that, but I've been doing this for a while, and a lot changes when you take a different perspective. Two more years till I can tell everyone to call me Kat. Two more years till I can take the magic blue pill to feel more like me. Two more years with great friends that help me. Two more years to save up money to not only be able to buy HRT but hopefully much more. Two more years of getting better at writing. Only two more years till I can be me.