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Hi, I’m April. My tumblr game is old as balls. I’m a menace. var sc_project=9360824; var sc_invisible=1; var sc_security="a06f04e4"; var scJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? "https://secure." : "http://www."); document.write("");

older | 1 | .... | 297 | 298 | (Page 299) | 300 | 301 | .... | 647 | newer

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    neurolingual:

    im praying for every gay and lesbain individual living in kansas. my heart goes out to all of you. and if you have no idea what i’m talking about, please read this.


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    thegingerbatch replied to your post“Fuuuuck short sentences.”

    the more into my character’s head i get, the longer my sentences get. i can do short sentences, but it’s usually for narration (He aimed the gun. He fired.) Emotions and thoughts and sex require loooooooooong sentences

    Ugh I have a problem with run-ons especially with emotions. I just want to keep writing everything. Which is bad in many ways but yeah I hate short, succinct sentences.


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    My internet is down and I just looked over at my modem/router like ‘How could you do this to meeeeee?’


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  • 02/18/14--04:12: Photo



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    *goes to bed pretty okay with what she wrote*

    *wakes up and thinks ‘well this is obviously shit.’*


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    I’ve been ignoring my bestie for a few days and so he had to resort to insulting my favorite musical in order to get me to respond.


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    “"I admire anybody who has the guts to write anything at all."”

    - E.B. White (via journaling-junkie)

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    pluckyyoungdonna:

    bookoisseur:

    thingsamylikes:

    gameraboy:

    Making crayons

    I REMEMBER THIS!!! But it was on Sesame Street.
    I guess PBS recycled their ‘how things are made’ footage :)

    I remember this from Sesame Street too!

    I remember this from Mr. Rogers! THIS FASCINATED ME.


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    neil-gaiman:

    I’ll perform THE TRUTH IS A CAVE in New York, with FourPlay, on 27th June at the CARNEGIE HALL: tickets on sale now! http://bit.ly/M3NwUJ

    View more on WhoSay »

    I GOT TICKETS!

    You know what that means right?

    Pessimism did not stop me from getting tickets!

    Aha!


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    playbill:

    Developing one for a while. I just want it already!


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    acafanmom:

    estherlune:

    I mean was really necessary this shot

    image

    please explain

    Gosh, where have we seen an expression like this before?

    image

    It defies explanation.


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    I am not a big fan of absolutes but Johnlock is definitely the most painful ship ever.


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    4gifs:

    Goats playing on an aluminum roof. [video]


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    I AM SO EXCITED! I CANNOT WAIT! AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!


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    crazy-to-the-moon-and-back:

    hurrdurrwaffle:

    Anne Hathaway, ladies and gentlemen.

    I just stalked all of her interviews and she is now my new favourite person….


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    mid0nz replied to your post“*goes to bed pretty okay with what she wrote* *wakes up and thinks…”

    Be cautious about re-reading too soon. We needs the fic. We needs it!

    Good advice. I’m usually pretty good about this with other forms of writing but I seem to have forgotten with this.


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    “Come on, honey, this house is a fresh start for our family!”

    - White dads in horror stories (via start-missing-everybody)

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    By my interpretation, which could be flawed, I didn’t think Campbell was implying that every story includes a “magic flight” and a “rescue from without” followed by a crossing of the return threshold. I think he was suggesting that stories, in general, follow a path of descent and return, and that along that circular path, which [when complete] includes a return, the phenomena we see recurring from culture to culture include heroes being chased, being whisked away, etc. I assume he described those phenomena before describing the return threshold in depth because the return threshold is the more fundamental concept. As if to say, “be it by magic flight, which we see in these examples, or rescue from without, which we see in these examples, one way or another, the hero tends to return, so let’s discuss the examples and significance of returning.” I’m sure I was only trying to make the same point in my tutorials and if I confused you at all I’m sorry.

    Campbell talked often about the futility of what he characterized as opacity in mythology. To brutally paraphrase him, a functioning religion (or story) is a window to something invisible, something all around us that we fail to “see” before a crafted frame says “look here.” It’s one thing to stain a window’s glass, to help us experience light, but when we paint the glass solid, by standing too much on ceremony, or by interpreting myth too literally, our story or religion will separate us from the unknown and each other rather than connecting us.

    The ironic thing, or I guess the least ironic thing ever, is that Campbell’s wisdom makes a pretty great window, and his step-by-step analysis of mythology has come to be used as a “how to write” handbook or a “what all stories have to be” doctrine. But he never intended that, and he certainly wouldn’t have wanted some fat drunk college dropout boiling his monomyth down to a paint by numbers kit on the internet. The people that created and passed down our timeless stories didn’t do that. They followed their instincts, their fears and desires. They opened their flawed souls and let their gods shine through them. In the modern world, where writing is a recourse to revenue, we are pressured to short-cut the shamanism, like an aspirin company synthesizing tree bark. We attempt to bottle and sell simulated stories and religions, myths that may or may not be connections to the unknown but first and foremost make their deadlines and get our readers or viewers through the day. This is not a bad thing, I’d rather live in a world where a story can make me a provider for my family than a world where I’m just the slowest dishwasher.

    But in these moments when we’re blocked, or in the moments we are staring at a board full of diagrams, moving characters and motivations around like chess pieces, trying to “solve” a story as if it were math homework, paralyzed by the academia, it helps to remember that any act of creation, whether folding a paper airplane, baking a cake or writing an episode of SVU, is, by definition, a religious act and a subversive one. We reach out with ape-like hands and filthy minds and we mock and challenge all that came before us by making something be there that was not there. We change the history of the world, we change who we are and we change everything that touches what we make, so we may as well also always change the rules by which we make them.

    by now you’ve probably realized I’m not really just answering your question but am using it to deal with insomnia. But to try to bring this around to you, now that you’ve studied Campbell, you’ve got what’s important about it. Heroes go Somewhere Else and Heroes Come Back Different. Everything else is yours to interpret.


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  • 02/18/14--16:30: And that memory's key...
  • So this is the first draft (well second or third but basically I know it still needs work) of the Johnlock Amnesia Fanfic I’m writing. It’s Post-His Last Vow because I want to fix everything… EVERYTHING!  I’m not uploading it to a03 or ff until I’m super happy with it. And that will take a while. Normally I write fast and make lots of errors. This time I am trying to do better at that.

    Blah blah blah here it is beneath the cut. Tagging the people who asked about it.

    The man is aware of the light on his eyelids before he even opens them. He yawns and rolls onto his back, stretching out his arms. He’s stiff, and the bed isn’t comfortable but at least it’s an actual bed. A bed?  His eyes snap open and take in the surroundings. His breath momentarily stops in his chest, and a knot of fear starts twisting itself through his body. His brain is covered in a layer of confusion, inhibiting his ability to reason out what’s going on, but slowly the pieces click together and he starts to understand. He hears the sound of a steady electric beep.  The smell is a sterile, nauseating aroma that could never be confused for another place. He’s in a hospital.

     Soldiers.  Blood.  Patching up a bullet would on Private Cather-. What was that private’s name?  What is HIS name?

    “Good Morning.”  A voice calls from a corner.  He sits up quickly, turning towards the sound of the gentle baritone  and he feels a rush of blood to his head. A tall man with curly hair sits in a chair near the window. He is not wearing scrubs, which is odd, but the long white coat allows him to reason that the man must be his doctor.

    “Stop. “ The doctor stands and walks near the hospital bed.  “You’ve got to take it slow.  You were hurt. When you came into the emergency room, you had a head wound and they were concerned that you might have sustained a concussion.”

    “How long have I been here?” He asks knowing it’s not the most important question but it’ll give him an idea of how bad his injuries are.

    “Just overnight. I’ve waited so w-”

    “I don’t…,” He looks away ashamed to have to admit this and breathes slow trying to calm the feeling that he’s all alone. But he is. No one but the doctor was waiting for him, “I don’t remember my name.”  

    “I  see. Tell me what you do remember.  Leave no details out.”  The doctor says it with such a commanding tone that the man feels compelled to tell him everything.   As always he thinks but doesn’t quite understand why.

    “John?” The doctor says and edges closer peering into his eyes with the sun highlighting specks of blues and greens.

    “John? Is that my name?”

    The doctor pauses and for a moment appears to be on the verge of saying something then says “You came in as a John Smith.”

    “Oh. I see. But that…”

    “What?”

    “I don’t know. It just sounded….right.”

    “Then we’ll stick with it okay, John?” The doctor says and a hint of a smile seems to play on his lips but is quickly gone as he presses. “So, John, tell me everything you remember.”

    ***

    He was a soldier in Afghanistan. He remembers he was also a medic. He saved some lives. Lost others. He remembers being shot and it gets hazy but he knows he said “Please ,God ,let me live.”

    When he tells that to the doctor he tenses then asks for even more information. John pushes himself to find something else for him. He knows every detail is significant. He knows it’s important but all he can remember solidly is blood. So much blood.

    The doctor reaches out to him and he isn’t sure why but he wants the comfort because Why is there no one waiting for him?  

    They are interrupted by a second pale, balding doctor who pauses then says, “ Dr. Scott?” and John can’t quite tell what is happening as they are both silent for a moment.

    “Yes, just checking on our John Smith here. You’ll finish up with him?”

    “Yes, of course, I have a sedative for him.”

    “Good.” Dr. Scott says then turns back to John. “John? I’ll be back to check on you soon.  Okay?”

    “Yeah…yeah. That sounds…good yeah.”  Dr. Scott reaches out a hand towards John.  John takes his hand and shakes it firmly then Dr. Scott sweeps out of the room leaving John feeling ….he doesn’t want to admit it to himself but he know it’s fear.  If he lets himself acknowledge it more then it’ll overtake him and he won’t be able to breathe. The beeping noise gets louder.  He wants to shout and scream at the machine.  Instead he closes his eyes and lies back.

    “Calm down, John. It will be okay.” The doctor injects a syringe into John’s IV tube and slowly presses down on the plunger. The effect is almost instantaneous, and he feels a certain calmness wash over him. John is more than happy to give in to the pull of sleep.

    “Will I remember today?” John asks.  He doesn’t hear the answer as the sedative drags him down and closes around him like a warm blanket.  He let his eyes droop shut.  He wants to speak and ask for an answer but this is easier.  Just forget it. He is not scared now; the drugs are working on his anxiety and dulling the edge that had threatened to slice him open. Then he hears it.

    “Oh Johnny boy, One more dose don’t ya think?”

    “He will find me.” John had known to keep quiet. Name and serial always, always. But after 8 doses of that stuff his tongue was lax and he wasn’t sure if he was telling that bastard or just trying to reassure himself.

    “Oh I’m counting on it, Johnny boy.”

    He shudders but quickly the thought is falling off the edges of his conscious, pushed far away by the sedative and John’s desire to just sleep.  The last thing he remembers is the touch of Doctor Scott’s hand in his and the feeling that it wasn’t enough then or now.


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    mildredandbobbin replied to your post“*goes to bed pretty okay with what she wrote* *wakes up and thinks…”

    I know the feeling and I bet it’s not. Looking forward to reading this, seriously!

    No, no it is. In my mind it is the taj mahal. On ‘paper’ it is the rickety shack from The Beverly Hillbillies.

    But it’s better that I would’ve done if I was lazy about it so that is something.

    And thank you. Posted the ‘first draft’ of the first chapter just now.


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