I’m immortal, and I don’t think about it that much. Not because it isn’t worrisome. Being immortal is inherently worrisome, just like the alternative is worrisome. Existence in general is worrisome.
But I try not to worry about being immortal, because worrying about it is futile. Trying to comprehend the eternity that stretches before me is as unavailing as trying to comprehend what comes after death. After a while, pondering existential questions with no attainable answers stops feeling philosophical and becomes tedious, self-fellating bullshit. You just have to live what’s in front of you.
If it sounds like I’m just figuring that out, it’s because I sort of am. By immortal standards, I’m an infant. Disappointing, I know. I think I’d look fabulous in a toga.
When it started, it was the February fourteenth of 1945. An American plane was hit in the engine by Japanese fire, fell from the slate gray sky like a shooting star. Its blazing red reflection ignited the swell of colorless water. And then it was gone, taking with it all the color in the world.
In that plane was my fellow air force pilot. The love of my life.
I know what you’re thinking: you weren’t alive in ‘45, and you weren’t a man. Well, I’m gonna tell you you’re wrong on both counts. You’ve been a man before. You’ll be one again. It doesn’t matter to me, so long as it’s you.
And let me tell you, sweetheart, you don’t know what love is, ‘till you fall in love in the World War II air force. Every passing touch is cherished, every moment together, a fleeting eternity. It was all very Spartan.
I reminded myself every minute of every day that I could lose you, tried to operate under the assumption that I would. I thought that might lessen the pain of it.
Which, I can cheerfully report, it didn’t. At all.
After you died, the world stayed as cold and colorless as the ocean that swallowed you. The war ended, and I couldn’t bring myself to care. I came home to parades and streamers and cheering crowds, and all I could think was, He’s dead. He’s dead, and I’m alive. How horribly wrong is that?
So I decided to fix it.
I got myself up on a good, tall chair, I put a noose around my neck, and I jumped.
Dangled there for a good, long while, looking around my shitty little hotel room and saying goodbye to my life.
To my father, probably still drinking himself to death and kicking his dog back in Illinois.
To my mother, wherever she was. Hopefully happy, and with a fellow who treated her right. Even though she left me with him.
To the apology note taped to my pillow, addressed to whatever poor maid would find me. The fifty cent tip for her troubles.
To the radio I forgot to turn off, to the Singing Weather Girl giving me a badly rhyming, probably inaccurate forecast for snow.
To the dust in the air, ignited by sunlight. Was that all any of us were?
My list of goodbyes got impressively long before I realized something hinky was going on. Namely, I wasn’t dying.
In a more mentally sound state, I might have wondered how I could still be alive after about twenty minutes without any oxygen. At the time, I was mostly upset. For a suicidal person, not dying is very upsetting.
After I figured out how to get myself down – which was no picnic, I’ll tell you – I got my sidearm, and I ate a bullet. That seemed to do the trick.
Then I woke up the next morning in a pool of my own dried blood, with the hole in the back of my head already scabbed over. You’ve gotta wonder, what did the other hotel guests think about the gunshot? Was that, like, a regular occurance in those parts?
But anyway, that’s how I figured I couldn’t die. I don’t think I’d aged for a while, either. Dug up a picture from about six years back of when I was nineteen, and I looked pretty much the same.
Which reminds me, I brought a little something. You see this fellow? Handsome guy, right? It’s sort of a bad picture, but yeah, that’s me. Back in ‘39. I still dress the same way, too. You always made fun of me for that, didn’t you? Said I should’ve been a 1940s television announcer. You weren’t too far off.
Anyway, without the option of dying, I had no choice but to live. Well. Survive, more like.
I got a job as a paper pusher, which I hated more than life itself. I got an apartment. A house. Houses were easier to get back then. Tried not to get attached to anyone, so I wouldn’t have to watch them get old and die.
I know everyone wants to feel safe. But none of them realize that there is no greater loneliness than being safe from death.
The days went slowly. They’re always the slowest without you. To pass the time, I did a lot of real deep thinking about what it meant to be immortal. Like, could my brain comprehend eternity? Would I go insane? If the universe came to an end, would I live on? What if the earth got hit by a meteor? What if I flew into the sun? Thinking about it let me pretend I had some sort of control over it.
The days went slowly, but the years went fast, and suddenly I woke up and it was 1960. Around that time, I realized I should probably do something with my never-ending life.
There were a couple reasons for that. For one thing, I’d been a working the same job and living in the same house for fifteen years, and I realized someone would probably figure out I wasn’t aging. Report me to the government or something.
Next, people were talking about the Vietnam War, and I got this irrational fear I might be drafted. Even though I was, on record, forty-five, and too old to register for draft. But I didn’t want to take any chances. I can’t think of anything worse than watching countless good men die, equipped with the knowledge that I will survive, and coming home without a scratch on me. I still have nightmares from the first time around.
So, I moved across the country, and I enrolled in college for pre-med. I always wanted to be a doctor, anyway, before – well, everything. It was hard work, especially considering I had a sixth grade education. But I wanted to do it right this time. If I had to exist, I wanted my existence to mean something. Because, really, how many people died while I lived? How many people are dying now? An unwanted gift is still a gift, and it felt wrong to just sit on it with my thumbs up my ass.
Late that May, I walked out of a final exam. The first really warm day of the year. Everywhere I looked there were colors, daffodils and tulips and hyacinths, exploding out of the ground like fireworks. Bees humming like little helicopters. Something was different that day. The world was alive again.
That’s when I saw you. You were this tiny little thing, in a little pink dress, one of those warm weather honeys. Fat little blond curls. You looked like Shirley Temple’s big sister.
You couldn’t have been more different from the big, angry man I fell in love with, but – it was you. I can’t explain it. My soul could see something that my eyes couldn’t, and it recognized you.
You noticed me staring, and you looked at me like I was an old friend. Like you’d seen me before, but couldn’t work figure when or where. Then you rounded the corner of the cafeteria, out of sight.
The wind was knocked out of my lungs by the time I chased you down, even though you weren’t five yards away. My heart was a jackhammer. I could barely manage a hello by the time I caught you.
You tilted your head to the side and your eyebrows scrunched together and you said, Do I know you? It was all so you, I wanted to cry. Your words in a different voice. Your soul behind different eyes. I wanted to hug you, to fall to my knees holding you, to sob and blubber about how much I missed you. You, the only person who had ever truly loved me. You, the love of my life. You. You. You.
Instead, I pulled myself together and said, I’m sorry, I saw you walking and I just had to talk to you. Which wasn’t a lie. And then I asked if you’d like to get coffee some afternoon. And you said, How about this afternoon? And so we did.
That was your second life. Your reincarnation. How do I know? Well, I later found out you’d been born nine months after your plane went down. And you had that little birthmark. Yeah, you know the one. You always have that little birthmark. It’s always in the same place, God bless.
But more than anything, like I said, I just recognized you. It’s as simple as that, and as complicated as that.
You brought me to life again. I’d wake up in the morning grateful to be alive, even with the knowledge that I would be alive a little longer than I found optimal. We moved in together my sophomore year, and you filled my house and my heart with warmth and the smell of roses.
You were, obviously, a woman, which took some getting used to. But it had its benefits. I could pick you up, carry you more easily than before. You were a lot more vocal about your feelings, and you laughed a lot, as girls are generally encouraged to do. It was nice to see that. You never laughed enough before.
And I could hold you, hold your hand, kiss you, anywhere. Take you dancing. No one even spared us a glance, except to smile at us. I could never get over that.
The day of our graduation, we got engaged. We took a few photos of that day. Here, I, uh – yeah. Yeah, that’s you, with the little bow in your hair. My beautiful girl. June of ‘64. Look how happy we were.
I said to you that night, as I kissed my way down your chest, I don’t know if there’s a Heaven, but this must be what it’s like.
Not two weeks later, you died again.
Not falling from the sky in a blaze of glory, but hit by a drunk driver leaving the grocery store.
I don’t even know how I processed that. My mind was a screaming wall of static, incapable of thought. I couldn’t reconcile that this could happen. You were supposed to be safe. This was supposed to be your good life, your long life, your happy life, to make up for the short, shitty, painful life you had before. And here I was, alive, while you were dead. Again.
I got this idea that I might sit in the ocean for a hundred years. That seemed reasonable at the time. I only lasted about a week, ‘cause I kept thinking about eels.
It gave me a bit of time to think, though, and I realized something that should have been sort of obvious: I might find you again. Or rather, you might find me. So I should probably be there waiting for you.
And I did. For another two decades, I waited.
That makes me sound sort of useless, so I’ll clarify that I went to medical school.
Around that point, I started to realize that pain is a non-negotiable part of life, and that trying to avoid it was never the point of living. So I really didn’t have any excuse to avoid making friends.
And anyway, it’s a shitty excuse, not forming connections with people because they’re going to die. That’s like never reading any books because you know they’re going to end.
Even though you weren’t there at the time, I think I owed that to you. Those four years we spent together showed me the joy of finitude. They taught me to stop fearing being happy, just because someday I might not be.
Which brings me to your third life. Can’t really tell you about that one. You see, that time, I found you in the AIDS ward. You’d had a tough life. Tougher even than when you were in the air force, which is really saying something. You were in the final stages, right before the virus took you. I won’t go into the details. I promised you I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t want to.
That was the hardest, seeing you like that. It was hard for me, but, I had to keep reminding myself, it was harder for you. What I was going through was nothing compared to your pain.
I took care of you, and I visited you every day. You were skeptical, not used to people being nice to you just for the hell of it, but some part of you recognized me. Just the way you did before.
It was still you in there. Undeniably you. I could never decide if that relieved the pain or made it worse.
Eventually, a few weeks before the end, I told you. For the first time, I told you. About what I am. About our lives together. I didn’t want you to be afraid to let go.
You didn’t believe me, which was to be expected. Thought I was crazy or making fun of you. So the next day I came back and fired a nail gun into my head. Then you believed me.
The next thing you said to me was, When we find each other again, you can’t tell me I was ever like this. And I tried to argue, but you insisted you wanted to forget. And then you said you wanted me to forget, too.
So I won’t. I won’t tell you about that life. Just know, I loved you then, every bit as much as I love you now. Every bit as much as I’ll always love you. I realize now how ashamed you were, and I wish I’d had the sense to tell you you didn’t have to be. No amount of suffering could ever make you less beautiful to me.
You died, and I got through it because – well, I got through it, because I really didn’t have much choice except to get through it. And I just kept clinging to the belief that I’d find you again, that we’d find each other again. That your next life would be better.
I was getting better at the whole grief thing. The first time I lost you, I plunged into suicidal depression for fifteen years. And that grief was still there. It still is. But though the grief lives in me, I no longer live in grief.
And I knew I’d find you again.
Now, the nineties. The nineties were interesting. For one thing, I got recruited by the I.S.I., or International Society of Immortals. Yes, that’s a thing. Everyone babies me a little, because I’m the only immortal in the I.S.I. who’s younger than three hundred. It’s really sort of patronizing.
But there are some big names: Keanu Reeves, a.k.a. Paul Mounet, a.k.a. Charlemagne. Tommy Wiseau. Weird Al. Lucy Liu. Oscar Isaac. Cher. A whole bunch of others who I’m probably forgetting. Immortality isn’t too rare an affliction.
Some of them went the Twilight Zone route, with a Faustian Bargain or a genie. Some of them are vampires or witches. Others, like me, were just born this way. Either way, it’s nice to know I’m not alone in eternity.
I learned some good tips on faking your death and changing your identity, which I decided it was probably time to do. I mean, I’d been working at the same hospital for about twenty years, with no signs of aging except some fake reading glasses and a touch of gray hair coloring around the temples.
So, I did the reasonable thing: I fell out a tenth story window. It’s weirdly cathartic, falling out a window. I highly recommend it.
The I.S.I. supplied the fake body for my funeral. Got me a fake birth certificate, fake bachelor’s degree, fake social security number. Even some fake family photos. Everything I’d need for my new, fake identity.
I relocated here with that fake new identity to start a real, new life. Started a real Ph.D. in psychology. Found you. The real you.
I don’t know if everyone gets reincarnated, but I believe everyone has a soul. I believe our souls are drawn together, like the ocean towards a full moon. And I believe we’ll always find each other, as surely as the tides.
It’s not an accident that I took you travelling so much, that I bought you so many gifts. Experience has taught me how short life can feel, and how fragile it can be. I wanted to make it great for you. Did I do a good job? I hope I did.
At the very least, you always seemed happy. I know I was happy. This has been the best one yet, and the longest. Ten years together ain’t bad, all things considered. And cancer, believe or not, isn’t the worst way I’ve seen you go.
Is that callous? Yeah, that’s probably callous. I’m sorry. Immortality can make people a bit insensitive, even if we’re really not trying to be. But hopefully you’ll forgive me by the time you’re born again.
Anyway, it’s worth waiting for, even if it never lasts long. You always seem to die so young. But what in life is meant to last long? We’re all dust, set ablaze by the sun. A life of any duration is a miraculous event.
I’m telling you this, my heart, my darling, because I don’t want you to be afraid. I want you to understand that it’s okay to let go.
Go to sleep, my darling. My ocean. I’ll find you when you wake up.
anonymous asked: What is your opinion on manic pixie dream girls and do you think they're a trope best avoided? I'm afraid my female protagonist will be criticized for being one even though she doesn't exist TO brighten a man's life, she just does bc she's fun?? it wasn't intentional. He likes her, but she doesn't act for his attention but rather acts to get closer to her own goals. I just don't want her to seem like an unimportant or bad protagonist for being 'quirky' and impulsive.
Manic pixie dream girls. I have some opinions on those.
For one thing, manic pixie dream girls, without the context of the stories they’ve been dumped in, are often wonderful. There’s nothing wrong with being quirky, energetic girl with an optimistic outlook, pastel-colored hair, and a weird fashion sense. In fact, I’d love to date one myself.
The real problem isn’t usually the aforementioned manic pixie, but the personality-impaired sadsack she’s usually dumped with. I love the ray of sunshine + total grump combo, but most of the men who are paired with manic pixies aren’t simply grumps. They’re misogynistic, boring, and unpleasant, with the personality of an empty shoe box.
So what can you do to prevent your poor manic pixie from being confined to a shoe box forever? Well, two things:
A) Make her love interest a good, interesting, lovable person.
This should go without saying, but a lot of romance authors didn’t get the memo. If your female protagonist is a quirky bundle of joy, the dude she ends up with should be at least as endearing.
That doesn’t mean he must be a manic pixie dreamboy, but he should be a rich, complex, and loving person. Just look at characters like Ben Wyatt from Parks and Rec, Chidi Anagonye from The Good Place, and Jake Peralta from Brooklyn 99 for inspiration.
B) Make sure your manic pixie has goals and flaws.
The first of which you’re already doing, so hats off to you! Be sure to make her a well-rounded person with bad habits, personal weaknesses, and past traumas that aren’t cute or quirky. This way, you can ensure that she’s her own person and not a fantasy for someone else.
I hope this helps, and happy writing! <3
sapphicmadameumbralis asked: Do you have any advice on how to write dance scenes? I want to write a waltz scene, but I just can't figure out how to write it.
Dance scenes are fun. I always try to capture the energy and feeling of whatever music and movement is taking place. For example, here’s one I wrote for an upbeat, jazzy dance scene:
We fizzled together like champagne bubbles, energy crackling in the air. My clothes were damp and hot with sweat, the air around us too muggy, but I didn’t care. We were surfing on waves of trumpet music, beneath a thundering sky of drums.
If you notice, I’m not being too literal here; that is, I’m not describing exactly what the characters’ bodies are doing, or what the music is doing. If it went, A musician launched into a sick drum solo and I did some hip gyrations, it would likely sound sort of silly. Instead, I focus on the emotions of the characters, and try to make the reader feel what they’re feeling.
So for a waltz scene, I might write something like this:
She and the music were indivisible, both moving in seamless, swanlike glides over the marble floor. We were so close, I could feel the warmth of her breath on my neck, the mothlike flutter of her pulse. The rest of the room seemed so cold. I let her and the music take the lead, closed my eyes and let them carry me.
See what I mean? For dance scenes, particularly ones with emotional value, I focus on the internal rather than physical actions.
I hope this helps, and happy writing! <3
Do you have any advice for writing villain motivations, especially making them relatable?
A while ago, I made a realization that was life changing:
Villains can – and frequently do – have exactly the same motivations as heroes. Think of them as the shadows, the inverted versions, of benevolent desires.
I’ll show you what I mean:
The hero wants love and validation, and earns it through their actions – namely, treating those they care about with support and value.
Examples: Megamind, Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice, Quasimodo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
The villain wants love and validation, and believes others owe it to them. They’ll frequently get enraged and violent when the objects of their affection deny them.
Examples: Tighten from Megamind, Severus Snape from Harry Potter, Frollo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Ross from Friends.
The hero wants power in order to gain agency and autonomy for themselves and/or promote justice and improve the lives of others.
Examples: T’Challa from Black Panther, Daenerys Targaryen from Game of Thrones.
The villain wants power in order to dominate others and to do what they want without consequence.
Examples: Killgrave from Jessica Jones.
The hero will do whatever it takes to protect their family, while abiding by a code of underlying morals that they will not violate.
Examples: Dean Winchester from Supernatural, Joyce Byers from Stranger Things, Marlon from Finding Nemo, the man and the boy from The Road.
The villain will do whatever it takes to protect their family, including taking away their freedom, abusing them, or hurting and killing other innocent families.
Examples: Eddie’s mom from IT, John Winchester from Supernatural, Mother Gothel from Tangled, whoever Bruce Willis’ character in Looper was.
The hero was raised in an abusive, violent environment. They’ll do whatever it takes to never have to experience that again, and to make sure others never have to suffer in the same way.
Examples: Finn and Rey from Star Wars, Katniss from Hunger Games.
The villain was raised in an abusive, violent environment. They’ll do whatever it takes to never experience that again, including doing the exact same thing to other people.
Examples: That one dude from A Series of Unfortunate Events,Severus Snape (again.)
The hero wants a remedy for injustice, and goes about it by attacking the source of the corruption or providing a platform for the truth to be told.
Examples: Every classic superhero, Robin Hood, The original trio from Star Wars, Aibileen, Minny, and Skeeter from The Help.
The villain wants a remedy for injustice, and goes about it by hurting innocents to get an audience or power.
Examples: Killmonger from Black Panther, Magneto from X-Men.
The realization that evil or destructive people are human, and, essentially, want the same things as good people, is a realization that makes them easier to write in an identifiable way.
I hope this helps, and happy writing! <3
1. Physical Abuse
(GIF from this amazing short film/PSA on child abuse, which you should absolutely check out.)
Physical abuse doesn’t always consist of simply punching or hitting.
It can also involve:
How to write it:
Remember that in only the most severe cases will the abuser be abusive all the time: more often than not, they will behave as “normal” or even loving parents to the child at least some of the time. This will often be emotionally confusing to the child, and make them feel as though they did something to warrant it when the parent eventually explodes.
Oftentimes, physical abuse will coincide with alcohol addiction. Other times, the parent will legitimately believe that physical abuse such as beatings, whippings, and spankings, will help their child to be a better person. Others believe it’s simply a natural power dynamic that should exist: when I was younger, for instance, I remember an acquaintance of my father complain that you “can’t even slap your kid anymore, or they’ll send you to jail for child abuse.”
When depicting physical abuse on paper, understated language will often have the most emotional impact. The last thing you want is for a child abuse scene to become unintentionally hilarious.
For instance, this:
Sandy’s father struck him again and again, his fist a merciless hammer. Agony wracked his young body, already riddled with black and purple bruises. Anguish racked his soul, cry after cry tearing its way from his lungs. When would it end? When would the abuse stop? When would he get the chance to be a child for once in his life?
Would be significantly less effective than this:
“I said shut up, ya little shit!” Sandy’s father barked.
His hand struck Sandy, hard, across the face, leaving a tender pickened mark across his cheek. Sandy brought a hand up to touch it delicately, tears pricking his eyes as he turned and quietly shuffled away.
Don’t be an exhibitionist, and don’t rely on drawing the audience’s attention with a spectacle. Keep things simple and honest, and trust in your audience to feel the emotional weight of it.
How to avoid it:
2. Mental and Emotional Abuse
How to write it:
As with physical abuse, mentally and emotionally abusive parents very rarely appear abusive all the time, and can outwardly seem like great and loving people. Keep this in mind when depicting them – abusive parents will frequently be a lot more chilling and realistic when you show that they can also be loving and sympathetic.
As Stephen King put it, “murderers sometimes help old ladies cross the street.” The same philosophy applies to almost any kind of monster or monstrous behavior.
As for writing the abuse itself, oftentimes, it will be passive aggressive:
Luna’s mother looked up from her newspaper, arching a judgmental eyebrow. “Eating again, are we?”
Luna looked down at the yogurt in her hands, and then sheepishly back to her mother. “It’s just my breakfast,” she pointed out. “That weight-loss book you bought me said-”
“You know no one’s ever gonna love you if you don’t lose weight, sweetie,” said her mother knowingly. “No boy wants to marry a girl whose thighs are thicker than he is.”
Luna’s face fell.
“Oh, come now; don’t give me that look.” Her mother went back to her paper, casually sipping her coffee. “You know I’m only telling you because I want what’s best for you. And everyone else is thinking it anyway.”
Luna swallowed dryly. Suddenly she didn’t feel so hungry anymore.
Note that emotionally abusive parents will often use looking out for the child’s well-being as a scapegoat.
Other times, it will be a lot more blaring:
“That shirt makes you look like a damn faggot, boy,” Eli’s father grunted, taking another swig of his whiskey.
His breath reeked of liquor that Eli could smell from where he was folding laundry halfway across the room, focusing on his task and pretending not to listen.
“Is that what you want?” his father sneered, evidently unsatisfied with his lack of reaction. “You want everyone who looks at you to think you’re a goddamn cock-sucker?”
“No sir,” Eli muttered. He could feel the hateful flint of his father’s eyes boring into his back.
“Ha!” his father spat. “Shoulda left you at a damn foster home when you’re moma left you. She didn’t want you, and I don’t want you neither.” He took a final swig of his whisky. “Goddamn lazy queer.”
Eli breathed a silent sigh of relief as he heard the floor creak softly under his father’s receding footsteps. He tensed when he heard him pause by the door.
“And hurry up with my damn laundry, would ya?” he called. “I work too damn hard keepin’ a roof over your head for you to slack off.”
“Yes sir,” said Eli. He didn’t dare look up.
With a final grunt, his father departed the room. Eli knew already that once he was sober, he probably wouldn’t remember any of this.
Also note that substance abuse (most frequently alcohol) coincides with or triggers abuse, and that emotional abuse frequently involves slurs attacking the child’s disabilities, sexual orientation, or even race (though if you are a White author, I would personally recommend against ever using the N-word or other racial slurs in your writing.)
How to avoid it:
3. Verbal Abuse
This one coincides with mental and emotional abuse, so I’ll keep it somewhat briefer, but it merits a point all its own anyway.
Child neglect is one of the most prevalent forms of child abuse in the Western world, and also one of the most easily dismissed.
Parents, well-meaning or otherwise, may routinely neglect to pick their children up from school, for example (thus forcing them to make long walks and possibly be put in danger in the process), lock them out of the house, forget to feed them, fail to provide them with enough food, give them age-inappropriate responsibilities, or leave them unsupervised for inappropriate periods of time or in dangerous situations.
It may also take a more emotional form, when the parents don’t acknowledge the child’s need for affection and camaraderie, and never offer them physical or emotional comfort.
Sometimes, neglect is most prevalent when children are in dangerous or abusive situations, or outright disregard them: I know of children who attempt to tell their parents they had been raped or sexually abused, only for the parents to trust the abuser’s word over theirs.
Like any form of abuse, child neglect can take any number of forms, poses an extremely serious risk to the child, and frequently does irreparable psychological and emotional damage.
When depicting it, be sure not to shrug off the parents’ behavior with a “they were doing their best” type excuse: in any kind of abusive situation, the first priority should be the well-being of the victim, not the abuser.
How to avoid it:
There are others, including spiritual abuse and financial abuse, as discussed by Psych Central here, but these (like CSA) warrant posts all their own.
In the meantime, best of luck and happy writing!
Despite the fact that I am not deaf, mute, or blind myself, one of the most common questions I receive is how to portray characters with these disabilities in fiction.
As such, I’ve compiled the resources I’ve accumulated (from real life deaf, mute, or blind people) into a handy masterlist.
Deaf characters masterpost
Deaf dialogue thread
Dialogue with signing characters (also applies to mute characters.)
A deaf author’s advice on deaf characters
Dialogue between deaf characters
Life as a Mute
My Silent Summer: Life as a Mute
What It’s Like Being Mute
21 People Reveal What It’s Really Like To Be Mute
I am a 20 year old Mute, ask me anything at all!
The 33 Worst Mistakes Writers Make About Blind Characters.
@referenceforwriters masterpost of resources for writing/playing blind characters.
The youtube channel of the wonderful Tommy Edison, a man blind from birth with great insight into the depiction of blind people and their lives.
An Absolute Write thread on the depiction of blind characters, with lots of different viewpoints and some great tips.
And finally, this short, handy masterpost of resources for writing blind characters.
Characters Who Are Blind in One Eye
4 Ways Life Looks Shockingly Different With One Eye
Learning to Live With One Eye
Adapting to the Loss of an Eye
Adapting to Eye Loss and Monocular Vision
Monocular Depth Perception
What Is It Like To Be Deafblind?
Going Deaf and Blind in a City of Noise and Lights
Deaf and Blind by 30
Sarita is Blind, Deaf, and Employed (video)
Born Deaf and Blind, This Eritrean American Graduated Harvard Law School (video)
A Day of a Deaf Blind Person
Lesser Known Things About Being Deafblind
How the Deaf-Blind Communicate
Early Interactions With Children Who Are Deaf-Blind
Raising a DeafBlind Baby
If you have any more resources to add, let me know! I’ll be adding to this post as I find more resources.
I hope this helps, and happy writing! <3
Hey, all! As some of you know, I recently published a masterpost on how to name your novel.
However, one reader responded that the post only applied to self-published authors, as publishers would help you come up with a marketable name. When I responded that this, for the most part, was not true, and that authors usually receive minimal marketing help from publishers, they insisted that “publishers would still handle most of it.”
This is a common mentality, but to my knowledge, it can be fatal to a budding author’s career. So I decided now is as good a time as any to create a masterpost of marketing resources for my fellow published authors to-be.
I intend to add to this list as time goes on, but I hope it will be a helpful and handy resource!
Myths and Misconceptions:
3 Things Your Traditional Publisher is Unlikely to Do
Do Publishers Market Books
Traditional Publishing Myth: The Publisher Will Provide Lots of Marketing Support
Do “Traditional” Publishers Market Their Books?
The Book Publishing Landscape is a Mess
6 Self-Publishing Myths That Need to Die
Do Publishers Market Their Books?
15 DIY Book Promotional Tools
71 Ways to Promote and Market Your Book
How to Market and Sell Your Book in 5 Steps
50 Surprisingly Simple Ways to Promote Your Book
How to Skyrocket Sales of Your Book
Marketing Your Book
Sell More Books and Reach More Readers
How to Market a Book
101 Book Marketing Ideas to Promote Your Book
Book Marketing, How to Promote a Book
More to come! I hope this helps, and happy writing! <3
A question I get a lot is how to write about common addictions, so here you all go! More to come!
Signs and symptoms
Cocaine addiction statistics
Your brain on cocaine
Your brain on crack cocaine (video)
Cocaine withdrawal symptoms
True stories about cocaine addiction
Signs and symptoms
Heroin addiction statistics
Your brain on heroin
Heroin withdrawal symptoms
True stories about heroin addiction
Signs and symptoms
Opioid addiction statistics
Your brain on opioids
Opioid withdrawal symptoms
True stories about opioid addiction
Signs and symptoms
Meth addiction statistics
Your brain on meth
Meth withdrawal symptoms
True stories about meth addiction
Signs and symptoms
Alcohol addiction statistics
Your brain on alcohol (video one and two)
Alcohol withdrawal symptoms
True stories about alcohol addiction
Happy writing, and don’t do drugs!
About the Author
Brooksie C. Fontaine is an author and illustrator, currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing.