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a revolutionary revelation

@savagebastet / savagebastet.tumblr.com

“it is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in the broken world.” - Mary Oliver, "Invitation"
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There will never be another Orla Mccool. Thought lesbian and vegetarian were the same thing. Visibly and unapologetically autistic. Passionate about step aerobics. Irish. Carries a lighter because she likes melting things. Unparalleled.

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froody

Harrison Ford hating playing Han Solo made him better at playing Han Solo because Han Solo did not want to be there doing those things either.

I can’t remember what talk show it was after TFA but the interviewer was like “Did it make you emotional putting on the [Han Solo] costume?” and Harrison Ford was like “No. It made me money.” which was like the most Han Solo thing a person could say.

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HI WHO WOULD LIKE TO SEE A BABY GOOSE

SCRATCH THAT IT WAS A PINECONE

APOLOGIES FOR THE FALSE ADVERTISING

NO ONE IS MORE DISAPPOINTED THAN ME

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I DON'T THINK YOU ARE

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OKAY, Y'KNOW-

I DON'T NEGOTIATE WITH TERRORISTS

THERE IS NO PINECONE IS THERE

WE TRUSTED YOU. GOOSEGATE 2024

I AM GOING TO SET THE PINECONE ON FIRE

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quinloki

oh no the -

it's time to take the power back from Big Pinecone and give it to the people

YOU DID NOT MAKE FUCKING FANART FOR THIS GODDAMN POST

OH MY GOD

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coconurt

~ 💖 ASK GAME 💖 ~

📷 What’s set as your phone’s lockscreen?

🍫 Cheese or chocolate?

✨ Do you have any nicknames?

🎵 Last song you listened to?

✏️ Have you ever written fanfiction?

😏 Are you on discord?

 💛 Do you have any piercings?

🐰 What do you think says the most about a person?

🍪 If you were a cookie, what kind would you be?

🐶 Are you more of a dog person or a cat person?

🎧 Headphones or earbuds?

🌼 What’s the last thing you said out loud?

🙃 What’s a weird fact that you know?

🦉 Are you a morning person or a night owl?

🧸 Favorite place to nap?

🏳️‍🌈 Are you a member of the LGBTQIA+ community?

🦋 Describe yourself in three words.

👖 Jeans or sweatpants?

🥤 What’s your go-to Starbucks order?

🧡 A color you can’t stand?

💎 What’s your most prized possession?

☕ Coffee or tea?

🦖 Favorite extinct animal?

🌙 How long have you been on tumblr?

🌴 Desert island item?

🐸 Describe your aesthetic.

🔮 What’s your dream job?

💙 Relationship status?

🌿 Describe your favorite outfit.

🎤 Is there a song you know all the lyrics to?

🤎 What color is your hair?

💌 Do you talk to yourself?

💄 Do you wear makeup?

🌸 Best compliment you ever received?

💞 @ your favorite blog.

Reblogs are appreciated!

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neil-gaiman

I stare at the screen for hours, trying to make the words come out, but they won't. I can't compel myself to take a break, because there's this voice screaming at me from the base of my brain...

"You've been told you're a great writer, and you want to be a published author. But all you have to show for it after forty-four years are a dozen crash-and-burn writing projects. When you have the time to write, you don't, for a host of reasons. If you don't have something written by the time you die--which comes closer with every passing day--you've wasted your gifts, you've wasted all the effort people put into educating you, and you've wasted your life. So sit down and WRITE, you worthless piece of shit!"

How do you get past the paralysis caused by the obligation to produce? Is there a way to trick your brain and your body into writing? Or do you just slog on through, no matter how long you have to sit there to get a thousand words a day out?

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Perhaps you could try to be kinder to yourself.

I always give myself permission to write or to do nothing at all (staring out of the window or at a wall is okay). After a while spent staring at a wall it's often easier to write.

Remember if you write a page a day -- 300 words -- at the end of a year you'll have a 100,000 word novel.

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roach-works

hi i'd also like to suggest, as a troubleshooting thing, that one reason you might be blocked on writing is that you've gotten into a punishment loop. you're scared to write, not for trivial or pathetic reasons, but because any time you approach writing, some guy starts screaming at you that you're a worthless piece of shit and that you could die without accomplishing anything meaningful. this guy continues screaming at you the entire time you're approaching this activity, and continues screaming at you for running away from it, too, until you find something else to do that's distracting enough that you can ignore him again. if you ever turn back around and approach writing again, there this guy is, screaming at you.

like, fuck, man, if i could only eat ice cream while some sadistic drill sergeant motherfucker gave me an existential crisis, i don't think it would take very many days before i was too scared to even open the fridge. after another week i probably wouldn't go into the kitchen. if he followed me around berating me for my piss-poor ice cream eating skills and told me all my teachers died ashamed of my pathetic inability to eat an ice cream, a skill even babies master, i would probably slip out my bedroom window in the night and move to the sahara desert.

so like, whether or not you ever write another word, you need to get rid of that drill sergeant in your head before he squeezes you out the window of your own skull. you're a valuable human being with worth and dignity, and you still would be even if you were the most illiterate motherfucker in the world. writing is not confirmation that you matter, that your education meant anything, that you finally have value to the world, that you're validating other people's investment in you. teachers taught you because they love to teach. your parents raised you because they loved their kid. you don't have to spend your whole life trying to pay back the debt of being born, being raised, being taught. you weren't a waste of anyone's time and effort in the first place.

and your gifts--whatever they were--were gifts, not debts you signed up for at birth and are now honor-bound to repay. a gift is something YOU get, for FREE, and it's for YOU. or else it's not a gift.

your gift for writing was so that you could enjoy this thing that came to you easily and enjoyably. you don't owe the world anything more than loving what it gave you--and you don't owe yourself anything less.

tell that miserable, sadistic, joy-killing drill sergeant in your head to get fucked. once he's gone, check the freezer and see what's in there for you.

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because i love y’all, i’m sharing my family’s recipe for apple tea (traditional fall/winter drink in west asia, turkey, and many areas of the balkans)

it’s like a more delicate version of apple cider and i basically live off of this stuff when the weather starts to cool!

Apple Tea (for two)

  • 1 large apple or 2 small, shredded (you can use a cheese grater)
  • 3 cups water
  • 1-2 cinnamon sticks
  • 2-3 pc clove (optional)
  • honey to taste
  • 1 tsp of lemon juice (add at end)
  • green tea (optional! the lebanese version usually calls for green tea but i actually prefer it without. up to you!)

throw it all in a pot and let it simmer on a low temperature for an hour or so. while it’s simmering, it will also make your home smell delicious! (if you make it with green tea, add the tea at the end, about five minutes before taking it off the heat so the flavor doesn’t become bitter from oversteeping). strain into your cups and enjoy hot.

end result:

Today I woke up with the urge to make cozy recipe cards, so please enjoy this.

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When I took my literary criticism theory class in undergrad the professor told us that in modern literary criticism “The author isn’t dead but they are a ghost breathing down your neck”

Basically, the old way of thinking was that the point of literary criticism was to find the true original intentions of the author. Then death of the author was introduced and literary criticism swung hard the other way, saying that what the author thinks and the context they were in doesn’t matter.

Nowadays, it’s somewhere in between. Yes the author had intentions and yes the work had context. But the work also has context right now and a history of people reading it and interpreting it and sometimes an author puts meaning in something that they didn’t realize they were.

I can’t sit down and interview Jane Austin about every little decision she made in Pride and Prejudice but I can look at what we know about her life and the era and place she lived in. I can also ignore all that and look at what the book means right now to modern people. I can compare Austin to writers in her own time as well as writers now. I can speculate on what I think was on purpose and what wasn’t.

A lot of people go on about death of the author like that’s the only correct way to interpret fiction when modern lit crit moved past it years ago. Reading critically is a conversation between the author, the reader, and the various contexts surrounding both of them. Nothing exists in a vacuum but at the same time nobody can anticipate every interpretation their work might present with.

The question of analysis and separating art from artist isn’t a simple cut and dry issue. It never has been and it never will be.

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