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Inner Musings

@dreamsngr / dreamsngr.tumblr.com

Random thoughts and stuff I like to repost, nothing more, nothing less. You're likely to find: Tom Hiddleston ALOT! Vampires, Werewolves, Fae, Fairy Tales, Musicals/Theater, Cosplay, Book references, Goth references, Fanfic, Disney, Game of Thrones,...
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people I still want to stab over a decade later:

Creative Writing Professor at a former college: Welcome to creative writing! By the way, you will not write fantasy, ghost stories, pranormal, or science fiction in this class, as this is a creative writing course.”

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morgynleri

What the ever loving fuck is with “creative” writing professors who think that speculative fiction of any stripe ISN’T CREATIVE?

I still remember my own creative writing teacher telling me this because he saw the Terry Pratchett book on my desk and got this smug smirk on his face like “aha, gotcha”. He had the nerve to pick it up and call it “popularist fiction”, like somehow being popular and easily accessible made it less inherent in intellectual value.

I had it in my back pack because I did my final thesis on the evolution of mythology and folk tails into fantasy and sci-fi and the societal importance of telling stories (before anyone asks, no I don’t have it, I lost it when I moved continents), and I used Terry Pratchett because there wasn’t a single humanitarian issue the man did not touch on.

Which I told him. And then he kind of floundered and went “ah, well but, it’s…well I mean it’s not exactly high brow”, like neither the fuck was Shakespeare or Dickens you self-important turnip. Dickens was literally selling his stories by the chapter. He was the popular author of his time. Shakespeare was too, he fucking made up words and phrases all the time because the language he needed to express himself didn’t exist in the way he needed it too.

Intellectual elitism is nothing more than a hold over from class warfare and the belief that only certain people should get to be truly educated. And it needs to be smashed.

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deadgodjess

And God knows Shakespeare loved dick jokes more than he probably loved breathing.

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think about the concept of a library. that’s one thing that humanity didn’t fuck up. we did a good thing when we made libraries

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Creative writing prof: You’re in control. You’re the puppet master. You control these characters - what they do, what they say, what they think-

Every writer I know: My characters stopped listening to me and now I’m 8272836 words in to a plot that went of the rails on page 3

Wholly fucking shit, true!

Ok, just to repost myself, but I am curious.  Do any of the writers out there feel like they are always in control of their characters?  Or ever generally so?  Because I feel that after say, the first five or at the outside ten pages, these fuckers are doing whatever they want.  They GET to where I want them to go, but they take their time and meander and do things that have nothing to do with what I intended, and I can do is take notes.  Seriously, is this just me?

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reblogged
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aprilmolano
“People often ask me how you put a stop to your own agony…. How you fall out of love with someone you cannot be with… The answer is it’s not something that you do - it’s something that happens to you when you realise that what you’re holding to isn’t real. For me - it was the way I felt about him; that was what I couldn’t let go of. I’d accepted that the memories were here to stay - but it was the feelings that I couldn’t move on from. It felt wrong to move on because he’d made me so happy….. and I didn’t want to let that go. Until I realised …. he wasn’t making me happy anymore - he was killing me. Not all at once. Not with cruelty or with malice….. but with his absence. Every day I continued to love him was another slow agonising death. Slowly, I began to realise that the happiness I’d been so desperate to hold onto was already long gone and that all I was doing was holding onto pain that I didn’t deserve. …. And that was when I started to fall out of love.”

Ranata Suzuki | Falling out of love (via wnq-writers)

Essentially how it was.

I missed his voice.

I missed hanging on to his broad shoulders.

I missed how his tall self would make me feel so damn small.

I missed his hands, for many reasons.

I missed watching him sleep, him throwing a giant leg over me because I couldn’t be still while next to him.

I missed his hand in my hair..

I missed coffee in the morning.

I missed his teeth, leaving marks.

Soon tho I realized, he didn’t miss much about me, as his silence said volumes of words that never passed his lips.

When he returned, I realised that while there was much I longed for again, I’d never look at him the same. I’d always hold back most of myself now.

I still miss things, but not enough to bare my soul again.

Source: wnq-writers
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the older i get the more i can understand why people back in the old fairytale days would just fuck off and be a hermit in the woods. just chilling out in the middle of nowhere and occasionally telling random heroes cryptic shit. living the fucking dream.

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A touch of fear. A sprinkle of romance. Nine tales of haunted dwellings perfect for #Halloween. #preorder #mustread http://thndr.me/KcXFJK

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