momebie: (Trigun Vash/Wolfwood couch)
You made it! Whether you 'won' or not, you've survived to the end of the month. I feel survival is always kind of a feat in and of itself. Each morning that I wake up is one more day than I had yesterday, so it's all gravy. Today's last picture is ready to keep going though, wherever you writing may take you.

So, sound off. How did you all do? Did you have any problems? Any breakthroughs? Any great concoctions of different types of boozes you'd like to share with the rest of us. I could use some writer fuel. (Or a cupcake. I'm starving right now, you guys.)
momebie: (Architects Watch)
Penultimate Nano day! How close are you!? I am not close at all! But hey, I wrote more than I would have, so I consider it a success. My last sentence last night was: She could be melded, so he would take her. Which..that sounds kind of ominous. Really, it's not like has her BEST interests in mind, but he's not going to hurt her himself. Physically anyway. There's no telling what ten or so years of thievery and neglect can do to a young mind. AREN'T YOU SO GLAD THAT ALL OF MY STORIES ARE SO HAPPY?

Today's photo is forging forward, because even if the end is in sight, the fighting isn't done. What do you have left to fight for?

momebie: (WS Bucky Watch)
Last night I wrote more terrible stuff. Man, writing terrible stuff feels so hard. Writing good stuff feels so easy. THOSE THINGS SHOULD BE SWITCHED. Or at least I should figure out how to only write good things. It would help with the time factor. And maybe keep me from posting stupid shit to Tumblr. Okay, maybe not. My last sentence from last night is already on Tumblr: How can I trust you with all the pieces of me when I know that if I fall apart you won’t know how to put them back together?

Today's picture is brought to you by [ profile] mcwonthelottery who saw it and thought of me. I have you all trained so well. *rubs hands together evily* We're in the home stretch now. Is there something you're waiting to come apart?


Apropos of nothing, I need to remember that scene I thought of late last night so I can write it out. The one with the burnt red cravat and the black gloves and the diamonds falling from the sky. And I need to remember I want to try and write up a post about the adverse affects of fandom on modern media. And I need to not watch Teen Wolf, not matter what Sara says. :p
momebie: (Architects Derek/Amelia Run)
I wrote something last night, guys! It was terrible. I sat down to try and evoke a feeling and not only did I not do that, but I also didn't write the sort of story I meant to write. I wonder how many nights in a row I can do this before I accidentally write something I don't hate. The final sentence for last night was: She hoped the old man had never made it to the window. What a terrible sentence. Blech.

I'm not going to win Nano. I know that. There is no way I'm going to pull off ~6,000 words a day for the next four days. But hey, at least I got something out of it, which is important. It's also why I'm going to continue to write in the hopes that I can carry that over. One step at a time is a thing I should probably just get tattooed to my forehead. But it's all about building a structure. And so is today's picture. What do you do with a place like this?

momebie: (Architects William)
ARE ALL OF YOU AT 45,000 YET? BECAUSE I'M NOT! I'm actually at half that, which I find pretty exciting, and also pretty disappointing since I have done NO WORK WHATSOEVER on the thing I meant to be writing. My brain needs to shut up and sit down and get to work. I'll probably force it to later this week. Over the weekend I didn't write nearly as much as I needed to. And when I did it was stupid little things that don't belong anywhere, like this:
You give me form.
Sometimes I don’t think that I exist,
except for when you’re there to see me.
It’s your eyes that pin me in place
and carve me from the empty space, pulling
from the air the parts of me that you want to see.

Yup, still not a poet.

Today's picture is in direct opposition to my lack of productivity. Today's picture wants to get shit done, and black gloves are for killing.

momebie: (NNoD Caleb smoke)
I wasn't going to write last night, but then I got itchy. It wasn't much when it finally happened. In fact, it was simply this.
Dull smirks can move across translucent skin again and again, but they can’t cut. He’ll never strip his way to the core of you. The red on his lips and teeth is grease paint at its foundation. He tries, with all of hell behind him, to tear at fine capillaries and bruised cells with his tongue or his finger pads or his nails. Nothing that comes from him can cut. Nothing that comes from you is blood.

But does it matter that you’re not bleeding, when restless wings are dropping feathers around dry claws, and all anyone sees is the red at your neck and the red on his teeth as he slowly licks them white again?

Don't know where that's going, but the idea of it intrigues me. I'm calling it The Dramatist for now. Is there anything unexpected happening in your writing world this week?

Today's photo is taunting me, because it is seriously 80*F outside. FLORIDA. WHY MUST YOU ALWAYS DO WINTER SO WRONG?

momebie: (WS Bucky Awake)
I wrote last night! I wrote words! All of them unexpected. And they kept me up much later than I meant to be kept up, but it's okay, because I always feel good about putting down words. I forget that sometimes, when I'm feeling lazy or unsure or frightened, but it's true. I should make myself a sign that says something like "if you're going through hell, just write". How many quotes do you think I can bastardize at once? My last sentence last night was: “Another reason to fight,” Barbara says.

Today's image feels like waiting. Is there something your characters are waiting for?

momebie: (WS Bucky Force)
I did not write yesterday! There was a period about mid-afternoon where I thought I might, but then I was on such a roll being productive and cleaning that I decided to finish with that. Alas. My room looks a little better for it and most of my clothing is hanging in the closet. Small victories. I did write Saturday, but it's on the Netbook and hasn't been synced to any of my online things so I have no idea what the last sentence was. I remember John and Babs were drinking coffee and discussing the property holdings in the Narrows of one D. Vinette (oh, The Riddler, I can't wait until your dandy face shows up in this story). That will probably have to change. It feels inauthentic, but I didn't want to stop writing. Lessons abound.

Anyway. Were you productive this weekend? Did you hit the mysterious 30,000 mark? Today's picture wants to remind you that time is not waiting for you. Or me. Hm.

momebie: (Ouran Tamaki corner of woe)
I did not write yesterday! Instead I came home and tried not to cry about what a useless adult I am and how I might have to give everyone I know IOUs for Christmas. So yeah, that made me feel like shit and still is. It's hard to write through that sometimes. But, I have to get over it by tomorrow. Two fun write-ins planned for this weekend. Did YOU write anything last night? What was it?

Today's picture is about discovery. What would your characters do with this place?

momebie: (Nightwing Fly!)
I wrote words last night! It felt really good! They were, once again not on what I SHOULD be writing, but they were on a thing for someone else so that makes me feel productive anyway. My last sentence yesterday was: His feet hit the brick just above the fourth floor. Not incredibly telling, but more useful as a sentence than the train wreck of a run-on before it. Alas. First drafts are what they are, right?

Today's picture has a secret. Can you keep it?

momebie: (Batwoman Kate/Renee kiss)
I didn't write anything last night! I am so good at this you guys! I did have a pretty lengthy discussion with a room of writers in which I was very awkward and slightly hysterical over the fact THAT I CANNOT WRITE BURST BECAUSE IT WILL NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH AND JESUS FUCK WHAT AM I DOING? But they were nice, because they are nice people for the most part, and they reinforced a lot of things I know to be true but refuse to acknowledge over this.

And then one of them said: Is there anything you can write that you think will prepare you for the thing you can't write? And I said yes VERY QUIETLY, because I can? I can work on the Lesbian Spec Fic Tattoo-verse, which is a weird mash up of science fiction and magical realism and would probably help me to better make the transition. Also, I already have about 10,000 words of that because of LJ Idol, SO. I don't know. My head is a mess. Welcome to 1982.

But, today's image is not taking any of my shit, so that's nice. Whose shit aren't you taking?

momebie: (X-Men Charles/Erik bed)
Nano! It's still happening! Not that you can tell by my productivity and activity on the boards, both of which have been nil for close to a week. Hell frustration my old friend. I'm currently set to be behind by 9,431 words tonight if I don't write anything, which I may very well not. But even on no writing days I've been guilting myself into write at least once sentence so I have something to show. Last night's was: She tread back down the complaining stares and returned to the night from whence she’d come. Oh yeah, I went there.

Today's picture is measuring time in the Andes. What would you do differently story-wise if you had more time?

momebie: (Default)
Um...I went away for the weekend and all my Nano admin duties got set by the wayside. I'm sorry about that. I'm especially sorry if you depend on the Orlando Twitter account for when write-ins are. Oops. I don't have any idea what I'm going to do this weekend either. Not even half over and the month is already slipping away from me.

And while I banged out a good chunk of words Friday night, I got nothing for Saturday, which meant that before I laid down last night I HAD to write at least one sentence to have something to show for it. So here is my first and last sentence from yesterday: The way Natasha talked about him made him so mythical and grand that when Clint finally saw him for the first time he was more disappointed than afraid because he was, after all, just a man. Run-on opening sentence for the fic I'm NOT writing about Bucky being the reason Budapest went badly. YUP. THAT'S A THING.

Are there any avenues you didn't expect to go down?

© Ikkō Narahara
momebie: (Architects Derek/Amelia Run)
I didn't do any writing yesterday! Okay, that's a lie. I added about 500 words to the Dick/Bucky as I cleaned it up to first draft status to post, but that makes my last line happen before the last line of the day before, which is confusing and also not very exciting. Long story short, redheads are awesome and girls can kick your ass. YEAH.

Today's picture is going to deal with that emptiness I feel when I don't get anything written at all. It's sadly become something of a friend this past year. Might as well embrace your flaws, right? So much less energy than fighting them. What is your story missing?

momebie: (Revenge Nolan Sit)
I was 400 words short of 3,000 last night. I can't consider myself caught up, but since I did finish a fic I consider it a small victory all the same. The last sentence of that was: The light from the computer shut off and the space behind his eyelids changed from electric shadow to pitch black. It was Dick's bedtime. Poor thing had had a roller coaster of a day. Though I suppose that's just what it's like being Dick Grayson.

Today I'm going to post the last bit and get on to something new. I thought you guys might like something different as well. Where can this take you?

momebie: (Yellow gun)
Sometimes you're just itchy, you know? I wrote at the meeting last night, but I didn't get as far as I wanted to and when I got home I got sucked into other things and didn't type up what I had so that I COULD get as far as I wanted to. Instead I tried to go to sleep with this feeling of non-completion I just couldn't shake. That didn't work, so I sat up and banged out this paragraph from Bucky's point of view. Because I HAD to.

When he sees her again his blood runs cold. She and the fly boy are circling, predatory. Her haunches rock with each step and her hands are flitting about her waist. It’s like a spaghetti western, rewritten in grey and red and black. He realizes, for the first time with a clear head, that he loves her. It’s not the mind control. It’s not the circumstances. It’s not that he doesn’t have anyone else. He loves her. He feels like he always has. He knows he always will. It’s a truth he can carry with him, through all the different versions of himself that they create.

He steps out of the shadows with a low whistle, to surrender himself.

Sometimes you just have to, you know? Is there anything you've had to do this past week?

momebie: (Nightwing Fly!)
Yesterday was a writing bust for me, which is silly because I spent more than half of it at home. Alas. I think I'm shaking this crud though, finally, which should be better for everyone. My last sentence yesterday was: Bucky disappeared and the door slammed behind him, but Dick was sure that there’d been at least something of a smile on his lips before he’d gone. That's nice and hopeful. Too bad Dick's about to get his ass handed to him by a girl. Don't worry, he's used to that.

But that was yesterday. Today we're moving ahead. We're shaking off our past shortcomings and pledging to make of the world around us what we want it to be. And we're going to do so passionately. Will you join us?

momebie: (Cowboy Bebope Spike/Julia)
I am on drugs and I am here! The miracle Mucinex isn't as much of a miracle this time. I do not approve. Last night I finally got to the kissing, which was nice. Well, it was stressful at the time, but nice now that it's started and a few people haven't hated it and I can just continue on in that vein. My last sentence last night, for those of you not privy to my locked posts, was: Dick slid his left leg sideways over Bucky’s thighs and sat, straddling his lap. YUP. IT'S NOW THAT KIND OF STORY. Just wait until Nat shows up.

I managed to get in my word count with a small lead. I'm going to see if I can leave more of one this afternoon. What was your last line last night, guys? Do you anticipate it being eclipsed by anything?

momebie: (Angel Sanctuary setsuna torn)
I'm late! I'm sorry. Or I would be, if I could breathe. Stupid body picking the worst weekend to go south on me. Anyway, good afternoon, writers! I managed to be JUST AHEAD of the clip at the end of writing yesterday, which means I didn't really get very much written at all and that I have a haul ahead of me today. It's okay though, I know where I'm going with it, for once. My last sentence last night was: He sat down heavily on the couch and turned on the television, hoping to take his mind off of everything for a few moments. Not about pizza at all. See? I can do this.

Of course, [ profile] matthewbowers immediately suggested that the next bit should be that the couch EATS HIM, which would be an interesting twist, but would stall the kissing even longer and I think [ profile] barbed_whispers is going to start even wondering what the point of all this is if I don't work in at least SOME kissing. Is there something you've had trouble making happen that needs to happen, writers? Today's photograph wants you to know that anything is possible.

momebie: (Bucky Barnes Smile)
Several of you were concerned about yesterday. How did it go? Did it end up better than you thought it would? I didn't think I was going to get anything written yesterday myself, but I managed to in the end. My final sentence was: This is the stray. It's thankfully not about pizza. Though the 'stray' is eating a slice of pizza at the time it's said. They are eating it after all. I'm glad. I went to a lot of trouble getting it for them.

Today's photo seems to embody a small amount of belief to me. Belief in science and the future and the world to come. Will we meet it with open arms, marked as members of the past? Will there be a dramatic shift in Being? Only time will tell. For now, let's just tell what we can.


momebie: (Default)

February 2017

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