Okokok,

*takes a big, big breath*

I'm trying to remember to do that. Breathe. 

First, I can't even begin to describe the amount of support that I've gotten in the last few days. Not only from readers, the ones I knew about and the ones I've never heard from until now, but from other writer's here as well. Inboxes flooded. A tsunami of love that I damn near got crushed under and I can't even begin to answer everyone separately. All I can do is say thank you. From the bottom on my mushy, fragile heart and from the very depths of my indignant anger.

I think we can all agree that as soon as you've decided something, you'll be shown the light. 

I decided (based on some sufficient fucking evidence, mind you) that the fandom didn't want me. Turns out the haters really are few and far between. Like crumbly little bits of mortar holding up a giant wall of bricks that all say something like "you can do this." 

"Please don't leave." "We need you here." "I need you here." "Don't ever stop writing."

When brick walls fail, it's not the bricks. 

It's the mortar. 

I've been Hadley Hemingway's neediest child this week, and even got her RL boy-child on the phone ON HIS BIRTHDAY because he's more of a tech genius than the both of us combined. That's love right there, I can't even explain. But she's helped me to come up with a plan, one that not only honors my fanfiction for what it is, an exploration and a minor side journey along the way to a much larger adventure, but also allows me to move forward. 


There are a lot of things I wish I knew about this fanfiction thing before I started. A LOT of things. I wish I knew about the love and the hate. About the veiled backstabbing and the downloading. I wish I knew that my words would be taken so lightly, so heavily, because I might have done it different. I might have been much more careful with them. But I did it how I did it and now I'm going to do it my way again. 

A little bit better informed this time:

I will be reposting my stories here, but they will remain here and nowhere else. 

I guess if you're intrepid enough to go about downloading each and every chapter separately as they post, then by all means, be my guest. Once the story is complete, a PDF will be made available here and you only have a very limited number of minutes in your lifetime. And when your minutes are up, that's it. No more. If you're ok spending a bunch of those precious minutes doing that sort of thing, that's your call. The same goes for the other stories, because as of now, the plans for those are the same. A PDF option and chapters to read online. I'm no tech-genius and I can't suit myself and my words up in armor, all I can do is offer you the versions I would like you to have and hope that you'll play along.

The bricks will.

The mortar won't.

But bricks are heavier and mortar is really just fine-grain sand if you think about it. 


So to you, dear readers: Be the brick. The bricks are what make this community what it is. The bricks make walls that hold up roofs. Hold down floors. Frame out windows and let the light in. You make a sheltered spot for us to keep our stories, away from the rain and the wind. Warm and dry and well fed. Without you, it would be a cold and lonely world for us writers. We love you and we need you to be strong for us. We need you to hold yourselves up high and support us because no matter what, no matter who we are or what we are writing, we are trying our best. And sometimes, our best is so hard come by, so hard to reach and we need a pile of bricks to climb on top of to give us a little boost beyond the self doubt and the endless shuffling of words. 

Seven in the morning, and I'm rambling about bricks.

The important stuff to know:

- I'm still here. I'm not leaving.

- I'm still writing. I'm never gonna stop.

- I'm posting Chapter one of Double Struck here today. I'll do what I can to post one chapter a day until I'm caught up, and then I'll try to step back to my once-a-week (or so) schedule. This story has been a rocky road to start with, but through thick and thin, it was just meant to be twific. It was meant to be here. I have got to finish writing it or I'll always feel like I failed it somehow. Once the story is complete, I will offer the PDF here, so again, decide what you want to do about your hourglass of minutes, ok?

- I'm gonna do the same for the rest of it. Pretty PDF and the entire story posted here. It's not gonna come all at once, I have a real life to deal with, but it will come. Be patient with me, and I'll be patient with you. I'll give you my downloads if you give me your thoughts. I need it, the outside perspective. Tell me how I'm doing, what moved you and what didn't, because it's so fucking hard sometimes when I'm thirty chapters deep and wondering if what I just wrote is even going to make sense to another person, much less make them feel something. I need to know from you if this is working. If the words are working. Please. Because otherwise I'm just in this for myself and even though that's some of the truth, the last week has shown me that it isn't ALL of the truth. 

Because you're here too.

If I could give the fandom a hug right now, I would, but y'all gotta hop in the shower first and wash off the mortar. 

xxxxoooo

HBM

Everything you read, EVERYTHING, is just a different combination of the same 26 letters.

When does a writer meet their break?

Never mind the big one, the flashy-lights-and-signatures break that comes with a well-timed manuscript. Some perfect piece of alphabet art. Prepackaged to be adapted into a screenplay. 

I'm worried about the final break, the epic one that seems to come at some point after the flashy lights, or after no lights at all. 

The mental one.

--------

I've been writing A LOT. 

Far more than I admit to anyone. About things that I definitely don't admit to anyone. Hundreds of thousands of words: 15,000 there, 25,000 over there, 92,000 way over here . . . . 10k in a document, stalled in progress, 12k written as an alternate point of view. Words that I'm still not sure if I've squandered on something meaningless. 

Because let's not even start to discuss the 350, 000 word manuscript I haven't even glanced over at in over a year. 

So when do writer's have that mental break? When they're old and rotting from the inside, soaked in liquor and prepared to light themselves on fire, scribbling down their very worst in their very last moments?

Maybe it's the moment when you look at that stack of books you're reading, all ten of them, and your shelves, every precious inch of space on them saved for the combinations of letters smashed up between bindings that truly moved you and you want you name on a book like that bad enough that it burns a hole right through you. 

I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, honestly. 

I type faster than I can think and some of it leads me nowhere but then sometimes . . . it does. And typically in a direction I never would have guessed. And for some reason it lead me into this weird, weird place because you know all those prepackaged screenplay/books that are becoming mega movie franchises right now?

Yeah, they're fanfiction.

And let's just preface THIS conversation by saying that no one liked me over there. I didn't follow their rules. I broke up their eternal-love couples and made them lesbians. Made them drive on the wrong side of the road and sneak into buildings to paint the walls with murals of cowgirls shooting stars. I made them love someone else, someone they weren't supposed too, and I sure didn't paint a nice romantic ride off into the sunset when I found my finish. I doped them up and tore them down and really enjoyed myself for the most part, even if no one else did. A testament to this fact is that yeah, I changed their names and posted stories here that were originally written as Twific, but in all honesty are just too fucking good for only that. 

I'm a vain asshole. Whatever.

I LOVE writing. So much that it's killing me. I smoke too many cigarettes and don't do enough laundry. I drink whiskey and don't eat enough. I hide out in the back of the house while the rest of my life goes on around me, ignoring phone calls and deadlines and relationships because I just can't get the words out of my head. They just won't stop and this is probably when the writer meets their break. 

When it just won't fucking STOP. 

When they can't even see beyond the letters and no wonder they all go crazy in the end. 

 Oh, contests . . . . 

I still don't know why I do this to myself, my anxiety is bad enough as it is, but here I am again. Entering something, up against a bunch of spectacular other writers and sure to fly quietly under the radar (that's my style, no?)

This time around?

Angst.

As in tears.

As in heartfail.

As in 'goddamn that hurt in the best sort of way.'

Go see if you can find me hidden in there . . . vote for your favorite when the time comes and I'll just be over here in the corner, chewing my nails off until this whole thing blows over.

 TLS ANGST CONTEST 2013

Date a girl who writes . . .

DATE A GIRL WHO MAY NEVER WEAR COMPLETELY CLEAN CLOTHES, BECAUSE OF COFFEE STAINS AND INK SPILLS. SHE’LL HAVE MANY PROBLEMS WITH HER CLOSET SPACE, AND HER LAPTOP IS NEVER BORING BECAUSE THERE ARE SO MANY WORDS, SO MANY WORLDS THAT SHE’S CLUTTERED AMIDST THE SPACE. TABS OPEN FILLED WITH OBSCURE AND POPULAR MUSIC. INTERESTING FACTOIDS ABOUT CATHERINE THE GREAT, AND THE IMMORTALITY OF JELLYFISH. LAUGH IT OFF WHEN SHE TELLS YOU THAT SHE FORGOT TO CLEAN HER ROOM, THAT HER CLOTHES ARE LOST AMONG THE BINDERS SO IT’LL TAKE HER LONGER TO GET READY, THAT HER SHOES HIDDEN UNDER THE MOUNTAIN OF BROKEN BIC PENS AND THE REFURBISHED LAPTOP THAT SHE’S SAVED FOR EVER SINCE SHE WAS TWELVE. 

KISS HER UNDER THE LAMPPOST, WHEN IT’S RAINING. TELL HER YOUR DEFINITION OF LOVE. 

FIND A GIRL WHO WRITES. 

YOU’LL KNOW THAT SHE HAS A SENSE OF HUMOR, A SENSE OF EMPATHY AND KINDNESS, AND THAT SHE WILL DREAM UP WORLDS, UNIVERSES FOR YOU. SHE’S THE ONE WITH THE FAINTEST OF SHADOWS UNDERNEATH HER EYELIDS, THE ONE WHO SMELLS OF COFFEE AND COCA-COLA AND JASMINE GREEN TEA. YOU SEE THAT GIRL HUNCHED OVER A NOTEBOOK. THAT’S THE WRITER. WITH HER FINGERS OCCASIONALLY SMUDGED WITH CHARCOAL, WITH INK THAT WILL TRAVEL ONTO YOUR HANDS WHEN YOU INTERLOCK YOUR FINGERS WITH HER’S. SHE WILL NEVER STOP, CHURNING OUT ADVENTURES, OF TRAITORS AND HEROES. DARKNESS AND LIGHT. FEAR AND LOVE. THAT’S THE WRITER. SHE CAN NEVER RESIST FILLING A BLANK PAGE WITH WORDS, WHATEVER THE COLOR OF THE PAGE IS.

SHE’S THE GIRL READING WHILE WAITING FOR HER COFFEE AND TEA. SHE’S THE QUIET GIRL WITH HER MUSIC TURNED UP LOUD (OR IMPOSSIBLY QUIET), SEPARATING THE TWO OF YOU BY AN OCEAN OF CRESCENDOS AND DECRESCENDOS AS SHE’S THINKING OF THE PERFECT WORDS. IF YOU TAKE A PEEK AT HER CUP, THE TEA OR COFFEE’S ALREADY COLD. SHE’S ALREADY FORGOTTEN IT.

USE A PICK-UP LINE WITH HER IF SHE DOESN’T LOOK TO BUSY.

IF SHE RAISES HER HEAD, OFFER TO BUY HER ANOTHER CUP OF COFFEE. OR OF TEA. SHE’LL REPAY YOU WITH STORIES. IF SHE CLOSES HER LAPTOP, GIVE HER YOUR CRITIQUE OF TOLSTOY, AND YOUR BEST THEORIES OF HANNIBAL AND THE CROSSING. TELL HER YOUR CHARACTERS, YOUR DREAMS, AND ASK IF SHE GOTTEN THROUGH HER FIRST NOVEL. 

IT IS HARD TO DATE A GIRL WHO WRITES. BUT BE PATIENT WITH HER. GIVE HER BOOKS FOR HER BIRTHDAY, PRETTY NOTEBOOKS FOR CHRISTMAS AND FOR ANNIVERSARIES, MOLESKINS AND BOOKMARKS AND MANY, MANY BOOKS. GIVE HER THE GIFT OF WORDS, FOR WRITERS ARE TALKATIVE PEOPLE, AND THEY ARE VERBOSE IN THEIR THANKS. LET HER KNOW THAT YOU’RE BEHIND HER EVERY STEP OF THE WAY, FOR THE LINES BETWEEN FICTION AND REALITY ARE FLUID.

SHE’LL GIVE YOU A CHANCE.

DON’T LIE TO HER. SHE’LL UNDERSTAND THE SYNTAX BEHIND YOUR WORDS. SHE’LL BE DISAPPOINTED BY YOUR LIES, BUT A GIRL WHO WRITES WILL UNDERSTAND. SHE’LL UNDERSTAND THAT SOMETIMES EVEN THE GREATEST HEROES FAIL, AND THAT HAPPY ENDINGS TAKE TIME, BOTH IN FICTION AND REALITY. SHE’S REALISTIC. A GIRL WHO WRITES ISN’T IMPATIENT; SHE WILL UNDERSTAND YOUR FLAWS. SHE WILL CHERISH THEM, BECAUSE A GIRL WHO WRITES WILL UNDERSTAND PLOT. SHE’LL UNDERSTAND THAT ENDINGS HAPPEN FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSe.

A GIRL WHO WRITES WILL NOT EXPECT PERFECTION FROM YOU. HER NARRATIVES ARE RICH, HER CHARACTERS ARE MULTIFACETED BECAUSE OF INTERESTING FLAWS. SHE’LL UNDERSTAND THAT A GOOD BOOK DOES NOT HAVE PERFECT CHARACTERS; VILLAINS AND TRAGIC FLAWS ARE THE SALT OF BOOKS. SHE’LL UNDERSTAND TROUBLE, BECAUSE IT SPICES UP HER STORY. NO AUTHOR WANTS AN INVINCIBLE HERO; THE GIRL WHO WRITES WILL UNDERSTAND THAT YOU ARE ONLY HUMAN.

BE HER COMPATRIOT, BE HER DARLING, HER LOVE, HER DREAM, HER WORLD.

IF YOU FIND A GIRL WHO WRITES, KEEP HER CLOSE. IF YOU FIND HER AT TWO AM, TYPING FURIOUSLY, THE NEON GAZE OF THE LIGHT ILLUMINATING HER FURROWED FOREHEAD, PLACE A BLANKET GENTLY ON HER SO THAT SHE DOES NOT CATCH A CHILL. MAKE HER A POT OF TEA, AND SIT WITH HER. YOU MAY LOSE HER TO HER WORLD FOR A FEW MOMENTS, BUT SHE WILL COME BACK TO YOU, BRIMMING WITH TREASURE. YOU WILL BELIEVE IN HER EVERY SINGLE TIME, THE TWO OF YOU ILLUMINATED ONLY BY THE COMPUTER SCREEN, BUT INVINCIBLE IN THE DARKNESS.

SHE IS YOUR SHAHRAZAD. WHEN YOU ARE AFRAID OF THE DARK, SHE WILL GUIDE YOU, HER WORDS TURNING INTO LANTERNS, TURNING INTO LIGHTS AND STARS AND CANDLES THAT WILL GUIDE YOU THROUGH YOUR DARKEST TIMES. SHE’LL BE THE ONE TO SAVE YOU.
SHE’LL WHISK YOU AWAY ON A HOT AIR BALLOON, AND YOU WILL BE SMITTEN WITH HER. 

SHE’S MISCHIEVOUS, FRISKY, YET SHE’S QUIET AND WHEN SHE HAS TO KILL OFF A LOVELY CHARACTER, WHEN SHE CRIES, HOLD HER AND TELL HER THAT IT WILL BE ALRIGHT. 

YOU WILL PROPOSE TO HER. MAYBE ON A BOAT IN THE OCEAN, MAYBE IN A LITTLE COTTAGE IN THE APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS. MAYBE IN NEW YORK CITY. MAYBE CHICAGO. BALTIMORE. MAYBE OUTSIDE HER PUBLISHER’S OFFICE. BECAUSE SHE’S RADIANT, WHEREVER SHE GOES. MAYBE EVEN OUTSIDE OF A CINEMA WHERE THE TWO OF YOU KISS IN THE RAIN. SHE’LL SAY THAT IT IS OVERUSED AND CLICHÉD, BUT THE GLINT IN HER EYES WILL TELL YOU THAT SHE APPRECIATES IT ALL THE SAME.

YOU WILL SMILE HARD AS SHE TALKS A MILE A SECOND, AND YOUR HEART WILL SKIP A BEAT WHEN SHE HOLDS YOUR HAND AND SHE WILL WRITE STORIES OF YOUR LIVES TOGETHER. SHE’LL HOLD YOU CLOSE AND WHISPER SECRETS INTO YOUR EARS. SHE’S LOVELY, REMEMBER THAT. SHE’S SELF MADE AND SHE’S BRILLIANT. HER NAMES FOR THE CHILDREN MIGHT BE TERRIBLE, BUT YOU’LL BE OKAY WITH THAT. A GIRL WHO WRITES WILL TELL YOUR CHILDREN FANTASTICAL STORIES.

BECAUSE THAT IS THE BEST PART ABOUT A GIRL WHO WRITES. SHE HAS IMAGINATION AND SHE HAS COURAGE, AND IT WILL BE ENOUGH. SHE’LL SAVE YOU IN THE OCEANS OF HER DREAMS, AND SHE’LL BE YOUR CATHARSIS AND YOUR 11:11. SHE’LL BE YOUR FIREBIRD AND SHE’LL BE YOUR KNIGHT, AND SHE’LL BECOME YOUR WORLD, IN THE CURVE OF HER SMILE, IN THE HAZEL OF HER EYE THE HALF-DIMPLE ON HER FACE, THE WORDS THAT ARE POURING OUT OF HER, A TORRENT, A WAVE, A CRESCENDO - SO MANY SENSATIONS THAT YOU WILL BE LEFT BREATHLESS BY A GIRL WHO WRITES.

MAYBE SHE’S NOT THE BEST AT GRAMMAR, BUT THAT IS OKAY.

DATE A GIRL WHO WRITES BECAUSE YOU DESERVE IT. 

SHE’S WITTY, SHE’S EMPATHETIC, ENIGMATIC AT TIMES AND SHE’S LOVELY. SHE’S GOT THE MOST COLORFUL LIFE. SHE MAY BE LIVING IN NYC OR SHE MAY BE LIVING IN A SMALL COTTAGE. DATE A GIRL WHO WRITES BECAUSE A GIRL WHO WRITES READS. 

A GIRL WHO WRITES WILL UNDERSTAND REALITY. SHE’LL BE INFURIATING AT TIMES, AND MAYBE SOMETIMES YOU WILL HATE HER. SOMETIMES SHE WILL HATE YOU TOO. BUT A GIRL WHO WRITES UNDERSTANDS HUMAN NATURE, AND SHE WILL UNDERSTAND THAT YOU ARE WEAK. SHE WILL NOT LEAVE ON THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN THE FIRST MOMENT THAT THINGS GO SOUR. SHE WILL UNDERSTAND THAT REAL LIFE ISN’T LIKE A STORY, BECAUSE WHILE SHE WORKS IN STORIES, SHE LIVES IN REALITY. 

DATE A GIRL WHO WRITES. 

BECAUSE THERE IS NOTHING BETTER THAN A GIRL WHO WRITES.