the man in the seat across from me on the train

entrancement

he wears the smell of blood, and death, upon him, as if it were a perfume. the scent entices me upon him entering the carriage. it draws me to him, dark and cold. the death is new, but also old, a sign of a longtime…memory? a death committed long ago, but still raw. he sits in the empty seat across from me, smiles over at me. it’s a sad smile. soft, gentle, like a slow piano mix on a rainy night. it calms me but i don’t smile back.

he makes no attempt to remove anything from the small bag now seated beside him on the bench, just sits there. sits there and watches. watches the quiet, empty meadows flick past outside. his shoulders have dropped now, but the smile is still there. if one didn’t look hard, watch close, he would come across as happy. but he comes across, in reality, as calm, soothed, but sad. it’s as through there’s a memory haunting him still. a long passed memory that he cannot get over. he reeks of death close up, and yet, the scent isn’t fresh. it’s old. very old. the death has long since been, the body buried long ago. but it’s kept alive in his brain. kept alive my him.

the man continues to stare out the window. his eyes are lowered, almost attempting to watch the tracks we roll along. they’re sad. blue. pale blue. ice blue. but sad. there’s nothing there. nothing in them. they’re empty eyes, empty eyes for the empty man. he should be full of life, his eyes full of joy, happiness, youth. but they’re not. they’re filled with despair, sadness, age. they’re the eyes of someone who has seen one too many battles, bore witness to one too many creeping shadows. i understand that. that makes sense.

as the journey progresses, he shifts slightly. his posture becomes stiffer, his back straighter. but his shoulders stay slumped, eyes stay lowered, smile stays still. the carriage rolls quietly onward. he watches the mountains pass, the rivers caressing them on their routes downward. it’s as though he’s seen them before. at times, the scent of death he emits becomes stronger. heavier. the smell of blood fills the empty carriage. he makes no attempt at covering it. no attempt at masking the scent now wafting about the cabin. maybe he doesn’t notice it, smell it. he has lived with it so long, it mustn’t smell of much now. usually, however, one would cover the scent, no matter whether he could smell it or not. the scent would be masked somewhat by a vanilla, a lavender, a calming chamomile perhaps, but not his. his is spread wide, no attempt even, to hide it. to hide the pain he seems to have suffered through.

that’s what it is. it’s the scent of pain. the scent of blood and death. it’s pain. whether it be his, or that of another, it a different story, but it is the scent of pain. perhaps that of suffering, but that’s unlikely. it’s pain. a sharp jab of a needle, the aching wound of a knife. and yet, here he is, looking through the window, acting calm. it’s as if he believes that nothing has ever happened. those memories have been shot down, down, down, deep into the crevices and creases of his memory. maybe, now, he doesn’t remember where the pain was. but it’s still raw. new. fresh. it’s current, yet far, far, far away.

so far, he has not turned. seemingly, he has not noticed my watching. my staring. he has not noticed the things i have taken in. his short, sporadic breathing, irregular and seemingly unnecessary. the fact that his body stiffens slightly as the carriage drifts to the side, turning with the path of the track. that smile. that soft, sad gaze. full of pain and memories. events from long ago. i watch him a little longer.

the sky slowly darkens with the approaching dusk. he stays watching it. watches as the sun slips below the mountains, as the sky turns from grey to pink to yellow and finally a deep, murky blue. i continue to watch him. he does not seem to notice.

‘what are you here for?’ my voice, echoing around the silent carriage, does not startle him. he does not turn from the window, darkness outside roll by. the world outside is no longer visible.
‘i’m ready,’ his voice is deep, yet somehow, soft. it’s quiet and melodic, like notes blown slowly from a flute. ‘i’m ready to go now.’


So that was a story I wrote a couple of days ago following the prompt I found on Pinterest, ‘he wears the smell of blood and death like a perfume’. I don’t know how or why, but it somehow clicked and this story was born. I’ll let you decode it as you wish, come up with your own theories and the like. But I hope you enjoyed it and it made you feel something, anything really. It was a lot of fun to write as well, which is always nice.

emily xo

motif

car radio

motif

the stereo on the dresser emits sound. a piercing, quiet melody plays, the artist’s unknown, the voice unfamiliar. it sits at a distance, there, but not there. it casts shadows through the papers, steady and still, unmoved. the song plays out, comes to a close. nothing plays after. it room falls quiet.

a car drives past. through the silence, the sound of its tyres on tarmac echo. a burning sound, paper consumed by licking flames, crackling and crying out. it fades out as the car proceeds on its way. it’s no longer there. the room rearranges itself, falling back into silence. nothing passes through it.

a stomach rumbles, a sound like paper crunching underfoot. the gurgles slowly fall away. they’re a reminder of the uneaten meal downstairs. it’s untouched, now forgotten. no one will remember it. only when they do will they realised what’s happened. the growling stomach come back, begging for the food it deserves. it’s complaints fall upon deaf ears and it recesses.

echoes of the wind down the chimney creak through the air. the fire goes out, confidential letters left with their edges blistered, yet to be destroyed. breathy whispers swirl through the open network, wind muttering untold secrets to the still, unwoken world. the quiet mutters die with the breeze, slipping into silence again.

a dog barks, falls silent. a siren plays, dies as someone attends it. a plane flies overhead, becomes quiet once passed. another car, another fire. it dies as quick as it came. a distant cow cries out for its child, stops once reunited. the world falls into a silent disarray.

the air allows thoughts to excel themselves into the silence. they echo around, fearful, bizarre formations of illogical concepts, quietly emptying themselves into the unknown. the peaceful tranquility broken by fragmented images.

through the open window, cold breeze flows. crisp and sharp against the warmth of the room. it cuts through the air, a single channel of cold. the wind blows in steadily, soft and nurturing. the corners of the journals lift, fall to the ground, dead.

heat ribbles against the chills, a stark comparison. it’s quickly overtaken, left to mingle amongst the layers of vellum left on the floor. the more the waves fight, the less they achieve. they allow the bitterness in. the gusts become stronger. a silent chill falls over the room.

the curtain billows open, a shadow flicks itself across the wall. branches from a tree outside illuminated across the empty wall. they cover the papered surface, empty thoughts and images, each full with a story never to be told. they move with the light and the breeze. fall back to their original, empty states as the curtain lowers itself once again.

the stars through the window blink. they sparkle and glitter through the dark, each a burning ball. they’re sparse, freckled throughout the universe, white dots on a dark canvas. they blink expectantly, hopeful. their prayers go unheard, called out through the silence.

the lights outside dim, an unwanted reminder of the ever-approaching dawn. a hint of the soon to be disturbed quiet. the air that will soon be touched by the warmth of the sun. the bright, intrusive colours will presently be surrounding the world. everyone will be awake, she will fall asleep. everyone will know no more than they did, no less they have.

yours,
emily xo

Top Writing Tips | Tips from Someone Who Can’t Write to Save My Life

Bonjour.

That title originally said to save my lice which is lovely and awfully entertaining.
So, today I am her to give y’all some wonderful writing tips, even though I’m struggling and can’t write anything well at the moment. You could take these tips and use them, or you could ignore them and have fun reading this utterly fantastic and humorous post. Now we must begin.


Kill off your favourite character

Now, hear me out before you begin to scream and yell at me. If you kill off your favourite character, it makes the world seem as though it’s ending and your readers hate you. This means you get awful reviews on that part of the book. Back to what I was saying, if you kill off your favourite character, you’ll get a Hunger Games effect where *SPOILER* the favourite character dies, everyone gets very upset and it seems as though nothing will ever be good again. Y’know the one? Yeah. That’s a very real feeling though and when you do that, you can really make the world end and everything explodes and there’s a big KABOOM and your story is finished. That’s a great way to end your book if you’re struggling to find an ending.

Write your story from the villain’s POV

Look, we all hate our villains (unless you’re me who would happily marry my villain because he’s amazing, but he’s kinda fictional and I’m kinda gay) BUT our villains are fantastic. If you rewrite parts of your work from your villain’s point of view, you’ll get an entirely different story. Describe what the villain feels who they look at your hero or MC or whatever, describe how the MC looks from a warring side. You get more ideas when you do this, get a *completely* different view. Your character has more depth to them, they’re suddenly not this amazing, wonderful person who can’t do anything wrong. You get the villain telling you what they’ve done wrong and why it’s been harmful, you get the villain telling you why they did what they did. If gives you a new perspective on the whole thing.

If in doubt, kill someone

Bored? Can’t decide what to do with your story next? Kill of someone. Start a war. Have someone come into their house and they smash them over the head with a frying pan and they die. It adds something to the story and gives you a good way of leading on to the next part where the MC is grieving or in shock or something like that. Kill off the villain, a rock falls from the sky and they get crushed and BAM, no more villain. This leads on to you talking about what the MC does next, how they set about restoring the society the villain destroyed. It lead you into the next barrier they face.

NEVER DELETE ANYTHING

A page you don’t think fits? Copy it into a new page, rename it and add it to a new folder called ‘unsure pieces’. Write something and don’t look back at it. Write until you reach the end, go through the piece in your editing process, edit it there. Don’t edit it as you go.
Leading on from this, if you’re missing a word or an idea for a certain part, don’t delete it all. Write something random like ‘BAMBOOZLED’ in the place you’re missing something and when you have an idea for it, press Ctrl+F and type BAMBOOZLED into the search bar. You’ll find the piece you’re looking for and will be able to add the missing information in. This also works if you’re in need of more research. I’d recommend using a different word than the one for the last part, but it works super well.
If you don’t want to use words, you can also colour things. Highlight a piece word (like missing word, missing information, research needed) in a colour and when you go through the story, you’ll be able to see the parts you need to add work to. Use different colours for each piece so you know what you’re looking for.

Add TENSION

Not sexual tension, just tension. You know when you’re reading a story and it just seems to be lacking something? It’s probably tension. Make the villain and the hero become locked in a staring contest and then have it broken by someone yelling and they both look up to see a bullet whizz above their heads. Tension means that people want to find out what happens next, they don’t want to stop reading. No tension and people get bored, the story isn’t gripping. JUST DON’T ADD TOO MUCH TENSIOn. That’s as much of an issue as no tension. You can’t have two characters locked in a battle for a full 300 pages, it becomes boring and no one wants to read it anymore. Just think about that.

DO YOUR RESEARCH

Writing a POC as one of your characters? Don’t just base your story on what you know (if you’re not a POC), look up struggles people of colour face, look up places they can have come from and the like. Research stereotypes. And don’t just describe them as “She had dark skin, the colour of chocolate. Her hair was short and braided intricately, a dark waterfall flowing down her back.” because that’s boring and very much what everyone else does. Look at people of colour and look at their skin tones. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m sick of people being described as chocolate. Don’t stereotype characters, make them break stereotypes often associated with their races.
In general, don’t stereotype, it’s boring and ordinary.
Writing an LGBT character into your story? Don’t ignore the bad bits of being an LGBT person, don’t ignore the glares from people as your MC and her girlfriend walk down the street holding hands, don’t ignore the people who don’t understand pronouns and continue to call people by the pronouns assigned at birth. Have a trans character? Do your research on body dysphoria, gender dysphoria, voice dysphoria. Talk about your character wishing they had the money to afford top surgery, hormones. Have them explain to another character their pronouns, how they’re feeling. I’m sick of trans characters being a girl one minute and then suddenly they come out as trans and have a perfect male body, are super happy with their life and are doing great with everyone being accepting and sweet about it. That’s not what happens.

Don’t worry about quality, quantity is what matters

Editing and second draft is where you can bump the quality up. Don’t worry about what you’re writing, just get the words on the paper and get them down in chunks. Get to know your story better. Don’t worry about the order, write each new idea on a new page, create a new Google account to use, write your entire story on that in different pieces and then stick them all together in an order. Write 1000 words at a time. DOn’t worry if your writing has grammar mistakes, spelling mistakes, anything like that, just worry about getting words down on the page. According to most sites, your first draft should take your between 2 and 6 months. In that time you need to get down your work. NaNoWriMo gets you to write the entire story in 1 month from start to finish. You don’t have time to worry about what you’re writing and delete pieces in that time, you just need to get the information down on the page. Use the next month to fix it up.

Get to know your characters and setting

Get to know your characters better than you know yourself. What do they like, dislike, how do they react when something goes wrong, star sign, rising sign, what was their upbringing like, how many people have they crushed on, education? There are so many character sheets out there to complete and you can end up knowing your character super well. I’d also recommend drawing or commissioning someone to draw your character. Colour the exact colour of their hair, draw their style, work out the perfect colour of their skin. You need to know what’s going to work with this character and what’s not. Don’t have a redheaded character and think that their hair is going to work with a bright red sunset, because chances are that it’s not. Work out the character’s temperament, personality type, everything like that, write it down. Get yourself a notebook and spill all your character ideas into it.
Same goes for the setting. If you’re using a real place, either visit that place and get to know it, or do research. Don’t have your story based in Antarctica and have sandy, hot beaches the whole way along it because that doesn’t make sense. Work out when the story’s set, if it’s Summer, find out what it’s like in Summer, if it’s Winter, what’s it like then? Don’t get your facts wrong because that’s always embarrassing. If you’re writing your own place (made up) do what you did with the characters. Get to know it too well. Know things about it that people who live their don’t. What’s the history of it? What’s the terrain like. Again, you can find hundred of questionnaire templates online for these sorts of things.

BUY NOTEBOOKS AND PENS

Buy yourself a bunch of $2 notebooks from Kmart (or whatever cheap shop you have) and some cheap pens. I bought a pack of fineline pens and 8 A5 notebooks from Kmart and spent a grand total of $13. Buy different coloured notebooks and have different books for different things. One for ideas, one for character ideas, one for notes, one for setting ideas, one for research, one to carry around with you in case you get an idea, one to write sentences into and another one for everything. Use the pens to note everything down. Have a code for things. Have questions? Write them in blue. Have an idea for a character? Write it in pink. Colour code each character, have a specific colour for each one. These notebooks never have to see the light of day, but you’ll find then super useful in the long run. Write down everything you think in them, blurt random things into them. You can come back to these things when you’re stuck for ideas.

Buy a plant. And write with it beside you

You’ll find that this plant becomes your best friend. If not a plant, a fish. Buy something living and have it beside you on your desk when you write. It’s there to hold you accountable and keep you company. You’re able to rely on that fish, plant, whatever, to hold all your secrets, listen to your rants, take notes with you, NEVER JUDGE YOU FOR WRITING FOR 12 HOURS AND THEN EATING 4 CHOCOLATE BARS. At 4am when all your friends are asleep but you’re still writing because you NEED TO FINISH THIS CHAPTER, you’ll want company and that creature will be super helpful. You can get a fish tank for $30 second hand online and a fish will cost you $10 (an average sized fish that will be pretty). A plant will cost you anywhere between $5 and $30ish. It’s worth the investment too.
Leading on from this, music is also your best friend, as is a notification blocker. GOt Instagram on your laptop? Email? Use a notification blocker to stop getting the notifications that WILL distract you from your writing (if I ignore your messages on Instagram, this is why).

And finally…set VERY low goals

A goal of 200 words, write 200 words and you’ll be proud of yourself. The Best Writer Ever. Set yourself these goals every day and aim to accomplish them. And short term goals too, what are you going to have written by the end of the hour, not by this time tomorrow. What do you need to write NOW. Think about the here and now, not the there and then. You’re writing now, maybe not then. You think ‘I’m going to write a battle scene where Caleb kills Joel’ and do it. Use another notebook and write goals for each day you write in it. It really works. Like, really.


So, now that we’re done, I’m actually going to go and do some real writing. Like, of my own story. (another note, think of it as a story, not a book. writing a book makes it seem like a massive task, writing a story does not) I hope at least one of these tips help. Someday soon I’ll do a post about what I use to write (everything mentioned in this post) so keep an eye out or that.

happy easter darlings,
emily xo

02.04.2019 | a thing

hello

so this is a thing. i don’t know about it but i hope you like it??? it’s titled by the date i wrote it on. i kinda have these insane
so yeah.


the time we spend here is short. too short. there is not enough time to do all that we wish we can. its a book. you open it and read, but there are not enough pages to continue the story on, so you have to start another, once that story is finished. some books are short. some are long. the time we have here is the same. some spend longer here than others, some spend just hours, some several decades. fate decides the length of time we have, decides how long one is to stay, stay here. any time, however, is too little. there is not enough time to complete all that we wish to complete in the short time placed into our hands, mere years. we waste so much of that. like the book. so many of the pages are wasted. wasted on pointless chat, filler sentences. so much space that could have been used to extend the story, wasted on pointless waffling. the hours we spend on the useless – the mundane – could be spent on so much more, so much more than that which it is. but the pages of the mundane are important. important to help tell the story. to give the reader a break from the frantic action of the battle. we have the ability to hurl ourselves into a constant book of battle but no pausing could break us, smash our fragile core, weakened by the blows taken on the battlefield. we must pause, let the waffling play out as it will, in order to create some sense of order and calm in the story. we must break before tossing ourselves back into the chaos of the battles we fight to continue on, keep on as we must, to get through.

we are in control of the story we write ourselves. in control of the battles we write into it. the wars we choose to fight. we are in control of the amount of pain inflicted on the characters, ourselves and those around us. we choose how we cause them pain. we write their pain into our stories. the pain shapes us, shapes our character development, forced us to change as we are. the pain makes us and breaks us. but it heals. it heals. it causes the pain and the shock necessary to keep one wishing to continue on with the novel they choose to pick up and read.we must keep the interest, the interest is kept only by keep inflicting harm upon those, keeping the battles going, keeping the characters on their toes. we choose the battles we fight, those we choose to win, those we choose to lose. we write those losses into the story, carefully crafted so the pain necessary is there, but the blow is not too brutal, too harsh.

we write the ways in which we must. we write the things that happen in our life, the things that are choices. fate decides the rest. the fates tell us the things, they are further in control of our stories than we are, they are the ones who make the final decisions on the stories. they are the editors, but also, at the same time exactly, they are the authors, possibly the narrators. they give the ideas, the guidance, the guidelines and then proceed to leave the entire story alone, leaving us to write it in the ways we wish. they come back at the end and cull the parts of it that they dislike, remove the pieces they do not agree with. the fates make the final cuts on the written works. the pieces we write, the stories, must go through them before they are published to the outside world. the page counts must be chopped, more pieces of work must be eliminated. the length must be cut down, to ensure reader interest or to ensure that more stories are read, the world will never know. the fates will only know that.

we spend the time we have fretting. fearing that we are not writing the story correctly. afraid that the words will not make sense to the one who chooses to read them. dreading the day the fates ask for the piece to be handed in. we fret about the grammar, the spelling, the punctuation. we do not fret about the content. we know the fates will deal with that. they will cut the unimportant pieces from the story. they will cut it down so it is less waffle and more battle. the fates will do the job they know they must. we fear the worst for the things we do. we spend more of the novel on the fears we have about the end result than we do on the real content of the story. the body. more of the time we have is spent crafting the story than actually writing it. it is spent planning out the ideas, separating the paragraphs, outlining, creating characters, scenes, a structure. we do not focus on the format, the wording. we focus more on the planning. plan it to a t.

we think about the end more than anything. about what will happen in the end, how the fates will react. we dont think about the things we are writing. the content. the battles. the waffling. to us, all that matters, is the end. the end. what will happen at the end. how the ending will go. we focus not on the story we tell, but on the end. we seem to plan from the end, through to the beginning. writing the novel of our lives in a backwards fashion that we think will help us. that we think will be useful. we write everything backwards. the battles. the deaths. the harm caused, pain caused, to those around us. we write the result and then the method.

we dont know, right from the start, our place in the world. we ramble on and on, pages upon pages are filled with our rambles as we attempt to find our way in the world. find our place. the place that we belong as people. we go on and on until we find that place. where we believe so much that we will be happy. from there, we lead ourselves in another rambling mess, speckled with battles. rushed wars fought against the world as it attempts to cut us down, take us before our time. some of us are taken then. taken before our time. some of us continue. fight further more battles. make further more sacrifices. we continue on, without those who were there. those who were taken before their time. and we go on. without, them.


so yeah. that was a thing. it kinda ends oddly, but i kinda speak when i write things out and they turn out very different when you speak them the way they’re intended to be. i might record something like that one day, who knows?

anyway, have a night night y’all
emily xo

a writing rant at 11pm ie emily fails miserably at life | adventures in writing

Hello my children.

this is going to be me ranting at y’all about the struggle i am having trying (and failing) to write an actual outline to my novel and possibly come up with some actual plot ideas. i hope you enjoy.

as another note. this is going to be written without capital letters because i’m using my tablet and it takes too long to try and work it out like that. so yes. have fun reading this fun lil rant-y thing i’ve compiled for y’all!


i just wanted cute gays to get together. and sweet trans kids to be accepted. but i also wanted stabby things. and sparkles. like, jewel sparkles. and gold sparkles. or sparkly stabby things for cute trans gays. also, i wanted nature in there. I wanted some tension in there. and also some stars and flowers. just because i like those things. and if i could include some kind of paper plane too that’d be fun. like,,,they go and like,,,communicate to each other through like,,,paper planes. anyway. but there must also be some death. but not too much death. or blood. i want some kinda soft angst. and then some really not soft at all angst. but you cannot get that actual balance right because it’s like,,,difficult and i don’t like,,,have the patience to like,,,learn to skills of that. anyway. i also want some cute gayness. and i need some levels of vulnerability for the characters to be created. i want some silly sword fighting. but also characters not getting along. but also huge gun battles and gunshots shrieking through the sky and exploding in the dust on the other side of a battle field. i need some silly moments when everyone is just sitting around laughing and having fun. and then others when they’re all in tears and it’s just raw and sad and awful. i want it to feel like there are times when the entire world is ending because i’m struggling to write so much and the characters are mimicking what i’m feeling and it’s just awful. but then it all carries on. OH! and i want music in there,,,like,,,one of them playing music but,,,like,,,the others not knowing. and then they find out. and they’re like,,,super impressed. and it’s something soft like a flue or a piano or something and everyone is super like,,,shocked and it’s real nice. there needs to be some amount of heartbreak and then reparation (is that a word? (it is now)) of said heart. i want sweet and tender moments followed by moments or chaos and urgency. i want war but then also like,,,calm. i want pirates and gangs and guns and things without being clique and copying every other story line around. i want beautiful characters who love each other so intensely it isn’t funny. but then i want them to also hate each other with a passion. i want characters who grow together and learn to love each other as cute gays. i want teasing and flirting and blushing. i want others to ship the pair together but on the dl. but i don’t want it to become so much like that that it become a freaking romance or a fanfiction,,,because that’s like,,,very boring. i want to to be cute without being too cute. i want this to have moments when someone is just screaming and ranting and super upset and angry and someone else is just listening and doing something else and just like,,,nodding every now and then. i want them to have to make adult decisions at a young age and be forced to give up things they really don’t want to then. but i also want them to be children like,,,five minutes later and just be like,,,joking and playing about and shit. i want them to be loved by everyone but also like,,,piss everyone off so much they hate them all and are like,,,nope. not dealing with you today. i just wanted it all to go to plan

AND DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THAT IS TO DO??? ESPECIALLY THAT LAST PART??? IT’S INSANE AND I DON’T GET IT OR LIKE IT OR ANYTHING.


so, that’s my little rant over. i hope you enjoyed it and actallly felt some of my struggles as a writer having to deal with cutting all those ideas down into something that hasn’t been done a thousand times over and is actually good! it’s all going great so far, i’m not really annoyed about the fact that i have no actual plot and just have characters who i’m not giving up for anything. not. at. all.

anyway, if you’re a writer, do tell me about your struggles. also your novel ideas. and whether you’re doing camp NaNoWriMo this month (i’m not). and anything else you want to talk to about your novel, do so!

and if you’re not a writer, that’s cool too. just talk to me about how your life is, what you’re doing. what your hobbies are. the like, the like.

have a good night children.
emily xo

Words, on a page. Thoughts, in a mind. Writings. | Words and Thoughts from Emily

Hello.

This piece is confusing. It’s something I’m not sure about sharing. But I hope it helps someone, it’s pretty, in my opinion at least. I’ve been feeling weird lately, and this is a depiction of that, in a few words. I find it pretty and it’s soothing for me, both to read and to write. I hope it’s able to help you too. I love you, always remember that. xo


Tonight, I’m at peace. With what, I’m unsure, but I am at peace. At peace with the world? With myself? With the universe? The stars in the sky? The breeze in the trees? No one shall ever know, but I am at peace. And it’s nice. It’s calming. Soothing really, being at peace. It’s enjoyable, stable, smooth. The world feels calm, life feels soft, I feel nice. I am at peace. Life feels undaunting, smooth and loving. It has gone in a hectic way, but now the boat has reached the smooth waters. For now. It will reach the storms again, I know, but for now, the sea is smooth and still. It’s gentle. 
The stars are above, and the ground is below. The air is trapped between, as am I. But I am at peace with that. Everything is calm and steady for once. The path of life has given way to a few moments peace. Steadiness. I don’t know where I will go, nor where I have come from, but for now, that does not matter.  What matters is that I know where I am now. At peace, ease, rest. I am calm with the stars and the moon in the sky with the breeze, and the water and the fish in the sea by the trees. It’s soothing and calm. A first, maybe a last. But ease is nice. It’s steady. No where to go, but no issue in that. I am where I am, not where I will be, not where I have been. 
The world is calm and quiet, the stars are steady and bright, the sea is still and dark. I watch it all tonight, and I am at peace. At peace with myself, with the world, the universe, stars, sea, trees. I am at peace with it all. Tonight.


Remember that I’m here if you want to talk. I care for you, I love you. Goodnight, friends.

peace out darlings,
emily xo

Adventure in Writing: Character Descriptions | Episode 1

Hi. I’m sick. How are you?

I’m also bored. And I’m writing a blog post about writing again. But that’s fine.

As premise to this post, I stopped writing my last novel about 3 weeks ago and only got around to posting about it sometime this week. Which is fine. For the past week or two I have been working on the latest idea I have had. No. I’ve been working on the characters and writing them out before I do anything else. I do have ideas but I’m working on the characters for now. This is going to be a post on how I write my characters whilst kinda giving you sneak peeks into them and their lives. Shall we begin? (Yes is the correct answer here)


I write my characters in some very, very fun ways. Briefly, the characters are Kaito, Luke, Aria and Asterin. They’re all very important and I love them very much. Let’s get into the ways I write their descriptions and I’ll pull out the most important things from each one. Get ready for some entertainment.


We’ll begin with Kaito (Kai).

Physical description fun points:
– Very hot (but not as hot as Asterin)
– Actually looks his age
– Hella attractive
– Like,,,very attractive
– Far too attractive
– It is not fair how attractive he is

A lot of the reasonings for saying these things will become clear soon

Mental traits:
– BEAUTIFUL
– Very controlled
– You do not actually understand how controlled
– SO MUCH SELF-CONTROL
– Unforgiving. Don’t you dare get on his bad side
– Legit all the houses.
– Actually super adorable and sweet
– But like, not adorable or sweet
– Actually heteroseksual???

Other Notes (me, hyperventilating about my characters):
– I WANT TO BE HIM
– Can I be him?!
– please…
– Is it possible to be any more amazing than Kai? No.
– Did I mention the fact that he’s very attractive?
– He gets far too much entertainment from upsetting people by being aroace
– I WILL ADOPT HIM. HE IS FICTIONAL BUT I WILL ADOPT HIM
– He is my baby and no one can ever hurt him
– Kinda a little like Nico, but also like Kaz, also like Draco, and also none of them

Conversations with Kai:
– “you actually cannot hug me. I will punch you.”
– “hi. No. You can’t date me. Sorry not sorry.”
– “no, I ran away. My life’s much more entertaining than yours.”


Next up is Luke or Lu or whatever you wanna call them.

Physical description fun points:
– Looks mature (we’ll come back to this soon)
– Not fit. Like,,,not fit at all
– Looks about 17
– Is actually 15
– Is possibly the most Irish you could ever get
– Is actually not someone people would want to date
– But is actually very attractive (WHY IS EVERYONE SO FREAKING ATTRACTING, MY GOD)

Mental traits:
– VERY immature
– Is not actually a teenager
– Is probably about 10
– I want to say he’s very entertaining but he’s actually not
– SO ENERGETIC
– Not calm. At all
– Fun. That’s all

Other Notes (me, laughing about them, that’s all):
– Is actually very unimportant but I love them too much to cut the out so they are staying for as long as I can possibly keep them because of that.
– THEY WOULD BE MY BEST FRIEND
– Kinda literally a cross between Holt, the Weasley twins and Leo. But I don’t know how that would work.
– Porbably would be able to pass as a Weasley
– Talks so fast and with such a strong accent that no one can understand a word they say but no one actually cares
– Is a child.
– Has far too much energy for As and Kai

Conversations with Luke:
– “no. Just no. Don’t even bother asking”
– “You. Cannot. Kick. Me. Out. Never.”
– “ready to die, bitch?”


Aria or Ariel if you’re Asterin:

Physical description fun points:
– Is 16.
– Looks 12
– Has the biggest baby-face
– Hella adorable.
– Rich, white girl look-alike

Mental traits:
– Crazy is the only way to describe her
– GAY AF
– You have never met more of a Hufflepuff in your life
– Talkative.
– She talks too much. Way too much.
– Soft.
– You do not understand how gay.
– Too gay to comprehend

Other Notes (me, hating on my character):
– She would wind me up so much and I would hate her so much
– Is kinda a little bit like Luna
– But is also Luna’s opposite
– She’s adorable and I would actually love her
– I actually hate her
– She’s like,,,too nice
– She is actually someone I know and hate. But also love. So…

Conversations with Aria:
– “no honey, you actually love me, just admit it.”
– “I will NOT shut up. Don’t tell me to shut up. I will not shut up.”
– “Hi. I’m gay.”

and i love y’all so much that you get this sketch of Kai of a koi that i drew on his character sketch because it cracks me up

And lastly…Asterin (As (pronounced AZ)) (this will get interesting and I would recommend reading it):

Physical description fun points:
– HOT,,,VERY HOT
– ‘HI, DATE ME’ HOT
– Witchy vibes…watch out
– Very, very, very fit
– Hot
– Looks very mature
– Well-built
– Is actually perfect
– Supermodel beautiful
– Supermodel tall
– IS ACTUALLY A SUPERMODEL

Mental traits:
– Cold
– Dark.
– Sarcastic
– Scary if you don’t know her
– Also scary is you know her
– Scary.
– Slytherin
– Charismatic
– DO NOT GET ON HER BAD SIDE
– Disruptive
– So mature it isn’t fair

Other Notes (me, being gay for my character):
– Look, I want to date her
– There is not doubt that, given half a chance, I would date her
– HI. CAN ASTERIN NOT BE FICTIONAL SO I CAN DATE HER.
– Winks. A lot. Like,,,a lot, a lot. Like, more than Luke a lot.
– Can someone please let me date her?
– Think Reyna but think Bellatrix but think Rosa but think none of the above.
– I’m gay for her. Very gay for her.

Conversations with As:
– “don’t. Just don’t. I’m not in the mood.”
– “don’t. You. Dare. Look. At. Her. She’s mine.”
– “no, there is not a bird on my shoulder. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU IDIOT?!”


So that’s the end of that. The end of me hyperventilating about how amazing my characters are. I love them all and they’re all very important to me. Thank you.

peace out ma dudes,
emily xo

I Gave Up On My WIP

Howdy folks.

I gave up on my story. My WIP has died. Lilia and Melanie and Nya and Noah And Eleanor have all been quietly replaced. ANd I would like to explain to y’all why I’ve given up/stopped writing the piece I was. Lettuce begin.


  • Very simply, to begin, I didn’t know what else to write. I had the basic outline for the entire thing, but I just couldn’t get my chapters to be long enough, it just didn’t work. I could write for hour and hours and hours and have 3 part-written chapters that didn’t make sense and were 1000+ words off my goal (about 2500 words). It was becoming difficult to come up with things to write in that wouldn’t just be fillers (fillers being unnecessary pieces that you will cut out upon redrafting and editing). I had all these ideas but none of them seemed to fit with the theme (very real, very deep).
  • Next, it was boring me. I couldn’t find inspiration to keep writing and hadn’t written anything for several weeks when I finally decided to give up and put that to rest. It was boring me and I didn’t know how to overcome that boredom. With that boring me, I was beginning to find writing boring and not doing it as much, I wasn’t reading, wasn’t writing that, wasn’t writing short stories and wasn’t writing blog posts. The quality of my writing was dropping drastically and it was all effecting me. I was finding writing a chore and it was becoming something I dreaded, rather than looked forward to which was a shame.
  • I was triggering myself. This is possibly the biggest reason for ending this. I was finding the whole process of writing about mental health, suicide, self harm, eating disorders, homophobia, abuse and the like so difficult and it was actually hurting me to write about it. Everything that I was writing about was reflecting my life, my mental health, my eating disorders and the homophobia I have faced. Everything was so real that I would finish writing a piece and be so triggered that I needed to get everything out. I would come away in fits of tears, shaking, crying, not knowing why. The whole point of writing it was to bring more awareness to what teens face when they suffer from the things mentioned above, but it was having a really bad effect on me and I was beginning to feel like I was writing the story of myself and predicting what was going to happen to me.
  • I didn’t know enough. I didn’t know enough about religion to write about it. Enough about dealing with mental health to write about it. Enough about anything I was writing about, to write about it. The place it was set was somewhere I had never been. I have never been in a relationship like Mel and Lilia were, where they’re so in love with each other they’d rather die than hurt the other in any which way. I fet as thought I was going to be ruining people’s perceptions and possibly further injuring the things I was trying to help heal.
  • It wasn’t making any sense. None of what I was writing was making sense. My head was a mess (is a mess) and felt really foggy and none of my thoughts were (are) clear. It was difficult to form correctly formatted sentences and ideas from that mess . This was meaning that everything I was writing was ending up sounding really off and really murky. None of the ideas were clearly ‘there’ and absolutely everything was repetitive and really badly written. I hadn’t bothered to outline anything or go through the correct process to write it, I hadn’t come up with character information that went further than describing the things wrong with them. It was all a mess and nothing was making sense to me.

When I gave up on the work it was sitting at just under 30,000 words, about half-way to my goal of about 60,000 but I couldn’t form correct ideas or anything for that. I just felt like I had to tell y’all about what was happening with that rather than coming at you with another idea and having y’all go ‘woah! dude! What! New story! But what about the other one!’ because that would be completely reasonable. But now I can just send you this link and I’ll know you haven’t read this post!!!

Anyway, that’s all I can think about writing tonight, I hope it made sense and I hope y’all have a great night!!!

see you in the next post!
emily xo


Comparatively Writing | Writing from 2015 to Now | Reminiscing on the Past #1

This is the first ‘official’ post in this series. I think it will be a bit of fun to see how my writing has changed since 2015, when I was in year six. I found these stories the other day in class with a friend and cringed over them. Then cried over them. Then jumped up and down about them. Then cried about them some more. Because as a person I’ve changed so much. As a person, you can see how my mental health has affected me, how it has hurt me. Even since then, even in the last few years. 

You’ll see in a few minutes, but what I think has changed the most in the times I have written this is not my writing style and the grammar I use (although that has definitely changed, lol), but the topics. You’ll see that the first thing in this is a story in which there is humour, love and fantasy, the latest one is death. This piece isn’t the latest story I have written, it’s one I wrote at the beginning of the year for Gracie’s writing competition, but the most recent stories I haven’t posted and would like to post separately. I think that this really shows what the effect if something like your mental health can have on you, the amount it kills you inside of your brain. I think it takes away a lot of the happiness and innocence you have. 

Another interesting thing about this going back of the stories thing, is the times in which things changed. In year six my story was about a guy who ventured into a forest, in year seven, me talking to Death, last year, year seven, a dancer who dies (described in graphic detail), and this year, someone who dies. I know from working with my counsellor, when the sort of depressive slump really hit, sort of from year six, year seven, but I do think that it was always there, I do remember these feelings from the age of about seven. But just not as bad. But I do think that this is a really interesting thing to notice. 

Before we begin I would like to place a trigger warning on the last two stories. The third story here describes a very gruesome death in graphic detail and the last is about a suicide. I know that these topics are often triggering and would not like to hurt anyone or cause anyone to hurt themselves. Do as you need to protect yourself. Thank you.

Now into the actual post. I’m not going to put the full stories on here, just snippets and I’ll link to the full things after the snippets for you to read and (possibly) cringe over!

Number 1! This was from 2015, when I was year 6 or about 11?


Whitney and Mr Kendell along with Ebony the greyhound trudged slowly towards a large expanse of trees all covered in a thick blanket of cold, wet snow.  Ebony suddenly stopped, pricked her ears and parked twice, “What is it girl?” Whitney asked. Ebony shot off like a black bullet whizzing through the air and came to an abrupt halt about ten metres from the edge of the forest.  Whitney and Mr Kendell ran after her, they were not as fast as the greyhound but they soon caught up to her. Now they could see what Ebony had been barking at, it was a herd of large multi-coloured centaurs. The leader of the herd a beautiful golden centaur trotted towards the group

And here’s the link! https://docs.google.com/document/d/12OnSA32fWjHqFo-QW7slZKx3TdIjdXgnk-pucohwxwI/edit

Number 2! This from year 7, 2016, when I was homeschooled, about 12? 


I rolled my eyes and walked off. Idiot. What did I need with a bracelet and an eraser? I mean, we were in 2016 now. Those things were popular in 2015, in, like, August! It wasn’t even a nice one, it was pink, who wanted to carry around a pink eraser. I know I’m a girl (or at least I hope I am!) but that didn’t mean he could give me a pink thing. Stereotypical! I’d have preferred it black.

In this one, please note the ‘I know I’m a girl (or at least I hope I am!). Fun thing. And the link to the full thing: https://docs.google.com/document/d/17ieLqUkBOiT-gh33b4LSi62quisyLqnVaa8k-YvDiWg/edit

The story from 2017, last year! This is number 3.


The music hit our cue. The ushers pushed us on stage. We danced. We danced like no one was watching. Like it was just us. Like we were in front of the Queen. Like the world was watching. We danced as only our dreams had shown us. Because that was what we were doing. We were creating reality from dreams. Beautiful reality, from beautiful dreams.

This needs a trigger warning, so TRIGGER WARNING. GRUESOME DETAILS. Here’s the full story: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dA_YQjZ6L5eG6vjOyhgSeywa71z87Yi3xlDb64XWeQs/edit

And the last story I have, from this year. This is number 4!

My views…my views of where I was now? Really, I realised, really, I wasn’t there, wasn’t talking to her, sitting by the lake. Not really. That was all in my head. But I didn’t know where I really was. Where my correct body was. On a bridge overlooking a lake, maybe, surrounded by trees in gorgeous autumnal colours. A little house on the side of the hill. Nestled into the crook of a clearing. Maybe. Where did these thoughts come from? Where was I really? Look, the chance of being there was slim. Almost non-existent. But maybe, who knows, I was really there. In the clearing by myself. Maybe that would change me. Help me to get better. To fix the shatterings in my head. But only if I was really there. Which I wasn’t. Because I didn’t know where I was. Because life was so horrible that there was nowhere for me to be, to really and truly be. But that was what life had always been. Well, all I’d ever known. A life of fostering, of new places, of running away, of ‘constructive criticism’. Life had always been full of the things I’d hated. So why would this other new place make any difference? It wouldn’t. So why would I bother? I wouldn’t. It made no sense.

And the full story is here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1kjnDYWqeIsmbVxMF87HQUnlVQOlO8kfZdo9bT061CFE/edit

So that is the end of this post! I think it was a lot of fun, but also slightly scary and sad! 

see you in the next post!

luka xo

A Real Story Chapter | Me Stressing and Depressing Whilst Writing a POST + a Full Chapter !!!!!

Well this was meant to be a fun post but before I started writing it I got some very bad news which upset me greatly. But I’m still going to try and make it fun. Because from what I’ve learnt in the past, writing something fun and happy while your crying either make what you write very depressing or it makes you have happy. So let’s see how this turns out.

I’m going to write a story on here and post it without much editing, just a raw copy. I think it’s going to be from Trigger Warning (any better titles y’all?) and will be some part that I haven’t written yet. I might also include some of my planning, but this is just going to be one of those posts that I’m posting because I really want to post and I’ve never seen it done before! So this should be fun. If you could comment your opinions at the end and like it that would be really lovely and cheer me up.

 

Idea: the cavity in the wall

Importance: of vague importance, not super important though

Setting: Lilia’s bedroom and just outside

Characters: Lilia, Eleanor (sister)

Placement: near end, two letters after, possibly two chapters

Colour process: black (ink, cavity inside), pink (ribbon), white (paper, walls), yellow (sun)

Outfit of MC: black hoodie, ripped jeans, white cropped t-shirt, pink hair

Key points:

  • Lilia needs to hide the letters she has written to people
  • Finds a hole in the wall in the closet
  • Nothing in the cavity/hole
  • Puts notebook/papers with letters in hole
  • All the letters get collected in the hole in the wall
  • Lilia tells Mel to find the letters in the hole when she lets go
  • Hole so small the papers have to be folded up completely to fit
  • Also hides ribbon in the cavity

 

She shook on the floor, the pieces of paper strewn about her. Her feet were folded under her, her hands bunched in the fabric of her hoodie,pressed to her mouth to silence her sobs. Never before had she realised that they took up so much paper. That they covered several pages each, white paper, black lines, covered in thin, black, scrawling script. Each one held a name at the top, a name that meant so much to Lilia, a name which had caused her so much joy, or so much pain. A name which she would never forget. Each of those names had been so agonisingly hard to write, each had caused her so much pain.

Carefully she picked them up and held them in her hand, a bunch of papers which, at first glance, were quite harmless. She lay them down once again, sorting them slowly into alphabetical order, beginning at her right side with Edward, the man from her church who held a low-level position but thought he was much better than that, who had caused her so much pain through his homophobic preachings and cutting remarks about gay people all the way to Nya who had been there for her through thick and thin. There to watch her cry, to wipe the tears and tell her it would be alright. Nya who had let her know that it was alright to be as she was, to not know who she was.

Her face was streaked now with tears, each rolling down her cheeks softly as she cried. They were hot and harsh but comforting at the same time. They let her know that it was real. They reminded her that she was real. But it didn’t feel real. She didn’t feel real. Letting the tears roll down her cheeks didn’t feel right either. It didn’t feel right crying as she was. Crying seemed so wrong. But Nya had said time and time again that it was fine, but that wasn’t that comforting. Because it seemed so childish.

But the papers were still strewn about the floor, sitting in front of Lilia in alphabetical order, each several pages long. All explaining the things that each person ought to know about her, about her death when it came, about why. Each person needed an explanation. And this would give them it. Some were longer than others, some had more detail, more story to them. Some were short and sharp, getting right to the point and then trailing off. But each letter was just as important as the last. All but one. There was one letter that wasn’t there. The letter was on her desk instead, half finished. That letter was the reason the tears were falling. The letter to Melanie hurt so much to write. It was as hard. Melanie meant to much to her and it hurt to write that letter. To tell her how much she would miss her. And with that letter sat the poem. And Lilia wasn’t sure what would happen with either of those.

There were footsteps outside the room and Eleanor’s voice screaming at someone, probably Jack. It brought Lilia back to reality. It caused her to stop thinking o the unfinished letter, of the pain that was involved in writing it. It made her think about the here and now, the letters which sat in front of her, in her bedroom, now, late afternoon. The sun from the window struck the paper, turning it from white to golden in broken shards. It was almost glasslike, beautifully broken. It reminded Lilia of a picture Mel had taken of her by the bridge one day, months ago, the polaroid they both had. A picture of Lilia sitting on the dark concrete, the sun crossing her face, encaptured in her hands. The soft white dress billowing about her. That had been beautifully broken. Lilia had been beautifully broken then. She was just broken now. Just a mess of skin and bone tangled in once perfect fitting fabrics.

The papers stayed there and Lilia watched them through eyes blurred by tears, wondering where they could go. There were too many for the diary. Too many to not become suspicious. But they couldn’t live i separate places, couldn’t possibly be strewn about the room in different hiding places. There they wouldn’t be able to be found easily as she aimed to have them. That wouldn’t work either. There they would all get lost. And that was not at all what she wanted. she wanted them all in one place so that she could deal with them all easily, so she could tell one  person where to go and they would find them. So she did not have people walk in and look in a book and find a letter telling them that she was going to kill herself. Because no one thought that she would possibly kill herself, the happy, joyful young girl she was. But she wasn’t happy or joyful. She was sad and broken and it just wouldn’t work like that. Not at all.

There was nowhere to hide them. There was a cardboard ox in the closet and something behind that. A hole. There was a hole in the closet, a big hole. A hole that would be able to fit the letters. It was a big, black hole that was big enough for Lilia to fit her hand into. Big enough to hide the letters in. It would be perfect.

Carefully she picked up all the letters and held them in front of her, watching the tops of them shake in her hands. Her eyes skimmed around the room, listening and watching, making sure that there was no one there who would see her place the letters into the hole. There was no one around there, no one who could walk in on her. The tears that had once been falling down her cheeks were now streaming down them, pouring red-hot, salty tears into the crevices and creases of her face and neck. There was a brief moment when she wondered what she was doing and why she was doing it. But that question was quickly overshadowed by the intrusive thoughts that pushed into her mind, explaining perfectly to her why she was doing this. Because no one else wanted her, no one else had any use for her. She was just a useless girl who cared for others and thought they liked her when actually they didn’t care for her, or love her. That was why she was doing this.

The door to the closet was slammed shut, a reminder of just how closeted she had to be, just how careful she had to be, dancing around with Melanie, skirting her family, making sure that no one suspected anything. Because that would be even harder to deal with. That was painful, that hurt her so much. No one would ever get it, it just wouldn’t happen.

She strode quickly over to the closet, carefully skirting around the clothes and papers littered over the floor, they were there for no particular reason and it was caring her, had she really got so out of it, so depressed, that she had become a pig? That she could let her bedroom get into this state? That was so wrong, she never did that. That never happened. Yet here she was, clothes and papers all over the floor.

Lilia yanked the closet open and crouched down, placing the letters on the floor beside her and began to pull things out of the closet. The boxes filled with shoes and fabrics, the binders neatly stacked, exploding with papers, designs and writings, maths work and science notes. It all come out, all got stacked neatly in a pile by her feet on the other side, away from the letters. The letters weren’t able to become damaged. At the back of the closet there was a ream of pale pink ribbon sitting alone. It was undamaged but there was very little of it left. Lilia picked it up and ran it over her hands, letting the silky fabric fall to the floor, landing softly on the letters. She bent into the closet and opened the hole in the back, pulling the black fabric that was stapled to it fall away, revealing the hole. Her hands scrabbled around in it, checking that it was empty, she was unable to see it, but from what she could tell, it was. Lilia picked up the papers from beside her and unravelled the ribbon from the reel it was on, if she was going to do this she may as well put the ribbon in with the notes, with the letters, with all the things that were going to be depressing to read. The people who found and read them at least needed a little bit of happiness, a little bit of fun. But then again, pink ribbon wasn’t that happy. Pale pink ribbon wasn’t the happiest colour out there, but it would do. And it was off the reel now, so there was no going back. She put everything back down and picked up a letter, carefully rolling it lengthways. She held it for a minute, letting it sit in her sweater pawed hand, looking at it, she hadn’t seen who it was to, but even that made her sad. But it wa for the good of everyone, she knew that. It was for the good of everyone that she was leaving as she was. When she was. No one would have to look after her again, she wouldn’t have to rely on anyone for anything anymore, everyone would be free of her. And that was all she wanted, she wanted everyone to be happy, and if that meant her not being there, so be it. That was how it would have to be.

A tear fell onto the paper and she quickly wiped it off, but it left a smudgy mark and she shrugged, hopefully it was still able to be read. If not, then that wouldn’t matter much anyway. It wasn’t really that important. It would all be forgotten in a couple of months. Everything would be just as she wanted it to be. Gone. Forgotten. That would be perfect. The papers would be the only reminders of her then. And that was good. She watched the tear streak on the paper for a few seconds before jerking it away and blinking quickly. Lilia reached into the closet and placed the paper inside the cavity, letting it fall to the bottom and hoping that it was empty. She withdrew her hand and picked up another letter, rolling it and placing it into the cavity, this time the process was much faster and she picked up another, rolling it and placing it into the cavity. She repeated the process again and again until there were no letters beside her. Finally all were gone and she sat back on her heels, looking at the cavity in the closet. Was it going to work, was anything going to actually work? Was anyone going to find them when she was gone? Was someone going to find them? She hoped so at least and grabbed the fabric, quickly stuffing it over the hole, closing it off to the world.

Slowly she picked up the boxes and placed them back into the closet one at a time, making sure they were in almost the same place as usual. One at a time, tears still dripping down her face. Eventually they were all back, all where they actually belonged. There were too many, it hurt to put them back, to cover up the hole, to hide the letters away fully. It was painful to remove them from herself, to hide them away from the world. But it was necessary, so, so necessary. Because no one could see them until she was gone, until everything had been finished.

Everything was back. Everything was gone. The letters were gone, hidden away. The boxes were gone, back where they belonged. And she was back to the way she always was. Alone. With no one around. And it was scary, and it hurt. But that was why she was doing what she was, sof she wouldn’t be alone any longer and so no one had to worry about her any more.

She sat for a while, staring but not seeing, thinking but not processing her thoughts. Everything was getting to be too much, and it was scary. Lilia broke down now, letting the tears fall heavier than they had before, collapsing to the ground, crying, no idea what she was doing.  Nothing was right, oohing was ever right, nothing would ever be right. Never.

 

If you’ve read all of that, thank you. It you’re reading this I need to say that I may not post again this week because we’ve got exams and the bad news may get worse over the course of the week and I therefore may not feel up to posting. But we’ll see how it goes.

Also, if you’re still reading, I updated my about page, so go check that out!!!

see you in the next post!

emily xo

I’m Scared  |  How To Study  |  Most Likely To