writing — Page 5

Aug 04 2014

The River Update

riverwolfe Although I’m a little behind my self-imposed deadlines because of health issues, we’re still on track for the end of the month for River‘s re-release. The only thing left for me to buy will be the paperback books to ship to contributors (which might end up being early September instead of late August).

So, River Resurrection contributors: an email will go out likely this week with a link to a form telling me what e-format you want River in and other stuff I need to fulfill campaign perks at the end of the month. Thank you for your patience.

The tour has a bunch of stops scheduled–if you have a blog and want me to visit, get in contact with Mel ASAP. These are just guest posts and interviews (if any come up), that’s it, and I have a lot of posts to write so the sooner the better. Tour dates are August 25 – August 29. There’ll be a swag prize pack up for grabs that week as well.

There’s a River site set up, or at least the bare bones of one, that’s a central hub of all things River-related, including tour links. On Monday, August 18 (in theory), I’ll start posting a chapter a day of the book for the week until the tour/release date for seven chapters total. Everything will be linked up there.

Finally, there is a…60% chance of a short story that’ll be included at the end of River. It basically depends on whether I’ll have time to write it, but it’ll be Daryl-POV and set during the novel’s timeline. I might also do one to include with Wolfe set about ten years after the end of the duology. I also might not, but the idea’s there tickling my brain and I usually listen to that.

I think that’s it for updates. I made the mistake of eating today and now I think I’m dying, so I’m going to lie down for a few hours because this is my life now. More updates coming in a few weeks!

Mar 10 2014

Why I Write the Terrible Things I Write

photo credit: Leanne Surfleet via photopin cc

This post came from this essay in the sense there were a few lines I’ve heard repeatedly in a lot of conversations over the years, which got me thinking on these topics, but it’s not a response to said essay. So while I may be using it as a jumping off point as it’s the most recent time I’ve read these sorts of comments, it’s not about that other post and if you have problems with that essay, it’s best to take it to the original site in question.

[Rape]’s a part of our entertainment. Of course Top of the Lake or The Killing didn’t spare me from the gory details of their fictional gang-rapes. Why would they? We’re used to this. We aren’t horrified anymore because it happens so fucking often. Women are victimized, women are victimized, women are victimized. Bodies chopped up. Invaded. Buried. The end. Tune in next week. There is an entire Law and Order series dedicated to sexual crimes. We tune in to watch it with a tacit acceptance. A sigh. Yes, this happens. What a shame. We shrug and watch and feel better that fictional justice is meted out, but don’t worry about the fact that no one helped her in the moment.

This is, I think, a valid criticism worth a lot of discussion. Some authors have come out over the past few years to say no, in their fiction, their heroines will not experience rape. Yes it’s part of life for many, yes it happens in the “real” world, but it doesn’t have to happen in their fictional worlds. They are going to tell stories full of conflict and not have their heroines raped because it’s such a shortcut, an easy way to give a woman a painful backstory or explain a prickly personality.

Again, valid. I respect the hell out of that. That choice is no more wrong than my choice not to maim kittens in my books or another writer’s choice not to harm fictional children.

But I am coming out to say the opposite.

You write a lot of books, you start to notice themes you come back to again and again. I keep coming back to betrayal, self-reliance vs accepting help, self-harm and self-loathing, abandonment, the capacity to commit violence, insanity. I’ll probably continue writing those subjects. And for the foreseeable future, I will continue to write about sexual assault. Sometimes as part of backstory, sometimes in the novels themselves. Not every hero or heroine, not every female character, not in every book. But it will be ever-present in my fiction and it will never be off the table.

I am just as tired as others of seeing sexual violence, in particular (but not exclusively) against women, be treated as exploitative, titillating, and lazy storytelling. I’ve been really hurt by these depictions by authors who didn’t bother to understand the psychology of different survivors, or who treated sexual assault as a plot device with no consideration of realistic consequences. But I think the two responses–one of not having a heroine assaulted and one of approaching assault with care and nuance–are both valid and dovetail one another’s efforts to combat rape culture.

I write these stories, in short, because I need to. And I know others need to read them.

I wrote this post specifically because someone very close to me was molested as a child by a family member and to this day no one will talk about it with her. Her family won’t acknowledge it. She was repeatedly silenced as a young woman when she tried to come forward in an effort to protect another child, and when leaving an abusive marriage as an adult in the 70s, she was once again silenced. And the more I listened to her, the more I realized how often she’d been shut down and no one had said those very simple words–I believe you–because it made them uncomfortable to acknowledge it, the more determined I became to tell these stories and explore all facets of being a survivor.

The survivors who fight back.

The survivors who don’t.

The survivors who learn to be okay again.

The survivors who continue to struggle years later.

The survivors in denial.

The survivors who become self-destructive.

The survivors who are believed.

The survivors who are blamed.

The criticisms of, say, a show like Law & Order: SUV are understandable. My heart goes out to those who cannot stomach it and find it triggering. But there is no denying the number of survivors who find it cathartic–those who watched an experience start similar to their own but play out in a way where the victim was believed, where authorities fought for him or her. That catharsis is just as important and valid for them as the choice not to watch those stories.

Choosing to view or write these stories, to utilize them in order to help process and heal, and to safely explore in a self-controlled setting a subject that is about having control taken away, is valid and important.

My characters exist in worlds where sexual violence is a real, sometimes experienced threat, just like I and others in my life do. But unlike ours, these fictional worlds allow me to go beyond and show more. Men who force women aren’t romanticized. Consent matters. Survivors are believed and their experiences are validated. Wounds scar but heal. Assaulting and being assaulted has consequences. Characters find strength even when they’re bruised, broken, and betrayed. In stories, despite it being a fictional account, I can say in the text that I believe you. I believe this thing happened to you, and I’m sorry, and the world isn’t always fair to people who have been through that but you have and will continue to survive.

These are stories I still need to tell and to explore. What happened to Zara in Exhumed and how she continued to deal with it in Damaged was a story of hers I needed to tell and something I needed to explore. The other books of mine on my harddrive you’ve not read but that deal with these subjects are areas I needed to explore.

I just handed a book to my beta reader with a scene where a woman who has survived previous intimate partner violence fought back during an attempted date rape. It was difficult and ugly and a scene that would likely trigger people. I had to get drunk to write it. It still makes me queasy. But the story needed it, the character needed it, and I needed it. I needed that moment when she decides not to be frozen, or passive, or “nice” for once in her life; I needed the moment she faces the terror of saying “This is not okay” when it’s been ingrained in her to just lie back and accept; I needed the moment when she fights back; I needed the moment when she realizes that has just as many consequences as not fighting back. And as she says in the current WIP:

“They get away with it. They have everything. And I have to live with it. The times I didn’t fight back and the time I did. Every goddamn day, I live with it.”

My books will (likely) always explore what it means to live with it.

Above entertainment and to make a living, I write to give myself strength. I write to change the things that happen to me and others. I write to explore the people I know I’m not and the people I’m afraid I am. I write to process and to understand; I write for catharsis; I write to express trauma and transmute reality. I write to give the darkness in me a place to go. I write to have and to give hope. And I write what I write because it’s necessary for me to survive.

I have nothing but respect for those who don’t want to live with it in fiction when they already do in their real lives, and who provide stories without rape. Many readers need that.

But no matter how weary the subject can make me, no matter how tired I am of this reality, I can’t. And it’s okay if my books aren’t for you because of that. I write for those who, for whatever reason, need these stories to be told.

I write stories about terrible things because I need to tell them.

———–

Note: This was a difficult thing for me to post. Behave in the comments.

Mar 01 2014

Then There Was That Time I Finished Frankenovel

I finally, finally, FINALLY finished a workable draft of Odin’s Spear (Livi #2).

Also known on Twitter as “Frankenovel.”

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Why? Because it was sewn together with parts. Out of order. I never write like this, ever. I write linear because writing those moments I want LATER are incentive to finish the hard slog, plus even when I know how a book is going to end (Exhumed), the entire tone can shift by the time I get there after I’ve filled in all the gaps. But this book? With this book, I was so eager to grasp a hold of ANY writing I might love, I just gave myself permission to write whatever I fucking wanted to because my words were broken and I was miserable.

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The results were disastrous, but, though it’s taken over a year (A YEAR, OMG A YEAR–I normally write a book in 2-8 weeks), the book is NOW DONE.

Of course, this is mostly due to recent MAGIC THAT HAPPENED. The magic being I wrote 23K of Shiva’s Bow in just over a week and was in HEAVEN. And I decided I really should finish the second book before continuing, so that when #3 is done, my beta will be ready for it. Odin’s Spear was fleshed out, gaps filled in, and sent to my beta before midnight last night. This draft came in at 96K. I’m hoping I’ll get a good second draft ready for my mum to read in May.

Oh god, it’s ugly. No structure, the pacing is off, there are inconsistencies, and a bunch of tertiary characters don’t have names. This is not a pretty baby. It’s misshapen and lumpy and likely no one loves it but me, but I’m trusting the beta to see the potential for beauty, like the unpopular girl in the movie who just needs a new dress and to take off her glasses for everyone to realize she’s gorgeous.

Except this girl’s gonna need a bit more work done. But she’ll get there.

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This is the twenty-sixth full-length novel I’ve finished. Which could seem odd considering how few books by comparison I have published. Why is that? Do they all suck? Rejected by everyone?

Honestly…I hoard manuscripts.

A lot of projects I really love, I like to hang onto for a while (I have four books of a five book YA series entirely complete and no one but my betas have seen them). I see new writers eagerly querying everything they write and though it’s great to find homes of all your books, the thing no one tells you about being published is how wonderful it feels BEFORE that when the book and world is just yours. I love my work being read, I love connecting with readers, but it does take a toll on me and my mental health sometimes. It’s nice being able to work on books in a series without people requesting pirated copies; it’s nice being able to write something because I WANT to rather than because I feel obligated to; it’s nice just sharing the work with people I trust. So I decided early in the new year I needed to focus on joy again for a few months and not on selling something, which means more manuscript hoarding.

My preciouses.

I hope one day you get to read these books. But for now, I’m going to pick up some celebratory pizza, savor this feeling, and take a few days off before jumping back into the third book.

Bloody hell, it’s good to feel like myself again.

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Feb 14 2014

It’s That Time of Year Again

Happy Valentine’s Day!

I’m spending the day with my significant other, the muse. All day. No exceptions; I don’t care if you’re bleeding from the head, it’s Me and The Story and nothing else. I’ll be at the pub having great locally brewed beer and nachos, and sharing the date internationally is my friend Mel, who will be writing at her local pub as well (in theory, except her town is having a “state of emergency” because they ran out of rock salt and can’t just use dirt on the roads because apparently they hate fun and want her to stay home).

photo credit: MikeBehnken via photopin cc

I’m working on Shiva’s Bow (Livi #3) and having more fun than I have possibly had writing anything ever. Or at least in the past year and a half. It takes place in Nepal and I am just in love with the locale, in love with the characters, in love with EVERYTHING. I write a little bit every night, trying not to push it, easing back into things. The book is likely not very good at this point (zero draft, hello) because I’ve already fubared the timeline for getting into Jomsom, and I think I need another chapter before the flight. But I feel like me. Me. I haven’t felt like myself in…longer than I’d care to admit, though technically I just did. I’m 17K into the novel and enjoying every goddamn second of it. I am even looking forward to the middle slog when I traditionally HATE IT, but there will still be, somewhere, that part of me rejoicing because the story has taken shape, it’s in the driver’s seat, and I am doing precisely what I was made for.

To the *counts* three (four, if my mother reads this) people who know these books, and the rest of you who want a lil something for Valentine’s Day, here’s some Livi and West for you. (It’s long. Sorry. BUT I LOVES IT. And this is as close as I get to romance. Also, if there are typos, bite me.)

——–

I set the flashlight on the nightstand between the beds, balancing it on its end so it shone freely up at the ceiling and gave the room enough of a glow that I could see. Puddles of rainwater tracked across the floor, glistening in the low light. I kicked my shoes off, stripped my hoodie off so I could maneuver better. It landed with a wet splotch on the floor.

West was awake, at least, his head moving, lips mumbling, but even with the light I couldn’t make out his features, his face dark with blood.

Assess injuries. Think clearly.

I leaned over him. “West?” My fingers touched his jaw, drawing two lines through the slick blood. I returned to my bag, found the scissors, and sliced through his pullover, then his T-shirt, and pulled the pieces off to cast them on the floor. No blood anywhere else so I left his khakis as-is. My hands moved swiftly over his torso, touching chilled skin that had gone pale, finding no other injuries. I pressed down on his ribs but he didn’t take in a sharp breath, no heat radiated abnormally, and nothing felt broken.

Steps behind me. I shuffled back, awkward in my soaked jeans, water squishing between my toes. Pulaski carted a bucket of water, Thomas had the towels. I wasn’t sure how clean the water would be but West could fight infection—right now I just wanted to see how badly he was hurt.

I took the towels, turned my back to them, knelt at the head of the bed and took the first towel to wipe down his face. Blood came off, dark on white. Pulaski set the bucket next to me, and I soaked another towel, used it to wipe what remained of the blood.

The wound was along his right temple and up, past the hairline. Skin was darkening with a bruise that would be quite colorful in a few days.

Wet towel down. Another clean dry towel in hand, pressed against the wound. I counted the seconds in the silence, my heart beating hard, knocking against my ribcage. The men behind me weren’t breathing, just staring, their focus heavy upon me. I generally thought of West as their employer, but in the tense silence, I realized, then, that he was a friend.

I peeled the towel back. No new blood.

A breath of relief left me and I set aside the towel. “West?” Fingers trailing from his temple to his jaw, turning his head toward the glow of the flashlight on the nightstand. “West?”

His hand suddenly clasped mine, eyes fighting and eventually focusing on my own. “I’m okay,” he croaked.

My shoulders sagged, emotion crashing into me hard enough that I would’ve toppled over if I’d been standing. I sucked air into my lungs but it wasn’t enough, relief more terrifying than actual fear had been.

Laurel cleared her throat. “I’ve got the first aid kit.”

He looked over my shoulder at her, his voice clearer this time. “I’ll take it.”

When his eyes swung back my way, I looked to the side, wiggled my fingers from his. Fell back onto my ass and scrambled onto my feet, soaked socks and the hems of my jeans dragging. He was fine, at least for the moment until I could check for a concussion. I needed to get cleaned up.

Thomas and Pulaski moved past me to speak to him, Laurel started over with the first aid kit but paused as I grabbed a fist of clothes from my overnight bag. Her hand gently clasped my arm, dark eyes met mine, one brow raised in question and her voice low. “You okay?”

I didn’t trust my voice, instead nodding and ducking past her for the attached bathroom.

Belatedly I realized I’d left the flashlight behind, but they needed it more than I did. I partially shut the door, let my eyes adjust with the vague light from the window. It had to be, what, no earlier than nine in the morning, but the sky was black, the rain blurring the landscape into layers of slate gray. This monsoon wasn’t normal and I longed to ask West what the hell was up.

West.

It slammed into me, then, everything I’d put on hold while autopilot took over. I’d been in enough situations now that it was a natural reaction, the hyperawareness and immediate action of an emergency. I didn’t really think about his body there in the street, about all the blood, about the terror of being in a moment knowing the world was on the verge of tipping sideways and nothing would ever be okay again.

But now the emergency was taken care of, and he was okay, and tears rose because I wasn’t.

I held my breath, blinked against the burning in my eyes. The voices in the other room were white noise, steady like the rain beating the windows and roof above. I stripped off my wet T-shirt, jeans. Left them hanging over the tub. Dried off swiftly, tried to soak up rainwater from the long rope of my braid that swung heavily against my back.

But I was shaking. Badly. The starch left my legs and I sank onto the closed lid of the toilet, holding the towel over my face as my chest shook with sobs I failed to hold back.

Pru’s voice from last week repeated in my head: If it’s not going anywhere, just tell him that.

I could not make that claim any longer.

The voices in the other room continued, shadows moving across the floor through the ajar door as they stepped in front of the flashlight. I breathed in the stink of rainwater, scrubbed at my face until it was hot and raw but my eyes were no longer crying. A long breath through my nose sounded like a sniffle, loud in the bathroom but likely unheard by the others. I’d grabbed dark yoga pants and a tank top, and I slipped both on.

Laurel was gone when I returned to the bedroom. Thomas and Pulaski were on the way out with the bloody towels and bucket of water; the former met my gaze and nodded, the latter thrust his thumb over his shoulder at West with a, “Watch him,” warning.

They shut the door. I took a deep breath and turned back to West.

The flashlight was shifted on the nightstand to make room for the open first aid kit. His pants hung over the end of the bed, shoes were gone, and remaining towels were over the sheets now with one cutting over his lower half; any repeated jokes about his perpetual pantslessness died before they could form, though. He held a gauze-covered cold pack his temple, lying flat still on the bed. Some of his coloring had come back, his skin not the usual healthy bronze but not quite as pallid, and his black hair was partially dry, sticking up in all directions. His pale blue eyes started up at the ceiling, chest rose and fell with calm steady breaths.

I lowered myself wearily onto the bed opposite his, the small room pressing down on my shoulders as I struggled to find something to say.

West solved that problem for me. “You’re an idiot.”

I blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Do you have some mental deficiency that makes you do the opposite when I tell you to get to safety?”

“You got hit with a roof.”

“I’ll live.”

“Yes, because I came back for you. You got hit with a roof.”

“Because I was busy buying you time to get to safety.”

I chewed savagely at the inside of my mouth, already calculating the distance to my guns before I realized it. Jesus Christ, it took seconds to remember why I usually wanted to shoot him in the face. “Let’s talk about that. What, you control wind now, tiger-boy?”

Nothing.

“You need to start talking to me. What the hell are you, West?”

Silence ticked on. He wouldn’t look at me, and as tension mounted and throttled the air, I expected a hasty exit on his part before he opened his mouth.

Then: “I don’t know.”

That knocked my anger sideways and I simply stared at him. “You…don’t know.”

He set the cold pack aside, continued starting upward which presented me with only his profile and no view of the wound. “I watched my brother executed when I was eight—and you need to stop looking at me like that while I’m saying this.”

I blinked, closed my mouth. My expression was likely one of abject terror, brain adjusting to this causal mention of a relative’s death. I licked my dry lips, swallowed a lump in my throat, and tried to remain composed.

Silence stretched for a moment. There was a delay, now, between the thunder and lightning, but the rain didn’t cease.

“And that was when the change first happened. After Dong-yul was shot, we were to stone his corpse. I reached for a rock and my hand was a tiger’s paw.” His voice was smooth and steady, speaking of this horrific thing with the casualness I’d use for talking about grocery shopping. “It didn’t exactly come with a manual, and since I had to hide what I was or be killed for it, there was no one I could ask.”

It was the most he’d ever said about Korea—and the prison camp where I knew he’d been born—in the ten months I’d known him. And my normal curiosity was silent, brain knowing full well that I did not want more details.

West said nothing more. He didn’t need to.

I blinked, my eyes dry and itchy. Stood, my body screaming with each movement as the strains and bruises sustained from escaping the monsoon came to life. I rifled through the first aid kit. “Do you need stitches?”

“No.”

Whether that was “No, for real” or “No, I’m a manly man and I don’t need your silly sutures”, I had no idea and didn’t ask. If he wants to risk it opening and bleeding to death, he’d welcome to.

Even the thought felt like a lie, though.

I snapped closed the box’s lid, sat on the edge of the bed, and reached for the flashlight. “I’m going to check for a concussion.”

He caught my hand before it made contact with the flashlight, drew it back to my side. And didn’t let go. “I don’t have a concussion.”

“I know you have a thick skull but you were hit by a roof.”

“Half of one, I remember that much.” Blue eyes found mine, sharp and awake, the lucidity a relief but terrifying as I couldn’t escape him. “I’ve had concussions. This isn’t one.”

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Stupider than not going to the fucking hotel when I told you to?”

I sighed. And didn’t dislodge my hand, still grateful to feel his warm, strong grip after not being certain I ever would again. “What was the first thing you learned about me in Ethiopia?”

“That you’re a pain in the ass.”

“Besides that.” I waited but he said nothing. The tension in the air had shifted, not quite so oppressive now but crackling with electricity. “No one on my team is expendable and I don’t leave people behind.”

“We’re a team now?”

We’re something, I just don’t know what to call it yet. “Apparently, since I can’t get rid of you.”

“You’re not trying very hard.”

I ignored him with an annoyed purse of my lips, leaned over with the elbow of my free hand gently braced on his chest, and tilted his face to the side so I could get a good look at the wound. The ugly dark gash hadn’t reopened. Swelling wasn’t bad, though mottled bruises had bloomed on his flesh. He’d heal quickly. Not super magical fast, but swifter than me. I dragged my fingers gently over the damaged skin, my other hand still locked in his.

“You could’ve left me to drown,” I reminded him, heart hammering hard as I met his eyes. “Me injured, one air tank, collapsing cave. Anyone else would’ve left me to drown.”

“If you were anyone else, Olivia, I would’ve.”

The air seemed sucked right from the room, like I couldn’t breathe if I tried. He reached up, trailed his calloused fingertips from my temple to my jaw, watching me with a look that brought sudden gooseflesh to my bare arms.

And while the very rational part of my brain—that just days ago had discussed for the millionth time with my best friend how I couldn’t trust West—still existed, it grew quiet, and want rose in its place. Stupid, irresponsible, throw-caution-to-the-wind, holy-fuck-the-landing’s-gonna-hurt want.

But even when every fiber of my being wanted to take a leap of faith, instinct forced a retreat.

I started to sit up, gaze darting away, but his strong hands tugged me forward again. My head hit his chest and his arms came over me. Warm. Powerful. Safe. And I let them. Because it was scarily natural, secure no matter how that little voice rose up and said it wasn’t, and he was alive. I was probably still in shock, but I didn’t care, instead resting my ear over his heart and letting him hold me.

“You fall, I fall,” I whispered, repeating his words to me from months ago. “So don’t leap if you don’t want me to come after you.”

West said nothing, and we listened to the continuing beat of rain as the rest of the morning wore on.

(It’s one of the THEME songs.)

——–

Whether you read it or skipped it, have a lovely day. I hope you have someone you would throw your pie for.

Feb 06 2014

The Shop Launch and Writing Joy

So I moved my design site over here. It’s using Genesis and a portfolio child theme, with an integrated shop, and I adore it.

Whether or not the shop actually works remains to be seen. But for the month of February, you can save 10% on all down payments (currently booking March clients) and pre-made cover by entering the code lauch10 at checkout, and if you do, let me know how it goes for you. I might experiment with other coupons and try something for the pre-made romance covers around February 14 (if I remember). Speaking of, there are a couple of new pre-mades here.

If the kinks seem to be worked out, I’ll probably integrate a shop at my main site as well and start selling eBooks directly here. Not that I get a lot of traffic but another sales option is always a good thing.

Work is going well–nearly all caught up after my week spent in bed (let’s not do that again, okay, brain?), and there’s enough to keep me quite busy this month. I’ve been repeating the mantra, “One thing at a time” all week and step by step, the to-do list is getting shorter. Speaking of, if you’ve sent me an email about something and I’ve not replied in a few weeks, poke me because it might’ve been lost in the pile here.

Yesterday was…not a good day.

It started when I punched myself in the face waking up. Yes, this is an Actual Thing That Can Happen, at least when you’re me and you’re fumbling for your alarm as it blares Kenyan EDM at you. Then the dog was sick (still is, but I think she’s getting over it), and the cats were fighting constantly which resulted in me having to break up a fight every half hour.

Then I’ve a friend going through serious health stuff at the moment, and though I’ve found myself surprisingly calm and rational about it, apparently my brain is just starting this cool new thing called DELAYED REACTION TO STRESSORS. So yesterday, brain was all, Oh, you think all is well? Let me tell you something:

And then I turned into a ball of worry.

Obsessive, downward-spiraling thoughts are kind of a thing with me, so I nipped that in the bud by saying fuck it to everything and eating Doritos and cleaning and taking the dog out every hour, because my focus on anything else was just totally fucked.

Then this rather remarkable thing happened.

I wrote words. Just…there was the book, third in a series I have in progress, and it was talking, and I wasn’t scared it wasn’t going to come out right or hit a wall or anything.

Joy. It was JOY. I haven’t felt this comfortable and joyful and pressure-free since I wrote Exhumed late 2011. I shouldn’t say anything, in case it up and disappears on me again. My natural inclination is to Analyze Everything, and I’m trying not to do that here.

But despite four hours of sleep last night, I feel refreshed today. My mind feels settled. I feel like myself again. The book was on my mind when I woke up and it’s been there all day. And I whipped through a handful of email today and a flyer design because I can’t wait to go back and play in the book after dinner.

I am certain of very, very few things in the universe, except that this feeling of sinking into a world and seeing the people and discovering their lives feels like I’m home.

(Also, there will be KISSING in this book, and by god, I am excited even to write that part.)

(This is their kissing song. Aren’t you jealous of the eventual KISSING I get to write?)

And this is their other song (it’s a Castle/Beckett video, shut up):

(“With broken words I’ve tried to say/Honey don’t you be afraid//If we got nothing we got us“…oh, West. *sigh*)

Later, I get to write PEOPLE DYING and A BATTLE WITH A YETI. OMG I am ecstatic.

I hope it keeps up. Even if it doesn’t, I know it will eventually. That part of me isn’t broken after all.