I just wrote a 4 page, analytic essay that rips apart the terribly written romantic subplot of a YA boys' fantasy adventure series. I'm going to use to make a video out of, because I WILL NEVER GET OVER THE EMOTIONAL WHIPLASH. Should I, or should I not name the series? I never attack the author. I just pick apart the writing. Very passionately. idk give me your opinion?

You have the right to say whatever you want to. If you feel you can handle it, you could say it. I mean, if you’re picking apart the writing, won’t anyone who knows the series recognize it anyway?

Today one if my professors said my writing reminded him of something wise, like something Jane Austin would write. I am a science-fiction/fantasy writer and this compliment is the highlight of my career this far.

good for you! 

When you have an feeling in your heart which is aching all the time the outburst feeling makes every one a writer in their unique way

A thousand times agree.



I said I was going to draw

I said I was going to draw

it didn’t happen

a novel 

I said I was going to write

I said I was going to write

it didn’t happen

not a novel

so... like... what IS your personal
Ah, okay, thank you. :)

No problem.

How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh? TEN TICKLES.


Your personal page says, and I quote: "if you still see this, message me and tell me to get my shit together and fix my links."


Why are people talking about what kind of music they listen to again? I missed that post. :/

this was the post [link]

Are you really that shallow?


Writer’s Block

In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

i usually listen to folk/alternative on pandora, like mumford and sons or phillip phillips. been fond of imagine dragons latey though. and owl city tends to get my brain going too. also, instrumental soundtracks from like narnia or pirates, or some of the disney movies.

our music taste is strikingly similar, haha.


WHOA. i was thinking of changing my theme simply because i was bored but i dont think i will anymore cause that’s brought me too much joy.

Author: I've done it!
Author: I've invented the perfect character in almost every way!
Author: She's beautiful! Talented!
Author: She wants to grow up and be able to help others, she wants people to be happy.
Author: Because that's what life should be about! Being happy!
Author: ...
Author: She's dead.
Reader: What?
Author: Yep, she died.
Reader: Wh-..why?
Author: ...
Reader: ...
Author: ...
Reader: *sobs*

This describes some situations perfectly


This describes some situations perfectly

I’m hardly the first to observe that there’s something vaguely treacherous about writers. I sit in a bar in Vegas, drinking good Scotch, puffing on my stogie, watching and listening.

Everyone is there for the purpose of being watched by me. I leach off their lives, judging their clothes, the way they stand and move, their expressions, the way they rock back on their heels, their guarded uncertain faces.. Ah, look at that gesture! Use that. I eavesdrop on their lives. And it all sinks into the substrata of my little writer brain. I invent stories about them. I build their backstories with, I hope, a degree of humility and compassion, but with a degree of cruelty as well.

I reduce them. I define them. I’m not of them, I’m apart, snarky, caustic, using them in my mind. I’m a tick. It does them no harm, they don’t know I’m parsing their lives.

I don’t write, you know. Some guy who lives in my head writes. I just set the table for him. I feed him. Sometimes he does what I ask, and sometimes he goes away. So I show him pictures and hope to get his attention. And then, like today, he appears and says, Here you go, Michael, here’s your book. This is the story. See how it makes sense now? See how fucking easy that was?

This is exactly why for so long I resisted becoming a writer. I knew that was the deal, that I would be a step out of phase, not be part of but apart from. Like I was ever part of. Like I wasn’t always this person, this lurker. Yeah.

I’m a fucking alien, an anthropologist. None of these people becomes a character in my books, they just feed data to the algorithm. I drink and watch and steal an expression here, a clothing choice there, a strong tanned leg, a pale face, a sigh, a too-loud laugh. I think of a funny line. I whip out my laptop. Idea: tattoos that reveal souls. Idea: The old feasting on the meories of the young.

It’s been done? Hmmm.

In my headphones I’m listening to an audio book about WW2, and those guys, those dead men are part of the algorithm, too. See, I’m trying to understand. Understand and use for profit. I’m the NSA without the high-flown motives. Show me something so I can use you. Let me pick you apart. I want to read your emails because maybe a phrase or a picture or a concept or a description will be useful. Maybe it will convince the other guy in my head to write.

I’m looking for one small, true thing. Why? damned if I know. I don’t even like people. It’s almost 1 AM, and I note the bartender still shakes his drinks with vigor. I know he’s tired because I’ve been that guy. Who cares?

Vegas. Everyone else forcing hilarity and me, sullen, watching, laying offerings at the feet (does he have feet?) of the other guy, praying, help me write the fucking story.

Author, Michael Grant- Facebook Post: 8-10-13