esmenet: a girl wearing a wide-brimmed hat surrounded by pink fish (pretty in pink fish)
Recently, I noticed that basically all wingfic is about dudes. As usual, I attempt to remedy this.

in which I try and fail to write wingfic: part one )
esmenet: Little!Anthy with swords (Default)
I've gotten myself into something that will probably take several years, lots of research, and plenty of dedication -- which I'm not really sure I have, but let's discuss that later. No, I haven't gotten into a college.

I've started writing a novel.

And of course I'm tearing my hair out now because this is the sort of novel that devolves into a great sprawling mass, gets split up into 321432 books, and eventually goes off the rails completely and turns into gibberish which everyone pretends never happened. HELP.

And by 'started writing' I mean 'have thought up a couple of the key characters (all 2123 billion of them) and am trying to start setting up the background'. Which I can't really do, because I really don't know enough. (Are three major powers enough? What about business conglomerates? Is 'it takes 3 days to get to Mars' really good enough details on FTL transportation?) This is the sort of story that demands politics and intrigue and well-thought-out governmental systems, the kind that I love but really know nothing about writing.

. . . Any research suggestions?

esmenet: Little!Anthy with swords (Default)
For no reason she can tell, she needs to leave. Needs to get out of this building that contains her. She sees no reason why until she is already outside, when something -- something -- sparks inside her and

She runs, runs down the street to find the last patch of dying sunlight where she twirls giddily, laughing hoarse and breathlessly. She looks at the tree-trunk and the ants and spiderwebs on it, and the cracked sidewalk beneath her feet, and the fading, un-spectacular sunset, and realises that each of them is the most wonderful thing she has ever seen. She stubbs her toe on the cracked sidewalk, and laughs again, for even pain is fantastic. The cicadas' buzzing, the plant full of dry dead flowers, her own off-key humming, even the chill evening breeze across her bare arms -- she relishes them, every one, and takes the deepest breaths she can. The world is full of beautiful sights and sounds and scents, and she cannot place why --

And then she does, and laughs again, trying to touch and hold and contain the beauty around her, for she is alive.


I'm not sure if this counts as fiction because it just happened. And I have no idea why.


esmenet: Little!Anthy with swords (Default)

May 2016

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