this blog series is called APADO
i write a post for every single day-o
although the commitment is a little bit frightening
backdate posting is saving my timing
*dum dum dum, dum dum dum, dum dum dum*)
(it’s one o’clock in the morning and i have no idea what to post about and maybe – just maybe – i just want to have some fun tonight. so i apologize in advance.)
I starting writing The Sentinel in July. More specifically, I started building on a little sliver of an idea that had been rattling around in my brain for approximately thirteen hours.
Gotta love pantsers.
What I came out with was a story that
had much more promise than I was used to my stories having
was cohesive enough to be read by outside sources and get a second opinion on
and deserved a sequel.
I left a lot of things unexplained in The Sentinel. It was sort of on purpose – to get into the things I didn’t elaborate on would have taken away the focus that I’m so proud of the story having. So I’m writing a sequel to:
build more on the themes and arcs I set up in the first part
and retrospectively elaborate on some things I brushed over in The Sentinel. I’m not sure if this is the thing I’m supposed to do, but considering that I’m a Fauxthor™ and don’t care, I’m doing it anyways.
Working cover for now:
Working teeny-weeny blurb:
Gwen feels that the faster she runs away from her fears, the taller they seem to loom over her. In an effort to take back what’s rightfully hers, she quests to find her roots, her scars – and perhaps a strength she didn’t know she possessed.
I’m really trying hard not to spoil anything. Hehe. Because the first Sentinel only worked on a basis of being stomach-churningly twisty.
I’m still not sure I’m ready for Nano to begin in four measely days. But I’d love to hear about your Nano projects! Talk my ear off. I’m listening.
(How am I already 2/3 of the way through APADO? It seems like it’s gone by pretty quickly. Who knew that posting once a day would be so much fun?)
(Also I apologize for yesterday’s sorry excuse for a post. I was in a hurry. In fact I didn’t even go through that twice. And I’m really, REALLY regretting that. Hehe.)
I don’t think it’d be fair to say that I “do” photography. Do I like taking pictures? Yes. Do I think about taking photos all the time? No.
Really, the reason I take photos is to create a visual trigger for something I could describe in more detail. Be that a place I really love, or good times with friends and family, that’s the extent of my “love” of photography.
(And then I turn around and take photos for my blog and that has nothing to do with visual triggers. I hate it when I can’t make a reason for something absolute.)
I’ve got a folder called “Lanscapey stuff”. (To say that my file naming system is bizarre is an understatement.) In addition to myriads of blurry photos I can’t decide if I should delete or not, it’s got a lot of my visual triggers in it. Today, I’ve decided to pull ten of those out of the vault and see if I can jar my memory.
Back before I knew how to use a camera, I went to the Grand Canyon and had the opportunity to take the photos of a lifetime.
Unfortunately, hardly any of my pictures turned out to be any good. However, there were a few good shots, like this one.
But do photos really do this place justice? In real life, this place was bigger than any frame. All I could see from one side of the horizon to the other was the canyon, the striped rocks descending down toward the river. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so small.
Icy trees look pretty cool.
I froze my fingers off trying to capture how cool it was. My hot breath hanging in the air, my hands trembling, but a triumphant smile spreading across my red face as I got a shot that looked alright. That was an interesting afternoon.
I took a camping/hiking trip to Caprock Canyons State Park – a ton of my “good” photos are from that trip. The area is really arid, but we heard that there was a cave where a bunch of ferns grew naturally, thanks to a spring and some irrigating rocks. So we hiked to the unimaginatively named Fern Cave.
I was not disappointed.
It was at least ten degrees cooler on the enormous rock I was sitting on – just the thing to cheer up a group of hot, dusty hikers. The constant drip of the water off the edges of the ferns echoed off the sides of the little alcove where they hung, swinging in the breeze, growing despite the desert around them.
And I saw a wild frog for the first time. That was pretty neat.
During that same trip, we got so hot in the afternoon that we decided to go drive around in the car for some relief and some wind through our hair. We wandered down a bunch of country roads and by several farms and ended up finding this relaxing tunnel of scraggly oak trees:
It was so quiet here, I could here my own thoughts.
We also found a dirt road that led out to the middle of nowhere that was sort of anticlimatic but very pictreusque.
I think the most wonderful thing about this photo is that there are absolutely no power lines – just the ribbon of caliche stretching for a good mile and the tawny brush swaying as the wind tickled the top of it.
But to be honest, God’s beautiful creation is everywhere.
Like this gorgeous sunset that painted the sky back home one night. Not even the power lines can spoil this one.
I guess all my good landscapey stuff photos are taken while hiking and camping. Go figure. Needle Rock is a neat natural monument on a Boy Scout ranch in Fort Davis.
Unlike the Grand Canyon, pictures do this one visual justice. But they don’t show the feeling of passing under this spire of twisted rock, the shadow that falls over you as you stare up at it in awe, the sun sparkling from behind it…
Yeah, I swear all my good photos are hiking photos.
My brother had wandered ahead of us when I took this photo. I didn’t realize until I went back through all these photos that he makes this photo eighty times better. A man, walking all alone in the desert while stormclouds loom over him…
…I promise no more camping photos. Hehe.
Sometimes, a new angle changes everything.
These icicles look really neat from the underside. Kind of like teeth, I imagine. What’s even cooler is how the ones on the right are bent from the winter wind blowing them as they melt.
And finally, oleander flowers.
They’re some of the prettiest things out there, and they come from the strangest source. Who would’ve thought that these big, green, lumpy bushes would have nice flowers?
I can’t decide if this was a photography post or a writing post. Maybe it was both.
I suppose I need to start taking my camera more places. Who knows what I’ll find that’ll a visual trigger?
(is-thay is pado-ay, y-may og-blay eries-say at-thay i’m ired-tay of troducing-inay. one ost-pay ery-evay ay-day or-fay the tire-enay onth-may of ober-octay.)
(I’m going to pretend like I actually know what I’m talking about today okay? Okay.)
As I’m sure you’ve heard a million times, a complex character is a good character. One of the ways that authors flesh out characters is by giving them flaws. But I’ve seen time and time again where a character’s flaws aren’t actually flaws. I’m hoping to shed some light on the subject of flawed characters with some examples and a lot of satire.
But are your characters’ flaws actual flaws?
For it to be a flaw, it has to actually have an effect. If your character has anger issues, they have to actually hurt friendships and make things difficult. Because is it really a flaw if it has no impact?
If you say that your character’s flaw is clumsiness, but all their clumsiness does is make them endearing, is that really a flaw? What about dropping the important object and breaking it? Tripping over a sleeping guard’s foot?
When you give your character flaws, make sure they actually have an impact.
(this post marks the halfway mark of apado – the only blog series that I know of that involves posting once a day for the entire month of october and chocolate-covered cactus fruit.)
(okay tess, let’s not rant about this little booger of a book. focus on the calming piano music. the sun’s getting real low.)
(with that in mind, we’re going to keep this brief)
Since I apparently have a knack for triggering people with my thoughts on critically acclaimed works, let’s talk about Great Expectations and everything I dislike about it everything it has taught me about storytelling.
If you like this book, I don’t mean you any offense. You’re totally allowed to like what you like and no one’s stopping you. In fact, I’d like to hear what it was that made this book worth it for you.
But for me?
I was done with it after about chapter four, but for some strange reason, I read the entire thing. Maybe it was a willpower issue.
At the end of everything, I thumped it closed, took a deep breath and said aloud – “I hated everyone and everything in that book and I’m so glad it’s over.” Of course, hate is a very strong word and I try to avoid overusing it…but this was not an overstatement.
There are a few reasons why I was so frustrated with it.
For starters, it’s very verbose. This is the least of its problems, but I kept on losing track of what I was reading because I was distracted by one of his incredibly long sentences. I read that the story was originally published in serial format – a little each week, paid by the word. It shows. The interruptions and rambling made me focus less on the actual story and more on his unorthodox way of saying things.
It also feels kind of creepy. In my opinion, the synopsis on the jacket doesn’t merit the spooky, crumbling-to-pieces setting and tone the book has. Everything is disturbed, off-kilter and missing the spark of vivacity and brightness that most classics have. I don’t like this feeling for the same reason that I don’t like Tim Burton – it creeps me out.
(Can we also talk about how Pip has this huge crush on Estella even though she treats him like a doormat and he knows it? I don’t think that’s flirtatious banter anymore, buddy. I think that’s abuse.)
Romance advice aside, though, the characters were the biggest problem in this story. I had to ponder as to why I was so indifferent toward them, seeing as one of the only good things about this book was the diverse cast. After a while, I finally cracked it.
I hated everything about this book because I didn’t care about any of the characters. Their goals, their ambitions, their expectations…all of it was lost on me because I couldn’t get over their whiny attitudes, intense revenge plots, and so on. There were barely any people in the book that I felt like I could stand behind, and this made everyone’s goals seem pointless.
I guess the thing with Great Expectations is (for me) that the cast fails to complete the goal of every character: to build a connection with the reader and get them hooked into the story. If no one cares about a character, they’re not going to care about their goals, the plot, or the point the novel is trying to make.
This is a really important point that I want to emphasize before I talk any more about character creation. The only way to keep a reader’s interest is to maintain that connection from the page to the real world.
Nothing is as important in storytelling as this.
tl;dr: I have to like your characters to care about your book.
(i’m now two weeks into APADO – a freaky-awesome blog series that has me posting something every single day. it’s been fun. and panic-inducing. and fun.)
(golden rule of blogging: when you’re stuck, go back and look at something you haven’t touched in at least a year. you will have inspiration.)
I guess I had never realized just how much I written until, back in March, I decided to make a cohesive list of everything I’d ever written. It was not a simple task. Instead of just listing my Nanowrimo novels, I dug through my old notebooks and found even the scraps of stories I’d started and abandoned.
Really, I’ve already spoiled how many words that adds up to, but now I have to prove it. Right?
Let’s get into it.
2015’s YWP sorry excuse for a novel was A Falcon of Gold. Also known as the most horrible piece of garbage to grace my writerapp. Somehow 40k words long.
2016’s novel, A Charger In Command, was the equally trashy, but at least not stereotyped. And it was the first Nanowrimo I actually won. 50k words.
I got busy in 2017, starting in April’s camp event with the 15k words of ridiculously confusing narrative entitled The Taiso Senshu. It’s so inchoerent it’s not worth anything, but it was good practice.
July 2017’s camp project was the first one I was actually somewhat proud of, even though it’s just as confusing as the others. The secret is the characters. Brother Robinweighs in at 50k words.
For the actual event in 2017, I wrote up Project Orion, which has promise but is a mess. It’s still on the brain, though, and I may rewrite its not-so-abhorrent 50k words.
I didn’t do any actual writing for this year’s April camp, but in July I wrote a 50k word novel called The Sentinel…which is still missing a scene or two, and honestly I need to fix that.
A Genius In Paradise/Egg Pie: I tried to rip off Counting By 7s, got about 3k words in, and quit. I have it somewhere in my files, but I can’t find where.
The Journeyman is a world-building venture involving anthropomorphic dogs and four books worth of information? I haven’t gotten past 9k words with it – mostly because though it would make a beautiful movie, it makes a horrible book.
These are all the little random stories I’ve ever created. I’m not even going to try to explain them. I’d average that each one is about a thousand words long.
Runaway “Crimple” The Daweseseses Gurks Yearbooks Cierra Leone Detective McPheean Autumn & The Chair (oh this story was weird!) Phreedom Phor Phinn Sonata Island Penney & Mr. Dawson Island-Group-Wreck Grandma’s Tuition Riiin & Rory – The Basement Wild Horses Army Horses Westwood That Tablecloth Skirt RfR Substory
This adds up like so:
255k words from Nanowrimo + 14k words from short stories + 12k words from abandoned stories + ~19k words from little snippet stories in notebooks =
All-time estimate: an even 300,000 words!
I almost can’t believe it. And I’m going to add 50,000 more words to this count next month.
I hope this didn’t come off as bragadocious. Regular posting resumes tomorrow.
(you’re reading APADO, my wittle one-post-a-day-for-a-whole-month series that i somehow haven’t failed yet.)
(a bunch of disclaimers: i’m not a master author, in fact i legit just called myself a fauxthor™ and it’s true. however, i’ve received a lot of praise for the characters i come up with. i’m going to try to ride the line between hoarding the knowledge i have and puffing myself up bigger than a wacky arm-waving inflatable tubeman. let’s hope i don’t step into either too much.)
(and now i’m like “isn’t it a bad thing to doubt myself? but isn’t it also a bad idea to think you know more than you actually do?” hello anxiety, i haven’t missed you but here you are.)
(now let’s turn this into a series)
Characters are an integral part of fiction. Actually, they’re more than half of what storytellers worry about. They can make or break a story, and they often do – which is what we’re going to take a look at today.
Trigger warning: my preferences are weird. Even if you don’t agree with everything I say, please be nice about it.
I recently sat down and watched Interstellar.
Let me first preface this by saying that I’m not a scientific person and only understood about 52% of this film’s dialogue. There was a lot of infodumping, which I’m not a fan of.
(quick, poorly-written plot rundown for anyone who hasn’t seen the movie: earth is dying and no one’s sure how to fix it. cooper, our main character, is alarmed that his daughter’s bedroom seems to be alive – there are morse code patterns in the dust in the floor, books falling off the shelf in morse code messages, etc. they say pretty much two things: a set of map coordinates and the word “stay”. visiting the map coordinates reveals the secret location of nasa’s last base and the main plot: earth is about to become really uninhabitable and cooper, due to his experience as a fighter pilot, will be needed to help execute one of the two plans. “plan a” is to relocate all of earth’s population to another planet. “plan b” is to leave the population to die and take 700 new embroyos to a new planet to start a new colony and save humanity. all the characters are on different sides of this ethical question. cooper and his team fly off into space to have a look at some planet prospects. long story short, nothing looks good and everything’s sad and we lose one of the crew members. they’re running out of fuel, too. in order to get to the last chance of a planet, cooper volunteers to go off into the black hole that’s messing with the time of everything and honestly i didn’t catch how all of this is working because infodumps. once in the blackhole (which somehow works as like a time sphere/way to communicate with the past and future?) cooper realizes that this was a horrible idea and he should never have come and tries to tell his past self to “stay” (books coming off the shelves and stuff). i have no idea what happened here. murph is grown up now and gets stuff going back on earth because he can also somehow communicate with her through this watch that he gave her. everyone evacuates, somehow they rescue cooper, cooper learns that his female friend went to start that embroyo colony on the last planet and that she’s all alone and vows to go rescue her. THE END.)
I was extremely disappointed at the end of it. I was expecting this movie to be amazing – it’s Christopher Nolan, for crying out loud. Though I will give it props for its amazing visual effects, terrific music, and interesting take on the “end-of-the-world” idea, it commits a sin that makes me never want to see it again: blank, thin characters.
Now, I understand that I am not the target audience for this film (it’s very popular in the nerdy, scientific circles) but this is a problem that could have been fixed with just a little more time and a little less word salad.
Yes, they have a few motivations and remotely memorable personalities, but they don’t seem to do anything. Things are happening all around them, and they react to them, but their reactions are the only thing they’re giving to the movie. The black hole, the space travel, the time discrepancies and the emergencies push out the characters and take over the plot.
And we never answer the big ethical question this movie asks (save the living or start over?) because the characters don’t have enough screentime or enough depth to make a choice. They’re weak, passive, and almost forgettable.
I could have loved this movie if the characters had been given more time of day. It was visually beautiful, sported terrific world-building, had a larger-than-life stake, and would have made an amazing point if they had gotten around to answering their ethical question. They didn’t answer the question because the characters were too weak to form a good opinion.
Interstellar was a frustrating movie because the characters weren’t allowed to lead the plot.
Now, an example of a horrible plot with terrific characters: Thor: The Dark World.
(Please lower your stones.)
This is a hated movie. This is a weird movie. This is one of the “worst” Marvel movies in the entire franchise, and yet I enjoyed it way more than I should have. Its merit is with one thing and one thing only: the characters.
(quick plot rundown: there’s this creepy alien liquid virus called the aether, unleashed in some ancient battle, and it’s super gimmicky and the sole reason why this movie is weird. after the events of everything in all the movies leading up to this in the MCU, loki’s being imprisoned for invading earth, thor is trying to make peace in what’s going to be his new kingdom, and jane foster, his girlfriend, is really wishing he were around more often. there’s going to be a cool cosmic convergence thing happening, which will make people be able to travel between the nine realms and meet eachother, yay. a portal has already appeared in a warehouse. although jane and darcy don’t know where it leads to, it definitely takes things places. jane, without realizing it, follows a similar portal and gets infected with the aforementioned space virus, the aether…and it really doesn’t make sense. meanwhile, back on asgard, heimdall, everyone’s favorite gatekeeper/living nest camera tells thor that he can’t see where jane is anymore, prompting him to go to earth to find her. he finds her, she’s full of aether juice, and it’s not good. we learn that the aether is connected to this creepy pale dude named malekith who plans to take over the nine realms…or something. he wants the aether cuz it’s apparently able to be weaponized. he attacks asgard looking for it, because thor brought jane there, and frigga, thor’s mother, dies protecting her. malekith and his dudes are barely repulsed. thor has a plan, and it’s a hairbrained scheme, really, but it just might work and it’s all they can do. with the help of loki (who thor convinces to help him based on frigga’s death), the warriors three, sif (who’s causing tension because she’s romantically interested in thor), and jane, thor goes to try to find and stop malekith. which he sort of does. thor and loki trick him into getting the aether out of jane, but they fail to destroy it and loki dies (well, he doesn’t really, but we don’t know that yet). the aether isn’t in jane anymore (?) but it’s now roosting in malekith. the convergence is imminent. the warehouse portal apparently led to the place where they were, so thor and jane (minus loki and everyone else) go to earth to try to beat malekith, who’s planning to unleash the aether while the convergence thing is going on and so destroy all the worlds. they have a big fight, thor beats him up, he gets crushed by his own ship and dies, the aether is contained in an infinity stone and stashed away, problems have been solved and yay life is good until the next thor adventure, which i didn’t like but oh well. THE END.)
Yes, we have a similar weird space-themed plot with confusing element (what exactly does the Aether do again?) and word salad. Yes, we have a movie almost devoid of anything good. It’s the exact opposite of Interstellar: the plot is horribly paced and confusing, yet… I liked it. And I certainly wasn’t the only one.
It’s obvious now that the main difference between Interstellar and Thor: The Dark World lies in the characters. In T:TDW, the characters are actively driving the story, despite the Convergence-thing being out of their control. They’re going after the cosmic liquid space virus. They’re reluctantly teaming up.
In fact, most of the conflict is character-centered, despite this movie’s overly-massive stakes. This doesn’t make it any less confusing, but it makes it infinitely more likable.
If the characters had been reactive, this movie would be utter trash. It still kind of is. But the characters bring it from a -70 to a 5/10.
yes, I just praised Thor: The Dark World and trashed Interstellar:
If your characters are flat, uncompelling, and make no choices of their own, they can take your A+ amazing plot and turn it into something without a soul.
If your characters are well-rounded, decisive, and bounce well off eachother, you can take something confusing and weird and make it mostly enjoyable (even if it’s still confusing and weird.)
A story is only as good as the people who are making it happen. As an author, the very worst thing you can do is just make them react to what’s going on.
(you’re reading APADO – a post a day, october – a self-inflicted blogging challenge that i’m kind of regretting but kind of not.)
I think it’s safe to say that I’m a veteran journaller. I’ve been writing every single night since I was about ten. Even though I’ve thrown away my first eight journals (it was a horrible idea and I regret it so much), I keep count like I still have them, which puts me on working on #14.
I’ve often stopped and wondered what it is that keeps me journalling. I don’t write anything groundbreaking, it keeps me up for fifteen extra minutes, and I’m the only one who’s reading them. Isn’t that a waste of time and effort?
But if it’s such a waste, why am I still doing it?
After my most recent self-debate about this, I came up with some reasons – and some thoughts about journalling in general.
It’s therapuedic. There’s something relaxing about getting your thoughts out on paper – maybe it’s just that we humans love to write about ourselves. Whatever the reason is, I’ve found that it’s fun and soothing.
It helps create a healthy bedtime routine. I’m lucky to not have any sleep problems, even when I’m travelling. I think it has something to do with my journal. When I open it up, it triggers my brain to calm down. And calmness, especially with how busy my life is right now, is something I could use a whole lot more of.
They’re fun to go back and read later. Not only do they remind you of exactly what you were thinking back then, but it’s also hilarious to see what you used to think was cool – or abhorrent. Trust me, I know.
You have to write a bestseller every night. Absolutely not. A journal is an intimate, private thing. Since no one will be reading it but yourself anyways, it’s more important to write frequently and truthfully.
It has to look pretty. Pintrest and inspirational blogs make it easy to think that looks are a must. Yes, it’s nice to have an aesthetic journal, but it doesn’t have to look good to be important. In fact, I’ve found that trying to make my journal look nice tires me out instead of relaxing me.
You can’t write about stupid stuff. Um, yes you can. This is your personal book. There are no rules about what you can or can’t write about.
Tips for better entries:
Write about what happened, not what’s going to happen. Writing about future plans can make you sound like a Burma-shave sign. Ten more days until x! Nine more days until x! It’s best to stick to the present and write about things when they actually happen. (Y’all have no idea how much I struggle with this.)
If you’re stuck, write song lyrics. They’re a good reflection of your mood that day, and they don’t take much effort. Another bonus: later, you can see what music you liked back then.
Don’t be afraid to be a little crazy. Crazy is fun. In the mood to write a stupid poem? Do it. Feeling like writing the entire entry in Ubbi Dubbi? No one’s stopping you. The crazy stuff is the stuff you’re going to remember the most.
Try to get in the habit of writing an entire page a day. You’ll be surprised how much this improves your entries.
Throw away journals. Ever. Trust me, you’ll regret it.
tl;dr: Journalling is fun and relaxing – especially if you let yourself be free with it.
Sayonara for now,
(i’m probably going to go write in my journal that today’s apado post was about journalling. and that will be really meta. and i will also write about how meta it is. now do you see why i’m slowly going insane?)
(this is APADO, the ambitious, reckless blog series where I attempt to post once a day for the entire month of october. and really, i’ve only been succeeding by writing at night. for some reason, i am way more motivated at night.)
(and we’re back to information/advice posts. i’m tellin’ ya, life’s a steeplechase.)
(people are probably going to skip this one due to all the text. i tried, y’all.)
One of the things that I had to get used to when I started working around horses was that things weren’t exactly like I’d seen in the movies. Pretty much every cliche about horses was dangerous, stupid, or just unrealistic.
And once I’d discovered this fact, it seemed that everywhere I looked, I saw an innacuracy. Movies, books, bucket lists…it was almost too much to handle, for a while.
Since then, I’ve come to terms with the fact that not everyone has thirty million horse books or the time to read all of them. More recently, I thought it might be a good idea to go over some basic tips for writing more realistic interactions with horses.
So let’s dive into it!
What, exactly, is a horse?
This seems like a stupid question. It’s not.
A horse isn’t like a motorbike. Yes, you can steer it and change its speed, but a horse is a living, thinking creature. It has a mind of its own, and unless it’s undergone some incredible obedience training, it’s not going to blindly follow your reins and legs. Like people, horses are imperfect and have personalities. So they’re going to be stubborn, lazy, or fearful at times.
What’s a horse capable of?
Since horses aren’t machines, even the strongest, hardiest breeds get tired and grouchy. They can’t be expected to work endlessly. They need frequent breaks, plenty of food, and lots of care to keep in top condition.
Another thing that’s easy to forget about horses is their endurance. Galloping is hardly ever practical. Yes, racehorses can reach incredible speeds, but only because they’re carrying a minimal weight over a short distance. And galloping is dangerous over uneven terrain – a slippery rock or a log in the path could trip a horse and possibly break his leg, which will shut down his travels for months.
Even though it’s not as beautiful, the most efficent gait is the trot. A well-conditioned horse will be able to keep up a trot for much longer than a gallop – not to mention that it’s easier on the rider, too.
What’s a rider capable of?
It’s hard to see this from the ground, but riding is not just sitting on a horse and letting him do his thing. It’s an exhausting sport, especially for a beginner or for someone who hasn’t ridden in a while. The faster you ride, the more quickly you’ll tire out. Riders need just as many breaks as horses, perhaps even more when you count in what people are usually thinking about when they make their horseback escape.
A few other notes:
The reins of a bridle, which are attached to a metal bit in the horse’s mouth, are not a substitute for a lead rope. Tying a horse up by the reins could mean a broken bridle or severe injury in a horse’s mouth if he spooked and tried to pull away from the hitching post.
Jumping on horses is not a good idea. It hurts their backs, makes them cranky, and usually ends with a crowhop or a buck.
Horses don’t have terrific vision. Their depth perception works a lot differently than a human’s. A horse will probably smell something coming before he sees it.
Horses have a lot of blind spots. They can’t see directly above or below them, under their neck, or behind their tails. If someone’s standing in one of these blind spots, there’s a good chance he’s going to get kicked.
And gentle horsepeople are smart horsepeople. No matter how heartless or cold a person is, he’ll take care of his horse because a horse is an investment. Mistreating it will not only hurt the horse, but the person’s pocketbook.
Horses are a lot like people. They’re unpredictable, they get tired, and they need proper care. They can’t be expected to gallop everywhere or jump huge jumps, no matter how urgent the situation is. Abusing horses isn’t just harmful to the horse, but also to the owner, because the horse is an investment that should be taken care of.
And please, please, pleasenever tie a horse by just the reins.
(this is APADO, a little blog series where I try to post once a day for the entire month of October. Yep, it’s a stupid idea. OH WELL.)
(I’m not psychic but this post will probably have a lot of opinionated comments. That’s okay. I like opinions. And comments >w<)
(also I legit just said I wasn’t a book blogger and here I am, making a bookbloggerish post. talk about indecision)
Things have been nice and inspirational here on Steeplechase this week. I think it’s high time we opened a can of worms.
We all know that there are exactly two ways to do Nanowrimo:
a) Spend all your energy, creativity, and the month of October plotting out a gloriously complete story.
b) Throw caution to the sky and start Nanowrimo without a plan or a care in the world.
(Well, I guess there are a couple more ways, but we’re not going to get into those today.)
It seems that the entire Nanowrimo community is divided on this topic. Some swear by planning. Some live by pantsing.
And some are amused by the debate and want to hear more of these differing opinions. Hehe.
Let’s have a quick overview of both schools of thought.
Planning is the “correct” way to go about Nano. It also happens to be the sure-fire way to make sure that your hard work will pay off.
It gets you in the Nanowrimo spirit nice and early! There’s nothing like getting excited about a new project, and planners get to dabble in their plot bunnies in their notes before committing to anything.
It’s social. Since you actually know what you’re doing, you can chat with people about how your story’s coming along. You could even have a planning party with other coordinated planners!
And it makes the writing process a bit easier. With enough notes, you can come out of Nanowrimo with a nice, clean novel that makes enough sense to be beta-read.
Planned novels are often a little stiff. They make sense, but they tend to struggle with pacing because “the plan said that this scene should last for at least 5% of the novel”.
Planning is stressful. The fear that your plan won’t be finished and that your novel will turn out trashy can start to control you if you’re not careful.
Isn’t planning a little…boring? What’s the point of writing your novel if you’ve already plotted it out completely? Doesn’t that seem redundant?
And woe to you if you have to make a change in the plot. Because a well-planned plot is well-connected – one simple mistake could end up forcing you to rewrite your story.
And then…there are…
Pantsing is also known as rapid-fire-stress-free-unconcerned-natural-writing-with-a-streak-of-weirdness-because-why-not. Memorize the acronym, there’s a test on Friday.
Spontaneity = creativity. The ideas you roll out are raw, fresh and fun!
It takes a lot of the stress out of Nano. Can’t get off track if you don’t have a plan, ya know?
It’s fun. I’m not saying that planners don’t run into surprises, but when you’re down on the wire and have to make something up, the result is usually a lot more natural (and funny!).
It usually results in a second rate project. Like, maybe two hundredth rate. The lack of control can make your story inconsistent – sometimes even unreadable. And there’s nothing more depressing than wasting a month writing something that no one can read.
It takes much, much more work. Even if your pantsed novel has promise, it’s a long road to edit it into anything polished.
All this makes it easy for you to do the unthinkable – to abandon your project completely and banish it into the depths of your files, so you can mock it later for your own amusement.
What’s your nano style? Pantser? Planner? Something in between?
Personally, I think that the one that works for you depends on your personality. But I’m saving that tangent on MBTI and plansting for another post. Hehe.
But this isn’t about me – what do you think? I’d love to hear what you have to say.
(Welcome to APADO, where I attempt to post once a day for all of October: APost ADay – October, that is the last time I’m spelling that out. I’m making more rash promises than Josef Stalin but let’s see how far I can get.)
(also this post might be inspirational? how did that happen)
I want you to go on a quick trip down memory lane. Remember the first time you tried to be creative? And how good it felt when you signed your first drawing, finished your first story, threw your first paint-dipped potato at the wall?
It felt good, didn’t it? You were proud of what you made, weren’t you? Even if it was pretty bad-looking, there was something about it that you liked. Maybe it was the excitment. The raw creativity. Or something similarly poetic that I don’t have the aptitude to make up.
Now, let’s flash forward a few weeks. Months. Years. If you’re anything like me, you’re discouraged, burnt out, and wishing you could do it better.
It’s normal to feel that way.
I struggle with self-confidence and patience. There are times when I want to just throw in the towel and be done with everything I do, just because it isn’t exactly the way I want it to be. I have to remind myself that I’m still learning. I’m always learning. And that I’m never going to go anywhere sitting around moping about it.
Big Secret No. 1: You have to want to improve.
In this day and age, we’re told quite often that we’re perfect just the way we are.
I’m not saying that we’re not, but that kind of thinking tends to trap us into never doing anything with our lives.
You are perfect. But what you do needs work.
If you want to be mediocre, you can give out half-polished work. You can “do what you can” and never want anything more. And spend the rest of your days as an amateur.
Or you can give it your 110% best. You can go the extra mile. You can keep going, even when it gets tough and when you don’t feel like it. That’s the big secret to getting better. And it comes from the place you’d least expect it – yourself.
Big Secret No. 2: Improving your skills takes time.
We live in an instant world – instant coffee, instant ramen. Instagram. It’s only natural to think that our skills will come quickly and easily (and that just one podcast or blog post will enable us to churn out a finished, polished novel.)
Honestly, if it were that easy, it wouldn’t be worth anything.
The cold hard fact is that becoming better at what you do takes a long time. You’re not going to be an expert overnight. And this is what makes pushing yourself difficult – it’s much easier to sprint down the block than to run a mile.
Patience is a virtue. And an asset. And a challenge worth conquering.
Big Secret No. 3: Creative pursuits are subjective.
Why do we want to improve? So we can be better. Duh.
But what does better mean? Is it an end-all point where we can be done with what we’re doing?
There shouldn’t ever be a point that you stop learning to do what you love. You might as well get used to the feeling of not knowing everything, because it’s going to follow you for as long as you’re creating great content.
If you’re doing it right, you should always be improving.
The point I’m trying to make with all this:
Improvement is tough. It feels like the more you know, the less you think of yourself.
But you have a fire burning inside you. Use it. You’ve got what it takes.
And you’ll never, ever, ever get anywhere by throwing in the towel, saying you’re not good enough, and leaving your dreams to turn to dust. Quitting is for losers.
Be patient. Keep working. You’re going to make it. You’re going to do this.
tl;dr: Don’t be a pushover. Keep your chin up and go make something great.
(wow it has been ages since i’ve posted here on steeplechase. i apologize for that. school and animation projects and stuff like camp nanowrimo have been keeping me busy.)
(i have 50 followers! should i be doing anything special for that milestone?)
(PO = Project Orion. my wittle novel project that takes up most of my brain RAM these days.)
March 30th: This Camp, I’m going to go through my 2017 Nano, Project Orion, and edit it into something I can give to beta-readers.
April 6th: Well, this novel is ridiculous. I don’t know why I forgot that it’s spazzy, weirdly-paced, and has the craziest rambly details. (Yeah, three paragraphs about comic book plotlines are not really important to the story.) So let’s just rewrite the stupid thing. What could go wrong?
April 15th: I haven’t progressed in days. And the more I think about it, the more stupid it is. My inciting incident is horrible, there are characters that do nothing for the plot, and my setting is irrelevant. I guess I could write it…but I’m bored. And if I’m bored, what are my readers going to be like?
April 25th: Help. This is going to be the first Nano I’ve ever lost. I need to talk to Madison.
Madison: Change your goal.
Me: What I need to change is my story. Madison: So why don’t you?
Me: Like…plotting? Madison: Yep. Change your goal to a plotting goal. Write out stuff about your story. You’ll be better off.
Goal: 50 pages of planning, notes, character development, or ranting on how horrible PO is. (Well, I didn’t want to rant, but I ended up ranting in some places. Hehe.)
I completed the goal: at 11:45 pm on April 30, 2018.
Translation: I WROTE 50 PAGES IN FIVE DAYS. And 23 of those pages were on the last day. HAHAHAHAHA *psychotic laughter fades into the distance*
You know what time it is.
It’s time for…
Project Orion ADHD Notes: Snippets
Here we go.
(Snippets that are LIKE THIS (and then like this) are page titles. You can see what I’m talking about in the picture above.
Hurricane Snippets (run for your lives)
How did the flashdrive get into the antique shop anyways? It’s like they found it behind some Hubba Bubba or something…I really don’t need anymore throwbacks to The Winter Soldier in this nano. I ALREADY HAVE A COMPUTER MAN AND A COMPLETELY ALTRUISTICALLY ADORABLE MC.
Before we get any further in, I should probably say that most of this was written past 3:00 in the morning. It gets a little….well, I called it ADHD planning for a reason. (K.M. Weiland would personally kill me.)
Ways to tipoff the tipoff (brainstorming): – a robbery of something important – a break-in … – a natural disaster … – FLYING MANTA RAYSSSSSSS
(“Flying manta rays” is a house term usually describing that-thing-that-you-never-planned-to-put-in-your-novel-but-ended-up-in-there-because-you-were-like-“Hey-wouldn’t-manta-rays-look-cool-as-flying-animals?-Like-seriously-they-could-flap-their-unifinwing-and-be-like-a-living-magic-carpet.”
Or it refers to deus ex machina. Either one.)
And Nero is just hating everyone. XD.
(Nero is the main antagonist.)
Nero has no sympathy for: – his colleagues – his fellow Davi-followers – his friends – anyone’s feelings – anyone’s plans – anyone’s self-esteem – the lawmakers – anything. PERCENT OF HIS BRAIN USED FOR CARING: 0%.
THE MOST IMPORTANT QUESTION (whoops, I don’t have one?)
It’s like you accidentally bought a T-rex thinking it was a frilled lizard.
I want to waste paper and do this the fun way.
(Don’t look at me like that. All I wanted to do was draw bubbles and arrows. *pfft* Hypocrite.)
Omw. Is this a good ol’ classic story? I love it. It’s a familiar story…IN DISGUISE……
DO THEY KNOW OR NOT? (settling how stupid Leo and his frens are)
Looks like I need to add this to the plotty plot thingie.
(I just called my plot a “plotty plot thingie.” SAY THAT AGAIN, IN SLOW MOTION.)
Kablam – Project Orion!
In the words of a wise man: “This is legitness!”
And then poor Dav-Davs kicked the bucket, because cancer.
(Prehistory. No one dies of cancer in PO.)
Meet Mystical Hipster Who Now Looks Like A Hipster Raisin Because Hipstering Is So 2018.
(Post history. I wanted to think about a sequel so that I’d know how to end PO. So I made up a new character…accidentally…and she’s weird. Oh boy.)
*crickets* What was I talking about?
MJ GETS TRIGGERED (and other stories)
GOOD THINGS ABOUT PO (i want to feel good right now) Leo Cordova. Never mind, all the charries. But Nero in particular. AND SYRE SHANKHOR. LEMME HUG DAT BOI. … Heterochromia. STUFF. ACTUALLY. HAPPENS. It’s so sequelable. … Wide variety of MBTI. Diverse charries and……………………………………… THE FACT THAT I MADE ALL OF IT UP.
Thus endeth the snippets. *dies*
Wow. I didn’t expect you to survive that. But here you are, ready to be barraged with…
PO is a long way from being done. I mean a distance-from-the-Sun-to-Pluto long way. But it is started, and I have something like a game plan for it. Yay.
Tess’ Tentative Schedule For Completing Project Orion
(okay half the reason I named it Project Orion is so that when people ask me what I’m doing, I can be like, “Oh, I’m working on….” *mysterious toss of head* “…Project Orion.”)
By May 13th:Finish planning. Write out a little guide sheet so I can remember where I need to foreshadow my ridiculous plot.
May 14th – June 30th:Write it. Yeah, just like that. This is Draft #2. (Draft #1 is the aforementioned piece of trash that meanders around and uses weird metaphors.)
July 1st – July 30th:Take a break from PO and write something totally different for July camp. I can’t go burning myself out…
August 1st:Release PO to my hungry beta-readers…
…that I need to have a definitive list of.
I know several of you have raised your hands when I’ve asked you if you want to beta read. But I don’t have a list list.
If you want to beta read PO, you must sign up below. It is MANDATORY. If you do not fill in the simple form below, then you will not be on the list of beta readers and that first chapter will not show up in your inbox on August 1st. Even if you’ve told me in person, or through the camp message board, or anywhere else – YOU. MUST. SIGN. UP. WITH. THIS. FORM.
(Look, I even made it a Typeform, so it would be fun. Link opens in a new tab.)
How I know I’m excited about PO
I think about my charries like they’re real.
When I’m doing something, I muse about how each of my charries would do it.
I make references to it, laugh hysterically, and then stare at everyone around me like not getting my personal jokes is a social crime.
I write about it in my journal once a night.
My next animation will feature PO charries (because my people drawing skills have gotten wayyy better)
I made virtual Funko Pops of all of them.
Ahahahaha! You want to see the Project Orion Funko Pop collection, don’t you? Time for another round of…
Steps to complete secret mission and unlock the PO Pops:
In one of the pictures in this post, I shared my last name. Find my last name and write it down.
Go to the Secrets page (located on the top, next to the trophy shelf. It’s hard to miss.)
Enter my last name as the password in all lowercase.
See the Pops. I also provided a link to the tool I used to make them. But I’m not going to give you that link here….you’ll just have to go unlock the Secrets page. >:)
Leave a comment, if you want.
Did you sign up for beta reading? Which snippet was your favorite? How was your Camp Nanowrimo?
(I’ll respond to whatever you comment below – probably in all caps/no caps/complete disregard of grammar and punctuation, which is awful in writing but somehow okay in commenting? I never understood that, but I do it anyways. :))
Welcome back to what I’m calling The Saga Of Nedicent 😉 This installment is a bit rushed, and I regret that, but I’m the one personally responsible for holding back the next challenge because I begged Zielle to let me turn in late. Sorry, guys. So here it is, from Millicent’s POV.
A cold gust of wind threaded its way through the crowded buildings of Burton-On-Thames, blowing the fishermen’s hats away and unraveling the braids on the working horses. It crept up under the hood of my cape, taking a piece of my dark hair loose from behind my ear and sweeping it across my eyes. I pushed it off in annoyance as I pulled the warm, red cloth tighter around my thin shoulders.
At the corner where Shobnall Street and Borough Road interstect, a stylish carriage rattled through a puddle, sending a stinging spray of dirty, melted snow and pebbles in my direction. Fortunately, the cloak caught most of the stains, and how fortunate, too – I would have hated to see the silk I foolishly chose to wear today ruined by a careless, flippant, stuck-up coachman.
It always seemed to happen that way with me. I started the day telling myself I was going to be elegant, composed, and upper-class. Then, I’d get caught up in whatever I was doing and end up dirty, tired, but triumphant. Today was no exception. This morning, when I’d awoken, I knew in the back of my mind that I had important, troubling things to do. But my favorite silk dress called out to me from the wardrobe, just begging me to wear it and look sophisticated, dainty and upper-class.
If I had really been a part of the upper class, I would have been up in a drawing room, wearing silk slippers and possibly playing a spinet on this blustery January day. But though my father had money, he was an outcast of society, and so here I was, continuing the chain of eccentricity as I splashed through the puddles in his boots.
Finally, I came to the address I was seeking, climbed up the stairs between the two stone dragons guarding its entry. The townhouse was slowly being conquered by armies of vivacious ivy and overgrown bushes. The gardener that used to maintain the foliage had died almost a decade before. So had, for that matter, the cook, the maid, and the butler.
And now, Sir Giles Dawson himself was no more.
I hadn’t believed Father when he’d broken the news to me. It didn’t seem possible that he could no longer be living the square, gothic townhome hidden by leaves. But it had been true, unfortunately. And being his only real friend, it was my job to go through the dark, cozy rooms and gather the things he wouldn’t have wanted to be sold.
It pained me, to stand there, to know that there would be no Sir Dawson waiting for me inside, his feet propped on the footstool, his knobbly hands on the book in his lap, his square shoulders covered by the damask bathrobe he always wore. He wouldn’t greet me with his elusive smile, ask me to throw another log in the fireplace, or complain to me about how unjust the world was.
Everyone always whispered behind my back about my friendship with him, but always loud enough for me to hear, so they could impart to me their views on my visiting him. The ladies thought I had no business associating with an unrelated man four times my age. That would be true if he weren’t so lonely and sour and fed up with the world that had rejected him. I was good for him, Father said. Father’s friends, however, called me a forest maiden – because I ‘associated with the animals of the forest, particularly the grumpy, cross, bear known as Sir Dawson’.
I raised my hand to the the brass knocker, the griffon’s head on the door, then remembered that no one lived within anymore. I used to have knock – it was a stipulation of his. Then he’d say, “Herein!” in his gruff voice, and I’d unlock it with the key I had.
Those days were sadly passed, though. I reached into the pocket sewn to the inside of my cloak, pulled out the brass key with the cobalt string round the top of it. I slid it into the keyhole. The click it made as it met the lock seemed to echo in the entryway. As I pushed the heavy, mahongany door open, a smell of stillness met me. If it was possible for loneliness to smell like anything, this was its scent.
The entryway was dark, even darker after I closed the door behind me. I reached for the little table next to the door, found the matches and lit a candle. The only reason I knew they were even there was because I’d put it there.
The haunting, dancing, yellow-orange light filled the low-ceilinged entry, with its foreboding paisley carpet, sordid walls and oppressive crown moulding. The parlour, or, what I could see of it through the doorway to my right, was a pool of blackness. So was the dining room on my left and the hallway before me. I moved toward that hall, the light creeping over the floor and pushing away the darkness that surrounded me. At the same time, it felt as if the dark was breathing down my neck, getting closer and closer behind me as the candle danced away.
Sir Dawson had not entertained a single person while he had lived here. So, naturally, the dining room and parlour both were frightfully bare. Not a single trinket or item of intrigue lived in them, not even to gather dust. The only thing I ever recalled seeing in the dining room that wasn’t a piece of unmoved furniture was a set of blue wedgewood dishes peering out from behind the glass doors of the china cabinet. I’d learned they’d been his only inheritance from a long-dead uncle he never had liked. There was a personal joke accompanying them, one that made him smile saucily every time he thought about the set. But it was a joke I would never know.
I skipped those two rooms entirely, aiming straight for the stairs at the end of the hallway. I knew he didn’t have anything he cared about downstairs, because he lived upstairs, where his bedroom and study were. And this was where I knew he kept the only possessions that mattered to him.
The light trembled about as I took it up the stairs, each step bringing me closer to the rooms of reminiscence and memories. Never did I imagine that these memories would be painful to recall.
I arrived at the top of the stairs, my feet dragging slower and slower. I might as well get the hardest part over with, I figured. So even though I did not want to open that door and drown myself in a torrent of retrospection, I forced my wrist to turn the doorknob and my feet to step over the threshold.
Sir Dawson’s study, his office, was where he had spent most of his time. But it didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore, not without his robed countenance sitting in the chair, telling me that I was fashionably late. Without him there, without his watchful gaze on the bookshelves, his feet on the footstool, his papers and ink on the desk and his curmudgeonly voice resonating through the wood paneling, the study felt as if it were in mourning, too.
My skirt brushed against the blackout curtains pulled agressively over the windows. I wondered who had done that. He’d always liked them open, despite his reclusiveness – he had liked to ‘look down upon the street, so’s I know what I’m missing’ (his words, not mine).
Why did I love him so much? The question flitted through my self-conscious as I ran the tips of my fingers over the book still face-down on his endtable, open to the place where he’d left it. He was a pessimistic curmudgeon at best; a depressing crank with barbarian manners to the less accepting set. I put up with his antics, though. Furthermore, I actually saw him as a friend. But why?
I kept mulling it over as I opened the curtains, letting in the soft, ambient light, filtered through the sordid January clouds outside. Securing them with the ties on the wall, I looked around at the room, still awaiting its master’s return. I hadn’t the heart to say that Sir Dawson wasn’t coming back. I could barely convince myself that truth.
I shook my head to clear it. Though I would have loved to sit in the chair he’d sat in for so many hours and let my emotions flow freely, I had a job to do. It was up to me to make sure that his important things were safe from his so-called friends. I strode over to his desk, trying to let the confidence pulsate through me. He had to have written a will. In my tulmultous state of mind, I needed to have everything spelled out for me.
He had said he kept the most important things out of sight. I opened the drawer on his desk, which was little more than a writing table. In that drawer, amid a nest of various papers, writing utensils, and a bundle of red string, was the document I sought.
He wrote it out on very thick, very nice paper, with a seal on the top. I took it over to the window so I could read the cramped, crabbed handwriting.
Last Will And Testament Of Sir Giles Dawson
I, Sir Giles Dawson, of Burton-On-Thames, Essex, England, declare this Document to be my final Will and Testament.
After jumping through the hoops of legality (no, he was not married, he had no children, either), the document circled round to the part everyone would be hanging on – if he had any friends, that is.
To Miss Millicent Blair, the daughter of Mr. John Blair, of Burton-On-Thames, Essex, England, the following is to be bequeathed: the set of wedgewood china in the dining room; in the bedroom, the marble bust of Plato, along with any books to be found near and around the bed; and in the study, the library, writing desk, green wingback chair, globe and porcelain elephant.
There was not much more to be read after that paragraph, just that he wished everything else to be sold and the money given to none other than myself. I lay the paper down on the windowsill and sighed. What was I to do with these things now? They didn’t look the same without him.
I meandered out the door, still thinking, only half-noticing what I was doing. The light from the windows now spilled out over the threshold. I opened the bedroom door, barely discerning the form of the tall, four-poster bed as I made straight for the window. As I pulled back the curtains, the room awoke in shades of grey, just as the study had.
His bed was unmade. I proceeded to pull the sheets up to the top, pulling a book or two out from the foot of the mattress, where they’d become tangled in the bedclothes.
Plumping the pillows and setting them right, the thought that I was essentially being a maid crossed my mind. I pushed it out promptly. It was worth getting dirty to set everything in order for him.
There was a small pile of books on his sidetable, burying the ornate glass oil lamp with the dirty chimney. I stacked them neatly, arranging them from largest to smallest. As I kept adding to the stack, picking up the books scattered on the floor and over the top of the dresser, I realized that Sir Dawson’s insomnia had been more severe than I’d thought. He must have kept the oil burning very late every night to read all of these.
Soon I had at least five and twenty books stacked neatly on the bench at the foot of his bed. It occurred to me that the room smelled quite nasty, rather like sleep and smoke. Unlocking the window, I slid up the casement, and let the blustery but refreshing breeze ruffle the curtains around the bed. Then I went over to the wardrobe.
Two suits were hanging on the front of it. I opened the door to reveal his hastily stuffed closet. Running my hand between the suits to smooth them out, I realized that he probably only had the other two out because he hadn’t any more room inside. And it wasn’t like he wore anything but his dressing gown, anyways. As I lifted the tails of a musty-smelling tailcoat, something in the bottom of the wardrobe caught my eye, faintly luminiscent. I picked it up. It was the gold banding across the spine of yet another book.
Hauling thirteen more books out of the wardrobe, I began to see that I had a ticklish problems on my hands. I couldn’t take these books, not when felt like they still belonged to him. I wouldn’t be able to enjoy them if I could still hear his voice reading a paragraph out of them.
As I was bent over, reluctantly checking to see if there were any more books in the wardrobe, something brushed against my cheek. I pushed it out of the way, but it swung back towards me. I fingered it. It was the tailcoat.
With the fabric in between my fingers, a conversation slowly twirled its way back to my consciousness.
They say two hundred books are published every day.
It had been nearly a month since that night, the twenty-second of December. Thirty-eight books, plus the five or six hundred in the library on the other side of the wall, equalled – I rubbed the tailcoat between my fingers as I made the calculation – roughly ten percent of the books Mr. Glasscock should have read by now.
I stood there, still fingering the tailcoat, staring at the stack of books, for a solid minute, as the realization occurred to me.
I could not decide for the life of me what it was.
Yeah, it’s not as good as Ettiquette. But I stretched out something Millie could have told Ned in one line to 2500 words. NAILED IT.
I intended to illustrate this but yeah I’m still working on those faces. XD But I did mention my team name and the prompt in the same sentence – bonus points?
Father’s friends, however, called me an elfin maiden – because I ‘associated with the animals of the forest, particularly the grumpy, cross, bear known as Sir Dawson’.
1 point (participation) + 1 point (prompt) + 1 point (team name) = 3 points
*whimpers* Oh, that’s frightfully low. Go Team Forest!
What did you think? Are you looking forward to the next installment of Ned and Millie’s story? It’s going to be told by a very side character this time…
Sayonara, I’m going to try not to cringe at this piece,