J. R. R. Tolkien on escapism in “The Lord of the Rings” (x)
“Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisioned by the enemy, don’t we consider it his duty to escape?…If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!”
absolutely nothing about this video or scenario is what I would call ‘relatable’ and yet I intrinsically understand it and relate to it anyways, due to the sheer power of chris fleming’s story telling. i feel like this scenario has been living in my soul for 20 years because of this.
i don’t know how he does it but chris fleming just makes the absurd, yet impossibly specific, universally identifiable
Thanks for your question, nonny! This is a very wide topic, so I wasn’t sure how to answer it – but I’ve come to a conclusion.
I think the most common writing mistake is to self-edit, and it’s detrimental to writing time as a whole. Self-editing is basically editing your story while you’re writing it; going back and correcting mistakes and rewriting sentences while you’re still putting paragraphs on paper. The worst part about this problem is that it feels like you’re doing the right thing – that by “fixing yourself” and keeping a scrutinizing eye on the page, you’re becoming a better writer. But you’re not helping yourself.
Think of it this way, because this is how I learned it: I grew up in dance. I took over a decade of ballet, jazz, and tap classes, and I moved up in the classes at a steady pace. I was awkward as hell, but I was a fast learner. I was meticulous and made sure to pay attention, learn all the steps, and master the timing. I was, in retrospect, one of the most accurate dancers at my level.
But I didn’t get lead roles. Ever. No matter how hard I worked, I couldn’t get any of the starring roles in our productions. And every time I asked for critiques from my mentors, I got the same message, over and over.
“You’re too in your head. You’re too focused on being perfect to engage with the audience.”
And they were absolutely right. Going back and watching tapes of myself, I never smiled – even when I was having a good time. I never showed my own personality; I never messed around between run-throughs. I made fewer mistakes, but I missed out on the personality and fun and interactive aspect of art and performance!
So instead of focusing on getting things right, approach it like this: prepare beforehand – study and revise afterhand. But let writing be writing. Let yourself get lost in the scene. Let yourself make mistakes. Try turning the font white or closing your eyes; try Write or Die to turn up the heat. Whatever you do, just do it and don’t think until it’s over. That is my advice.
tier 5 (ridiculous, unacceptable, pls don’t): anything to do with beer cans, baby-maker, bishop, choad, donger, dragon, fuck wand, fun stick, hog, johnson, jimmy, lap rocket, little [insert name], love muscle/rod/stick, meat stick, one-eyed [anything], piston, private eye, schlong, trouser snake, wiener, winkie
tier 6 (you’re literally a fourth grader): baby arm, baloney pony, beaver basher, beef whistle, custard launcher, dude piston, flesh flute, heat-seeking moisture missile, krull the warrior king, luigi, mayo shooting hotdog gun, meter long king kong dong, pig skin bus, piss weasle, purple-headed yogurt flinger, purple-helmeted warrior of love, schlong dongadoodle, single barreled pump action bollock, spawn hammer, steamin’ semen truck, tan banana, thundersword, wang doodle, whoopie stick, wing wang doodle, yogurt shotgun
tier 7 (you are like a little baby. watch this): the symbolic collage, the multiplier of motions known, a pillar of fighting styles terrible to behold, the ability to infer significance in something devoid of detail, cornered sphere, a letter written in uncertainty, flesh-metal, a bubble of foul water and fire, invisible scripture, the sex-death of language, power throat, the heart bone, the mercy seat, the irrefutable-for-a-span, the enigma that must be removed, the new phlogiston, a throne of wonder why, the idiom stroke, non-spatial space filling to capacity with mortal interaction and information, a bit of string shaped like your favorite color, the sword not held, estrangement from statesmanship, the reptile wheel, the treasure wood sword, a million-eyed insect dreaming, the dome-head demon, a dead carapace of memory, the mythic epidermal, the ethos knife, flute-and-pipe ogre, the red jewel of conquest, a walking star
You basically made me read the cuil theory of penis metaphors so I’m posting cuil theory
Oh boy – I’m so sorry to hear your week isn’t going well. Ah! I am working on the ice crew au instead of HCs lately but would you like to hear my initial thoughts on Whiskey?
Imma tell you about Whiskey (hope this is happy enough for you!)
So, when I first read Whiskey, I was a little… underwhelmed? He didn’t pop for me as much as the other characters did (like we don’t need another Nursey up in this business) but THEN, I got to thinking and I decided that Whiskey is the Ultimate Big Brother.
What I mean by this: Whiskey was the only child of two very loving parents, so loving in fact that they decided to open their home to foster children.
So, at age 7, Whiskey became a big brother. To two adorable little girls who were five and three and who were very small and a little bit annoying to his seven year old brain and he had to be very careful when playing with them because they were frightened of loud noises for some reason that his mother never fully explained and he was not sure what to do with them, really, but then one day they left (”to go live with their grandmother, isn’t that nice?” his mother told him) and he found he missed them. Even though they were always messing up his legos.
The house was too empty without them but before long, a little boy by the name of Steve came and it was only a week that Steve stayed with them but his mother said there would be more soon and–
And so that is how it went. Whiskey would gain siblings and then some would stay for months and months, some would stay for only a few days until another relative was found; some would write to them afterwards; some would leave only to come back for bursts of time later; some would end up moving out of state. Whiskey learned to accept people immediately and to welcome them without question and to hold onto the knowledge that it might not be for forever but to love them anyway. Because usually they needed it.
It did change Whiskey, but not in a bad way. Because Whiskey also learned that sometimes his mother had to ignore him to deal with Sally, who was having a panic attack; sometimes his father had to miss one of his games to go testify in court; sometimes both his parents had to put their attention elsewhere because elsewhere meant more kids coming to his house and being safe and while Shitty learned about privilege largely through academics, Whiskey learned it through experience. Through realizing that even if they didn’t always have time, his parents loved him very much.
Really, he is damn proud of them. Sure, there were times in middle school where he resented them a little because their house was always full of children (they’d maxed out at 8 once, and that was 8 not including Whiskey) and sometimes his parents were out dealing with social workers and Whiskey was put in charge of making sure everyone got an after school snack but even in his worst moments, all Whiskey has to do is remember the kids that come to his house bruised and he calms himself down and remembers that
Whiskey’s parents forget to pick him up after practice once. It is only three miles, so he realizes what had happened and walks home and then when he gets there, the house is in disarray because the Thomspon toddlers are screaming and Bethany has failed her science test and is crying because she’d actually studied and still no one notices that he’s walked home, but he grabs a toddler and calms him down and– “How did you get home?” his mother asks him in the middle of the night. He blinks, confused and certain that this is a dream and she asks again, more desperate this time “I didn’t pick you up, sweetie, and your father just told me he didn’t either and how did you get home?” “I walked, Mom,” Whiskey says, shrugging. His mother lets out a little gasp that might be a sob. “Mom, it’s okay. Really.” “I- I’m so sorry,” she says and he’s fifteen and his mother is crying and– “Maybe- maybe this is too much. Maybe we should–” “No,” Whiskey says. “No, really, I’m okay. I like this. Don’t feel guilty. You’re doing great. I’m happy.”
just moving along like everyone else 