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blueberry muffin

@bluberimufim / bluberimufim.tumblr.com

Surrender your soul to the hyperfixation || she/her || mostly writeblr but also fandom || blueberry__muffin on AO3

WIP Intro

Title: Devourer of Souls

Genre + tropes: Fantasy, found family, fairytale retelling (Snow White and Rose Red)

Themes (may be subject to change with the 1st draft): destruction vs creation, inherent contradictions of femininity, anti-war, choosing your own family, freedom from expectation, religious trauma

Status: outlining + first draft

Additional notes: I'm gonna (try to) do this for NaNo!! Wish me luck!!

edit: this is now a duology!

Plot

Seth was supposed to be a healer. That's what everyone said she would be. She would become a healer and fight in the war for the Goddess of Time. But her healing doesn't work like it's supposed to. Instead of giving life, she takes it away. People say she eats souls.

She tries to live a quiet life in the countryside, away from the war, but is rudely interrupted when Theo, a lost demigoddess, wanders into her life. Together, they try to find a place for themselves and their strange magic in this world. But war is never kind, and the Goddess of Time wants her daughter's power on her side - and she won't let some pesky healer get in her way.

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”i never see you at the club” okay?? and i never see you in the courtyard having a homoerotic sparring session with your friend that you’re madly in love with and wishing you could plunge their blade into your flesh???

Well, I never see YOU at the ball exchanging yearning homoerotic looks across the room with your friend who you're madly in love with as you imagine what it would be like to romantically dance with them and hold them in your arms, but are forced to stay apart lest you be overcome with desire to profess your love!!!! So take that

in the hellish alternate universe where tlt is a shitty cishet ya series, the first book is called “a house of bones and blood”. gideon is a cis man and harrow is marketed as a “feminist prince zuko redemption arc”. griddlehark make out during the pool scene but harrow still can’t get over her feelings for palamedes, who explodes later on in the book to save harrow from cytherea. camilla, the Strong Woman Character, breaks down and cries and loses her sense of purpose. in book 2, “a house of spirits and secrets”, cis man ianthe manages to capture harrow’s heart, to the ire of palamedes and gideon’s ghosts, until the end of the book when jod breaks ianthe’s evil spell on harrow. camilla returns to bring harrow to blood of eden, the evil terrorist rebel group that all of jod’s lyctors joined. jodybeth is the only canon queer pairing but it’s not confirmed until after they both die in the final book, “a house of love and loyalty”. harrow escapes blood of eden and fights off the villainous camilla (who hates harrow out of jealousy for palamedes being in love with harrow and not her), who then tries to kill gideon, who has come back to life completely intact for no reason. jod fights off camilla and then dies to save his son gideon, who then becomes emperor and seamlessly unites the nine houses and blood of eden. the series ends with gideon and harrow’s marriage and the birth of their infant son who is set to inherit the entire universe and can already form a perfect kidney. imperialism is never discussed or even recognized by the author. all of the characters are white except judith and camilla. the series is a number one new york times bestseller for three years in a row. it immediately gets greenlit for a netflix series.

You leave me no choice

this might be the worst thing that I’ve ever spent an hour and a half unleashing on the world yet

These are gorgeous and hilarious but I feel like they’re covers for a pulpy romance series, when the original post is talking about a Very Serious Angsty YA Series. I’m picturing something more like:

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A few pages away from finishing HtN and I hate John Gaius sooooooo much it's actually unreal

I don't even know what he did to the Earth or whatever, his jokes just make me want to scream. "None house, left grief" got me so mad I started ANNOTATING just to complain. Wake's full name?? "Hey, not fucking dead, I'm dad"?????? Unforgivable

If Mercy hadn't killed him, I'd have done that shit myself

THIS COCKROACH OF A MAN

A few pages away from finishing HtN and I hate John Gaius sooooooo much it's actually unreal

I don't even know what he did to the Earth or whatever, his jokes just make me want to scream. "None house, left grief" got me so mad I started ANNOTATING just to complain. Wake's full name?? "Hey, not fucking dead, I'm dad"?????? Unforgivable

If Mercy hadn't killed him, I'd have done that shit myself

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So hear me out: A Gideon the Ninth musical that's based around a remix of Mozart's Requiem with a bit of Holst's The Planets thrown in for spice.

Scene one: A tableau of Gideon's death. A prop body double of Gideon lies impaled on the spikes. Harrow, in despair, is reaching toward her. Across the stage, Cytherea is using Ianthe (both in silhouette, their identities obscured to the audience) as a battery to heal herself. Gideon's ghost stands in a pale light, barely on stage. The beginning of Requiem is playing, unaltered except for maybe a little bit of synth to set the mood. A chorus of the dead begins to sing:

Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine

Harrow leans in to press her mouth to prop!Gideon's wound.

Record scratch.

Gideon's ghost: You're probably wondering how I got here.

With the rise of booktok/booktwt, there's been this weird movement against literary criticism. It's a bizarre phenomenon, but this uptick in condemnation of criticism is so stifling. I understand that with the rise of these platforms, many people are being reintroduced into the habit of reading, which is why at the base level, I understand why many 'popular' books on booktok tend to be cozier.

The argument always falls into the 'this book means too much to me' or 'let people enjoy things,' which is rhetoric I understand -- at least fundamentally. But reading and writing have always been conduits for criticism, healthy natural criticism. We grow as writers and readers because of criticism. It's just so frustrating to see arguments like "how could you not like this character they've been the x trauma," or "why read this book if you're not going to come out liking it," and it's like...why not. That has always been the point of reading. Having a character go through copious amounts of trauma does not always translate to a character that's well-crafted. Good worldbuilding doesn't always translate to having a good story, or having beautiful prose doesn't always translate into a good plot.

There is just so much that goes into writing a story other than being able to formulate tropable (is that a word lol) characters. Good ideas don't always translate into good stories. And engaging critically with the text you read is how we figure that out, how we make sure authors are giving us a good craft. Writing is a form of entertainment too, and just like we'd do a poorly crafted show, we should always be questioning the things we read, even if we enjoy those things.

It's just werd to see people argue that we shouldn't read literature unless we know for certain we are going to like it. Or seeing people not be able to stand honest criticism of the world they've fallen in love with. I love ASOIAF -- but boy oh boy are there a lot of problems in the story: racial undertones, questionable writing decisions, weird ness overall. I also think engaging critically helps us understand how an author's biases can inform what they write. Like, HP Lovecraft wrote eerie stories, he was also a raging racist. But we can argue that his fear of PoC, his antisemitism, and all of his weird fears informed a lot of what he was writing. His writing is so eerie because a lot of that fear comes from very real, nasty places. It's not to say we have to censor his works, but he influences a lot of horror today and those fears, that racial undertone, it is still very prevalent in horror movies today. That fear of the 'unknown,'

Gone with the Wind is an incredibly racist book. It's also a well-written book. I think a lot of people also like confine criticism to just a syntax/prose/technical level -- when in reality criticism should also be applied on an ideological level. Books that are well-written, well-plotted, etc., are also -- and should also -- be up for criticism. A book can be very well-written and also propagate harmful ideologies. I often read books that I know that (on an ideological level), I might not agree with. We can learn a lot from the books we read, even the ones we hate.

I just feel like we're getting to the point where people are just telling people to 'shut up and read' and making spaces for conversation a uniform experience. I don't want to be in a space where everyone agrees with the same point. Either people won't accept criticism of their favorite book, or they think criticism shouldn't be applied to books they think are well written. Reading invokes natural criticism -- so does writing. That's literally what writing is; asking questions, interrogating the world around you. It's why we have literary devices, techniques, and elements. It's never just taking the words being printed at face value.

You can identify with a character's trauma and still understand that their badly written. You can read a story, hate everything about it, and still like a character. As I stated a while back, I'm reading Fourth Wing; the book is terrible, but I like the main character. The worldbuilding is also terrible, but the author writes her PoC characters with respect. It's not hard to acknowledge one thing about the text, and still find enough to enjoy the book. And authors grow when we're honest about what worked and what didn't work. Shadow and Bone was very formulaic and derivative at points, but Six of Crows is much more inventive and inclusive. Veronica Roth's Carve the Mark had some weird racial problems, but Chosen Ones was a much better book in terms of representation. Percy Jackson is the same way. These writers grow, not just by virtue of time, but because they were critiqued and listened to that critique. C.S. Lewis and Tolkien always publically criticized each other's work. Zora Neale Hurston and Langston Hughes had a legendary friendship and back and forth with one another's works which provides so much insight into the conversations black authors and creatives were having.

Writing has always been about asking questions; prodding here and there, critiquing. It has always been a conversation, a dialogue. I urge people to love what they read, and read what they love, but always ask questions, always understand different perspectives, and always keep your mind open. Please stop stifling and controlling the conversations about your favorite literature, and please understand that everyone will not come out with the same reading experience as you. It doesn't make their experience any less valid than yours.

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I book it for the house and grab the hunting rifle inside before heading back out. That doesn't ease me in the slightest. My nerves are screaming against all logic and reason. Something is different. Something is wrong. Something in the pen is not a coyote or a fox.

Good lord, I can't be thinking like that. I can't be stupid. It's an animal, period. I'm not taking my sweet time making up nightmares.

My flashlight waves in the dark as I jog towards the pen. The air reeks of iron — no, blood. Sickly thick blood.

There's no more shrieking. No. No, as I get closer, there's this rhythmic… smacking.

Chewing.

It's a coyote, or it's a fox. It's a coyote, or it's a fox. It is not "something else," for goodness's sake, Elise, just keep going, nothing else is going to be eating a goddamn pig

A wail breaks the air. Not a howl, or a cry, but a wail. A shrill cry that stops me dead in my tracks just as I'm about to turn right for the pig pen. 

It's human-like. So, so distinctly human-like, but the slight distortion in that voice prevents me from saying any more.

The flashlight slips out of my hands as I load up the rifle, turn, run, and shoot straight into the pen, cutting the wails off with cracking gunshots.

Or so it should've been. The cries keep going endlessly, no changes in breath or volume, like an endless broken record that will continue until it shatters each and every one of my quivering nerves.

The flashlight's rolled the other direction. I pick it back up, aim it towards the pen, and —

My insides drop and freeze. 

What am I looking at?

She's... pale. Her hair is matted, wild, her eyes have no irises, like a ghost. She looks dead in my direction, bloody lips twitching erratically to reveal teeth sharper than humanly possible.

A pig lies at her feet, bite marks gauged deep into the flesh.

No, no no no. It's not her. It's not her, it can't be.

But it looks just like her, and, almost compelled, her name is dragged out of my mouth.

"Marisol?"

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