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 LINK to as Gail Simone's blog.   Gail is a comic book writer who was responsible for the highly influential "Women in Refrigerators" analysis of how badly female characters were treated in comic books.   She is one of the best writers out there today.

The blog is a fine read generally, but I felt I had to repost this entry as it contains a fine fine insight into the craft of writing:

Gail's words after the cut )
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The House of Stories
by *finncullen on deviantART

This is an image I created based on some "Phantom of the Opera" fanfiction I wrote a short while ago, which can be found here


Oct. 26th, 2009 03:11 pm
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A writing challenge for HOL (Hogwarts Online) - the prompt being to write the story of a villain being led into monologuing...  

Read more... )
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Another HOL challenge - this one to write a slightly skewed Fairy Tale (aren't they all...)

Read more... )
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Another HOL challenge entry

Read more... )

The Squib

Oct. 26th, 2009 03:02 pm
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The following story was submitted to HOL (Hogwarts Online) as part of a writing challenge to deal with the discovery of Squibhood and the effects on the individual concerned.

I wanted to take a different angle to the usual teenage wangst.

Read more... )


Apr. 15th, 2009 08:37 am
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It had been a longer than usual day, and filled slightly more than brim-full with inconvenient complications which had started from the moment I had arrived at work and realised I'd forgotten my mobile phone which meant I was chained (metaphorically) to my desk all day.  By the time I arrived home, much later than usual, I was in no mood for anything except an evening of vegetating in front of television or computer screen and then an early night.   Not even enthusiastic about cooking I'd decided to  treat myself to a take-away from the marvellous new Indian place nearby.  They delivered too, I wouldn't even have to stir.  Heavenly.

Consequently the smell of cooking as I opened the door came as quite a surprise, and not a pleasant one.  He had not expressed an interest in cooking before, certainly not cooking for me.  And as always anything he did that was outside his normal routine triggered instant panic in me, it was usually a prelude to some well crafted unpleasantness.

Unpleasantness? Surely not. )
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Yesterday on my pillow I found a present, a gift that I was not expecting just before bedtime. What a lovely surprise. It was face down, and the back of it - toward me - was a familiar and complex design of interlacing knotwork. Hand drawn and identical - IDENTICAL - in every way to all the others in the set. His tarot deck.

Pursing my lips in concern I didn’t touch it straight away, not wanting to turn it over and plunge myself into the usual challenges and anxieties of trying to decipher whatever cryptic bloody message was being sent this time.

But the anxiety was there now already, and not knowing would make it worse. Whether it’s clicking the link, opening the private message, seeing the unexpected package on the doorstep or.. turning the card. It needs doing, and delay just makes it worse.

Thumb and finger gripped the card at either edge and I turned it.

Which would it be?

...continue... )
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“Don’t you know how busy I am?” I said angrily as I stormed into his room. He didn’t even look up, just carried on sketching with infuriating calmness.

“Of course I do,” he answered, “I know everything, remember.”
He was sitting on the dusty floor, leaning forward and working with precise strokes using a pencil on the top sheet of a stack of white drawing paper. It would have been so easy to just kick him over, and so damned tempting.

“Don’t even consider that,” he said, “you know what a nasty temper I have.”
I hadn’t even moved, hadn’t said a word, but he knew anyway. That did nothing for my own temper, which unlike his I preferred to keep under control.

“Well if you know how busy I am, why won’t you let me-”
“Have any peace?” he said with a nasty chuckle. “Is it my fault you feel compelled to dog my heels with your incessant anxious queries. You get on with your work if you want, you’ll feel better for that.”

He stopped sketching for a moment and turned to look at me, his eyes gleaming in the dim light, a mocking smile on his face.
“Why not just get on with things?” he asked, “Leave me to my own devices.”
I wanted to stamp my feet, or rage, or call him names, or slap him (but I’d better not, he did indeed have such a temper..) but I didn’t.

“Just.. give me a little peace to get things done,” I said, almost pleading.
“You get busy, I get busy,” he replied in a sing-song voice, “that’s just the way it is. Run along now.”

I slammed the door behind me as I left and had almost reached the bottom of the stairs before I heard him laughing.


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