I only like to write three things: an update
a retrospective retrospection
2020 was one of the most creatively productive years of my life. Turns out, being paid by the government to stay home for two months with nothing else to do but bake and play video games and read books and think about stories??? is good for one’s creative faculties??? Who knew. I wrote literally hundreds of pages that year. In 2021, I did less well, but I managed to write something1. In 2022, I think I wrote exactly zero words of fiction.
In my defense, I was changing careers and moving to an entirely country. I developed patches of stress eczema on my arms. My endocrine system was thrown out of whack for like two months. Honestly, I might have lost the ability to produce human language of any kind for a few weeks there.2
Anyway, my main goal for 2023, other than to pass the JLPT N2 test3 and to develop an earth-shatteringly delusional belief that I’m the hottest person alive, is to write more. So I’ve decided to revisit this post I made in 2020 about my own writing quirks and update it to include the, like, sixteen sentences I’ve written since then.
I’ve been writing more lately (because of the pandemic) but not as much as I would like to (because of the pandemic). More than actually sitting down to type out sentences from my brain, I’ve been brainstorming — which is still progress, since I’ve never been good at planning or plotting. I tend to wing it, writing whatever feels right in the moment. Some writers advise not rereading previous chapters until you’re in the revision stage, as you can get distracted thinking about what you should fix rather than what should come next in the story, but when I try to follow that advice, I end up looking back and being like “Did the same person write these two chapters?” My continuity is rough! I’m trying to get better — I used to not be able to outline at all because I would lose all motivation to write once the general story beats were laid out — but it’s a slow process.
While I’ve been brainstorming, I’ve been thinking about past and current writing projects and have realized that there are like… half a dozen things that I like to write about, and it shows up across all of my fiction writing like some sort of clumsy, unconscious attempt to make my own Cosmere where the Cosmere is just like… a shared pinterest board. And the more recent the writing, the more it has in common. While there is a fine line between having favorite tropes and themes and being Sarah J. Maas (who like… exclusively writes the most heterosexual fantasy stories that are also about sexy fae that are really more like elves), it’s also interesting to look back and see how my interests have evolved.
In any case, here are some recurring motifs, themes, and tropes that I’ve seen pop up again and again, with excerpts:
Constellation imagery!
"Indrani have a special appreciation for the night sky. The constellations have been a fascination of ours for as long as our culture has existed. I never tire of looking at it."
"I think most cultures in the world find the stars significant," Yuri said dryly. (Blue)
As much as she loved to consume by reading, tearing fistfuls of verse and prose and gulping them down her swan-like gullet, she also loved to add her own constellations to the night sky. (DRP)
The third lute was a rich golden tone and had an intricately painted neck in a design of moon and stars. Beneath, the rose was carved to look like the branches of a tree tangled together. (IoS)
The grand hall was dizzying in its splendor. The ceiling was vaulted and built like a dome, though from the outside the home had been flat on top. Large marble columns sprouted up from the floor towards the odd ceiling, which was painted a dark, rich blue. Constellations painted in gold cut through the blue expanse of the ceiling, illustrating a night sky that was both foreign and familiar. She spotted several constellations that she knew, including the Great Horned Elk that leaped through the darkened sky, its golden antlers brushing against the stars. (Blue)
The floor was made of black marble, perfectly pitch against the white of the walls and the columns. The lines in the marble were filled with gold, creating a strange pattern across the floor. At first, she thought it merely odd, but then something above glittered and caught her eye. Looking up, she almost gasped out loud; the ceiling was one large mirror. It reflected the table and its meticulous settings back at her, as well as the dark floor. In the reflection, she realized that the gold lines were not merely random cracks but constellations. She stood with a field of stars beneath her feet. (Blue)
Describing attactive people4 by comparing them to statues or triptychs or something equally pretentious!
If Celia was the goddess stranded among mortals, then Jane was the ancient frieze painted on the cracked temple wall. (DRP)
Her boots were splattered with mud, but she looked like she had strolled in right off the surface of a painting of some great beauty. (Blue)
Roa thought they looked like statues, perfectly composed and built with precision. The woman on the left was carved of alabaster and onyx; the one on the right, of bronze and copper. (Blue)
Alleged “useless party princes!”
Sen seemed genuinely surprised by the bite in her voice. “Yes, the mayor. He graciously offered me a room.”
Mabo scoffed. “Sen, no wonder those bandits knew who you are. When the mayor of a small town like this takes in a guest, everyone knows.”
“It’s not my fault! He said he couldn’t let the heir to the Relani throne sleep in an inn. There might be bedbugs.” (IoS)
"If you keep on scowling all the time, your face is gonna freeze like that." When he saw that the deep frown on his sister's face had not budged in the slightest, he let out a satisfied sigh. "Your smile is so refreshing." (Blue)
Roa thought him a fool. The man laughed too often, too easily. It was a source of wonder that Evander was the captain while Minerva — the obviously more competent twin — stayed behind on shore. (Blue)
Perhaps it would help if I tried to explain in literary terms. “Ambrose Howe” is, after all, a pompous and ridiculous name plucked straight from the pages of a book. Lord Ambrose could be best described as an amalgamation of Misters Darcy and Bingley, doubly armed with their best attributes – in his hand, a pistol: Darcy’s dark beauty, impressive stature, and remarkable wealth; at his hip, a rapier: Bingley’s affable charm. And also remarkable wealth. (DRP)
Parties where actually very little partying happens!
Jane and Celia would take this as a chance to slip into a quiet room somewhere away from the noise so that they could have impassioned conversations about what they had read since the last ball. (DRP)
A fool indeed. Anxiety filled Minerva and she could no longer stand being in that room. It was a foreign place, alien and dripping with Atrian aggression, and she wanted nothing more than to escape and return to the safety of her tea shop. But she had made a promise, and she could not trust Juno to do it on her own, and so she changed course for the hallway.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
She strode down the hallway until the music and voices faded into nothing but a whisper, and she finally felt like she could breathe again. Pulling back her billowing sleeves, she checked the glow of her skin against the tinted lamps lining the pristine white walls. She had not yet broken out into a cold sweat, and she pushed down the last remnants of her burgeoning panic attack with a painful swallow. (Blue)
They had reached the bottom of the staircase leading back up to the mansion. Olivier could hear the music and the conversation and the laughter as if time had just stopped. Juno gave her a small nudge and she ascended the stairs. When she reached the open doors, she turned to look back over the gardens. Juno was nowhere to be seen.
Olivier, ever obedient. She had gone back into that party as if nothing had happened. When Mr. Wicher asked if she had danced at all, she said she had been in the garden all night and told him about roses. This seemed to placate him, and she returned to being ignored. Captain Lorin returned to the party at the end of the evening, but he seemed to have forgotten about his promise to speak with her. He had walked them out to their automobile, but his thoughts appeared to be somewhere else completely. (Blue)
Making sure each fantasy culture has a determined musical style before touching, like, religion or food or whatever!
A woman playing a strange instrument resembling a paper lantern had drawn a crowd as well as Olivier's attention, and they watched her squeeze the lantern and finger ivory keys to produce a foreign sound. Without realizing it, Olivier had begun to creep closer and closer as her brain worked into overdrive trying to comprehend the mechanics of such a convoluted instrument. She could already imagine the design of an instrument that used keys to change the pitch of air forced through... perhaps a reed of sort...? (Blue)
She let him guide her back to a shop that was packed with all sorts of miscellaneous items. Rolls of carpets were stacked by the door, a porcelain tea set displayed on top of a finely carved tool cupboard. For a moment, she wondered what in the world had caught Sen’s eye (It couldn’t be the three-feet-tall marble tiger tucked right behind the entrance, could it? She would quit.) But then she saw it: a display of three lutes, each one made of warmly gleaming wood. (IoS)
While she waited, she browsed the other instruments on display. There were flutes and hand harps, harmonicas and drums of all sizes. Mabo sat down at a pianoforte painted a rich oxblood and, for the first time in over a year, pressed her fingers down on its keys. (IoS)
Extremely nostalgic nature imagery!
The scent of Bahemi perfume filled Olivier's nose and brought tears to her eyes. It smelled like the potpourri her grandmother would fold into their bedding to keep it fresh, the gentle fragrance of edelweiss and sweet grass. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply and savored the feeling of home. She could almost hear her father's whistling as he sheared the sheep.
Behind her, the door to the shop jingled softly closed. The little room could be barely be called a shop; it was built almost like a lean-to, with low ceilings and a narrow entryway. There was barely enough space to move between the towering shelves that overflowed with various items. Opening her eyes, Olivier began to count them all. There were woven baskets, wooden carvings of goats, braided elk bridles. She recognized packages of dried lamb jerky, pickled apple blossoms coated in sugar, hotcake mix. Low on the shelves were bowls of long, spider-like sagebrush used as flint for fires; surely it appeared a novelty to all of those Indrani who had magic to conjure fire from thin air. Beyond stood racks and racks of textiles decorated in rich colors and images of Bahemi elk. Some of the designs were sloppy, but they still sang of home. (Blue)
Part of the reason why she was so quiet, shy, meek, soft, hushed, reserved, reticent, mums-the-word made incarnate, was that she preferred to choose her words very carefully. Jane needed to walk through the orchard of her lexicon and run her fingers over fruited flesh in search of one that was impeccably ripe. She was no green farmhand; she wove through the trees with the expertise of a wood nymph. Jane Townshend was not slow, but it was a precarious art that she practiced. (DRP)
The seasons came early in that neighborhood. The cicadas began their monotonous chorus not long after the April showers had subsided, long before the rest of the city had a chance to catch up. Even though it was only September, the trees lining the cobblestone road were already beginning to erupt with splashes of red, yellow, orange. It felt like he was traveling back through time as he headed down the hill and back out to the main road. The trees outside of the office were still green. (24)
As she turned her attention to the rolling hills stretching out into infinity, the words of Basho once again felt appropriate.
Crossing long fields,
Frozen in its saddle,
My shadow creeps by (24)
Spooky forests because I’m a city boy!
The aspen trees seemed to glow in the fading moonlight, their soulless eyes staring at him accusingly from their white faces. Behind him, a small squad of five soldiers moved briskly through the overgrown grass of the Green; their lanterns cast eerie blue shadows across their solemn expressions. Through the trees, Moss could make out the shapes of houses a way away, their windows dark. As the fog rolled in and covered the moon like a shroud, the people of the Green withdrew into their homes and closed the curtains tight. (Blue)
The sight of another person, as startling and unnerving as it was, had simply reminded me that I was alone. What would Josh have done if he had been here? Probably he would have gone out to investigate, putting on an act like I was absolutely irrational and immature for being spooked while also coming up with a dozen different nefarious explanations for why a stranger would be hanging out around the cabin in the first place. He would go stomping off into the woods and then come back twenty minutes later with a shrug, and that would be that.
But at least Josh being here would mean that another person had seen the man. As my day went on, I began to wonder if maybe I hadn’t just hallucinated him. (Lepus)
The moon was fogged over, casting everything in an unearthly gray glow. For a moment, he hovered on the back step, staring at the trees that surrounded the house. Their dappled bark leered at him like the faces of spirits, and it sent his heart racing. The woods were alive with ghosts and wolves, and every gust of wind through the falling leaves sounded like a howl to his ears. (Blue)
Despite the surrounding good spirits, an uneasiness weighed heavily between them like a wasp’s nest in the heart of a hollow tree. Mabo and Sen had barely said a word to one another since they fled the uncanny light of the lantern, and they had slept even less. Neither of them had been eager to spend another second in that forest, and Mabo doubted that her trick with the branch would work a second time. Though it was dangerous, they had set off through the darkness with only the creek to guide them. Even when the natural sounds of the forest had returned, they kept their whispers to a minimum. Unholy things were happening in the woods, and neither of them wanted to draw more attention to themselves than they already had. And it was easier to process what they had seen in silence, though Mabo did not so much come to an understanding as she simply relived the horror of it all over and over again. (IoS)
did u know i have an advanced degree in books™
“And I’m a prince, and you’re your family’s youngest daughter,” Sen chimed in with a grin. “Maybe we really are in a fairy tale.”
“All we’re missing is a talking animal.”
“That’s what Kaden is here for.” (IoS)
Her mother was from that region from The Count of Monte-Cristo, Catalonia, though if you tried to make that connection to our friends here at this present moment of which I speak, they would look at you like you had run into Lord Merritt’s library with your shoes on your hands and a pipe in each nostril – that is to say, confused, politely concerned, and unsure of how to respond. At this time, Dumas was still reeling from revolution, and it would be years before he began to serialize his epic tale of revenge and hidden identity – which is a shame, as I think Celia and Jane would have had quite a lot of fun discussing it that night. (DRP)
I did share with him some vocal works in the hopes it would catch his interest, and while he never developed a deep love for opera, he did, interestingly enough, enjoy Schubert’s “Erlkönig.” It was spooky, he said, and told a suspenseful story.
You just like Goethe, then, I’d laughed.
The play where the guys wait by the tree? He’d asked with complete earnestness. (Lepus)
Other honorable mentions: all the women are tall; everyone is queer; Let’s Talk About Boats; complex sibling relationships; 90% of dialogue is banter; home doesn’t feel like home to me but neither does this place; characters can have little a feline quality, as a treat.
List of works:
Blue, 2012, 90k words — I put this thing on full hiatus in 2019 because it needs so much reworking but it’s the closest thing I have to a full novel (it is over 300 pages currently.) I started writing it in college after working out the basic world-building stuff with a friend; we were going to make it into a forum roleplay, which didn’t pan out. I was very fascinated by the Opium Wars at the time, and so of course, once I had that as my inspiration, I took off with it while my friend’s motivation/interest waned. It’s vaguely steampunk, vaguely alternative-history-with-magical-elements, and was 100% my clumsy attempt to process the concept of soft imperialism that I was learning a lot about in my history classes. It follows a group of people — separately, then all together — navigating politics and piracy and increasing economic injustice in a world where the most valuable natural resource is magic. It will be finished at some point; I love the characters too much not to.
DRP (Dumb Regency Project), 2020, 3k words — started as a self-indulgent collaboration between a friend and me where we came up with a historical romance premise and characters and then basically were like “okay now let’s retreat to our separate Word documents and if anything comes of this, that’s grand, but otherwise we had a lovely time thinking about names and tropes.” I was looking for something light and fun and new to write one evening and so 12 pages happened. Anyway, it’s about two friends and their respective paths to marriage, because that is the whole point of Regency romances. It’s perhaps my favorite thing I’ve ever written, which means it has become impossible to continue.
IoS (An Illusion of Sound), 2018, 82k words — basically my attempt to write a YA fantasy that rejects all of the popular YA fantasy tropes that I really dislike. It’s about a bard who saves a prince, discovers she can cast illusions, and gets wrapped up in a sinister mystery that threatens the safety of the realm. Kind of a cliche premise, but I’ve been having fun with it. It’s what I’ve been working on the most since putting Blue on pause. I literally wrote 200 pages of it during lockdown.
24 (Twenty-Four), 2011, ??? — a series of short stories and part of a larger novella that I’ve been writing off and on for years. I first came up with it when I used to read mostly literary fiction (was very influenced by Murakami and Ishiguro back then) so there’s not much of an overarching plot, just little vignettes following the same group of unlikely friends going through life (and dealing with depression and anxiety, I’m now realizing.) I’ve pulled quotes from two short stories, one a prequel to the main novella and the other a sequel. The original story is embarrassing, a very teenage take on adulthood, but I still like to think about the setting and the characters time-to-time.
Lepus, 2021, 3k words — my newest baby, though it’s unclear if it’s going to be a short story or a novelette. It’s about a commercial composer who moves into their family cabin to write a masterpiece symphony and then meets an ancient forest deity. I needed an outlet for my crush on Hozier.
oh dip I just found out that substack does footnotes now??? oh I’m so sorry for any and all of my future actions.
when I lived in Japan in college, I’d sometimes have dreams where I had forgotten how to speak Japanese but also couldn’t speak English either, so I’d just run around gesturing in distress to the people in my dream, who were usually my favorite celebrities and idols and other people I was trying to impress. my move to Japan this time around had similar energy.
I passed the prior level, the N3, in 2012???? literally a decade ago??? I was going to take the N2 in 2013 when I was still actively taking Japanese courses at university, but I was too lazy to go to the convenience store to pay the test fee and missed the deadline. and then two and a half presidential terms passed. so like, lol. lmao. godspeed, idiot
and by “people” I mean femmes. my descriptions of good-looking men are usually like:
Sen was handsome. Not handsome in a subjective, eye-of-the-beholder sort of way. He was objectively handsome, just like Mabo’s eyes were objectively black and her lute was objectively blown to smithereens. He had a handsomely defined jaw, and handsome brown eyes that curved down a bit. His handsome nose was wide and straight, and his teeth were also handsomely white and full. (IoS)
or
And then there was Vincent, who was perfectly unremarkable – meaning that he was handsome. He was handsome, and had a healthy head of chestnut hair, and an appropriately straight nose, and cheekbones designed to be cupped before a tender kiss. He had warm brown eyes and all of his teeth, and that is all you need to know about the future Lord Merritt. It should be enough to satisfy you to know that he was acceptably handsome for his role in Lady Celia and Lady Jane’s story. (DRP)