Writing Mary Sues is Important

Prompt: What is something you’re embarrassed to admit you’ve written?

I tend to pretty proud of my writing. There are some stories that I hope people don't find anymore, but I can easily see that all of my writing has been slowly shaping me to be a much better writer. Is it a bit embarrassing to look back at a fic and realise that it is basically a self-insert Mary-Sue fic? Sure. Is it worse to know you did another two years later? Yes. But even looking between those two I am proud to see how much my writing has improved. And bits of the first one has still stayed with me in ways I hadn't predicted.

What I refuse to let anyone see, however, is a reflective piece on my feelings regarding my best friend. It's almost like a diary entry as I try to sort out what my heart wants and what my brain thinks is ridiculous. As I read it back today, I almost wish to obliterate it completely, delete it from my drive and never look back. Yet it remains there, hidden.

My writing this week is the beginning of a short story to celebrate some of the women in the James Bond universe.

Favourite writing from this week: 

With the sun on their backs, their toes happily buried in the sand, and big hats protecting their necks, Tracy and Kissy could not be happier. The sound of the waves gently lapping the Japanese shoreline in front of Kissy’s home relaxed them and melted away any stress better than a masseur could even with the most skilled hands.

It had been less than a year since these two met, entirely by chance, on a flight from Hong Kong to Tokyo. In the short flight, they had come to understand just how similar they were and they continued to spend time together once they landed. Once the background checks were complete, the real friendship began.

Now both of their fathers were delighted by the impending permanent alliance between the Japanese Secret Service and the Union Corse. It was an important connection to mainland Europe for Tanaka and better control of shipping for Draco.

As for the women, they were delighted that they had another female who shared their love of danger and with whom they could trade secrets of their craft. There was spycraft. And then there was female spycraft. The men knew nothing of the code in perfumes or the true skill in hiding weapons beneath a cocktail dress. They did not know how to recognise a poison by the colour of lipstick or spot a barbed braid by the way it lay on the woman’s back.

But for now, that was all pushed out of their minds. Just the sand, and the sun, and the beeping noise. They simultaneously rolled to their sides and grabbed their phones. In sync once again, they swore in their native languages. “Not again.”