#autobiographical post

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

I have ~Thoughts~ on the Harry Potter Phenomenon that was

(Courtesy of memories prompted by this Tumblr Poll)

Back when I was a senior in college (back in the mid-to-late 1980s), I actually wrote a fantasy novel for kids aged ~8 - ~11 (in a self-designed course for a single credit, under the guidance of my Literature advisor), inspired by a series of dreams and recurring characters that showed up in them.

My advisor encouraged me to try and get it published. And so, I arranged with teachers from my old school to have a class of 30 or so 10 year-olds beta read it, and give me feedback for revisions. The kids also encouraged me to try and publish it.

So I did.

Now, back then, there was no "Self Publishing." The closest thing was "Vanity Publishing," where you would pay 100% of the publishing cost of your book, which would be printed in hard copy, for the benefit of having 500 -1,000 books shipped to your personal address, which you were then responsible for storing and selling out of the trunk of your car in a parking lot, somewhere. And if word got out that you were trying to claim credit for being a "published author" because of a Vanity Press book, actual publishers wouldn't touch you with a 40-foot pole.

If you wanted to get published, you had to buy that year's copy of Writer's Market: a listing of magazine and book publishers, and agents, with a brief description of what material they published, and what they wouldn't touch.

Guess what genre no agent or publisher was interested in handling?

That's right, Gentle Readers: Fantasy for children aged 8 - 11. I would have happily sent out a dozen queries for each story I wrote, if there were publishers and agents willing to look at them. But for three to four years of trying, in directories of two-columns of tiny print, and several [hundred]* pages long, I'd be lucky to find two or three outlets even willing to look at fantasy for kids.

The general consensus, across the publishing business, was that fantasy was a dead and obsolete genre. If it was for kids old enough to read chapter books and novels, it must also be firmly grounded in realism and actual history, because everyone knows the only people buying books for kids that age were teachers, who wanted stories with practical applications in the classroom.

***

After 3 - 4 years of trying, while I was in grad school, I finally got a rejection from the one agent who agreed to read my novel. A few days later, I received news that my mother had died from the breast cancer she'd been fighting, and my heart just went out of the project altogether.

A few years later, the first Harry Potter book was published. And it became a worldwide phenomenon. And it was the kids, themselves, who were driving the sales.

See, I think the real reason the books were such a success, even though they were never really very well written, was because they were in a genre the audience was hungry for -- a genre they'd been denied access to for all of their young lives.

Someone who is starving will think even moldy bread is delicious.

*Gosh, what a word to leave out via typo; the Writers Market rivaled the Manhattan Yellow Pages in length.

[baddingtonbitch]

girls will show you a pic of their crush and it's this

[indeterminategroundmeat]

[bookwyrrm]

Me and my situationship

[warpweight]

i understand it's probably like a We Make You Climb Stairs liability concern or something but banning heels at the phantom hoedown is so antithetical to the central Bitch of the program... i think he would not say No Heels. i think he would say Heels ONLY. and i think if you tripped and ate shit and shattered both femurs instantly trying to hustle up the stairs to watch him shoot gamecube fireballs at an innocent jock he would look down at you trembling on the floor and say Hm. Interesting and leave you there. and actually distract anyone in the crowd from offering you aid. because maybe you shouldn't have tried to play scooby doo in his haunted mansion if you were so uneducated in the ways of the Serve

[aromanticduck]

You wear your heart on your sleeve, I wear mine up my sleeve. Like a magician. You think you know where it is? Oops, wrong answer! You fell for my misdirection.

[lesbianlanarcher]

i lied. put your clothes back on. we're going to watch all fourteen seasons of Archer together, and i'm going to carry out a full psych evaluation based on your opinion of each character.

[aropride]

chase absolutely doesn't have a primary care physician. he's fine being a doctor but seeing one is a whole different thing. and he has been adeptly and diligently dodging it since he started working for house

[dinkyshrinks]

The rough-mannered head of production was feeling friendly, it seems, so he suggested I walk around the back of the building as he would when he walked.

I usually walk along the west side of the building, where our company and another share a broad parking lot. The current of cars is slow but consistent. Only on our side, it is empty most days. So: not exactly private, not exactly teeming with activity. For those who walk on their breaks, it is the preferred route.

On a day after I was given that advice, it was lunch but I had no appetite and lots of thoughts. So I was going to walk the usual way. I discovered workers basking in the shady cove of my usual escape-route. I passed with a straight gait and gaze— There was no need for a nod and a wave, because they were asleep.

It was sufficient pressure to try the new route.

I ascended through the planters, close along the vertical white lines of truckbay walls. I rounded the corner to uncover the new route— Lined on one side by walls, the other side sheltered with a sufficiently tall incline and small citrus trees (identified by smell). I would need to walk along the gutter between. So I did.

I tread carefully to not get dampend soles. The sound of the highway on the other side of the hill seemed to collect down in this gutter, too. I was well aware no one could see me, but I felt them in the sounds around me.

It takes 30 minutes to walk around the entire building, he said. So in order to be on time clocking back in, I have to keep moving.

I see fruit on some of these trees. Small oranges with a texture to match the ground and soundscape. These must not be very juicy. But they looked ripe. I reach out to a close one and it comes off easily, as if the tree had been eager to pawn it off. My arm shakes still. Do I really want this? But it's too late to ask.

No one sees. I resolve to keep forward. With my steps more accustomed than before, something comes into view. Red and vague shape of something artificial. My heart catches. Is someone here? Only a human could put this color here. There are no signs of movement, but its too far to make out what exactly it is. I stand for a moment, hoping for patience to clear my doubt and guilt. Then I give up.

I retreat against the current to the west side of the building with a sensation of red on my palm— the bumpy texture of an underwatered orange.

And concealed it in my lunch bag for a few days, carrying it back and forth. When I worked up the nerve to eat it the first time, the resistance of that pebble-bed skin against my fingertip rinsed away my intention. I instantly tucked it away to continue my burden.

A few days later, almost an entire week after my pitiful adventure, I decided to finish the madness. It's just a fruit, dinkyshrinks. The hallway feels too exposed, the light from the glass wall behind me as I huddle over the trash can to peel. I tip my thumb in, piercing the orange and I pull apart vivid, vivid red almost as easily as tearing petals apart. Thick beads of juice drag down my offending fingers.

This was the first time I think a blood orange really looks bloody. I hadn't expected it to be a blood orange to begin with. I pull— Deep red with snow white membranes. It feels like something I wasn't supposed to see. I take it in with my eyes and hands, swallowing alternating waves of awe and guilt. Somehow, as I look at it, I convince myself there is something wrong with it. Perhaps there is mold in there. Bug eggs. My head is swimming.

Plop. The whole ordeal, dropped into the trash.

The sight of it sitting at the bottom of the nearly empty waste bin is conspicuous and vulgar to me. Like roadkill bright guts strewn on dark pavement. I've created a portrait of my neuroticism in this otherwise sterile hallway. The shame and guilt paint my cheeks and I try to pretend none of it happened.

[mesetacadre]

if you aren't sharing a bed non-sexually with a comrade after staying up until almost 5 discussing the labor theory of value and student unionism, while extremely drunk off wine, what are you even doing with your life?

[mizarchivist]

Here's to mundane, modern blessings--

May your phlebotomist be successful on the first try and leave no bruise

[firenati0n]

several sentence sunday <3 :)

hello friends :) thank you to @welcometololaland @anincompletelist @suseagull04 @bigassbowlingballhead @indestructibleheart

@thedramasummer @onthewaytosomewhere @cricketnationrise @ninzied @sophie1973

@cha-melodius @orchidscript @sparklepocalypse @kiwiana-writes @tailsbeth-writes

@theprinceandagcd @hgejfmw-hgejhsf for the tags :) :) i finally have some sentences. i have been struggling a lot with reading and writing recently. so, I'm writing something that makes me happy to bring the juice back.

here is a peep at angel!henry sequel. because honestly, writing him experiencing joy at small human things is helping me recalibrate myself and find my own tiny joys. i am doing this for me. it is a love letter to humanity from me to you, but also a reminder to myself

The Victoria & Albert museum is lively today. Henry hasn’t been back to the Cast Courts since he last visited in his time of need, the heaviest he had ever felt, his whole being sagging under the weight of the world’s pain he elected to shoulder. If he stares hard enough, he can almost see a shadow of his former self staring up at Trajan’s Column, can almost run his fingers across the desperation written all over his face as he seeks comfort in Civitali’s angels; his hands clasped and cold and pleading.   Now, his hands are warm, nestled in Alex’s palms, calloused fingertips absentmindedly running over Henry’s knuckles. It makes Henry feel grounded, tethered to a reality he never thought he deserved, but has manifested nonetheless.  He takes in the statues with a new perspective, a newfound respect. Yes, they endured. Yes, they were seen, and they were loved.  But now, Henry is too. Seen and loved, in the way that matters, with an end in sight. Henry’s never been happier to reject eternity. 

xoxo roop

+ tags under the cut and open tag as always <3

@priincebutt @rmd-writes @leaves-of-laurelin @eusuntgratie @blueeyedgrlwrites

@getmehighonmagic @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @captainjunglegym @duchessdepolignaca03 @porcelainmortal

@orchidscript @myheartalivewrites @dumbpeachjuice @anchoredarchangel @nocoastposts

@wordsofhoneydew @tintagel-or-cockleshells @sherryvalli @lizzie-bennetdarcy @heysweetheart-writes

@onward--upward @celeritas2997 @inexplicablymine @affectionatelyrs @happiness-of-the-pursuit

@14carrotghoul @cultofsappho @alasse9 @nontoxic-writes @piratefalls

@ships-to-sail @itsmaybitheway @adreamareads

[iwakuraz]

wip from an animation thingy I will probably finish soon!

[croissantfemme]

something is just so magical about squirting like 12 times and then going the fuck to sleep

[sarahlancashire]

i finished evelyn hugo, what sapphic books would you all recommend???

[blackrevell]

not the analogy I expected, but alright