jamlavender

[jamlavender]

HDM season 3 is like “we are paying james mcavoy too much money for him not to have equal screentime to dafne keen amir wilson and ruth wilson despite the fact that asriel is a major part of only five of the amber spyglass’s thirty eight chapters and honestly is pretty peripheral to the overall themes the author is trying to explore in this story”

like I get that james mcavoy is a compelling and charismatic actor but I’ve always believed that asriel’s whole mission and constant self-justification is the opposite to the point phillip pullman is making about the value of individual kindness and wisdom and conscious choice and that there’s a reason the chapter of asriel’s battle is not ABOUT the battle but instead is entirely focused on lyra and will trying to reunite with their daemons by navigating a world gone mad with violence and death. asriel’s narrative victory isn’t assembling the army or the battle or the war, the story does not vindicate him or his terrible actions at all by caring even an iota about the chess game of his war against heaven, his narrative victory is when he and marisa chose lyra over themselves in a private, unwitnessed, uncelebrated moment of parental love and acceptance of the value of the one good thing they ever made in their lives. and yet the show cut time for the mulefa and the storytelling of the ghosts in favor of asriel assembling the army?????

[jamlavender]

i love love love love love all of your Masriel fics. I've read some of them years ago when His Dark Materials s1 aired and now started reading and rereading them again and oh boy, you're a real blessing to this fandom. Everything you have written is peak content. So beautiful and emotionally jarring. Thank you for all the wonderful stories! I hope you'll still write something about those fools one day. I'll take anything and everything with joy.

Thank you <3 this is a really lovely message. I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed my fics over the past couple of years, and that you came back to them. And in terms of more... well, never say never! Could be a nice surprise for all of us.

[jamlavender]

Hello user LavenderJam,

I saw your note on ao3 that you would not be writing for HDM anymore. Does this mean you will not be writing any more fics at all? Honestly, I would read whatever you wrote, even if I was not part of the fandom.

What I really want to say is thank you for all the talent you've shared with us over the years. You've given me so much masriel content to enjoy and inspired me to write fanfiction as well. I wish you absolute success with your personal projects; I am always rooting for you!!

I mean, if I want to write more fanfiction, then I absolutely will! For whatever fandom. But for now I really want to focus on my original stories. It means a lot for you to send this note, though; I really appreciate it. And it’s lovely to know that I inspired you to write as well. I wish you all the best with your projects too!

[jamlavender]

Unholy Ghosts

“I don’t understand,” Lyra said, her voice trembling. She blinked several times further, waiting for them to disappear, for their bodies and souls to pale into ghosts before dissipating altogether, their presence before her simply a cruel trick of the Northern spirits. “What happened to you? Where you have been? We all assumed you were dead.”

Her mother nodded. “Of course you did, darling. Well, we have quite the tale for you, as I’m sure you have for us too. Come, dear, our cabin’s not that far from here, and then we can talk – ”

“I’m not coming with you!”

Her mother smiled then, though Lyra knew that smug sweetness to be lethal. “You don’t have a choice, I’m afraid.”

“I do. You can’t make me. I’ll – I’ll just wait here until the next airship gets here, and – ”

“That’s four days from now,” her father said gruffly. “You’ll freeze long before it arrives.”

Lyra faltered. “Oh.” She looked around; she could only see snow and forest and mountains, no signs of civilisation at all. The blaze of the setting sun was just a cluster of embers now, and most of the landscape had been blanketed by the blue-black darkness of the Arctic.

Five years after the events of the Amber Spyglass, Lyra receives a mysterious summons to the North. Read Unholy Ghosts on AO3 for the haphazard unpacking of emotional baggage and other rare arctic phenomena. Thanks to @callhimnowmarisamylove​ for the prompt and encouragement!

[jamlavender]

Ælysium

“We should have died,” she cried. “We should have fallen into the abyss and been obliterated.”

The golden monkey stroked her tangled, coarse hair with his little black hand. “It’s not much further now. And then we can sleep, and then – ”

“And then?” she said. “And then we shall wake in this strange new world, our only company a dying, drooling, useless man, who may never be well again – ” She gasped and pressed her hand over her mouth, the tears on her face glinting in the moonlight, as if her cheeks were decorated with silver charms.

“Hush now, Marisa,” the monkey said, curling into her and placing his hand over her heart. “If he does not recover, we can always cross back without him.”

That thought placated her somewhat, and she bent her head so that her dæmon could wipe her tears.

By the time they reached the clearing again, the sky was alive with stars. Marisa dropped the bags with a thud and stood there, aching and weeping and drained, and tilted her head back with a wince. She took deep, gasping breaths and tried to surrender to the expanse above her. She let her eyes flit from star to star, her tears blurring the scene into a sparkling sea, and thought of the other worlds layered upon this one, in which other people were looking up at other stars and other moons, and begging for conviction, just as she was. She sunk to her knees, the cool night air ruffling her hair.

She knew that she should dress Asriel’s head and clean her own wounds before succumbing to sleep, but within seconds the sky has begun to ripple and pulse as if it were a dissipating hallucination, and Marisa knew that she could do no more for either of them before the dawn broke. With her last conscious thoughts, Marisa crawled across the ground, pulled a blanket from the trunk and laid her head down beneath the stars, drifting off into a fitful sleep beside her wounded lover, her dæmon curled into her breast, the pair of them breathing as one.

Marisa and Asriel kill Metatron, avoid the abyss and escape into another world. Read on AO3. 

[jamlavender]

Bad Apple

Then came the washing of the hair, the neck, the face, all manner of lotions and potions swept across Lyra’s skin until she was squeaky clean and beaming. The detangling spray smelled like pear drops; the conditioner like vanilla and hibiscus. The moisturiser was thick as clotted cream. By the time Lyra was snuggled into Mother’s bed, hair combed, book in hand, nightdress on, she felt like an iced cake or sweet biscuit, or perhaps a flower in a garden, ready to be picked.

“Have you chosen a story, darling?” Mother said, as she removed her own diamonds, watch, hair grips; as she wiped away her mascara, lipstick, powder, eye-dust; as she applied her own cleanser, toner, moisturiser and night cream.

“Uh-huh,” Lyra said, holding up the book. “I mean: yes, Mama, I have.”

“Wonderful,” Mother said, in the soft and special night-time voice that let Lyra know she meant it.

Lyra had chosen the book quickly, not because she didn’t care about that evening’s story, but because she loved to lie in Mother’s blankets and watch as Mother rubbed away her layers of paint and metal; as she revealed the woman who was only Lyra’s mother beneath. Then came the silk pajamas, the lavender pillow mist, the twin mugs of hot chocolatl. The story, read aloud in French, their secret language in the heart of London. The forgotten prayer, even though both Lyra’s schoolteachers and their priest said that praying before rest was a necessity. The lights turned out, Mother’s arms opened, Pantalaimon and Mother’s dæmon sitting sentinel at their feet. Mother’s arms were Lyra’s favourite place to sleep in all the world; as a young girl, she’d hoped that she’d always be allowed to snooze in that warm, safe embrace, the smell of Mother’s potions and perfumes perfusing her dreams forever.

Such was the way of Lyra Coulter’s little life.

An AU where Marisa raises Lyra herself; all glamour and terror and lies. Read it now on AO3. 

[jamlavender]

Crying Shame

“So, what was it about tonight than made chancing detention seem sensible?” Marisa asks him, settling back against the windowsill and folding her arms.

“It will not have escaped your notice that there are plenty of deep pockets out there. Thanks to you, these are the sorts of petty indignities with which I must now concern myself.”

Oh, it’s delicious. Delicious! “Ah,” she says, smiling, “so tonight we’re both whores.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” he says, followed immediately by, “Though if I am a whore tonight, it’s only because you made me so.”

“Of course, it’s always my fault, isn’t it? So who can I blame? Who made me a whore?”

“Not me,” he says. She wonders if he’ll leave then, or at least threaten to. But instead he walks purposefully towards one of the room’s two settees, red leather, facing each other, and sits down without breaking eye contact. He looks up at her. She doesn’t like it; as if she’s a girl in a pleasure house and he expects her to take off her clothes for him and dance. So she walks over and sits opposite him, on the other settee, and he smiles a little as he leans back into the leather, rests one ankle on the opposite knee, and has another mouthful of his drink. Stelmaria comes to stand at one end of the sofas, and then the golden monkey leaps up deftly, to perch on the arm at the other end of the two. For a moment, the four of them hang there, watching, sipping, breathing, like the four points of a compass or pieces laid on a chessboard.

A fic in which Marisa and Asriel’s latest power struggle ends in tears. This one gets a bit dark; please read the tags. And read the fic itself on AO3. 

[jamlavender]

Getting to know you meme

Thank you for the tag @torrefaction-of-silver!

Favourite time of the year: Summer, absolutely. I’m never happier than when I’m sprawled out in the sun half-naked with an ice cream, like a lizard basking on a rock. 

Comfort foods: I have a huge sweet tooth, and the British do cake and puddings really well. If I’m feeling down, then a bowl of sticky toffee pudding or something gooey and chocolate drowned in double cream will always perk me up. 

Do you collect anything: It’s not a deliberate collecting effort, but I do seem to accrue books at an impressive rate. Given that I currently move every two years or so, that’s usually to my detriment. 

Favourite drinks: The sweet tooth strikes again. I love a sweet, creamy cocktail, or any drink that tastes like perfume: lychee, rose, violet, etc. I once split a bottle of Amaretto with a friend and it was gone in two hours. My partner also likes to pick sloes in the autumn and make sloe gin for us to drink over Christmas, which is always delicious. 

I drink obscene amounts of water too, because I am very prone to UTIs but refuse to fuck any less than I want to. One thing that confuses many people is that I don’t drink tea or coffee - in fact, I have never had a cup of coffee. Maybe 2023 will be the year that I take the plunge. 

Favorite music artists: I very rarely get attached to specific singers and musicians; I’m much more likely to become obsessed with a song or two!

Current favourite songs: Sapokanikan and Divers by Joanna Newsom, The Whole of the Moon by the Waterboys, Evergreen by Yebba (maybe my favourite song ever), Barbra Streisand singing My Man, Dancing Queen by ABBA, and Clair de Lune, an incredibly basic forever favourite. 

Favourite fics: @torrefaction-of-silver’s Fortunate the Man with None. It changed me. Of my own? Raising Hell and Devil May Care are the obvious answers, but I love Good Grief. I think it’s very sad and horny and lush. 

Favourite video games: Not a gamer, I’m afraid!

I tag: @lordeasriel, @callhimnowmarisamylove, @elimaryholmes and @takingtheuniverse (and anyone else who wants to answer these questions!).

[jamlavender]

Crying Shame

“So, what was it about tonight than made chancing detention seem sensible?” Marisa asks him, settling back against the windowsill and folding her arms.

“It will not have escaped your notice that there are plenty of deep pockets out there. Thanks to you, these are the sorts of petty indignities with which I must now concern myself.”

Oh, it’s delicious. Delicious! “Ah,” she says, smiling, “so tonight we’re both whores.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” he says, followed immediately by, “Though if I am a whore tonight, it’s only because you made me so.”

“Of course, it’s always my fault, isn’t it? So who can I blame? Who made me a whore?”

“Not me,” he says. She wonders if he’ll leave then, or at least threaten to. But instead he walks purposefully towards one of the room’s two settees, red leather, facing each other, and sits down without breaking eye contact. He looks up at her. She doesn’t like it; as if she’s a girl in a pleasure house and he expects her to take off her clothes for him and dance. So she walks over and sits opposite him, on the other settee, and he smiles a little as he leans back into the leather, rests one ankle on the opposite knee, and has another mouthful of his drink. Stelmaria comes to stand at one end of the sofas, and then the golden monkey leaps up deftly, to perch on the arm at the other end of the two. For a moment, the four of them hang there, watching, sipping, breathing, like the four points of a compass or pieces laid on a chessboard.

A fic in which Marisa and Asriel’s latest power struggle ends in tears. This one gets a bit dark; please read the tags. And read the fic itself on AO3. 

[jamlavender]

I hope you know how treasured you are by the masriel fans!!! You’re a fantastic writer, I want to go reread all of your fics now. Hope you’re doing well!!

This is really, really lovely, thank you. It absolutely made my day!

[jamlavender]

Heyy I just wanted to say I found your HDM fics and they’re the best ones I’ve ever read - your characterisation is insane and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read and reread them (Forces of Nature and Frodtbite being my faves) ☺️💖

I’m sorry that it took me so long to see this and respond! I’m so happy that you like my fics. I’ve poured a lot of love into them over the past few years (and still do! I’ve just posted a new one: Crying Shame). Thank you for sending this <3

[jamlavender]

Crying Shame

“So, what was it about tonight than made chancing detention seem sensible?” Marisa asks him, settling back against the windowsill and folding her arms.

“It will not have escaped your notice that there are plenty of deep pockets out there. Thanks to you, these are the sorts of petty indignities with which I must now concern myself.”

Oh, it’s delicious. Delicious! “Ah,” she says, smiling, “so tonight we’re both whores.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” he says, followed immediately by, “Though if I am a whore tonight, it’s only because you made me so.”

“Of course, it’s always my fault, isn’t it? So who can I blame? Who made me a whore?”

“Not me,” he says. She wonders if he’ll leave then, or at least threaten to. But instead he walks purposefully towards one of the room’s two settees, red leather, facing each other, and sits down without breaking eye contact. He looks up at her. She doesn’t like it; as if she’s a girl in a pleasure house and he expects her to take off her clothes for him and dance. So she walks over and sits opposite him, on the other settee, and he smiles a little as he leans back into the leather, rests one ankle on the opposite knee, and has another mouthful of his drink. Stelmaria comes to stand at one end of the sofas, and then the golden monkey leaps up deftly, to perch on the arm at the other end of the two. For a moment, the four of them hang there, watching, sipping, breathing, like the four points of a compass or pieces laid on a chessboard.

A fic in which Marisa and Asriel’s latest power struggle ends in tears. This one gets a bit dark; please read the tags. And read the fic itself on AO3. 

[jamlavender]

Five short fics set during The Amber Spyglass

“Paradise” (Xaphania, 300 words, general) He cast me out because I would not serve. "Cross-Purposes" (Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter, 1088 words, general) A prisoner still suffering the effects of Gallivespian venom is brought before Lord Asriel for questioning. “The Waters” (Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter, 310 words, general) Lord Asriel arrived too late to stop the bomb. “The Tower” (Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter, 2219 words, mature)  In the Tower of Adamant, on the eve of battle, a final reconciliation of bodies and souls.  "A Woman Clothed in the Sun" (Marisa Coulter/Metatron, 300 words, general) A moment of doubt on the Clouded Mountain.

[jamlavender]

You don't know me but I should really comment on your fics more often because they're incredible and I love reading your hdm analyses. I saw this earlier today and immediately thought "jamlavender would like this" https://oceanssapart.tumblr.com/post/688016474614513664/chaos-family-one-way-or-another

Hello! What a lovely message to receive today, thank you! I’d love to hear your thoughts on my fics, so please feel free to leave comments whenever! Even on old fics (especially then, tbh; it’s so nice to know that people are still reading older stuff!). It really makes the difference when I’m writing :)

And you’re right, I did enjoy that video. @oceanssapart always does such amazing edits. I’m so flattered that you thought of me!

[jamlavender]

Despite his stern, cold demeanour, I do believe that, at his core, Lord Asriel is an optimist. I mean, to spend your life doggedly pursuing the impossible aim of dethroning actual God, for which the near-first step is blowing holes in the very fabric of the universe, all to usher in a new age that prizes curiosity, love and freedom, must require a considerable amount of confidence and good cheer, even if to many it just looks overblown and arrogant. And so when it comes to his affair with Mrs Coulter, I believe that Asriel really thought until the bitter end that he might win her over and that they might fight for his cause as a team (and if you follow their story until its last beat, he did succeed eventually). He knew that she loved him, that they were formidable together, that her commitment to the Church was megalomaniacal more than it was ideological. So when I consider their early love affair, I imagine that it took a lot for him to truly grasp that their love was not enough, and that she wasn’t going to choose him, even if the cost of that was his livelihood or his life. To me, the moment everything fell apart for him emotionally (and financially, of course) was after Edward’s murder, when he was faced with the miserable truth that even with the obstacle of her husband out of her way, even with her own reputation shattered, even when all he’d done was protect the baby and himself, she still left him to the wolves, walked away, and abandoned the only surviving piece of them to be poisoned and abused by the Church (that’s also, incidentally, how I imagine Lyra’s conception always functioned for him: more than anything, she was a proxy for his and Marisa’s relationship, and so Marisa’s rejection of the baby stung not because he cared deeply for the child, but because it was such a cruel knife in his own side). Before that, he’d been so rich, so privileged, so wilful, that everything and anything could be achieved, and the future looked so brilliant. I think she just crushed his heart to a pulp, and that on some level, he never recovered. Aah, I never get sick of writing about these two. Never! 

[jamlavender]

Hi! May I ask if you would be able to give some advice on how to manage rhythm when it comes to writing? I really enjoy reading your fics and would love to learn how to incorporate rhythm into my own writing (albeit academic) so it's more enjoyable

Firstly, sorry it took me such a long time to answer this ask. Secondly, I’m so flattered that you’d like my advice on this topic - though, to be clear, I am very much an amateur writer and am no authority on the craft! But I do think a lot about the rhythm of my stories and I can happily share my own thought process here, in the hope that it might be useful to you too. And for what it’s worth, writing so much fiction and trying to improve as a creative writer is the best thing I’ve ever done to improve my academic writing as well. So the ideas are absolutely transferable!

For me, the most important thing is to read everything aloud. It gives you a different perspective on the sound of the sentences and I can always tell when there’s a clause that needs to be cut or when a word is missing. Pay attention to when your mouth wants to end the sentence (and when it’s hanging there, because it needs more). I’d also recommend reading your work aloud several times: if you keep tripping over the same phrase or section, then that’s a good sign that the flow’s not right. 

Following that, read other work aloud! Great books and poetry almost always have perfect rhythm (that’s why they’re so pleasing to read and listen to!). Often reading your own work aloud only alerts you that something’s wrong; it doesn’t tell you what to do about it. That comes from reading work with excellent rhythm and slowly learning what that sounds like to the ear. Overall, I do think reading aloud is the most important thing: in John Gardner’s book The Art of Fiction, he writes at length about the specific details and techniques of writing with various metres, but then says that a good writer will do this all by ear. Only in dire circumstances do you need to mark the stresses on a sentence!

Vary your sentence structure. Gary Provost said this better than I ever could: 

“This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. 

Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals–sounds that say listen to this, it is important. 

So write with a combination of short, medium, and long sentences. Create a sound that pleases the reader’s ear. Don’t just write words. Write music.” 

This is an important thing for me to keep in mind, because I love a long sentence!

Sometimes you need an extra word or clause just to make the rhythm work. Mostly, I try to cut out the ‘just’s and the ‘now’s, because they’re filler words and are lazy on my part. But sometimes you need that extra beat or two to make the rest of the sentence sound right.

Match the rhythm with the mood and character. This might be less relevant for academic writing, but in fiction, the rhythm you choose for a scene (or paragraph) is an integral part of the overall mood. If a character’s feeling relaxed, lazy; daydreaming by a river in summer, you might use long, drowsy sentences to capture the atmosphere. If a character’s struggling to think straight or is under immense stress, you might use sentence fragments. Short, regular sentences might work well for a character who is very logical and orderly, while longer, meandering prose might make sense for someone dreamier whose mind is often floating off on tangents. You get the idea. 

And lastly: get the rhythm of the final sentence right. That last sentence is the part of your work that readers are left with, and it’s so important that it leaves them feeling like the story is finished. If you get the rhythm wrong, you’ll leave your reader with a sense that there’s more to say but they’re not privy to it. Don’t do it! Make that last part perfect. 

So those are the rhythm-related things that I keep in mind while I’m writing. I hope that they’re useful to you (and sorry again for taking months to write them down!). :)  

[jamlavender]

For the Love of God

Then Stelmaria gives a little growl, tiring of the game, and the golden monkey whines, reaching down towards her. Asriel frowns. “Let him go to her.”

Marisa shakes her head. Tears have sprung to her eyes. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I mustn’t,” she whispers.

“It’s what he wants.”

“I wish that it wasn’t. You simply can’t imagine how much.” That doesn’t seem to upset him in the slightest, because she hasn’t denied it. She’s staring at Asriel through tear-blurred eyes. He licks his lips. Then Stelmaria leaps up, claws pressing gently into the crest of Marisa’s rear, which spooks her badly enough that she drops her dæmon out of fright. He flings himself at the snow leopard, who receives him gratefully, and the pair begin to bite and lick and rut on the chalky stone of the palace path. Marisa’s eyes close, and a tear slips down her cheek. She feels looser already, and it disgusts her.

For the Love of God is a fic about the agony of love and the shame of temptation. It is very, very horny. Read on AO3 now!