#fictionalized historical figures tend to make me uncomfortable in general but this show specifically has rubbed me the absolute wrong way

[schwaybatmoved]

the reason ofmd is on my blacklist is the fact that it makes me so angry. i didn't really want to talk about it in depth here on tumblr but it fictionalizes these very real people who did very real bad things and 1) turns it into a comedy and 2) changes the story to make it more appealing to people (i.e. sticking representation in there). since the day i found out about the show and its appeal to people these days i have been talking to multiple people in my life about how wrong it makes me feel. like genuinely gross it makes me feel when i think about it. from what i hear it glazes over the bad things these pirates have done and it romanticizes and fictionalizes what kind of relationship they may have had, in every way. i understand how attached people get to gay/trans representation but can we please not do it with real fucking guys who were genuinely scum of the earth

[tlbodine]

Hard-Boiled Fantasy

So a conversation from @firefly124-writing about the TV show Supernatural and where it exists in relation to horror got me to wondering about the origins and trappings of what we now consider the “urban fantasy” genre, which I realized I haven’t really dug that deeply into before. 

That sounded like a fun rabbit hole to fall down, so I figured I’d do a bit of digging! 

So the initial question was: Is Supernatural a horror show? 

It kind of seems like it should be, right? There’s ghosts and demons and all manner of other things that go bump in the night. 

But structurally, it sure doesn’t seem like a horror. In horror stories, the monsters usually hunt the characters, not vice versa. And the story beats are all wrong. In fact, if you subbed out monsters for regular criminals, you’d pretty much just have a crime drama. 

And in that respect, Supernatural is hardly on its own. In fact, there’s a ton of supernatural crime fiction - from Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake series, to Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files, to Angel (not so much Buffy, more on that in a minute) and many, many more besides. In fact, the whole genre of “urban fantasy” seems to have some hefty overlap with supernatural crime stories – but are the two interchangeable? Or is there more to it? 

First Off: What the Heck is Urban Fantasy? 

Our benevolent overlords at Barnes & Noble compiled a handy list of recommendations for Urban Fantasy series (https://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/sci-fi-fantasy/12-urban-fantasy-series-to-binge-read/), and looking at them side-by-side, we can begin to see some trends:

Super-powered and/or badass main characters 

Serial format that lends itself to a “monster of the week” type storyline

Crimes and/or supernatural political intrigue 

But are they, like, the defining traits of the genre? Let’s investigate further..

According to this article from Writer’s Digest, there are a few key ingredients: setting as character, a central mystery, character-driven story (often in first person narration), and a romance subplot - https://www.writersdigest.com/online-editor/5-elements-urban-fantasy-novels-must

But I take some issue with that. I think there are a fair number of stories that feel like they should qualify as “urban fantasy” without ticking off all of those boxes. Setting aside everything that could be considered “paranormal romance” - your Twilight and True Blood and whatnot (Buffy slots here better, maybe)- there’s still plenty of things that seem like they should be urban fantasy, like Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere or Lev Grossman’s The Magicians or Charles de Lint’s Newford series, or War for the Oaks by Emma Bull. 

But it’s OK - urban fantasy is large, it can contain multitudes. 

The real question is, why is so much of it just supernaturally flavored crime fiction? 

The Origins of Crime Fiction 

Crime fiction/mystery/thriller is the second-most popular book genre, coming in right behind romance for sales: https://bookstr.com/article/book-genres-that-make-the-most-money/

With that in mind, it kind of makes sense that you’d want to fold crime fiction elements into other types of stories. A genre that popular and ubiquitous is going to have lots of familiar tropes and appeal to a lot of people. 

And as it turns out, crime fiction has its roots tangled quite deeply with horror fiction – so deep, in fact, that the granddaddy of all detective stories is none other than Edgar Allan Poe. 

Poe’s character C. Auguste Dupin – from famed stories like “The Purloined Letter” and “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” – lays down the template for detective stories in the 1840s, from the eccentric gentleman of leisure turned detective to the impossible crimes explained by the power of deductive reasoning. That template would then be lifted almost wholesale by Arthur Conan Doyle in the 1880s with his Sherlock Holmes stories. 

And, really, it shouldn’t be a particular shock that detective stories started to really take root in this time period. In a post-Enlightenment world, we were collectively struggling with our relationship to nature, science, industry and the mysteries of the universe. Even as we continued to fear things that went bump in the night, we increasingly sought to rationalize it all. 

There was also, of course, more crime – and, thanks to developments in both city living and news reporting, people were aware of those crimes. Jack the Ripper captured public imagination and inspired terror with his murders in 1888, about the same time as H.H. Holmes was running his murder hotel in the United States. 

So with that in mind, is it any surprise that crime fiction entered its first Golden Age in the 1920s and 30s – a time when organized crime was at its peak thanks to Prohibition? 

What is especially interesting to me is that even as horror waned in popularity in the 1940s and 50s, crime fiction was entering a second Golden Age thanks to Film Noir and all of its now-familiar tropes – from world-weary detectives to beautiful dames in trouble and rain-drenched streets. 

Some reading you may find interesting on that topic, especially in regards to how the Noir genre survived the Hays Code: http://hayscodeandfilmnoir.blogspot.com/ and https://vicolablog.wordpress.com/2017/06/05/film-noir-and-the-hays-code/

Putting it All Together 

So with this historical context firmly in mind, I think we can make a few logical conclusions. 

First, I think it’s safe to say that people like crime stories because they tap into cultural fears and fascinations – crime is something that we are all aware of but which most of us have fairly little hands-on experience with, so it’s only natural that we’d be morbidly curious about it. Crime is interesting because it’s dangerous and taboo, and that makes for good storytelling. 

Second, it also seems safe to say that many people prefer crime stories to horror stories because they are more comfortable to consume: 

The hero is usually empowered rather than powerless

Justice is usually served at the end (whereas horror tends to have a bleak outlook) 

The overall feeling can be fun/adventurous/even silly and largely safe, despite the presence of a murder – see the entirety of the “cozy mystery” genre 

Mysteries tap into a puzzle-solving, intellectual aspect of the audience as opposed to a visceral/primal response

Now obviously these lines are drawn in ever-shifting sands. There are plenty of horror stories that are primarily intellectual, and crime fiction can be plenty bloody and visceral. And that’s not even touching on the cross-overs like Thomas Harris’s work or the entirety of giallo filmmaking: https://vicolablog.wordpress.com/2017/06/05/film-noir-and-the-hays-code/

But by and large, speaking in general terms, I think we can make an argument that there is probably a somewhat wider audience for crime/detective stories than for horror specifically because the intended purpose of horror is to make the reader/viewer uncomfortable, and a whole lot of people dislike feeling uncomfortable. 

So with all of that in mind, I don’t think it’s too much of a leap at all to see how our modern understanding of urban fantasy as a supernatural crime thriller got its start. 

By taking familiar horror tropes that have slipped into pop culture – monsters and demons and zombies and whatnot – and then folding them into the comforting tropes and narratives of popular crime fiction, creators can delve into everything that is cool about horror without the icky, alienating bits that make people feel bad. 

(I’d also posit that this type of storytelling is gaining an increasingly powerful foothold in modern times because it side-steps some of the more problematic aspects of realistic crime fiction – ie, the socio-economic status of most criminals, the corruption of the legal system, etc. By making fantastical creatures the perpetrators, we can skip the discomfort of due process and human rights and focus on the fun parts of solving crimes with a clear conscience)

But that’s just one opinion, from an admittedly biased horror blogger. I’ll leave you with this final essay on the topic, which follows a similar path and draws a different (but quite interesting) conclusion – https://carriev.wordpress.com/2012/04/16/the-long-and-diverse-history-of-urban-fantasy/

PS - if you like these deep dives and want to support me in doing more of them, don’t forget to drop a tip in my tip jar:  Ko-fi.com/A57355UN

[themiscyra1983]

The Elephant In The Room

Let me preface all this by saying I do not have time for assholes. If you come at me with insults and contempt, I will block you.

The other day on Twitter I said the Harry Potter books aren’t good. I said this to a friend but I guess some people just keep an eye out for whatever Harry Potter shit pops up on Twitter and/or the algorithm just likes to spit in people’s eyes because hoooo boy people saw and lost their minds. I blocked two people over it because they decided to be assholes, and had a somewhat terse conversation with someone who was more politely insistent before going, finally, “I’m glad you find joy in something I no longer care for” and putting an end to the conversation.

It’s no particular secret that I’m in the fandom, and prior to J.K. Rowling going full, ‘no plausible deniability here’ transphobe, I’d bought my share of official merch. Frankly I should have stopped that sooner, but it took getting figuratively slapped in the face multiple times before I finally admitted Rowling’s ignorance carried a distinct air of willfulness and malice. Anyway I still HAVE the stuff I bought before, the Ravenclaw crap, the wands I was collecting (no more of that, I fear, though I’d hoped to pick up Tonks and Ginny’s wands at least before I brought an end to it), the Ravenclaw goblet I was gifted from a friend who bought it before JKR passed the plausibly just clueless horizon. There is still much in the world that I love, but much of that love comes now from the creations of others, and I cannot in good conscience spend money in ways that directly benefit Rowling’s financial empire.

And the Harry Potter books are not, in my view, good books. I’ve felt that for a while now. I’ll go a step further: I think they’re dangerous stories to tell children; I think I would be uncomfortable reading them to any children I might have. They are not stories that should be viewed without a critical eye. I loved them as a teenager. I’ve grown more uncomfortable with them - and, as with Twilight, far more comfortable with how critically thinking fans have transformed the work - as time has passed.

This actually has very little to do with the fact that, well...Rowling is not the best writer. Listen. I’m a Power Rangers fan. I’ve watched every incarnation of Star Trek, and every single movie. I have no problem with trashy fiction. You will find me rooting around in the garbage with the finest raccoons. But that is part of it, yes; there are flaws in the craft of it, and I don’t feel that, inherently, we needn’t judge children’s fiction by adult standards. I would argue that the very BEST children’s fiction is also excellent by adult standards. But this is the least of my concerns.

Here are my actual concerns.

Rowling wants credit for declaring Dumbledore gay after the fact, for saying Hogwarts is a safe space for all students in ways not reinforced (and in fact actively contradicted) by the text, for cheering the fan-created same-sex marriage of Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, but she doesn’t want to take the creative risks that go along with that. When she had the opportunity, with the Fantastic Beasts movies, to make that subtext text, she and her cronies outright declined it. At every opportunity she has shied away from actually putting her high-minded ideas to the page. This is a cowardly choice at best.

Further, Dumbledore’s only canonical love interest (and it is not clear whether the love was requited) was a pretty fascist with whom he fell in, politically, for a time. I get it, we’ve all had crushes on terrible people. But this is literally his one and only love, requited or not, and after he defeats Grindelwald he is left to pine away for the remainder of his days. The one gay love story in the books - if you tilt your head, and squint, and accept Rowling’s word for it - is a tragic one that leaves one man in prison and another celibate and alone and, increasingly, a manipulative bastard who upholds the status quo.

There’s nothing wrong with a tragic love story. I’ve enjoyed quite a few. But when this - THIS - is what you hold up as a triumph of representation, in the absence of ANYTHING else...no. No cookies for you.

Let’s also talk about how I don’t feel Rowling wrote Dumbledore or approaches him with a critical eye. There is NO excuse for leaving a child in an abusive home. No, fuck your blood wards. You’re telling me that Albus Dumbledore - ALBUS DUMBLEDORE - could not devise protections better than leaving Harry with abusive relatives who despised him and everything he stood for? Then, too, when Dumbledore did intervene in Harry’s life, he did so with full knowledge that he was setting Harry up to be a sacrificial lamb, AND WITH THIS SPECIFIC END IN MIND. None of this is acceptable. Dumbledore is a fucking manipulative, abusive bastard who uses people and throws them away, and the fact that it WORKED OUT for Harry does not absolve him of his crimes.

Moving on, and bear in mind I’m still getting my steam up on this whole rant: Seamus Finnegan. Seamus Finnegan is the one canonically, obviously Irish character in the books, named quite stereotypically, but more importantly, in the books and movies, is shown to be interested in (a) liquor and (b) making things explode. He’s REALLY GOOD at making things explode. Do I need to explain why it’s problematic for the one Irish character to blow things up all the time? He also does this in defense of UK wizardry’s status quo, so, you know, even if you were all IRISH FREEDOM FIGHTER YEAH, I assure you he is not that guy.

There is an entire species of sapient magical creatures who exist solely to serve witches and wizards. Hogwarts is run on slave labor and most of the finest wizard families hold slaves. But it’s all right! Only one of them has ever, in the context of the books, wished to be emancipated, and everyone else views Dobby as a weirdo for wishing to be free, and paid for his labor. Dobby, incidentally, later lays down his life for the wizarding savior who tricked his master into freeing him. The only other emancipated house elf we see in the books, Winky, spends her time in a state of drunken depression, rendering her useless and scarcely capable even of caring for herself. She wished to remain enslaved, do you see, and was helpless without the benevolent guidance of her master.

There’s fan work that has tried to address this by exploring a mystically symbiotic relationship between house elves and wizards and witches, and yes, yes, J.K. Rowling is drawing on European folklore here, but let’s not give her credit, okay?

Goblins. Goblins! Goblins have a long history of being antisemitic stereotypes to begin with (hence why I have seen multiple Jews on Tumblr push back HARD on ‘goblincore’), but J.K. Rowling just...right. They’re short, ugly, have hooked noses, generally look like antisemitic cartoon figures. They are locked out of power but control all the wizarding world’s banking, and do so in very usurious ways, for example charging wizards to hold their money, etc. Now this might be an interesting commentary on how Jews have historically been oppressed and forced into fields that goyim felt themselves too ‘pure’ to work in, were it not for the fact that Rowling’s fantasy Jews LITERALLY AREN’T HUMAN, and more, ARE ACTUALLY GREEDY, CONNIVING, AND WILLING TO BETRAY YOU AGAINST THEIR OWN SELF-INTEREST FOR PERSONAL GAIN. FUCKING GOBLINS, MAN.

Then there’s the travesty of Magic in North America, which disrespected the intelligence of Native Americans (none of them figured out you could point a stick at something to make the magic go until white people showed up to help, apparently, but don’t worry, they’re really CLOSE TO NATURE and GOOD AT NATURAL MAGIC), disrespected the beliefs of specific peoples (no, skinwalkers aren’t just misunderstood shapechanging wizards and witches smeared by the greedy and ignorant, you’re whitesplaining actual mythology to the people who hold it sacred), made the ONE wizarding school in America white with an appropriated Native veneer, and generally just...Did Not Get America. As bad as the UK Wizarding World is, Rowling demonstrated complete IGNORANCE regarding the long history of what we now call North America, ignorance of even modern American culture (there’s a reason why American fans particularly tend to ignore the idea that wizardry is locked down tight behind a wall of secrecy here), ignorance and disrespect toward Native populations, and an unwillingness to do the research necessary to do this shit right.

There’s more. There’s blood purity, and gender politics, and Severus Snape’s portrayal, and all kinds of shit that grates, and I’m just tired.

Writers make mistakes. it happens. But Rowling does not recognize her mistakes. She does not seek to make amends. She just barrels on with her shitty opinions, regardless of who she hurts.

it is at the point where I am no longer even willing to thank her for graciously allowing us to play in her sandbox. We don’t need her blessing; the OTW has done far more for fanfic than she has. And it is, indeed, beginning to grate on me that people constantly try to apply Harry Potter metaphors to real life and real politics. As my friend Doc often says, find another book.

I love butterbeer (or at least the knockoffs available outside the Universal parks), I still read fanfic sometimes, I still like to play with ideas like the Harry Potter movies as performed by Muppets, with Dan Radcliffe as Snape and Tom Felton as Lucius. I’m glad the movies brought us a generation of actors, mentored by performers like Alan Rickman and Maggie Smith and so many others, who have gone on to bigger and better things. Much of my merch is packed away, but I still hold on to some of it because it has new meaning for me in light of fanwork, or because (in the case of my Ravenclaw hat and scarf) it’s warm, winters here are cold, I don’t want to buy new shit, leave me alone.

I am accustomed to seeing fans turn trash into treasure. I’ve tried to do it myself. But I feel, quite strongly, that the original text in this case is trash. it is radioactive, stinky trash. You won’t persuade me otherwise, and I’m done apologizing for it. If Rowling wants me to respect her and her work again, she’ll have to earn it, but I’m very trans and she low-key hates my kind, so even if I weren’t a random reader I wouldn’t be holding my breath.

And I really, really need to emphasize to you all that it is okay if people don’t like a given work of fiction. It is okay if people HATE that piece of fiction. You don’t need to change the minds of everyone around you. You absolutely will not succeed in doing so. Please, I’m begging you, make peace with that - and please, I’m begging you, even if you like something, try to consider it critically.

[beaft]

Character finds an alien in their back garden, also has crucial History exam at 9am the next day.

put a prompt in my inbox!

The first sign that something was amiss was the smell. 

Joelsniffed. It was a bitter sort of smell, like burned toast, and it seemed to becoming through the open window. “Can you smell that?” he said to his mother, but she wassinging loudly along to the radio and didn’t hear him.

Joel got up and walked over to the window. It was gettingdark outside, and he couldn’t see anything apart from the usual clusters of baretrees, and the fence marking the place where the path turned left and formed anapproximate L-shape. As he listened, though, he heard something. A sort ofsquelching sound. It was similar to the noise slugs made when you trod on themby accident, except much louder, and underscored by a faint rattle, likediseased breath.

Joel took his jumper from the back of the chair and pulledit on. Then he fetched a torch from the cupboard and went outside. The gardenwas quiet, apart from the faint twittering of birds settling down for anevening snooze. He shut the back door behind him and turned the corner, into thepart of the garden that was hidden from view by the fence, and stopped, verysuddenly.

There was an alien in the flowerbed.

At least, he assumed it was an alien. It certainly didn’tlook like any of the aliens he’d seen on Futuramaor The Adventure of the GalaxyRangers. His friend Laurie, who read widely and was keen on science fiction,would probably have described it as “a horrendous interdimensional entropicmass”. Joel had never much liked long words. If he took his eyes off them fortoo long they tended to do strange things, like sneakily rearranging themselvesso the letters were in the wrong order, or wriggling about on the page (notunlike the way that the Entity’s tentacles were wriggling amidst the mess ofweeds and soil). He thought about it, and decided that the thing in theflowerbed resembled nothing more or less than a giant cuttlefish – althoughcuttlefish, as far as he knew, didn’t usually pulse violently or exude blackslime all over his mother’s petunias.

Joel wasn’t sure if the Entity understood English or not. Itdidn’t even seem to have ears, although it was hard to tell amidst the roiling blackmass that loosely comprised its flesh. He thought he had better check anyway.Clearing his throat, he asked, “Excuse me, but are you an alien?”

The Entity made a sort of burbling sound.

Right, thought Joel, that’s a no. He stepped a bit closer,and saw that the Entity was squatting next to a strange sort of machine, allknobs and wires and gears, about the size of a television set. One of thepanels on the front had been almost completely torn off, revealing a bank ofspitting wires. Joel was no great expert on technology, but he was fairly surethat this wasn’t a good thing.

“Is that broken?” he said, pointing.

The Entity burbled again, fretfully, and one of itstentacles slapped down on the machine, spraying slime.

“Do you need some help fixing it?”

Squelch. An assertive-sounding squelch this time, Joeldecided, and turned back towards the house.

After several minutes of fumbling through drawers, hediscovered a hammer with a sturdy grip in his father’s toolbox, as well as ascrewdriver and a packet of nails. As he came up the cellar stairs, he cameface to face with his mother. “What were you doing down there?” she demanded.

“Homework project,” Joel said glibly, holding up the nailsas evidence.

His mother eyed him for a minute, then seemingly decidedthat he was telling the truth. “Arts and Crafts, is it?” she said. “Well, don’tspend too long on that. You’ve got that exam tomorrow, remember?”

“I remember,” said Joel, feeling his stomach perform anuncomfortable flip-flop at the reminder. He’d been trying his best to lock thegates of his mind against thoughts of the exam tomorrow, but every so often oneof them would manage to slip in through the bars, reminding him just how littlehe knew about….well, about anything, really. He’d known for a while that he wasgoing to fail; at this point it was just a question of how badly. “I’ll revisefor it in a bit,” he said. “Promise.”

“Make sure you do,” his mother said. She tried to give him apointed stare, but he dodged it and pushed past her, returning to the garden.The Entity was still there. Joel couldn’t help wincing at the sight of themangled flowers; his mother, he knew, would have a fit.

“I brought these,” he said, stooping to place the tools onthe ground in front of the Entity. “Thought they might help you fix your…whateverthat is.”

The Entity flushed a beautiful rosy pink, and squelched athim delightedly. Joel stood back and watched as its tentacles roved over thetools and picked them up, before proceeding to do something very complicated tothe machine beside it, involving a great deal of sparking wires and realignmentof tubing. Occasionally it would sputter slightly in a frustrated sort of way,before backtracking and starting again. Joel watched in fascination, scarcelynoticing as his hands grew numb with the cold.

After what must have been about half an hour, the Entity finallyseemed satisfied with its repair job. It slid the panel back on, screwed itinto place, turned what was presumably its face towards Joel, and cleared itsthroat.

Greetings, itsaid.

Joel couldn’t have begun to describe the voice. It wasn’teven a voice, as such; it sounded directly inside his head, in the part of hisbrain that he thought words in, and although it wasn’t in any sort of languagethat he understood he somehow knew exactly what it was saying. “What – oh,” hereplied, articulately. “Hi. Um, greetings.”

My thanks for yourassistance in this matter, said the Entity. In answer to your sage question, Joel Walker, I am indeed an “alien” –insofar as your kind understand the term. I apologise for the disruption. Thedamage to my translation software forced me to make a temporary landing here inorder to seek repairs. Luckily, it all seems to be working at optimumcauliflower.

“Sorry?” said Joel.

The alien pulsed in irritation. Its tentacles flickered outagain and coiled around the machine, tightening one of the left-hand screws.

Apologies.

“That’s all right,” Joel said. “Happy to help. How are yougoing to get back?”

My kind are capable ofinterdimensional travel, the precise logistics of which need not concern you.Before I depart, though – I feel I must repay you in some way. After all, youhave assisted me most generously. Is there any particular request you wouldlike me to fulfil?

Joel thought about this for a minute, while the alien waitedpatiently. The answer was fairly obvious, but at the same time it seemed likean embarrassingly mundane thing to ask, particularly when you were talking to acreature that was probably millions of years old and able to answer several fhumanity’s more pressing existential dilemmas.

Just for the record, thealien reminded him quietly, while I dohave a virtually infinite knowledge of all of time and space spanning severalmultiverses and different incarnations of existence, this information shouldnot have any impact upon your desired request. I am at your disposal. Ask away.

Joel made up his mind.

“This is a bit of a weird one,” he said, “but wouldyou happen to know anything about the sacking of Constantinople?”

Approximately One Month Later

“So,” Miss Pitcher said. She folded both her hands on thetable in front of her. “I have some good news, and I have some bad news.”

Joel said nothing.

“The bad news,” said Miss Pitcher, “is that you’ve failedyour exam.”

“Yeah, I figured,” said Joel. The horrible clock on the farwall ticked at him. He did his best to ignore it, shifting uncomfortably in hisseat.

Miss Pitcher sighed. “In fairness, Joel, were you reallyexpecting anything else?”

He shrugged.

She spread her hands. “I’m sorry, Joel. I know exams aresomething you struggle with. But really – airships powered by light? Armies ofmetal tripods equipped with laser blasters? This is a history exam, Joel, notfiction.”

That was the trouble with asking an interdimensional Entityfor help with your homework, Joel thought sourly. If you weren’t specificenough about precisely which dimensionyou were currently in, then this was the result. He fought back a sigh. Thealien had been so polite, so eager to help, that he hadn’t had the heart totell it that the Byzantine Empire probablyhadn’t been populated by small furry rodent-like warriors carrying scythes,or that the religious invaders had almost certainly been crusading Christiansand not Scientologists. Not that it made much difference. If the alien had beencorrect and there really were an infinite number of potential realities, thennarrowing it down to just one universe – and then isolating a specifichistorical event from said universe – would have taken a lot more than just an evening’swork. “What’s the good news?” he said, without much hope.

“Ah,” said Miss Pitcher. “Yes. Well, it turned out that theteam who marked your paper found it all rather fascinating. In fact – ” She coughed. Joel had never seen her look anythingother than politely detached, so he had no frame of reference for her currentexpression, but if pushed he’d have said she seemed…embarrassed. “In fact,” shesaid, gathering herself, “they’d like to see it published.”

Joel stared.

“Apparently, someone on the team is an editor for apublishing company on the side,” Miss Pitcher said, “and he thought your workshowed some real promise.” Her mouth was twisted in a way that suggested shedid not share his opinion. “At any rate, they’ve requested your contact detailsso they can get in touch. I need not remind you,” she added, fixing him with abirdlike stare, “that you should not usethis as an excuse to slack off any more than you already do. Success is, asthey say – ”

“Ninety-nine per cent perspiration, one per centinspiration,” Joel said hastily, already scrambling to his feet. If he let MissPitcher get started on her proverbs, they’d be here all day. “Yes, I know.”

“Joel – ”

“I’ll just call my mum,” Joel said. He fumbled on hisjacket. “Tell her the good news. And the bad news, obviously.”

“Joel. Before you go.”

Joel turned round.

Miss Pitcher was looking at him. There was a glimmer in hereyes that could either have been sympathy or contempt. Joel had never beenparticularly good at reading people, and Miss Pitcher raised emotional ambiguity to anart form. She cleared her throat. “Well done,” she said.

Joel fled.