#i feel like otherwise i present the setting in a pretty accurate manner...

[transmechanicus]

I feel like you’re giving me a warped impression of what 40k is like.

Is this because of the adorable catboy dark angels? Do you hate me bc i like it when my power armored kittens yell "REPENT FOR TOMORROW YOU DIE"?

[hanawrites404]

Wynne’s Birthday Diary - Katarina ‘Tari’ Hirsch

“Now as we wait for Muriel, would you like to have some tea, Tari?” I offered the ginger head who was settled down beside me, and being the awkward kind she was, she had been staring at her neatly-placed hands on her lap for quite an awful amount of time, and me being a mediocre icebreaker, decided to crack open a talk.

“O-Oh! Sure! I would love that, Winnie” she broke the eye contact from her hands and looked at me, with a bit on-edge reflecting in her sky blue eyes. Oh poor her. She was always very nervous around me. I have my usual stiff composure to blame for that. Not that I can help it, or maybe I can. 

But regardless, I gave her a nod before getting up to head to the kitchen to fetch the leaves and brew the drink. I was relieved to find pieces of ginger kept near as I cut some nibbles out of it with a knife, and sat them aside to be added later to the refreshing liquid. 

I had the knowledge of the fact that Tari (@mcarcanageek) was fond of ginger tea, and the least I can do for her birthday is to serve her the drink she likes. But this all was not I was planning for congratulating her on her anniversary. In fact, I had a gift for her which took me four times staining my hands with black permanent paint. And now it has been weeks that it still has not come off, no matter how much I tried. But of course, as we all say at last, it’s worth it. Especially when it’s for the birthday of my dear chubby and freckled friend.

“Muriel is sure taking his sweet time eh?” I spoke as I placed the urn on the fire.

“O-Ohh, that’s true. I hope he is alright. When we both came here, neither he or Inanna were in. I think he must be busy that he had to leave” Tari continued.

“But then, we both did inform him of our arrival. Then why such comportment?” I scoffed to myself. 

“M-Maybe it was an emergency” she defended, to which I sighed.

“Now what kind of emergency would he have on such a relaxed day?” I turned to her with knitted eyebrows.

“I dunno” she shrugged, but her face had the expression of worry. 

I sighed again and shook my head with closed eyes, and resumed brewing the beverage.

“I just hope he returns soon, otherwise I will personally bust him down” I crushed the tea leaves in my hand a bit more force, clearly showing my annoyance. 

I could feel Tari shivering from my back as I did that. This made me retreat back from appearing any more intimidating and angered. As I finally added the morsels of ginger to the tea. We were here to make the woman feel welcomed and loved after all, not threatened! 

Now thank to lords and time, the tea was finally done. I divided the hot drink into two separate cups after turning off the fire, and carried the cups brimming with hot sweet flavored milk to where the other woman was sitting. She again had been staring at her hands on her lap after I went silent, which made me crack a small smile at her shy equilibrium. 

“Here” I motioned the drink under her eyes, making the woman perk up a bit from the pleasant warm air smelling of ginger and tea leaves hitting her nose, as she accepted the cup with both of her hands, muttering a small ‘Thank you’ and locking her eyes with mine for a fraction.

I smiled again and sat beside her with my own drink. I stared at the liquid in my hands, thinking about the first time I made it. It was not after ten burns and fifteen spills that I got it decent. But soon after much practice due to how much my father adored drinking tea, I had gotten better slowly, and could now make tea even without much tremble and fear.

It ain’t much, but it’s honest work.

“So how was your day so far, Winnie?” Tari asked turning to me, her voice a bit soft and low, maybe because of the timidness.

“Good of course, it’s your special day. How can today not be so stressed as always?” I smiled at her. 

Tari’s cheeks turned a slight pink as she sipped her tea to ease up her blush. I chuckled at her reaction and brushed my hair behind my ear, then took a sip of the tea myself.

“Mmm. The tea is so good. Thanks a lot, Winnie” she licked her lips and continued drinking the tea slowly and with appropriate manners, much to my satisfaction. 

“No problem at all Tari. Do tell me if you need anything else. You have me for a day at the least” I told her.

“Oh that's very sweet of you.....that you are taking your time out for me from your busy day. Actually, that's all I would need from you" she fidgeted with the hem of her dress.

"Huh? What do you mean?" I turned to her, the cup still hanging in my hand.

"Like, you are a very busy woman. You help Nadia with running Vesuvia, and you have your profession as a designer. It's not easy to handle both I guess. At least that's what I think. And you devoting your whole day from your hectic life just for me.......it makes me real happy!!" Tari flashed a big smile to me.

I blinked twice from such a sudden change of emotion, but it did earn a hearty laugh from me as I patted Tari on her shoulder, glancing back at her with a grin on my lips as well.

"Now now, if you are being so happy just for such a minor thing I can do for my sweet friend, then I definitely wonder how will you react when the cake and presents arrive" I told her.

"Oh my gosh!!" She began.

"Hmm?" I tilted my head, my eyes not leaving her.

"I might die from excitement!!" She cupped her blushed cheek with her mouth slightly agape.

This made me laugh again as I next hugged her with my free hand, her head close to my chest. It seemed like Tari was caught off guard as she stuttered a bit after coming in contact with me before blushing the reddest, like an apple. Her one hand still had the cup, and the other hand slowly crept to hold my waist and scoot a bit closer to me.

"Y-You smell nice.......like lemons.......the sweet ones" Tari complimented me, almost in a whisper, as she relaxed against my warm neck. I sighed from relaxation myself as I snuggled closer to her. She was quite warm, just what I needed to ease me up, and forget whatever worries was there in my mind.

I then kissed her head tenderly, laying my cheek on her soft red hair. It was very comfortable, like a pillow. I could have fallen asleep but then I heard the door of the house open, with slow heavy footsteps and fast excited pawsteps entering.

"Oh!! Muriel is back" Tari looked up from me. I hummed and let go of her, and I finished my cup before setting it down beside and approach the door, my hands crossing and my face into a frown instinctively by spotting the giant late latif.

"What took you so long??" I asked him, my foot tapping on the floor continuously.

"I-I got caught with something" he excused himself.

I still looked at him with full disappointment and disapproval, but when I noticed a couple of bird feathers around his huge shoulders, I sighed and relaxed a bit.

So he was caught with chickens eh?

"Fine. Just don't be so late all the time. Tari and I were so worried about you" I moved back to the where Tari was, the girl was playing with Inanna as Muriel and I talked.

"Sorry" he simply replied and dusted off the feathers and other dust off as he removed his cloak.

I turned to him, my lips in a pout, then I grabbed his hand and dragged him to where everyone was to start the official small celebration we had for our loveliest cinnamon roll.

I brought the cake to place it on the table, placed and lit the candles, and soon Tari held the cake knife in her hands, her face was radiant with joy and she could barely hold herself from cutting the cake me and Muriel together made for her.

Oh.......Oops.

I mean, the cake which me, Muriel and INANNA made for her.

Cannot forget our sweet wolf now, can we?

And soon everyone was ready, and Tari was born ready as she made a wish, blew the candles and cut the cake. Inanna howled joyfully, while Muriel and I cheered for her.

Well, mostly me, because Muriel was too shy to use his vocals and sing the birthday song. So he just mumbled with me.

Happy Birthday to you~

Happy Birthday to you~

Happy Birthday Dear Tari~

Happy Birthday to you ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️~

The cake was served, and we ate it peacefully but happily. We three were so glad that Tari loved it, as she gave me a hug, Inanna a nice pet, and Muriel a big kiss, which in turn got Muriel very flustered. His face was so red and pink that it made me and Tari burst out laughing, and Muriel tried his best to shut us up, but he knew that we were not going to listen, so he instead just smiled silently, hearing our giggles.

After the cake came presents. And first was obviously Inanna, who gifted Tari with a herb which was pretty rare to find, almost impossible you can say, which is used as a good medicine for any type of cold. Tari patted her and ruffled her black fur, and she in turn licked her freckled face, Tari giggling with every lick. It was very wholesome to witness.

Next was me, who gifted her with a tile coaster which had a design of a dear painted on it with black. That's when Tari got to realise the black spots on my hands, as she hugged me tight for thanking me and also apologising for mess on my hands, while I just chuckled and patted her back, saying that all of it was worth the shot. However that did not satisfy her as she insisted me to take me on a friendly date tomorrow, which I could not refuse at the end of the day.

And last but not the least, Muriel gave Tari a wooden oak deer sculpture done by him. I was surprised to see how smoothly and accurately it was done, with almost no flaw. When I asked him how he did it, Muriel just smiled at me. Hmmm.....I will make sure to figure out soon.

But anyways, Tari was so happy that she almost passed out. This got me and Muriel very worried, but it did amuse us.

Ok not to Muriel, but to me, it sure did.

Tari smothered kisses on his face, and later when she was done showering all her affection on him, both of them were left blushing and looking away awkwardly down at the floor. Not THIS was more amusing. And I did not mind it at all.

All of it together, that's how we spent the birthday of our favorite awkward gingerhead. The day was pleasant, joyful, wholesome and very very bonding. And I for sure was thankful so such a day. It's very rare to spend time with friends while having such a busy schedule you know. Don't judge.

~The End

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Wedding Colors (Part 3)

(Hayffie ❤️🧡💛💚💙💖. An exploration of Effie’s evolving character as she faces past and present personal intensities while making preparations for Finnick and Annie’s wedding.)

13:00—lunch. For the first time since the ominous day in July that she’d descended into the gloom of 13, Effie’s belly was full. As weeks had turned into months, she hadn’t felt hunger. She’d picked at meals and pushed unpalatable food around her tray. But now something was different. Flint scraped over steel inside her like the wind across her cheeks that morning. Her spoon repeatedly clinked the bottom of the bowl of squash soup. It took every ounce of restraint to not bring the whole bowl to her mouth and tilt it upward to collect the last drops.

Keenly observant, Cressida noted, “That’s new.”

“What?”

“You finishing a meal here.” She dropped her voice. “Are you pregnant, Trinket?”

Effie’s face flushed scarlet, blushing through burnt cheeks. “Bite your tongue!” she snapped.

Cressida glanced at Pollux, and Effie recognized her own faux pas. “Please excuse me. I wasn’t thinking about...”

Interacting with an Avox who was a regular citizen rather than a servant of the Capitol was still a new experience for her.

Pollux signed, “No problem,” and his brother offered the translation.

Effie returned her attention to the inquisitive filmmaker. “I’m JUST hungry. Must a woman be pregnant in order to finish a bowl of soup?” She whispered “pregnant” as if saying it too loudly might invite the situation. Or just as worrisome, Haymitch could walk in at that moment, hear the word, flip out, and not touch her again. Now that she’d opened the Pandora’s box of sex with him, she didn’t want to put a lid back on it.

“Okay. I get it.” Cressida was intrigued by Effie’s blush, but otherwise mollified. “You like the soup. End of story.”

It was golden orange in color and lightly flavored with spices that tasted like autumn. Ginger was recognizable, but the others were a mystery to Effie. Her experience with cooking was mostly limited to a course she’d taken a decade and a half prior at Charis School of Grace, Beauty, and Charm.

Her mother had insisted on “Finishing School” for Effie after she graduated from the Academy. The summer classes had been a compromise, since her father was resolute in his intention to send her to University. He’d even dipped into his personal inheritance to pay extra tuition when her test scores didn’t qualify her outright for admission.

“Charis will focus Euphemia on the most sophisticated etiquette and deportment, preparing her for marriage into greater wealth,” her mother argued.

“University will prepare Effie for a practical career suited to her strongest skills,” her father contended.

“Grace, beauty, and charm ARE her strongest skills. Face it, dear. Like you, our daughter lacks the talent to be a Gamemaker.”

“She has the talent to be more than a rich man’s wife.”

“If I were the wife of a RICH man, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

Their barbs stung each other. After years of practice, the Trinkets knew just where to aim them. They agreed that Effie needed a path which would secure an optimal future for the family. Neither of them asked her what she wanted.

If they’d asked back then, she would have had one specific answer. And if she was honest with herself now, her deepest desire was exactly the same. If she’d voiced it then, her parents would have sent her to the Asylum first before anything else. So she said nothing about it.

By 18, she’d become a master at the art of knowing when to hold her tongue. She’d internalized the pressure to please her parents and reflect positively on her family’s name and station in society. The burden of doing so was a heavy weight on her shoulders.

Effie’s shoulders ached too from the physical work of gathering and carrying around large sacks of perfect leaves. She daydreamed about a bath full of bubbles followed by a nap on a real bed. Allowing the fantasy was a mistake because then her body screamed for it.

She wondered if even babies were allowed to nap here, or did they get merely a half hour of “reflection” before dinner like everyone else? Did they have daily schedules imprinted on their chubby little arms? Eat. Poop. Sleep. What else did the tiny things do? She’d never paid much attention to them in the Capitol. Had she ever seen a baby in 13? She couldn’t recall.

***

14:00—volunteering. The children would be out of school soon. Plutarch told her to expect them along with anyone who was between work shifts. Coin was allowing more flexibility than usual in order to encourage volunteerism. Effie considered the irony in the word spelled out on her arm in purple ink. Following schedules was mandatory. Once “volunteering” is tattooed on your body, doesn’t it cease to be voluntary?

That place made her head hurt if she thought about it too much. She pulled her rose-tinted sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on, hoping the change in light would temper some of the ache, and help her feel less vulnerable.

“Ready or not, here I go,” she said out loud.

She approached the kitchen staff for permission to use large plastic serving bowls to hold the leaves at the tables. The kitchen manager, a middle aged woman named Cuire, put up resistance, muttering something about needing authorization from the president.

Greasy Sae showed no qualms about interjecting. “Now, those leaves ain’t all that different from a salad. We’ll have the bowls washed again long before dinner service.”

The older woman, with her hair up in a kerchief more plain than Effie’s, carried a stack of serving bowls through the doorway without waiting for the manager’s consent. She returned to the kitchen for more until every serving bowl in 13 was in the dining hall. Cuire pursed her lips but said nothing.

Sae pulled a handful of leaves out of one of the canvas bags and dropped them into a bowl. “The list of procedures here’s a mile long. Sometimes the only way to keep these folks from sayin’ ‘no’ is to just not ask ‘em. And then work fast.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Effie joined her efforts to quickly transfer the leaves to the bowls. “Thank you, Sae.”

“Thank YOU, girl. Gatherin’ up all these to make pretty things for the weddin’, you must be exhausted.”

“I had help. From Haymitch.”

“Did you?”

“I had to ambush him.”

“Nah. As often as that boy looks at you, I’d guess he went willingly.”

Ambushed and willing. Yes, he was.

Beetee wheeled up to her with several spools of wire, wire cutters, rolls of electrical tape, and several pairs of scissors.

“The copper color is PERFECT!” Effie gushed.

“This wire is at least a hundred years old,” he replied with little emotion, “The only reason it shows no corrosion is because 13 is fastidious about its storage conditions, including adequate air circulation. The gauge is small. The electrical current from present technologies, would overload and overheat it. The wire is rather useless actually.”

“Well, we’ve found a use for it!”

“In the absence of copper tape, this seems the best match, which is ironic since brown is typically used for high voltages. And high voltages would burn right through this particular wire.”

“We’re just making garlands today, not blowing out an arena!”

“You’re speaking non-metaphorically, of course. We might hope the propo will play a role in shattering the Capitol’s grip on the restless minds of its citizens... That said, it isn’t my intention to imply that YOUR mind is gripped and restless.”

A gripped and restless mind sounded fairly accurate to Effie. “I doubt the Capitol views me as its citizen at this point.” I guess that makes me homeless, even though my family home, my apartment, my belongings, my entire history are all there.

Beetee noticed her smile fade. “You might be right about that. ...I’m sorry.”

After seeing what her victors had been through and what they were still going through, she felt uncomfortable being apologized to by a victor who she held in high regard. I don’t deserve an apology, though manners dictated the proper response to an apology was a gracious, “Thank you.”

“Will you be staying to help?” she added.

“I’m needed in Special Defense. Bring the leftover supplies when you come down later.”

“Beetee, thank you for this.”

The clock was ticking. Effie went to work immediately, arranging leaves in alternating colors and shapes and adhering the stems to a long length of wire.

“What a beautiful pattern!” A friendly voice spoke over Effie’s shoulder. She turned to see Delly Cartwright whose blonde hair fell free of its usual braid.

“An artisan! Delly, I’m grateful you’re here to help with production and quality control.”

From their occasional chats at mealtimes, Effie had learned that Delly’s parents had been shoemakers, and 13 put her to work in textile production as soon as she’d turned 18.

“Me? An artisan?”

“You WILL be, dear. I’ve seen your stitching. I’ve also observed your congenial way with people.” Effie cut a long length of wire for Delly and set her up with supplies to work at another table. “Let’s spread around the talent.”

When school let out, Delly’s younger brother was the first to arrive, not wanting to go “home” to empty quarters. Posy Hawthorne followed close at his heels, skipping to keep up with his much longer legs.

“Stop followin’ me!” he told her.

“I’m not followin’ you. We’re just goin’ the same place, that’s all.”

“Well, you’re a baby, and I don’t want you sittin’ at MY table.”

“Cordwain!” Delly interjected, “That’s not polite!”

“I’m FIVE years old, and I’ll sit wherever I please, CordWAIN.” With three older brothers, Posy could hold her own in disagreements with just about anyone, especially boys. Effie admired that along with her manners.

“Aw, Dellyyyy,” her brother whined, “You’re supposed to call me Cord!”

“You apologize to Posy, and I won’t have to be so stern.”

“Do I HAVE to?! She’s just Vick’s little sister.”

“And you’re MY little brother, so, yes, you do. You know Ma and Pa would say so if—“

“Ma and Pa are dead!” Cord sat at the table with Delly and folded his arms across his chest.

Delly sighed, and her tone softened, “Cordy, honey, that’s all the more reason to apologize.”

His lip quivered, and he muttered in a hoarse voice. “Sorry.”

“I’m sorry they died,” Posy empathized, “My daddy died b’fore I was born.”

She sat across from Effie and looked at her for a long fifteen seconds. Effie wasn’t used to children being so young. The girl’s dark hair fell long past her shoulders in two braids. Her gray eyes were deeply set. She had the look of a person who’d seen the shadow of death and kept going.

“I like your pink glasses.” Posy twirled one of her braids around her finger. “I used to have pink ribbons. Two of ‘em.”

“When I was your age, I wore pink ribbons in my hair. Pink was my favorite color.”

“Mine too! Gale says we can’t go back fer the ribbons. He says they’re gone. Do you think they’re gone?”

“Well... I...” For goodness sake. What does one say to a child whose district was fire bombed to rubble?

Cord muttered some more, “Of course they’re gone!”

Posy ignored him, waiting for Effie’s response.

“Your brother, Gale, is wise, dear.” Effie saw her expectant little face fall. “I am going to your district tomorrow. With Katniss. Would you like for me to look for the ribbons so you know for certain?”

Posy nodded.

“Then I’ll be sure to do that. In the meantime would you like to help make a garland? There aren’t any pink leaves, but there are other pretty colors.”

Posy reached into the bowl and pulled out a red one. “Can I do this one?”

“Of course. Let me show you.”

Effie demonstrated with a different leaf then watched Posy’s small fingers peel and cut the tape and use it to add her chosen leaf to the copper wire.

“How’s that?” the girl asked.

The tape was crooked. The leaf was crooked, and it didn’t fall in line with the pattern. Effie considered telling her so. Aemilia Trinket certainly would have. And for that reason if no other, Effie said to the five-year/old, “That’s wonderful, dear.”

Posy beamed. “You’re nice. You’re not scary at all! I’m gonna go tell Rory that he’s wrong.” She hopped out of the chair and skipped away, turning around long enough to say, “I’ll be back!”

Effie watched her go, not knowing quite what to think. Rory?... She couldn’t remember who that was. One of the Hawthorne boys?

“This year would have been Rory’s first reaping,” Delly explained.

Effie didn’t need to hear anything more in order to understand. The truth split her heart. Half of it dropped like lead into her stomach. The other half rose up into her throat, threatening to choke her.

The children are afraid of me.

Even without a reaping ball in front of me, they are still afraid.

In that moment, she didn’t have time or space to process the realization. She just sat there, forcing a smile, trying to keep the vacant feeling in her chest from showing on her face. As volunteers streamed into the dining hall, she swallowed the lump in her throat, pressed her palm to her stomach, and directed the project as planned.

More children arrived giggling and singing, 🎶”Come live with me and be my love...”🎶 It was the beginning of District 4’s wedding song, which they’d started learning in school. 🎶”...I'll take you out upon the sea...”🎶 drew them into conversation about how the ocean might look, feel, sound, smell, and taste. None of them had ever been to the seashore. They’d only seen it in books.

🎶”...To share the starry night with you...” 🎶 intrigued them too. Some of the children from 12 tried to describe the stars to the kids from 13 who had never been above ground at night. “A star is like the tip of the flame of a candle that never flickers.”... “They just pop out in the sky as it’s changing from blue to black.”... “My grandma says stars are ghosts that come to visit us at night. Good ghosts, not scary ones.”... “Ghosts ain’t real.”... “Are so!”... “Are not!”

Dozens of adults were there to cut wire and strips of tape for the younger children and to ensure the garlands turned out beautifully.

With so many helping hands, Effie had to let go of her precise plans. The work of other artisans became apparent as some patterns emerged which were even more pleasing than what Plutarch and Effie envisioned.

Boggs showed up, carrying his son on his hip. The boy seemed younger than Posy, though Effie was far from an expert about children under 12. Boggs sat at a table with the boy in his lap. The little one reached for the leaves just as Boggs’ communicuff started flashing wildly. “Damon, buddy, President Coin is calling. I’ve just lost my break time. I’m going to need to take you back to daycare, but maybe Miss Trinket will let you take one of the leaves with you?” Boggs gave Effie a pleading look. The last thing he needed just then was an upset kid.

Damon’s big brown eyes welled up with tears. He wiped them away with the backs of his hands which were filled with leaves that he didn’t want to let go. Since the epidemic, Boggs and his son had been on their own. Looking into those teary eyes, Effie couldn’t help but feel for them. The feeling seeped into that empty space in her chest, and eased a bit of the void.

“Your son can stay awhile, if you’d like. Then I can take him back to daycare.”

“Are you sure? He’s a handful, and you have a lot going on here.”

Seeing herself in the moment as “scary ghost” rather than a star, Effie definitely was NOT sure that she was the right person to be looking after a young child. “Of course, I’m sure,” she spoke through her smiling mask.

“What do you say, buddy? Do you want to stay with Miss Trinket and make a garland, or do you want me to take you back to daycare now?”

“It’s Effie. The only one who calls me Miss Trinket around here is Mr. Heavensbee.” She laughed.

Damon climbed down from Boggs’ lap and up into Effie’s. “Oh! Well, hello,” she said, pushing her chair back far enough to make room for him. He was heavier than he’d looked in the strong arms of his father. He squirmed around reaching for everything at once: more leaves of every shape and color, scissors...

Boggs’ eyes widened.

Effie handed Damon a roll of tape in trade for the scissors. “You can hold the tape, and I’LL do the cutting.”

‘Thank you,’ Boggs mouthed the words then told his son, “This is an important job, soldier. Effie is your commanding officer. Are you going to take this work seriously and mind what she tells you to do?”

“Yeth, thir, Daddy, thir!” His lisp melted Effie’s heart.

“At ease, little man. I’ll pick you up from daycare at 18:00.” Boggs kissed his son’s forehead, and Damon was already hard at work attempting to peel tape off the roll.

As Effie helped the boy put leaves on the wire, Posy returned, accompanied by one of her brothers who hurried to claim an open seat next to Cord. Posy skipped up to Effie and patted her head. “I got Vick to come, but Rory’s stubborn. YOU know how boys can be.”

Effie looked up from the table to see Haymitch leaning against a pillar near the edge of the dining hall. He was watching her closely. The expression on his face was a loaded mix of curiosity and seriousness.

“Yes, I do know how boys can be,” Effie agreed, “Especially when they are afraid.”

Haymitch had never seen Effie around little kids, and he was fascinated. The Hawthorne girl chattered on and on, tucking leaf stems into the top knot of Effie’s kerchief. Boggs’ kid was in Effie’s lap, crushing leaves with his hands and unwrapping tape for her to cut with scissors. A girl Haymitch didn’t recognize sat to the side, touching Effie’s bracelet. “Is this silver and gold?” the kid asked.

“This s costume jewelry,” Effie answered.

“What’s ‘costume’?” the girl wanted to know.

“A costume is... something you might wear when you are... pretending.”

The Hawthorne girl said to the other one, “You can wear one of my pink ribbons sometime, and we can pretend to be twins... if Effie finds my ribbons in 12 tomorrow.”

Effie locked eyes with Haymitch. “I promised I’d look, Posy, but please don’t get your hopes up, dear.”

He was trying to make sense of the situation. Effie’s going to 12 tomorrow? Why? And why is nobody telling me anything! Pissed off, he started to walk away.

“Excuse me, girls. Damon, let’s go talk to Haymitch for a few minutes.” Effie stood up, holding the boy on her hip as Boggs had done. “Haymitch! Wait...” She caught up to him before the staircase. If he’d really wanted to avoid her, he would have already been long gone.

“What are you thinking!?” he asked, unsure of what he was wondering about most... Why was Effie going to 12 where the burned corpses of his people were still rotting? Why didn’t she tell him about her plans? And what the hell was his heart doing as he watched her with those little kids?

“Annie needs help selecting one of Cinna’s dresses for the wedding, and Katniss asked if I could go with them for support. So, of course, I said yes. ...Not that I owe you an explanation.”

“You owe me nothing, sweetheart. But it’s bad there. You’re going to see things that’ll change you.”

“I’m already changing.” She boosted the kid up on her hip. “There’s nothing I can do to stop that. ...And I don’t think I want to stop it.”

Damon dropped the leaves and rubbed his eyes. “Are you tired... buddy?” Effie hesitantly used one of Boggs’ nicknames for the boy. He shook his head ‘no’, but rubbed his eyes again. “How about we take these leaves to daycare so you can show your daddy?”

Damon nodded and opened his hands to the floor where the leaves had fallen. Haymitch bent to pick them up and handed them back to the kid. He stood close to them. Effie smelled like the woods, faintly like ginger, and mostly like her. The fragrances helped him feel less agitated. They were familiar, as if less was changing all at once.

“Thank you,” she said about the leaves, “Will you please tell Delly where I’m going and ask her to stay until I return?”

“Sure”

She rested her palm on Haymitch’s shirt where his sweater gaped open. She brushed her fingertips along the buttons. “Will YOU stay until I return? I could really use your help hanging these garlands in Special Defense.”

Her touch felt too good for him to say no.

The peace in his expression was answer enough for her.

As he watched her walk away, a smile crept over his face. He was far too amused to remind Effie that the Hawthorne girl had embellished her head wrap with at least a dozen leaves. In all the years, it was the best *wig* he’d seen her wear. If she was going to roam around 13 looking like a tree, then who was he to stop her?

[typewriterghcst]

Title: When the Sun Leaves the Field Fandom: The Cat Returns Rating: uhhhhh let’s go with. like. PG or PG13ish for. Heavy Themes. speaking of— Warnings: I struggled with how to word this, and I hope I can still manage anyhow with making it clear— there are a lot of parallels with suicide in this story, so I would advise that if you are very sensitive to that subject, you might give this one a pass. Other than that, y. yeah, there’s heavy overarching themes of death all over the place. The notes paragraph will probably clear up what I mean Characters: Cat King, Natori, mentions of other characters Summary: It’s good to have someone at the end of the road. Notes: For this meme, and the prompt of ‘When I am dead’ with the added bonus of ‘if it makes it painful: one-sided. :)’ bc @madamhatter is a sadist jfjfkd;a Or. Maybe just an enabler. Either way I absolve myself of all responsibility with this one :v Tho for the record, this is using the weird manga-inspired verse I use on the ask blog, and I will actually apologize for that preemptively 9_9;;

&&&

They had begun their trek in the early morning (what passed for early morning), not under the cover of darkness but simple isolation. They had left early in the interest of privacy. Of concern and long-lived affection. No one needed to know yet.

They stop for a meal in the Finch Kingdom. Natori thinks they must look quite a pair for those who are too young to recognize them, Claudius slouching languidly with one foot hooked against the table to tip his chair back and Natori himself sitting prim and timid with his feet gathered up beneath him and paws folded demurely on the table.

“...do you remember when we first met?” Claudius eventually asks, and it feels so sudden it takes Natori a long minute to register it. And by the time it does, that ever-present gnawing guilt has settled into its usual spot before its accompanying source’s arrival.

He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “You know I don’t.”

To that, Claudius doesn’t respond for some time, staring out at the mellow passersby and combing absently at his mustache, an idle habit he’s never been able to totally shake.

Finally, Natori speaks up again, gentle, low. “How was our first meeting, Claudius..?”

His companion gives a pensive noise or two, still absently worrying at a handful of long fur before his mind seems to come back to him. “Feels kinda weird to relay the story to someone who was there, babe.”

“Well, pretend I’m someone else, then.” A light, almost playful piece of advice, but one which seems to loosen Claudius' tongue.

"Don't really want someone else, though.”

"That's sweet of you."

"Heh. I'm always sweet, babe."

"Some of your courtiers might be inclined to say otherwise."

"Bah, what do they know."

Natori laughs. "Not enough, I suppose."

They lapse into another silence, then, lost in the murmuring chatter of the residents of the Finch Kingdom going about their day. Natori is just on the verge of politely asking when they might leave.

"It was a disaster. I made an ass of myself."

"Oh, it couldn't have been that bad." Spoken affectionately, but with perhaps a knowing edge.

"It could and it was," Claudius persists. “I'd seen you over and over again, always trailing after the queen. I could tell you weren't royalty, an' I made a… an assumption."

Somewhere, Natori is beset by both a distant humiliation and the fervent wish that he might remember more, that this description, vague as it is, might be just the trigger to jog his unreliable memory. Alas, the vague but deeply-rooted embarrassment is all that arises.

“You thought I was a companion of a certain, ah, character.”

“Oh, so you do remember, you fibber.”

Natori laughs again. “That was only the logical conclusion.”

“I know.” Claudius’ chair comes finally crashing down with a thunderous clap, and he’s unfazed by the curious glances and annoyed frowns the action brings the two of them. Natori rather oddly feels no compulsion to direct apologetic smiles or other motions to their fellow diners, either.

“Guess we should get a move on.”

“Yes.”

They leave the Finch Kingdom behind, and start not for one of its neighboring kingdoms, but for the aimless, trackless space between them. Unusually, Claudius wordlessly trails after his advisor, trusting wholly in Natori's knowledge in a way he hasn't in quite some time.

“Has your mind changed?” Natori questions once, and even he himself can hear the veiled wish that his companion’s resolution might be faltering, despite his best efforts.

“How do you think Lune’s doing right now? You think he’s noticed we’re gone yet?”

“...I would be quite surprised if he hasn’t yet, yes.”

“It’s too bad, Natori. You know?”

“I know.”

“Just too bad,” Claudius continues to mumble under his breath.

Natori doesn’t answer.

“He’s going to be fine, though, you know? I think we prepared him pretty good, myself.”

“I’ll be keeping my eye on him for you,” is Natori’s subdued, faint reply, and it’s this time that Claudius finds himself unable to form a response, so much so that a thick silence settles heavily between them for a long moment. It isn’t lessened by Natori turning to survey him with measured uncertainty, either, and it seems to Claudius that they spend an inordinate eternity simply sharing this somber gaze, and gradually coming to an unspoken understanding.

Finally, when he can’t stand it anymore, he does look away with a restrained snort. There’s a lump in his throat that’s somewhat easily ignored, more so than the impossible to define tangle of emotions in his chest, at least.

“Still got it, babe. Sure know how to set an old cat’s mind at ease.”

The hesitant but affectionate smile Natori gives him is an oddly exquisite pain, too brittle and too honest; he almost wants to look away.

“Oh, I’m going to miss you,” the other cat murmurs in a manner which seems almost involuntary, and Claudius thinks it sounds something like a lovelorn admission of guilt. Or perhaps he only hopes.

“Well, who wouldn’t?” He declares.

“Who wouldn’t.” Natori echoes obligingly.

They walk for a long time. There comes a time when Claudius gets bored of it and sits, and Natori settles down beside him without comment or complaint.

“It’s a sorry place for a nap, babe,” Claudius remarks.

Natori’s response, Claudius realizes, is to lean into his shoulder with a contented noise, and it’s a show of comfort and affection that does not pass him by. The ex-king decides to return the favor, though he rather quickly finds lying across Natori’s lap a far more inviting position. Natori laughs.

“Intolerable, still, Claudius..?”

He waits a long moment to respond. He’d been bored, restless, not necessarily fatigued, but now he finds his eyelids are inexplicably heavy, and he doesn’t fight the urge to doze a little.

“...nah. I take it back.”

He can hear the fondness in Natori’s voice when he eventually replies. “Well. I’m always pleased to meet your expectations.”

It’s this muted emotion which stirs Claudius to let go of the remorse he’s been holding on to since they left. Since before they left. Perhaps he’s held it since they first met, humiliating wrong assumption regarding the cat’s position and all. Love at first sight. It’s a terribly impractical thing, but he’s nothing if he is not ruled by that kind of passion and impulsivity.

“I should have done it, babe. You know? When I first had the thought, when I first felt it, maybe even way back when Sephie left— I should have set you up beside me with a crown, too. Made it official and everything. Bet no one would have objected.” Or, more accurately, had they objected, they’d have most likely been in for a very long drop.

The faltering quirk to Natori’s muzzle makes his smile appear particularly rueful. “I’ve never wanted a crown of my own, Claudius.” Even in times long past when he’d been blessed with one in response to faint acquiescence alone.

“But you would have gone along with it anyway, wouldn’t you? If I had asked you to?”

The permissive (if inextricably reluctant) hum Natori uses to agree with him feels strangely comforting. Familiar. Claudius closes his eyes again.

“I would have,” Natori eventually murmurs. “If you had asked me to. But I was always most content where I was, ha. So, tell yourself nothing was wasted.”

“I’ll do that.”

It isn’t the admission of reciprocated sentiment he’d hoped for, and it stings, but he supposes it will do at the end of the world. When he leaves, he contents himself with a brushed kiss atop the head and the barest, lingering touch of their entwined paws.

Natori returns to the Carp Kingdom alone.

[citrucentric]

Cranberry

The ideal Holmes is tall and dark with sharp edges and an intelligent look to him, but also posh and with a sense that you could fold him into origami if you really tried. Dresses well, but wouldn’t look out of place sprawled dramatically over a couch in a dressing gown with a pipe and surrounded by drug paraphernalia. Once made a pillow fort and sat in it to think. Caught somewhere between handsome, pretty, and weird looking. Emphasis can be on any of the three. CANNOT have facial hair.

Holmes Adaptations

S-Tier

Miss Sherlock (Yuko Takeuchi) - 95%

You’ll notice, of course, that nowhere in the earlier description did I say Holmes needed to be white, a man, or even human. None of those qualifiers or the lack-thereof prevent someone from looking the part -- it simply becomes necessary to compare them to the characters around them. And when I picture a female Sherlock Holmes, Yuko Takeuchi embodies the exact image in my mind. Her sharp edges, piercing eyes, and impeccable fashion, along with the powerful weird energy she brings to the role, fit Sherlock perfectly. She does look more than a bit like she could kick my ass, but more in the manner she dominates the room, which is perfect for the character.

Sherlock Holmes (Jeremy Brett) - 85%

I haven’t watched this adaptation, though I’ve been meaning to get around to it. So this ranking is based solely on screenshots and promotional images. And honestly, as ugly as i find this guy, he totally nails it. He even kind of looks like the illustrations in the stories. I won’t give him a perfect score because his hair could be darker and his face is a little small, and there’s just barely something missing. But as far as “canon” Holmes adaptations go, he’s the cream of the crop.

A-Tier

Sherlock: The Abominable Bride (Benedict Cumberbatch) - 80%

Definitely the more accurate of the two Cumberbatch Holmes designs, the sleek fashion and slicked back hair complement Cumberbatch’s angular build and “somewhere between pretty and just weird” face. He’s tall, dark, and posh. If there’s anything holding him back it’s simply that even dressed up properly, there’s something still a bit modern looking about him.

Fate/Grand Order - 78%

Given that his design and presentation are a direct reference to both Brett and Cumberbatch’s portrayals, it’s a given he’d place so highly. It’s really hard to nail down a 2D Holmes, especially in the anime style this game employs, since it has a tendency to prettify characters by default. True to form, FGO Holmes is far neater and more precise than I’d like. But he’s by no means a bad design, and depending on the image he can really hit the spot for me; he’s definitely a chart topper in the realm of 2D Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes: The Furtive Festivity (Gregory Johnstone) - 75%

There aren’t many Holmes that we only get to see as an old man, in no small part due to the ACD estate’s notoriously malicious copyright practices. Johnstone ranks so highly not due necessarily to the details of his look, but the overall feel he embodies. This Holmes is soft, affectionate, more than a little floppy. His hair and costume portray a man well grown into his eccentric life, and his face is sharp and mature enough to suggest the brains underneath; even if that’s more wisdom than intelligence in this particular story. This is a Holmes designed by someone who really loves Sherlock Holmes, and it definitely shows.

BBC Sherlock (Benedict Cumberbatch) - 75%

Cumberbatch’s features still naturally suit Holmes well, and he’s tall and striking enough to cover the rest. But this isn’t a rating of his acting performance aside from the visuals it supplies; it’s hard to modernize Holmes, especially since it makes perfect sense for Holmes to gel well with the changing times; he was always a man ahead of his era. BBC Holmes’s trademark trenchcoat and curly locks aren’t traditional Holmes, but they suit him well enough.

Yuukoku no Moriarty - 73%

The long hair is an unorthodox take, but I'm certainly not complaining. YnM's Holmes definitely nails the youthful scientific exuberance of an early Holmes. It's clear they were going for a sort of BBC/ACD mix, but with their own spin. Pretty -- he is an anime boy, after all -- but all sharp edges and full of energy. Decent, way better than most anime Holmes designs manage.

B-Tier

Basil of Baker Street [The Great Mouse Detective] - 70%

Comparing the character to those around them is especially important when it comes to non-human characters, who naturally don’t have the same features. Putting Basil next to Dawson makes this abundantly clear, as they make a perfect portrait of Holmes and Watson. For a mouse, he’s thin, angular, even a little ratlike; all decisions that suit Holmes well. I have some complaints about his ensemble, though; while the dressing gown suits him well, his normal brown coat and hat don’t work so well with his fur; the monochrome look makes him come off a bit scruffy and unrefined.

A Study in Black - 68%

Rules are made to be broken, they say; here’s a Holmes with well maintained facial hair and who’s shorter than Watson, and yet I can without question say they were the right decisions. This Holmes takes a very different design approach than any other on this list, even the other modern takes, but he embodies the spirit of Holmes much more than if he’d tried to match every detail. Holmes is still gaunt and striking, eccentric and fashionable. He looks absolutely great.

The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (Robert Stephens) - 62%

Stephens in this role is, I have to say, far too soft. But he’s playing a different sort of Holmes, and I can’t resist keeping him here. There are some parts of the look he has down; he certainly looks high class, and the softer elements of Holmes’ character look good on him. Holmes’ traditional costume, the hat and coat, look out of place on him. But that suits the message of the film, and may very well have been intentional.

C-Tier

Dai Gyakuten Saiban - 58%

Not the only blond Holmes on this list, but it doesn’t suit him as poorly. From a character design standpoint, it looks very good. As a Holmes, it’s unorthodox. He’s not gonna be a chart topper with it, but I wouldn’t rule it out. This Holmes’ real problem isn’t his coloration, merely that he’s much too conventionally attractive. His jaw is a bit too wide, curls a bit too lovely, the peek of lavender under his coat a bit too rich, and I can’t look at him for too long without blushing. Do some cocaine and get back to me.

Sherlock Holmes (Basil Rathbone) - 55%

Now, this one might be controversial. I don’t think Rathbone Holmes looks very good. I can’t put my finger on why; his head is the right shape, his nose very sharp, though his face looks very smooth and he seems overall vaguely packed in. Like he was plucked out of the sky just before walking on set. The shapes are all right, it just seems off to me. I guess what I’m getting is that his look is too obviously produced. He looks too much like an actor portraying Holmes, rather than Holmes. But I know he’s gonna be the guy a lot of people swear by, so I won’t defend this placement too hard.

Sherlock Hound - 45%

Really, what is up with the monochrome design on some of these cartoons. Sherlock Hound has the darker hat to make up for it, though, so it’s a little better. Applying the same rubric as Basil to him... doesn’t get the same results. As far as I can tell, this just looks like a normal dog. And a scruffy light-furred one, at that. There’s a contrast between him and Watson, sure, but it could’ve been pushed further. At the end of the day this is an average guy dressed as Sherlock.

D-Tier

Herlock Sholmes [Code: Realize] - 40%

This is a very pretty anime boy. I’d pick him first in whatever dating sim this is. ...Wait, this is supposed to be Holmes? How can you tell? Look, I know it’s hard to make an anime boy Holmes. Holmes’ key design elements aren’t his costume or his hair, they’re the things that make him unpolished. And anime dating sim boys don’t like to be unpolished. But really, this is just a steampunk boy who likes tea. Nothing here reads as Holmes to me.

Sherlock Holmes (Robert Downey Jr.) - 35%

Now, I love this movie. RDJ got me back into Sherlock Holmes when I was younger. And as this character, he has a very specific and well designed look. ...Does that look gel with canon Holmes? I don’t think so. He’s rough, he’s scruffy, he’s short and wide and strong-jawed, and he refuses to go for a clean shave. I like him a lot, but he’s not very Holmesian. He does, however, nail the eccentricity and his costume design works for him well. I do like a messy Holmes. So I won’t go any lower than this.

F-Tier

Basil [Blush Blush] - 28%

So, he’s got the outfit. There’s that. But otherwise... This is just some soft ugly anime boy cosplaying Sherlock Holmes. He doesn’t have a single trait that works in his favor. On top of that, he’s got the same problem the other Basil on this list had -- the all monochrome light brown just looks weird, and not Holmesian at all. And this boy doesn’t have the excuse of literally being a mouse. This is just an ugly design.

Elementary (Jonny Lee Miller) - 25%

Now, I've only watched a few scattered episodes of Elementary. Partially because I'm morally opposed to shows that only gender-flip half of the duo, partially because I’m absolutely outraged by the travesty they made Moriarty. But this isn’t a bad character, per-se.

But, like, this is just some dude. This isn't Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes [Clue] - 23%

I love Clue so much. That probably doesn’t surprise anyone. I have the season pass in this game, which automatically gives me every DLC character they add for free. So I was super excited to hear there was gonna be a Sherlock crossover. ...But this is just ugly. Another light haired square-jawed monochrome asshole pretending to be my favorite character. There’s nothing Holmes about this. (The rest of the designs in the pack are no better, but this isn’t about them.)

Skylar Holmes [Blossom Detective Holmes] - 20%

Now, Blossom Detective is a show that I famously disliked so much I immediately sat down and screenwrote my own Holmes cartoon on the spot. And Skylar certainly feels like she should be in the “part 2″ of this list, but a Holmes she is.

She's cute and she accessorizes well, but she's just not Sherlock Holmes by any stretch.

Sherlock Shellingford [Milky Holmes] - 10%

Now, look how cute she is! Sherlock Shellingford, present and accounted for. She’s got TWO Sherlock names so you know she’s the real deal. Now, this is just an objectively good design. She's exactly what she needs to be to serve the role she plays!

And that isn't Sherlock Holmes. Sorry.

Holmes & Watson (Will Ferrell) - 0%

Get out of my house.

Holmes Archetypes

Not all Holmes’ are meant to be the Canonical Sherlock Holmes, of course; some are just neat references, or characters who naturally fit into his role whether the author intended it or not. Let’s address them here, and remember that not looking the part doesn’t really reflect negatively on these ones as they’re stand-alone.

S-Tier

Dylan Reinhart [Instinct] (Alan Cumming) - 90%

Dylan is so point for point Sherlock Holmes that it’s hard to call him an archetype and not a straight adaptation, or possibly a rip-off if I’m being harsh. But I’m not supposed to be rating him by portrayal, just looks - and he’s really good. He’s the exact right blend of weird looking, though not as angular as he should be. His sharp eyebrows and nose and high hairline work fantastic, and he wears a suit very well. He’s a perfect little bundle of posh and nerves, and though he’s not perfect the fact that this isn’t actually supposed to be canon Sherlock Holmes makes this placement very unsurprising. He wouldn’t look out of place on the other list.

Hubert von Vestra [Fire Emblem: Three Houses] - 85%

Oh? What’s that? You don’t think Hubert von Vestra is a Sherlock Holmes archetype? Okay, then explain to me why he uses the word “sentiment” exactly twice in his supports. Atheists 1, Church of Seiros 0. Anyway. Let’s start with the obvious. Hubert looks like Benedict Cumberbatch. But, he looks like a vampire Benedict Cumberbatch who did a lot more cocaine. And if you don’t think Sherlock Holmes should look like a vampire, youre lying.

A-Tier

None yet. Please submit your Holmes and I will add them.

B-Tier

Heinwald [Dragalia Lost] - 67%

I would never look at this design and think "well, that's Sherlock Holmes". Heinwald looks more like a zombie or the bride of Frankenstein, very Halloween. His look being so specific does come at the expense of his Holmesness, but he's still got more than a few traits down and he’s an absolute treat.

L Lawliet [Death Note] - 65%

This is a very, very weird looking man. Key points: dark hair and eyes. gaunt, sharp, and mostly angular (though with a softer face). Extremely foldable. This man could 100% pass for Holmes, if someone else was dressing him. Put him in a suit, comb his hair? Yeah. It’d really work. But until then, he’s just most of the way there.

Kyoko Kirigiri [Danganronpa] - 63%

Kirigiri really gets jilted here, because she could be much higher. Unfortunately, she has to be part of a series that with only a few exceptions just reuses the same face and body for most of its female characters. Kirigiri definitely has the sharp and focused feel she needs to pass for Holmes, and she dresses well. The white hair is the opposite of the dark he usually touts, but it’s striking. Unfortunately, put her next to any other character in her series, and she blends back in.

Miles Edgeworth [Ace Attorney] - 60%

Feels a little weird to put Edgeworth on here when the actual Sherlock Holmes is in his game, but he fits the character much better if not the narrative role. So let’s go over the looks. His jaw is a bit wide, but he’s very pointy, and I certainly have never gotten the impression he’s a physically strong man. He’s very fashionable, and with his big cravat and sharp hair he makes a cutting silhouette. I’d say he needs a bit more to really nail the look, though.

C-Tier

Will Graham [Hannibal] (Hugh Dancy) - 45%

Despite being a noted Hannibal Lecter fan and possible homosexual, I still haven’t watched Hannibal. I’m taking people at their word that Will is a Sherlock; I definitely would have assumed otherwise looking at him. He reminds me deeply of BBC’s John Watson, and it’s hard to see anything else. But I don’t hate his look; he reads as clever, he looks good in darks, and I wouldn’t complain to see him cast as Holmes. He’s better than some of the lower-tiered canon Holmes actors, anyway.

Ranpo Edogawa [Bungo Stray Dogs] - 40%

This is another submission, and I don’t know who this boy is. I really doubt he’s actually a Holmes, given that he’s named after a real non-Doyle writer, but I was begged to include him. Let’s go. I really like his outfit. He’s got an aesthetic I like. Is it Holmes’? No. This kid looks like he’d fit way better as a Baker Street Irregular; maybe he should audition.

D-Tier

Gregory House (Hugh Laurie) - 35%

Take everything I said for Robert Downey Jr, and just mess up his hair a bit more. House is scruffy, poorly put together, and not wearing anything that costs over $100. As a Holmes, he’d work as one of his disguises; I wouldn’t be super surprised if this guy suddenly cleaned up and looked the part -- but it would take a lot of cleaning. I love his look, though -- again, he isn’t trying to be canon. House is an explicit Holmes parallel, but he’s still his own character.

F-Tier

Walnut Cookie [Cookie Run] - 20%

Given how much “Holmes costume” and “Detective costume” are conflated, it’s possible this gingerbread baby isn’t even supposed to be a Holmes reference, but I’ll take her. She’s an excellent design - but a standalone one. Shes too soft, warm, and curly looking to pull off canon Holmes.

[vios-rockland-corner]

RoR Article 2: Do Nothing

To make things easier on myself, I’m splitting up my thoughts on the Rumors of Rockland second article.  I already gave an overview of this game.  Here, I’ll cover whatever random thoughts and observations I had for the events that occur when you choose to do nothing.

 [Major spoilers below for Rumors of Rockland Article 2]

First off, it’s not unrealistic that the MC passing by might not choose to do anything about Callum’s situation.  They’re not wrong that they could get hurt or be a hindrance.  Shame they wouldn’t think to go get help but let’s be honest…a lot of people prefer to stay out of trouble and leave people to their own devices.

If it makes you feel better, you could always imagine up an MC who has a bit of a deeper reason why they would choose to do nothing in this situation.  The MC may suffer from extreme anxiety that won’t allow them to think properly if they try to invest themselves in the situation.  This could even be related to trauma in their past. Maybe they even did try to either help directly or get help for someone else in a similar situation like this before…but it ended poorly.  Or maybe the MC has the belief that people need to be able to take care of themselves? Could be a lot of reasons you could come up with for that line of thinking, good or bad.

Or yeah, people do just pass by a lot of stuff daily without inserting themselves.  Like I said, not unrealistic.  At least we know Callum turns out fine here regardless.

When you choose to leave Callum alone though, there’s not much one-on-one interactions that occur afterwards.  You pretty much get stuck listening to the chatter in the bar because there’s no real good way to insert yourself from here on out.  I think that makes sense that if the MC wasn’t feeling up for helping Callum out, they also really wouldn’t have the confidence here to interject in whatever’s being said.  Not to mention, Avery clearly did not like strangers trying to start gossip with him.

Regarding this gossip in particular, there isn’t a whole lot for me to comment on.  This feels more like trivia about Trevor and Heidi, who clearly didn’t have a good relationship.  I don’t know about Heidi, but we might see Trevor in the future.  But otherwise there’s not much else to take from that.

I don’t think the subject of the conversation is the main takeaway here anyway.  What’s more important is the lesson about gossip and rumors.  By the way, yes I love that the creators actually utilized a “rumor” in this series. Now the title fits.  

What happened here is that Avery didn’t get all his details straight.  There was definitely some truth being said, but some of the facts were fabricated or exaggerated.  It’s a good thing Foal came along when she did to correct Avery.  If she hadn’t, rumors and gossips like that could have easily spread further among Avery and Callum’s friend group and reputations and events could have gotten worse for the wrong reasons.  

It would have been bad if they kept assuming that Trevor was using, and it would also been bad if they assumed Heidi was providing drugs.  Yes as bad as Heidi sounds, it’s very important that you judge a person for what they have ACTUALLY done, not an assumption.  People should be judged only for the crimes they actually commit.  Don’t ever make up stuff more than what’s been done (even if you hate a person, that’s still not fair regardless).

Brief real talk, this definitely applies to real life.  It’s never a bad idea to fact check something very serious if it’s something you’re especially concerned with.  If you’re not careful, lots of information about a person or event could end up being exaggerated about or misconstrued along the way.  What’s worse, there are people who WILL deliberately lie about something to sway an audience their way.  For example, we all know abusers and other toxic people exist.  You can even have a person who cheats on their S/O and then gets caught…who will THEN go to their friends or on social media and play the victim saying the S/O was the one who cheated on THEM.  I have a particular disgust for people who do that, and unfortunately as long as you act out the part of the victim properly, you can sometimes get people on your side without even providing evidence.

If you can ever find solid research and evidence to support claims made, that’s always best.  Getting everyone’s side of the story is good too. I understand though that it’s nearly impossible to NOT form an opinion or have certain emotions about something you’ve just heard.  I think what’s more important though is your actions after the fact.  I’m not a fan of people who act viscerally to the point where they take extreme measures without having tried to get the details from all sides.  But that’s just me.

I’ll stop there with the real talk though (this can be a touchy subject for me for a variety of reasons).  Let’s get back to the game.  What does mean now as the player?

Basically, it confirms that you can’t ALWAYS trust what some of these characters say to you. Admittedly, I made the mistake of actually believing every word Avery was saying before Foal stepped in. Why?  Because I don’t know these characters or this world very well yet, so I’m relying on the characters we’re presented to give me the low down.  Yes I know, very bad of me that I wasn’t even following my own advice.  But hey, it’s not like I was going out and flipping picnic tables or anything from stuff I heard, so no harm no foul.  It’s just a game.

If you’re like me, you were expecting every character to be knowledgeable about the goings-on in Rockland. Unfortunately, it seems not EVERY character’s words can be taken at face value.  From now on when a character talks, there’s going to be three types of information they’ll provide us:

-        Honest Truth

-        Misinformation

-        Deliberate Lie

Pretty self explanatory. Honest truth is provided by characters who are both knowledgeable about a subject or person AND see no reason to misconstrue facts to the MC or in an open setting.  Misinformation is provided by characters who aren’t INTENTIONALLY trying to lie, but are not actually as knowledgeable about a subject or person as they think they are.  The information they have could be an understatement, overexaggerated or misconstrued in some other way such as being taken out of context.  Avery serves as a good example of that here.  I stated in my previous post that I consider Avery a very honest person.  I still do. He was not TRYING to mislead Callum about what had happened.  He just had his facts wrong, so not a deliberate lie.  

Deliberate lies are provided by people who characters who are indeed knowledgeable about a character or subject, but choose to actively provide false information for their own purposes.  No we have no idea yet if we have come across any deliberate liars in RoR.  I wouldn’t be surprised though if the MC or other characters are lied to about “certain activities” other people commit to avoid a panic.  Especially if it has to do with murder or another crime.  

It may not always have to do with crime though.  Maybe some characters hate each other and will be trying to spread some nasty rumors so we view their enemy/rival in a more negative light when said person is actually not that bad.  Or it could be the opposite case where someone knows a person who is VERY messed up, but they will paint them in a good light because they are either a friend or just trying to cover for them.  Maybe they’re even trying to lure people into a false sense of security…

From the characters we’ve seen, here’s my guess list as to what I THINK these characters will provide us so far:

-Whesker: Honest Truth or Deliberate Lie

-Foal: Honest Truth or Deliberate Lie

-Avery: Honest Truth or Misinformation

-Callum: Honest Truth or Misinformation

-Tyler: Honest Truth

-Dylan: Honest Truth

- Shane: Honest Truth or Deliberate Lie

- Sydney: Deliberate Lie?

 I don’t have much to go off of here.  My reasoning goes as such: If they’re a much older character or appear more sound of mind, they’re likely more knowledgeable.  The younger ones I think are more likely to be honest or misinformed, and ones that are more likely to engage in criminal activity or more likely to lie.  Foal is the only one of those I don’t THINK engages in anything criminal, I see her more likely just KNOWING what some other people do.  Tyler and Dylan I don’t know much about, and I’m only going by how they seemed to view Avery in a different light than Callum does.

Speaking of Callum, I won’t be surprised if there’s a big chance of misinformation from this dude. I’m already thinking he treats Avery a little too lightly at times.  “Puppy dog” isn’t really what I’d describe Avery as…more like a “bull dog.”  I still have gotten no vibes that he does anything criminal other than use drugs he probably shouldn’t be doing.  I’m starting to doubt he even knows what his own brother Quill does on the side.  That means even more chances for misinformation.

What does this mean for me writing these posts then?  Well, despite everything I just said…I really will just be taking everything at face value.  Just like the MC said.  I know that sounds crazy, but unless I’m aware of a character’s actions and mannerisms from another game, there’s no way for me to know whether what I hear is accurate or not.  So in future posts, just know I will be treating nearly all information received as a fact to make it easier to discuss.  BUT, I may still entertain the possibility of the information given being false from time to time.  Probably not everything because that’d just be too much work, but things I guess I feel would be very interesting if they were false.  If that makes sense.

What else happened here? I did notice that I THINK what Avery was applying to Foal was that she’s been the victim of rumors before?  I’m not entirely sure to be honest.  It wasn’t very clear what Avery was implying (he was kind of tripping over himself there).

Finally, while we don’t connect with any characters this route, we get the little bonus at the end with Sydney and Shane Dixie.  Again, you can get their names if you check the website and scroll over their pictures where you would download the game.  The Dixie family is something in Rockland, but I don’t have enough information to really be able to guess what their deal is. Only other Dixie I think I remember is August Dixie.  It’s also interesting to note that Sydney’s last name is Dixie, but his father is named Dante Stryker.  Sydney’s mom and brother also have Stryker for their last name.  Not sure what to make of that yet.

Shane is apparently Whesker’s brother, so more proof that Whesker knows a LOT of dark stuff going on. We don’t have a lot of context in the scene for what just happened other than Sydney was helping a friend and Shane had to either help or completely bail Sydney out of a situation.  I won’t be surprised if we see similar situations like this in future where you have the older dubious folks having to keep the younger dubious kids in check.  Hey, lots of bad stuff happens in Rockland, but the older ones know they can’t let the younger ones grow up thinking they can get away with ANYTHING without getting caught.  That’s not going to be good for the town if it gains a bad reputation OUTSIDE of Rockland.

I could see the younger characters acting out a lot on their emotions or off a high that they can get away with whatever they want because they know people that can clean up after them. But yeah, the older folks need to teach them before it’s too late to use their head or else.  That’s probably why this game brought up a lot of names of people who keep things straight around town like Sergio.  There’s some order in this chaos.

I’m happy Shane didn’t see the MC as a liability here at least.  That’s a relief.

With that, I believe I’ve reached the end of my thoughts on Rumors of Rockland Article 2.  See you next time.

[douxreviews]

The Umbrella Academy - ‘We Only See Each Other at Weddings and Funerals’ Review

Right from the comics, by illustrator Gabriel Bá and My Chemical Romance vocalist Gerard Way, comes the winter hit of Netflix nobody saw coming. Picture a love child between the X-Men and the dysfunctional Bluths, and you’ll have the Hargreeves siblings of The Umbrella Academy.

I must confess that I myself have yet the chance to read the comics this series is inspired by, but from what I understand, the premises don’t differ much at all. On the same day down to the same minute, 43 women across the globe give birth despite not showing any signs of pregnancy up until labor. Irregular and reclusive billionaire Sir Reginald Hargreeves scouts out these women and is able to compensate only seven of them in exchange for adopting their children, all which supposedly have been born with unique abilities. For reasons known only for himself, Hargreeves raises these youths, with assistance from an android-caretaker (appropriately referred to as ‘Mom’ by the children) and an exceptionally intelligent chimp named Pogo, into becoming a team of superheroes called ‘The Umbrella Academy’.

Right away, a premise like this that takes its own shot at subverting the superhero genre had my attention and, after the pilot episode, went on to dominate the rest of my week as I binged through its first season. From the get-go, it became clear that The Umbrella Academy is a show that is much more character-centered than it is plot-centered. This is not to say The Umbrella Academy lacks any signs of a narrative, but the series’ heart and soul is the dissection and exploration of the seven Hargreeves siblings who, in ‘We Only See Each Other at Weddings and Funerals’, are reunited years later after hearing the news that father Hargreeves has passed away.

#1: Luther Hargreeves/Spaceboy. The former leader of the Umbrella Academy, Luther is the teammate with incredible super strength that is practically mandatory at this point for every group of superheroes. Presently, he operates as an astronaut exploring Earth’s moon, but returns to Earth once he learns of father Hargreeves’ passing. Picture Superman if Superman wasn’t very talented at inspiring morale or teamwork in his Justice League compatriots, and you’ll have Luther.

#2: Diego Hargreeves/The Kraken. In many ways the antithesis to Luther, Diego is a reckless hothead on the outside, and a bit of a momma’s boy on the inside. And unlike Luther, who maintained complete trust and faith in father Hargreeves until the end, Diego (as well as #3 and #4) has a fiery hatred for their father due to his cold, unfeeling, and abusive manner towards the children while they were growing up. Diego has the ability of accurate and expert marksmanship, and a dagger is his preferred weapon.

#3: Allison Hargreeves/The Rumor. Currently an aspiring actress, Allison returns home with her siblings while in the midst of a divorce, and if that weren’t bad enough, she has also lost complete custody of her daughter. Though her distaste doesn’t seem as passionate as Diego’s, she too harbors resentment for father Hargreeves. She has the ability to alter reality itself by beginning her wishes with the phrase “I heard a rumor…”

#4: Klaus Hargreeves/The Séance. Eccentric, drug-addicted, and in possession of a wardrobe that reaches every point of the spectrum, Klaus could be seen as the academy’s ‘wild card’ currently. On the surface he appears to demonstrate wit and an infectious energy for life, but internally, he loathes father Hargreeves, and blames him as well for being the catalyst for Klaus turning to his unhealthy habits. Klaus has the ability to talk to the deceased, but can only perform this when he is sober.

#5: Number Five/The Boy. Years before the start of the series, Number Five mysteriously vanished without a trace, and soon after, the Hargreeves siblings would begin to go their separate ways. In the pilot, Number Five returns, still in the form of his thirteen year-old self, with a warning from the future – the world will end in eight days, and Five has no idea what causes it. Though Five does genuinely seem to still care for his siblings, so much time spent lost in the space-time continuum has made him cynical, jaded, arrogant, and with a very relatable dependence on black coffee. Five has the ability to teleport, both through space and time.

#6: Ben Hargreeves/The Horror (Deceased). Killed or passed away by unknown means, Ben’s death seems to have been another factor that drove apart the Hargreeves siblings. Aside from the fact that he has an ability to generate monstrous limbs and tentacles from his body, (which he does not relish) little else is known about Ben. Thanks to Klaus’ ability to talk to the dead though, Ben is still able to keep in touch with at least one of his siblings.

#7: Vanya Hargreeves/The White Violin. A talented violinist, Vanya seems to be the only sibling without any sign of an ability. Her entire childhood under father Hargreeves’ roof has consisted more of her acting as an assistant to train the other, powered children, and being told that there just isn’t anything special about her. Despite this, Vanya doesn’t hesitate to return home and reunite with her siblings once she hears the news about Sir Hargreeves. Since leaving home, Vanya has published a book detailing the secrets of the Umbrella Academy, and outing her siblings’ identities as well, which seems to have created a rift between her and Diego.

This is show that has nicely mastered the practice of raising some mysteries and inquiries, while also still giving the audience just enough answers to chew on for the current episode’s forty-five minute run. From the memorial service onwards, the pilot continues with scenes upon scenes dedicated to simply fleshing out these characters: what they’ve been up to since they parted ways, their relationships with each other, which siblings they bear grudges against, and which ones they’re still loyal to. But because this is the introductory episode, it does have its moments here and there that are committed for pure exposition. For example, a scene featuring Vanya reuniting with Pogo and touring the old mansion where everyone was raised abruptly transitions to the two of them specifically discussing how many days it’s been since Five disappeared, which feels less like natural dialogue, and more like something needed to catch the audience up on Five’s backstory.

As a result of this being a setting where individuals with super-powers do exist, it’s evident from the beginning that this isn’t going to be a world exactly like the planet Earth the spectating audience is used to. What’s so engaging about The Umbrella Academy is that it just doesn’t stop there; there’s a lot of effort here put into the world-building to distinguish this series’ timeline as something that bears some similarities to our own timeline, but is clearly another world altogether. By the time we are introduced to Grace, the children’s android caretaker, and Pogo, I actually realized I didn’t even need elaborations from this show on their own backstories; I had just become so accustomed that this was a world with its own unique scientific advances and phenomena. Once you’ve laid down the law that time travel can and does exist, pretty much anything else goes.

Time flew by during my first viewing of this episode and once Five dropped the bombshell that the world is heading towards an imminent apocalypse and the credits rolled, I was hooked. The Umbrella Academy has a great start for those that enjoy nuanced characters as much, if not more, as they do good story-telling. Because only one episode is a little early for someone to be playing favorites, I suppose I won’t mention then how charmed I immediately became with the characters of Klaus and Five. Then again, from the looks of the internet around me, I seem to not be alone with that favoring.

Name That Tune:

Another wonderful takeaway from this series is its soundtrack, which sifts through multiple genres each episode, and while it often falls back on the trope of playing an upbeat tune to an otherwise extreme fight sequence, it has given me plenty of new additions to my iTunes library, starting with ‘Istanbul’ by They Might Be Giants. Never a song I would’ve thought I’d hear play during a gunfight conflict in a coffee-and-donut shop, yet here we are.

Hargreeves Humor:

Luther: “Look, I know you don't like to do it, but I need you to talk to Dad.” Klaus: “I can't just call Dad in the afterlife and be like, 'Dad, could you just stop playing tennis with Hitler for a moment and take a quick call?'"

Five: “An entire square block. Forty-two bedrooms, 19 bathrooms, but no, not a single drop of coffee.” Allison: “Dad hated caffeine.” Klaus: “Well, he hated children, too, and he had plenty of us.”

Five: “Guess I missed the funeral.” Luther: “How'd you know about that?” Five: “What part of the future do you not understand?”

Aaron Studer loves spending his time reading, writing and defending the existence of cryptids because they can’t do it themselves.

[leviosarpg]

Congratulations, JULIA! You have been accepted for the role of SENECA MONTAGUE! Let me just start by saying this decision pained me. Both Seneca apps I received were so well-thought-out and gorgeously written, I spent a good twenty minutes just looking back and forth between them in dismay and would have accepted both apps if I could have, in a heartbeat. But Julia, it was your vision of Seneca as this opportunistic, innovator, that pushed your app over the top. “Every conversation he engages is a way to analyze every single aspect of his interlocutor...Always seeing beyond the mask.” This right here is the exact vision I had for Seneca and you nailed it on the head with this line. Your writing is stunning, but perhaps what’s more impressive is your ability to capture all the little facets of Seneca-- his anger, his agony, his confusion-- you truly write his internal conflict with such ease! I cannot wait to see him in action!

Don’t forget to send in your account to the main and complete the items listed on the CHECKLIST!

THE PLAYER

name/age/pronouns/timezone: Julia, 24, she/her, gmt (france)

THE CHARACTER

desired role: Seneca Montague

I find his story fascinating. A muggleborn living as a pureblood. The dilemma it brings is pure gold for my drama loving heart. He is as a crossroad and while he thinks he has made a choice and he’s at peace with it, he couldn’t be more wrong. He has chosen to bury his head in the sand and to keep living as if nothing has changed. But everything has changed. Now more than ever he’s living a lie. He has always been a master illusionist, but is he good enough to fool himself?

He has to reevaluate everything he knows and to do so, he has to face the truth and come to term with it. Who is he? Does he truly want to know? What does it mean for his future? What about the Harbingers? What about Amadeus? There’s so much to tell about Seneca, so many directions he could take. Will he stay with the Harbingers out of fear and self-preservation? Will he take a step back and go back to his previous neutrality? Will it be a way to keep up the charade from a distance? Or, a safe haven while he tries to rebuild his identity?

↳ Seneca — derived from Latin senectus meaning “old”

↳Montague — a British pureblood family. The surname Montague means “pointed hill” in Old French, from the elements mont, “hill”, and agu, “pointed.”

gender/pronouns: cismale,he/him

extracurriculars:

↳ Slytherin’s seeker — no better position could suit him. To be seeker is to be a crucial element. He can make or break the game. A game only ends when a seeker catches the golden snitch. All players are important, but not as much as the seeker. He could have been captain, but Seneca saw an opportunity in backing another candidate and took it.

↳ The harbingers — self-preservation. Pure and simple. For a long time, he was steadfast in his neutrality, but now that he has a secret to hide there’s a desperation in him to appear as the perfect pureblood. No one can know. No doubt should come to light. And what better way than to join them. Though, he wonders if he didn’t make a mistake. But no need to be rash and make a stupid decision. He has made no promise, and will keep it that way.

↳ Charms and Potions club — he enjoys both clubs immensely. Potions require extreme meticulousness while Charms appeal to his more creative side. Both keep his mind blissfully quiet.

para sample:

THE PRETTY LIES, THE UGLY TRUTH

He’s furious. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed and fists clenched, gone is the mask. Gone is the prime and proper heir. Gone is the well-mannered and well-behaved child. Gone are rational thoughts, and in its place stands a creature of wild feelings. He has never looked more wild or dangerous. The crawling spine chilling feeling of disgust, disappointment and poisonous wrath seemed to toil within Seneca’s mind. The thing with words is that they fester like open wounds, once heard they cannot be shaken. Adopted, or more accurately bought, like a commodity. A mudblood amidst pureblood. Turmoil in his mind, he just wants to say something, anything. There’s just silence and his mother retracting her hand. His fingers curl, nails digging into the soft skin of his palms. It isn’t anxiety, exactly, that makes him feel like his ribs are closing in on his heart. Not anger, either. Not yet. Something undefinable, fluttering away like a butterfly each time he tries to stick a pin through it. The darkness swallows him in while his heart suddenly drops. He feels like the world is picking him apart by the seams, and at the center of it all is the secret of his origin. The reveal of his tainted blood. He has always wanted glory, not infamy. He has always been the golden child, the apple of his parents’ eyes. The perfect example of a pureblood heir. Except he isn’t. He is a fraud. A counterfeit. Of a masterpiece certainly, but still a counterfeit. He knows what awaits him if this secret is unveiled: the looks that would follow him, sidelong and knowing. T the whispers wherever he would go, cutting and degrading. The ostracization, alone in a no man’s land. His family reputation is at stake. His future is at stake.

He imagines, sometimes, being wholly selfish enough to leave it all behind. He wants to scream to them about his dreams of leaving reputations and politics and family behind. His dreams of freedom ; no calculation, no mask, no fears. But of course, he says none of this. And it’s not who he is, isn’t he? No, he is a master of self-reinvention. He lives for himself first and foremost, with dark eyes and a hungry soul. How easily Seneca slips from a serpent-tongued creature to a laughing child and the contrast would be frightening. He enjoys it. He thrives on it. Smoke and mirrors. He is a Slytherin through and through. Someone who happily straddles the in-betweens. Quick with a smile, sharp-tongued and in possession of a bulletproof confidence. A lie always ready on his lips, but a lie delivered with the confidence of the truth. His words nothing more than a delicate web of lies designed to cushion the fall, to distract from the real point. He’s a chronic over-thinker with a cunning mind for strategies. He lives with purpose, determined to succeed. He knows his place in the world, knows where he wants to be. He cuts away at the world and places himself in the middle of it with careful words and well-placed actions. Clever, resourceful, witty. The man with the plan. Able to improvise, to lie, to bullshit his way out of hell with only minimal casualty. Bones and flesh trapping an inferno of a soul. There’s a reason why he smiles and the whole world moves for him. That smooth, shimmering charm of his goes down like fine firewhiskey, and he knows exactly what to say to win you over. Careful and calculated, he’s no fool. He knows exactly what kind of veneer to hide his Machiavellian worldview behind, but as you swallow each and every one of his buttery words, rest assured that he feels no remorse for the arsenic he’s been silently slipping you all along. He loves to watch the fly get tangled in the web, only working deeper and deeper into the threads. His end truly justifies his means, and there’s no reigning sense of right and wrong to tell him otherwise.

But now, the illusion shatters. The truth finally comes out. And they try to reach him, pleading with him. You have to understand. A flash of offense ripples through his gaze, his lip curls, he’s filled with a searing heat that fills his chest and falters painfully in his throat. Understand what? That he does not belong. Unwanted. Given away. Part of a world who would reject him without a second thought. You’re different. Is he? How? Who is he? A pureblood heir, or a mudblood? He felt both mentally and physically peeved, and self-righteousness followed on his heels: it was aggravation on a leash. A rare inclination to punch a wall was tremoring through him. He is built for this world, this life. But what does that mean? What is he supposed to do with this secret? Nothing! No one has to know. Nothing has to change. Nothing and everything has changed at once. He’s the same, and yet a stranger stood in his place. He wishes he could share the burden with another. Though, it would be folly. It could destroy him. It would destroy him. If only things were different. If only. Amadeus, of course, comes to his mind. A weakness he’s quite aware of, and yet he yearns to open up to him. In another world perhaps, but as it stands, he has too much too loose.

He smiles, a thin smile with no mirth in it. He knows what he has to do. To play pretend like always. To wear a mask and to play his part. No one will know. He’ll make sure of it.

OTHERS & EXTRA (OPTIONAL)

no change.

headcanons

↳ KNOWLEDGE — Seneca has always been that kid with the knack for learning new things. As a child, he held more curiosity and more thirst for knowledge than most others, and that need for knowledge has followed him into adulthood. The world is his playground, and every day there will always be a nook or cranny that he missed the day before. Never one to turn down the pursuit of knowledge he does not yet know, Seneca will graciously accept all opportunities to further his intellect, legal or not.

Seneca is above all a perfectionist. Nothing is more insupportable for him than mediocrity. He considers that nothing is ever perfect, that he can always do better and he has to push away its limits. He sets himself a high-level of excellence and he expects the same for those around him. He is especially interested in complex subjects, not topics people expected, but those presenting a real challenge or seeming contradictory to his personality. Self-learner, he likes to expand his horizon, never one to take the easy way out. To him, “reaching the top” is impossible, because to him, boundaries are meant to be pushed and his “top” is as high as the sky can go. Being the “best” never satisfies him, which is why he constantly strives to see greener pastures. From childhood, there was nothing he wanted more than to show his ability and talent off to his parents and extended family. Even though Seneca grew up with a literal silver spoon in his mouth, it didn’t stop him from going past just “being content with his wealth.” No; he needed to earn it.

↳ OBSERVANT — For all that he seems to enjoy and partake in the life of a party, Seneca himself is not one to open up to others about his private life. Close friends are few in number, and even fewer he truly puts his trust on. He’s not one to express vulnerability, and often bottles up true expressions of emotion. Even though waves of melancholy sometimes over take him, he’s glad he’s able to mask displays of such feelings with ease. He is a mystery, wrapped in oh so many riddles.

Observant, he knows when to stay quiet and take in everything he can. He pays attention when people think no one is looking; it’s when you learn the most about someone after all. He pays attention to the little mannerisms that make everyone who they are, the way people interact with each other, what they say and how their behavior betrays them. Every conversation he engages is a way to analyze every single aspect of his interlocutor. He notices the little things that everyone dismisses as unimportant.  Always seeing beyond the mask.

↳ MATERIALIST — Filthy rich and spoiled rotten, Seneca is by no means a man of simplicity, as is obvious from his taste for the finer things in life. He would not settle for less than what he thinks he deserves, whether it be in terms of material possessions or the company that he keeps. He has always been surrounded by beautiful things, draped in wealth and couture, and it’s hard for anyone who grows up grew up in the lap of luxury to be anything other than entirely in love with beauty. Being the only child, the only heir, and having grown up into such impressive features, Seneca was rarely told “no” and very quickly got used to getting his way. He has his fair share of vices. As most of those in his social circle carry the same traits, he murmurs that he has good taste. He adores loud music and pandemonium in its purest forms but is also the first to exit the room when he determines any situation to be vile, in poor taste or; the worst offence, tacky. Everything must be just so.

↳ PERSONAL STYLE — It is no secret that Seneca is a clotheshorse. His closet spills out and swallows the entirety of his room, the walls are lined with the latest and most lavish of fashions— all of which have only ever seen one wear or haven’t even graced his shoulders at all. A man of prestige values style over anything else, something that he takes very seriously, collecting his pieces with care. His style is always impeccable and elegant. Lavish, generally dressed in immaculate and perfectly tailored suits.

quotes

“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic”

“So many memories and secrets, so many burdens. Every life has such weight. I don’t know how anybody carries even one.”

“You and atlas are one in the same, my dear. Cursed to hold a weight you can’t bear and still standing.   Not because you can — but because you have to.”        

aesthethic

silver lockets, jewelry and music box, piles of books near his bed, stargazing, cursive and elegant handwriting, jazz music in the background, sweet scented candles lit around the room, soft blankets, uniform pressed to perfection, not a single hair out of place, long overcoats flapping in the wind, jewelry glinting in the light, tall buildings covered in ivy, looking for new secret spaces to hide in, exploring late at night, the look of red velvet against dark oak wood, love the aesthetic of cigarettes but hating the smell, marble busts of ancients art, the melted wax of a burnt down candle, curtains flowing in the breeze, frost of a window, golden autumn sunlight, a bookshelf full to the brim, the crack of lightening, watching a storm from inside, the rain running down windows, ticking clocks,  a steaming cup of tea, nails dragging along skin, bare skin wrapped up in blankets, naked body bathed in sunlight/ moonlight.

random tidbits

charming young man with tragedy in his blood, constantly trying to hide something from someone, has an empty feeling in their heart, a little bit dramatic, do it for the aesthetic, confident yet insecure, afraid of failure, cares too much for his loved ones, the rush of adrenaline after doing something very, very wrong, the constant contemplation of life and death, wants to travel the world, sweet tooth.

magical id

WAND —

wood — walnut.  “Walnut wands are often found in the hands of magical innovators and inventors; this is a handsome wood possessed of unusual versatility and adaptability.”

core — dragon heartstrings.

flexibility — fairly flexible.

PATRONUS — “Raven’s are a bit like watchers of the night, quiet and observant, waiting for the precise moment to show themselves. Chances are they don’t want you to see them, then you want, as they are very good at hiding themselves. Equally, they can be incredibly charismatic when they need or want something, swooping in out of nowhere and shocking you with their mysterious presence. They have a fire to them that represents their need for freedom, and this mostly coincides with their somewhat greedy nature. They are inwardly emotional, and can turn off what they are feeling almost as a switch, if need be.”

BOGGART — Mirror / No Reflections, seeing no reflection in a dream mirror implies that he has lost his self-identity. Or he is in a situation or environment that requires him to remove his individuality and conform to others. He is lacking clarity and questioning his self-identity. It portends rapid changes, mainly related to inner peace and views on life.

FAVORITE COURSES —  potions, charms and ancient runes.

FAVORITE TEACHERS — Horace Slughorn and Anita Fairbanks.

PET — a cat – a bengal

personality analysis

↳ TROPES — consummate liar, unreliable narrator, the hedonist, the beautiful elite, gentleman snarker, magnificent bastard, man of wealth and taste, wicked cultured, tranquil fury.

↳ ZODIAC SIGN — Scorpio are passionate and assertive people. Determined and decisive, they will research until they find out the truth. People often say that Scorpio-born are fierce, self-reliant and independent. this sign is a conflicting ball of sharp nails and teeth. On one hand they’re these loyal, fascinating, powerful people with strong ambitions and drive. On the other hand, they’re moody jerks who will manipulate you and need to know every detail right this second.

↳ MORAL ALIGNMENT — A neutral character does what seems to be a good idea. He doesn’t feel strongly one way or the other when it comes to good vs. evil or law vs. chaos. Most neutral characters exhibit a lack of conviction or bias rather than a commitment to neutrality.

↳ MBTI — The Visionary / ENTP are inspired innovators, motivated to find new solutions to intellectually challenging problems. They are curious and clever, and seek to comprehend the people, systems, and principles that surround them. Open-minded and unconventional, they want to analyze, understand, and influence other people. They are energized by challenge and are often inspired by a problem that others perceive as impossible to solve. They are confident in their ability to think creatively, and may assume that others are too tied to tradition to see a new way. They are typically friendly and often charming. They usually want to be seen as clever and may try to impress others with their quick wit and incisive humor. They like to find the loopholes and figure out how they can work the system to their advantage.

↳ Enneagram — Type five, the Investigator, Fives are alert, insightful, and curious. Able to concentrate and focus on developing complex ideas and skills. Independent, innovative, and inventive, they can also become preoccupied with their thoughts and imaginary constructs. Detached, yet high-strung and intense. they typically have problems with eccentricity, nihilism, and isolation. At their best: visionary pioneers, often ahead of their time, and able to see the world in an entirely new way.

↳ Nine type of intelligence — Interpersonal Intelligence (People Smart) is the ability to understand and interact effectively with others.  It involves effective verbal and nonverbal communication, the ability to note distinctions among others, sensitivity to the moods and temperaments of others, and the ability to entertain multiple perspectives.  Teachers, social workers, actors, and politicians all exhibit interpersonal intelligence.  Young adults with this kind of intelligence are leaders among their peers, are good at communicating, and seem to understand others’ feelings and motives.

Mock blog: https://senecamock.tumblr.com/

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[howtowrotedotcom]

Double Trouble Determination - Chapter One

(Summary: Frisk has been missing for days. With them being the only surviving member of your family, you go looking for them. You search Mt Ebott and end up falling into the Underground. You quickly come to terms with the fact that monsters really do exist, but what you can’t wrap your mind around is how Frisk gained some sort of spectacular ability to control linear time. And that somehow, you’re able to use it as well?

How will this work, two humans in the underground with the same ability to SAVE and RESET, and the same DETERMINATION to overpower the other?

(Reader is gendered and refers to Frisk as her "brother", but is otherwise referred to by they/them pronouns)

(Soulmates AU))

{This work is also on AO3}

__________

Chapter One: A Heart Falls

Your body ached as you came to, eyes adjusting as dust settled around you.

The only source of light was above you. Glancing up with squinted eyes you vaguely wonder how you managed to survive such a high fall with nothing more than a couple bruises. Shakily you get to your feet, feeling a bit weak as you adjust to your new settings. Flowers stood proudly beneath you, the soft soil beneath your feet indicating that they had been watered quite recently. You stepped out of the flower patch, kicking up soft dust from the path that stretched out in front of you. With no way to climb up, and a small part of you curious about the path, you start off.

The walls around you quickly start to develop into a corridor, and your hand trails along the packed dirt absently. The corridor ended with a doorway, with an emblem carved over the threshold. Hesitantly, you step through it. Somewhere, a light source illuminated a single patch of grass among the dirt, almost as if waiting to present something to you.

To your surprise, a golden flower popped up from the patch of soil.

Only…

This “flower” clearly had a face- and was currently eyeing you with a hint of amusement. “Well, this sure is a surprise.” It said with a small chuckle. “You must be so confused.”

“I uh…I guess I am.” You admit with a slight tilt of your head. To be frank, this was by far the weirdest thing to have happened to you, and you weren’t too sure how to approach this being in conversation. Instead of asking the obvious questions, you stuck with asking about the reason you were here in the first place. “I-I’m looking for my little brother, Frisk.”

With that, the flower’s eyes seem to twinkle with recognition. He let out a harsh laugh. “Frisk! Frisk is YOUR brother?”

Hope flutters in your chest. “They are! Have you seen them?”

The flower snorts dismissively, his expression melting into a malicious grin that contorted the shape of his face. “Does it matter? You won’t live long enough to see them again.”

“What do you mean…?” The settings around you flickered dark and you found yourself staring at an inverted color version of the flower, who seemed unaffected by the sudden change of scene. A teal light blinded you for a moment as you felt a tug at your chest. A small bluish heart floated in front of you now.

“See? Not even a hint of DETERMINATION.” The flower sneered. “You won’t last as long as the others, nevermind your dear Frisk.” White pellets circled you and you reached for the light in front of you, hoping it would somehow protect you. Cowering under the threat before you, you felt your throat tighten as tears threatened to spill from your eyes. An awful laugh echoed off the empty walls of the cavern, sure to haunt your dreams for years to come.

“Actually, you know what? That’s too boring.”

The settings returned to normal, but you stayed in your kneeling position in shock as you stared at the flower with wide, tearful eyes. The flower winked cheekily. “As much as I’d love to be the one to take your SOUL, I’m pretty sure it’d be much more fun to see you suffer. Especially after you see what your precious little Frisk has done.” With another mocking laugh, the flower dove back into the dirt, leaving you shaking uncontrollably on the ground.

You felt your stomach twist horribly as you realize that the myths you heard as a child were true.

Mt Ebott was indeed the home to all monsterkind.

* * *

The area was strangely quiet, you notice as you walk through the Ruins. The name on the sign was accurate, as everything around you was crumbled and neglected, with piles of dust everywhere you turned. It felt like you had been walking for hours, forcing your way through odd puzzles and mazes, until you found a decent house tucked away from the rest of the Ruins. You politely knocked on the front door, waiting awhile before inviting yourself in. The door had been unlocked, and creaked quietly as you stepped in, with no sign of anyone else in the home. It was rather spacious, and warm, too. A nice fireplace blazed quietly in the living space, and a fresh pie sat on the countertop in the kitchen, only one slice cut from it. With no one around, and your stomach growling hungrily at the sight of food, you forgot your manners and cut yourself a slice. The grumble in your stomach grew as you caught a whiff of the pie. It smelled of butterscotch and cinnamon-- an odd combination in your opinion, but one you were more than willing to try.

The baked dish was soft and warm, as if it had just come out of the oven not too long ago. The ache in your body was relieved the moment you swallowed the first bite, and you could’ve sworn you felt the bruises on you melting away. A fuzzy sensation nuzzled itself into the center of your chest and stayed there long after the pie had been finished. You felt as if you had eaten a whole meal, and sleepiness started to weigh you down. You made yourself comfortable in the huge recliner in front of the fireplace, former worries and stress having been forgotten for the time being. With a sigh you settle deeper into the chair.

Just a quick nap, you resolve, and you’ll be back on your feet in no time…

…The fire was still burning when you woke later.

You yawned and stretched, basking in the wonderful homey feeling this place gave you. You felt safe and secure.

Frisk would have loved this place…

The thought made you stiffen with cold realization. You jumped to your feet, horrified at how easily the home had secured you, how it made you forget everything, including your poor little brother. You couldn’t stand to imagine the horrors he might have had to face down here, while you sat here kicked back and lazing about in dreamland without a care in the world. You rubbed your face angrily, kicking yourself mentally before letting out a sigh. You’ll beat yourself up later after Frisk is home safe.

You carried on exploring the rest of the house, now sure that there was no one here for the time being. You hoped to find a map or some sort of clue that could lead you closer to your brother. Unfortunately, all that you discovered was a journal full of silly puns and jokes, small libraries with facts of snails, and a dusty child’s room that looked untouched. Having searched through the main floor of the home, you made your way downstairs. The stairs revealed a long hallway that seemed to go on for a while. With no other choice but to push forward, you did, after a while coming across a huge metal door. As heavy as it looked, it seemed like it had been pushed open just enough to let someone small through. Maybe even Frisk, you thought to yourself. That small flutter of hope from earlier resurfaced inside of you, coupled with a small bit of fear.

Frisk had already been here, it seemed, and you were right behind him. At least you had hoped so.

A brisk breeze drifted from the opening, and you shivered, rubbing your arms in anticipation to leave the warm house. Steeling yourself, you stepped over yet another larger pile of dust and pushed the door open wider to accommodate yourself.

It was like stepping into an entirely different world. Snow fell softly from a dark sky, but light reflected off from somewhere, creating a decent amount of luminance for you to feel comfortable travelling ahead. It was colder than the house, but you could manage for now. A small part of you wished you had enough foresight to bring a thicker jacket. It was warm this time of year, but you still scolded yourself for not knowing better than to prepare for the worst.

You supposed you still hadn’t learned that lesson by now.

You followed the path up towards a short bridge, with a fence across it just barely big enough for you to squeeze through. As you crossed, a chill ran up your spine, making you shiver violently.

You were being watched.

You spun on your heel and faced the open air, paranoia coursing through you. Things had been silent since your interaction with the flower, but that didn’t mean the entire place was completely devoid of monsters. There had to be some reason why there was no one here, and there had to be a place where they were all currently gathered, you were sure of it.

Snow frosted the piles of dust scattered along the path. Your chest tightened for some reason as you glanced at each pile, wondering why there were so many of them. Each varied in size, but you found it harder and harder to ignore them with each pile you stepped over. It made you very uncomfortable, though you didn’t understand why.

A very long bridge and several completed puzzles later, you found yourself in a place called “Snowdin Town”, if the sign was anything to go by. It looked like it could’ve been a lively and cheerful place, but once again, it was silent and empty, which made the uneasiness in your gut grow. Frozen hands rubbed at your arms through your sleeves and you shivered violently. Goosebumps pebbled your skin, and you couldn’t help but to glance around you suspiciously. Knocking at each door you came across proved to be futile. The air was silent save for the sound of your own pulse in your ears, driving you slowly but surely to madness.

Something was most definitely wrong here.

It wasn’t until you moved past the town that the cold really began to seep into you. All the warmth from the pie was long gone now, and exhaustion rested heavily on your shoulders. Each step was unusually draining, feeling like your legs weighed a ton as they started to drag underneath you.

There was a bigger pile of dust in front of you, perhaps bigger than any that you had seen so far. Unlike the others, however, this one had some sort of clothing on it. Stepping closer to investigate, you noticed what looked to be thick body armor, boots, gloves, and a scarf. It was so out of place it was unnerving, and you didn’t dare to disturb the pile in fear of why it had been laid out on top of the pile of dust, as if someone had tried to dress it unsuccessfully like they would a snowman.

Your chest began to feel tight at this point, paranoia and fear and exhaustion starting to cloud your mind. You tried to push through it, tried to steady your breath and trudge on, but dark spots began to dance across your vision and your body started to weigh itself down. You sank to your hands and knees, fingers numb to the cold snow as you gripped and clawed at it in vain attempt to get back on your feet. It was no use. Using the remainder of the strength you had, you rolled yourself onto your side, staring at the annoying red clothing against the pure white of the snow, hoping that you weren’t going to die of out here.

…And hoping Frisk would be okay…

* * *

Sans had felt the presence of a new SOUL in the underground when it first fell. He had watched her emerge from the Ruins, unscathed but put off for some reason. Even with the fear and uncertainty radiating off her SOUL, she pushed forward. He couldn’t see any LV on you, which was the only thing keeping him at a curious distance now, watching her from afar and shortcutting each time she came close to spotting him. The further she progressed the more uneasy she became, like she sensed something was wrong.

It wasn’t until she got to Snowdin that she had started to slow down, most likely from the cold, he reasoned. The jacket she wore was too thin for this weather. Her cheeks started to flush, and your body continued to shiver in efforts to regain body heat. He was closer to her than he had been before, but she failed to notice as she discovered the pile of dust that laid in the middle of the path before her. He glued his sight on her, hand clutching his jacket as his SOUL ached knowingly. He watched as she hesitated over the pile before trying to move on. At this point, however, the exposure had started to take serious effect on her body as she collapsed almost at his feet. The struggle to get back to her feet had led her to sink down into the snow, exhaustion and resignation washing over her SOUL as she seemed to accept her fate. She had laid unmoving for several minutes before he approached her.

Now that he was closer, he could see the resemblance between her and the kid. That discovery alone made him want to leave her there. And he had planned to, turning away from her and preparing another shortcut. Just as he was about to leave, however, he felt something tug at his SOUL urgently, keeping him in place for a moment.

Sans glanced over his shoulder, eye sockets widening as he saw her SOUL hovering above her body, thrumming and swaying desperately in the cold. The tug at his own SOUL grew a tiny bit stronger with hope as he acknowledged it’s pleading call for help. Its hue was a mix of Integrity and Kindness, which created a color like that of Patience, but darker. Not a bit of DETERMINATION could be found in there, unlike the kid’s SOUL. He had seen that color enough times to have the violent blur burned into the back of his eyelids. Looking at her SOUL in comparison made him relax, letting a small breath escape his teeth as he once more approached the body.

Hesitantly he let his blue magic surround the SOUL, gently pulling her limp body from the snow with a slight lift of his hand.

The whole situation was unusual, and he knew it. A human SOUL never left its vessel unless confronted by a monster. He had no intention of confronting her, and there was quite literally nobody else around to do so either. And how it had managed to call him for help so strongly was beyond him. None of the other humans had this sort of control over their SOUL, not even Frisk. Yet, while still unconscious, her SOUL instinctively called out to his, pleading and persuading him to help her.

This human was certainly something of an anomaly.

The thought was put to rest for the moment as he concentrated on getting the human to a warmer spot. Reluctantly, he settled for his own home. The shortcut was brief, and her SOUL squirmed uncomfortably at the sensation. Her body was laid out across the couch cushions, and he pulled a thick blanket over her before stepping back to give her space. Her SOUL was gone now, establishing itself back into its rightful place.

He rubbed at his forehead silently, mulling over the fact that this girl, who was clearly related to Frisk, was now curled up comfortably on his couch.

…He could still faintly remember the timelines Frisk brought them up to the surface, only to get bored and drag the lot of them back into this hellhole, with only him being aware of it. It nearly drove him mad to think about, but at the same time, filled him with a complete sense of hopelessness. Frisk had too much power, too much DETERMINATION to be stopped by him or anyone else, and Sans was fully aware of that fact. How many timelines had Frisk killed his brother now? How many times had they offed Sans now? That they killed everyone and everything in their path, only to bring it back just to do it all over again?

What kind of sick human was this kid that she was related to? Was she even aware of the true monster the young child had become?

Regardless, how she was even related to Frisk in the first place was a mystery to him. Her SOUL was much too kind, he could tell, to harm even the smallest creature. Her LV was nonexistent, and there was no part of her that seemed threatening in the least.

Of course, he had been wrong before about Frisk.

He shook his head, glancing over her again. Her face was relaxed now, as if she hadn’t almost frozen to death outside mere moments before. Although he didn’t understand why, a small part of him was glad she was alive now, though he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

For now, Sans needed to go check on Frisk’s progress through the Underground, resolving to come back when she was awake. Perhaps she’d be the one to set things straight around here.

He hoped you would be.

[tsvitok]

Forming a sentence.

This is a sentence.

We form most of how we communicate through sentences, they’re pretty important honestly. And you know, most of us know how to make a sentence, it’s how we communicate after all.

The basic construction of a sentence is that there is a subject and an object. A sentence is about something (subject) and the subject is doing something to something else (object).

A subject is always required, because a sentence has to be about something.

An object doesn’t always have to be present, but it usually does for it to make sense.

Objects are very simply put, the thing that the subject is acting upon.

So in the very first sentence of this post; “This is a sentence.”

The subject is “this” because it is what the sentence is about. The object is “sentence” because “this” is acting on “sentence” by providing context so you can understand. If you took “sentence” on its own, it wouldn’t provide the same understanding as this full sentence.

That’s all pretty simple, dry and frankly fairly boring. Let’s talk about the important stuff.

Sentences have a rhythm to them, much like music. When you read you don’t do it silently, even in your head your mind is saying the words. Usually this is called “pace”, so this isn’t a revolutionary idea, but rhythm more accurately captures how it works.

The rhythm is more important than any other part of a sentence to establishing feeling. It is the background music in a film, the brush strokes of a painting. If you have a weak or slow rhythm to an action scene then you sow a discord in the mind and you lose impact.

However, if you have a slow, creeping rhythm to a horror scene you create suspense.

So what creates rhythm? How you structure your sentences.

If, for instance, I wanted to create a mood, where by you, regularly stop, and think. I would use commas, periods and ellipses (...). These are all tools we understand as both ways to join together parts of a sentence or end a sentence, but they are also ways we signal “stops” or more academically pause. It is why a period is also commonly called a “full-stop”.

A comma indicates a half-stop, a brief pause. A period indicates a full-stop, a pause. An ellipses indicates an elongated stop, a long pause.

This comes from how we read things out loud, they give moments to pause for breath. That’s why really long sentences (called run-on sentences) that seem to never stop and never contain any commas or periods or anything to indicate a pause where you can catch your breath are considered poor grammar and feel exhausting to read.

Conversely, too many commas is usually also considered bad. This comes from the formal rules of English as a language. It is basically a way to explain to children to be concise, but it sticks with adults because we’re taught to read and write in a concise manner. That’s good for academia, but when you’re doing things for enjoyment you can throw out a lot of rules.

One important thing to keep in mind however is that people will be dragged out of a story if you abuse certain rules. They do exist for reasons, what you should aim for is clearness. If for instance you forget an object in a sentence, you will jar people from the story. It’s hard to do though, so don’t worry. Usually a quick read through will be enough to notice them.

The next important thing to keep in mind is that while rhythm is controlled through pauses, it is actually constructed through three other things; motion, timing and focus.

In common terms we call these voice, tense and perspective.

Voice represents the motion of the sentence, the way the rhythm moves to the beat to set up. It comes in two forms; active and passive. Both set up the relationship between the subject and the object.

In active voice the subject is acting upon the object, while in passive voice the object is being acted upon by the subject. Yes, those are two different things.

Here are some examples.

The woman opens the front door.

The front door is opened by the woman.

In both, the woman is the subject and the front door is the subject. The difference is who has the power in the subject-object relationship. Who is more important. You can almost always tell by what comes first, and given how hard it is to write effective passive voice you will generally only see active voice. In fact a lot of writers are told not to use it.

You should though, you should use it where it will create a good rhythm - but avoid it otherwise as it is often harder to read. What is a good rhythm for passive voice? Well when you need the motion to flow slowly and carefully, usually.

Tense represents the timing of the sentence, both literal and figurative, as we will discuss. There are three forms of tense; past, present and future.

Past tense conveys that the sentence has already happened, and delivers a definitive tone to the sentence. You read a sentence written in past tense like a history book - it has already happened and doesn’t require resolution, so you take your time. Your expectations are set at it having happened, so no point expecting otherwise.

An example of a past tense sentence, “There was no happiness to be found.”

Present tense conveys that the sentence is currently happening, and delivers a more uncertain tone. You read a sentence written in present tense like you watch a movie - it is happening and it requires resolution, so better find out what happens. Your expectations are set at it currently happening, so until the sentence ends you can expect a change.

An example of a present tense sentence, “There is no happiness to be found.”

Here you see that because it is currently happening, your expectations may be the same, but you take it more as a guideline as though someone is telling you, but because it is currently happening they must know something. It isn’t resolved until the sentence ends.

Future tense conveys that the sentence is yet to happen, it establishes a speculative tone and sets your expectations at zero as anything can happen. You read a sentence written in future tense like a horoscope - there is a high probability it may not happen, but imagine if it did. Your expectations are set at the fact it will maybe happen, so anything could change.

An example of a future tense sentence, “There will be no happiness to be found.”

There is no real urgency in past or future tenses, while present tense offers that feeling of urgency. While past tense offers a very definite feeling and future tense offers a very speculative one. Keep that in mind when choosing a tense for your sentence.

Perspective represents the focus of the sentence, whether it is focused through you, onto you or onto someone else. The relationship between the perspective and the reader is one of the most important parts of engaging with a story, some people have an intense dislike of certain perspectives, and it is important to realise why. Part of the reason people read, game, watch films, and so on, is to put themselves into a different place. It is escapism, and some people have a harder time losing themselves reading certain perspectives, playing certain games, focusing on certain types of characters.

The key is to not expect everyone to love your work, people will dislike you simply because you don’t suit them. It’s cool though, other people will love your stuff.

There are three forms of perspective; first person, second person and third person.

First person perspective sets the reader as the focus, it makes it personal. It is like the bass of a song turned up to ten so you feel it in your chest. This personal connection sets the person reading as the subject of the sentence - the one that is acting upon the object, as though you are telling yourself the story.

An example of a first person perspective sentence; “I woke up in a woman’s bed.”

Second person perspective sets the reader as the focus, but through the lens of a conversation. The reader is not doing the actions but they are being told they are doing the actions, and it adds a sense of intimate distance - like a friend retelling a story about you to another friend.

An example of a second person perspective sentence, “You woke up in a woman’s bed.”

Third person perspective sets a character distinct from the reader as the focus. It removes the intimacy and instead provides a sense that the reader is being told the story. This allows a more fantastic feeling, without limiting the reader to themselves, when they put themselves into another character’s position they can do anything.

An example of a third person perspective sentence, “She woke up in a woman’s bed.”

As you can see, third person is much more exact, leaving less to the interpretation of the reader. You cannot assume things about the reader in the same way you can a third person character. In music the bass line is the current flowing under the main sound, it is the part of music that has the most physiological impact - high enough it will actually be felt in your body. The relationship of the reader to the sentence has that impact of forming a similar feeling - and just like how some people despise EDM or Dubstep, some people despise first person, or second person, or third person.

So a quick recap.

Sentences are formed of subjects and objects - the subject acts on the object.

Sentences have a rhythm, which can be controlled by use of commas, periods and ellipses (pauses), and are built up out of voice, tense and perspective.

The key to a good sentence is understanding how the rhythm is built and learning how to control it.

Hopefully this helped a few of you. Got any questions, need clarification, leave a comment.

[redditnosleep]

Has Anyone Heard of The Left/Right Game?

by NeonTempo

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 (Final)

A few points before we start.

Firstly, I am not the protagonist of this story. I just went to university with her, and though she went on to become a professional writer, I most certainly did not. She'll be taking over from me further down but, until then, please forgive my slightly awkward delivery while I give you guys the necessary context.

Secondly, I don't know what you will make of the following events, and I'm sure many of you might consider it all some sort of hoax. I wasn't present for any of what transpired in Phoenix, Arizona but I can vouch for the person who wrote the following logs. She is not, and has never been, a fantasist.

Ok so I once knew a girl called Alice Sharma. She was an undergrad at Edinburgh Uni the same time I was. My educational poison was History, a degree which has greatly benefited my career as a bicycle repairman. Alice Sharma studied journalism, though perhaps "studied" isn't the word. It's not an exaggeration to say that she lived and breathed the subject. Editor-in-chief of the campus paper, recognisable voice of student radio. She was frustratingly tunnel visioned, and she was a journalist in her own right before anyone gave her a professional shot.

We met in student halls and became friends almost immediately. A meandering waster trying to stay off his parent's farm and an intrepid, ambitious reporter may not seem the most obvious pairing, but I learned not to question it. She was inspiring, and smart and she proofread all my essays. I’m not too sure what she saw in me.

We were eventually flatmates down in London where she chased her dream and I chased my tail. She got a few jobs here and there, but nothing befitting of her skills. After months of fruitless internships and rejections, Alice called a flat meeting, telling us that she was moving to America, accepting a position chasing stories for National Public Radio. The job had come out of the blue, the result of a hail mary application she thought had been dismissed out of hand. We threw her a bittersweet going away party and put the room up for rent.

That party was the last time I saw Alice Sharma. She dropped out of contact a few months after her departure. Complete radio silence. I assumed she was just busy so I carried on with my small but happy life, and waited for her to pop up on television with some important words below her name; Chief Correspondent, Senior Analyst… something like that.

The radio silence was broken last week, and, for reasons you’ll glean further down, I’m less happy about it than I would’ve thought.

Arriving home from work I found a lone email in my otherwise bare inbox. An email that would later be described as "suspicious" by my tech literate friends. Despite being born in the early 1990's I didn't own a computer until uni, and I've missed several important lessons in the world of cyberspace. Lessons like "Don't call it Cyberspace" of course and more importantly, "Don't open emails with no text, no subject and no sender's address."

I realise most of you would have deleted this anonymous, blank email immediately, my friends certainly would have, but beyond my basic ignorance about online safety, something further compelled me to open it. The only thing of substance in the entire message was a zipped folder, labeled:

Left.Right.AS

I don't have to explain what I was hoping those final initials stood for.

Opening the zipped folder I found myself staring at a stack of text files. Each one titled with a date, continuing sequentially from the very earliest file "07-02-2017". (To any Americans in the room this is the 7th of February).

I’ve since read the files a few times, and shown them to some friends. They don't know what to make of it either, but they certainly aren't as concerned as me. They think Alice is just in a creative writing phase and, if I didn't know her, I’d have to agree. But the thing is, I do know her. Alice Sharma only cares about the truth and if that's the case with these files, insane as it may sound, then it’s very possible my friend has documented her own disappearance.

The people who suggested this forum said you discuss strange occurrences etc. If you guys have come across anything to do with the below, or know any of the people involved, then please send any information my way.

Has anyone here heard of the Left/Right Game?

The Left/Right Game [DRAFT 1] 07/02/2017

They say great stories happen to those who can tell them. Robert J. Guthard is an exception to that rule. As I sit at his table, sip his coffee and listen to him recount the past 65 years it sounds like he's reading off a shopping list. Every event, his first job, his second wedding, his third divorce, none of them receive more than one or two sentences. Rob plows through the years, the curt, dispassionate curator of his own personal history. Yet the story itself is so fascinating, so rich with moments and so wildly meandering that it somehow stands on its own merits.

It's a great story, no matter how you tell it.

By the time Rob was 21, he'd gotten married, had a son, worked as a farmer, a mover, a boat engineer, and grown estranged from his spouse... Here's him talking about that.

ROB: Course my wife started to get dissatisfied, I was away a while.

AS: For work?

ROB:Vietnam.

AS: You were in Vietnam? How was that for you?

ROB: I ain't never been back since.

That was everything he had to say concerning his first divorce, and the entire Vietnam war.

Rob had four marriages after that, and even more professions. After the war he worked with a firm of private detectives, got shot at once by the mob, then he became a courier, which is how a poor boy from Alabama got to see the world.

ROB: I been to most of the continents with that job. I been to India. You from India?

AS: My mum and dad are from India yeah.

ROB: See I could tell.

He'd been arrested once in Singapore, after one of his packages had been found to be full of white powder. He spent three days locked up before someone got around to checking the substance. It was chalk.

A friend he made during his brief custody, Hiroji Sato, invited Rob to stay with him in Japan. Just getting over the breakup of his third marriage, Rob took the offer. He stayed in Japan for another 5 years.

ROB: The Japanese are good people. Good manners. But they got all these urban legends and ghost stories that Hiroji was crazy for, spent all his free time chasing them down. Like, you heard of Jorogumo?

AS: I don't think so"

ROB: Well she's this spider lady lives in the Joro Falls round Izu. Meant to be real pretty but real dangerous. Hiroji took us out there to get a picture of her.

AS: Did you ever meet Jorogumo?

ROB Nah she didn't show. None of them did. I didn't believe at all until we went to Aokigahara

Aokigahara, affectionately titled the Suicide Forest. The next stop on Rob's adventure. It's an area of woodland at the base of Mount Fuji, a notorious hotspot for young people looking to take their own lives. Hiroji, Rob's ghost obsessed jailmate turned best friend, took him to Aokigahara to chase "yurei" the ghosts of the forest.

AS: Did you find anything? In Aokigahara?

ROB: Well I ain't gonna ask you to believe me. But I was a PI. Professional cynic. Even I can't deny there was a spirit in those woods.

From that moment on, Rob's sentences start getting longer. A childlike excitement creeps into his voice. I get the distinct feeling we're moving beyond background, beyond Rob Guthard's old life, and towards his new one. The one he wants to talk about. The one that led him to contact the show.

ROB: It walked up to me through the trees. Looked like static you see on a TV screen but it had a human shape almost.

AS: Almost?

ROB: It was missing an arm. It reached out to me but I bolted outta that forest so fast. Hiroji never saw it, holds it against me to this day.

Hiroji had good reason to be annoyed. Rob says that Mr Sato had been going to the forest 2-3 times per year for three decades. To have a rookie come along and claim to have seen a yurei on his first trip? I'd be more than a little cranky.

But Rob didn't stay a rookie for long. In fact, it was in those woods that he discovered his current passion. The supernatural, or more accurately, the documentation and investigation of urban legends. Legends like Bloody Mary, the Jersey Devil, Sasquatch. Rob has looked into them all.

ROB: I figured if one was true then who knows how many others could be.

AS: How many have you proven so far?

ROB: Since Aokigahara? Ain't none of em had any proof to em. Except for one. That's why I called you guys up.

At this point, Rob can’t hope to repress his smile.

The Left/Right game appeared on a paranormal message board in June 2016. Only a few people frequently visited the forum and, of these regulars, only Rob took an interest in the post.

ROB: The whole thing had a level of detail you don't see in other stories.

AS: What details grabbed your interest?

ROB: Logs. High quality pictures. The guy documented everything, said he wasn't gonna play the game anymore. I think he wanted somebody to keep investigating.

AS: And you were that somebody.

ROB: That's right. I set about trying to verify his information right away.

AS: And how did it go?

ROB: Well... It didn't take long to realise the Left/Right Game is the real thing.

The rules of the Left/Right game are simple. Get in your car and take a drive. Take a left, then the next possible road on the right, then the next possible left. Repeat the process ad infinitum, until you wind up somewhere... new. The rules are easy to understand, but Rob says their not so easy to follow.

ROB: There ain't all that many roads where you can turn left and right and left and right and keep going. Most of the time you find yourself at a dead end or needing to turn in the wrong direction. Phoenix is built on a grid system so you can keep going left and right as long as you need to.

AS: Did you move to Phoenix for the Left/Right game?

ROB: That's right.

I try not to seem incredulous. Selling your house in another state, packing up and moving your whole life to Phoenix, Arizona just to play a game you saw on the internet? It seems like insanity. Rob smiles as he reads my expression. I can clearly read his expression too. "You'll see." It says. "Just wait."

I wouldn't have to wait long. Included within the 9 page submission Rob sent our show, was a long list of suggested items the chosen reporter should bring with them. Clothes for three days, a pocket knife, matches, bandages. There were also a set of qualifications the reporter should have. The ability to drive, basic vehicle maintenance and its human equivalent... first aid training. He didn't just want to talk about the Left/Right Game. He wanted to take one of us along.

Rob leaves a short while later to embark on a few errands, "Prepping the Run", as he calls it. He shows me to the guest room and we part ways, on good terms but very much aware of the other's poorly veiled opinions. He knew I saw him as a charming obsessive, chasing after a fairy tale. He saw me as a naive cynic, on the cusp of a new world. All I could think as I heard the front door close is that by tomorrow afternoon, one of us would be right.

More after this.

When I wake up the next morning, Rob is in my room, holding a tray which he'd knocked on the bottom of to rouse me. I don't manage to record the start of our conversation.

ROB: - I got bananas, strawberries, chocolate syrup. We got some more downstairs but I wanted you to wake up to something good. We won't be eatin' this stuff on the road."

Rob has made me waffles. He sets them down on the night stand and talks through the coming day as I eat. I'll admit it feels a little uncomfortable, waking up in a stranger's home to find said stranger already standing over me, but I quickly move past it. I tell myself that he’s an older man, accustomed to living alone in his own house, not usually having to think about boundaries. Anyway, he certainly knows his way around a waffle iron.

ROB: We hit the road at 9. I wanted to give you time to get ready before everyone shows up.

AS: There are other people coming?

ROB: We got a 5 car convoy on the road today. They'll be here in an hour.

This is the first I’ve heard of a convoy, and to be honest I’m surprised. The game is Rob's obsession, and I’m here at his request. The idea that anyone else would have an interest in today's drive is a little perplexing.

Half an hour later, sated, showered and dressed in the "functional clothing" Rob had so painstakingly outlined, I take my pack out to the porch. Rob’s already there, waiting for his associates to show up.

AS: I thought you'd be conducting a few more errands.

ROB: If you ain't prepared by the morning of, you ain't prepared.

AS: Hah ok I guess that's fair. Oh, Rob is the garage locked? The inside door won't budge and I wanted to mic up the car.

ROB: Yeah it's locked up I'll open it for ya.

AS: Thank you.

ROB: In fact it's about time I wheeled her out. Fair warning Ms Sharma, she's a thing of beauty.

To Rob Guthard, beauty took the form of a dark green Jeep Wrangler. Rob climbs in and lets it roll out of the garage, where it dominates every inch of driveway. The car is large; four doors with a roof enclosing the entire compartment. It’s also been modified extensively, yet another example of Rob's dedication to the game.

ROB: What're you thinking?

AS: I think you're two caterpillar treads short of driving a tank.

ROB: Hah yeah I fixed her up good. I put the winch in, heavy duty tires, the light rig on top is LED's. They'll make midnight look like noon but they don't use hardly any power.

AS: Aren't Jeeps open top usually?

ROB: Not all. This is the Unlimited. I like to have a covered car when I head on the road.

I climb in and stow my pack. Rob had removed the back seats to afford more storage space. The place is packed to the brim. Jerry cans of gasoline, barrels of water, rope, snacks and his own neatly packed set of clothes.

I wonder if the rest of our convoy would take the game so seriously.

ROB: We got Apollo coming up in 10 minutes. No one else has given me a time. I sent the schedule weeks ago, this always happens.

AS: His name's Apollo?

ROB: That's his call sign. Apollo Creed I think he said.

AS: Why are you using call signs?

ROB: Did I not tell you? Oh yeah we're gonna use call signs on the road, keep communication clear.

AS: What's your callsign?

ROB: Ferryman.

AS: ... What's my call sign?

ROB: I thought about it. I was thinking London, you're from London right?

AS: I'm from Bristol.

ROB: Bristol? That’s fine I guess.

It’s less than ten minutes before Apollo turns the corner. Rob jumps out of his chair and paces briskly over to the edge of his property, as his first guest pulls up and steps onto the sidewalk.

Apollo vaguely resembles his namesake, dark skinned, tall and noticeably well built, though it’s clear he couldn’t be less of a fighter. This Apollo Creed is all smiles and seems to have a penchant for laughing at his own jokes.

AS: How far have you come?

APOLLO: I've come out of Chicago. Took three days hard driving.

AS: And you know Rob from the forums?

APOLLO: Everybody knows Rob, Rob's the god! Ahaha

Rob walks over to Apollo's car, gesturing him over to talk shop. Rob’s clearly impressed with Apollo's choice of vehicle, a blue Range Rover packed to the ceiling with kit. I was more impressed with Rob himself. Somehow this 65 year old farmer's son had become respected in a vast online community. My dad is Rob’s age and he's just discovered copy and paste.

The rest don't take long to arrive. Two Minnesotan librarians, also around Rob's age, pull up in a grey Ford Focus. They’re brother and sister, and they've shared ghost hunting as a hobby their entire lives. I find it hard to suppress a smile when they meekly introduce themselves as Bonnie and Clyde.

CLYDE: We would have gotten here sooner we had to drop by to get some blankets. Pleasure to meet you ma'am.

AS: Pleasure to meet you too.

CLYDE: Would you be the journalist?

AS: That's right.

CLYDE: You used to write for the town paper didn't you?

He's talking to his sister there, she nods. Clyde is clearly the spokesperson for the pair, yet they both seem incredibly shy. Whether they admire the famous outlaws, or just the name, it's pretty clear they couldn't be more different from the real thing.

Next to show up are Lilith and Eve, English Lit students at New York University and proprietors of the YouTube channel Paranormicon. Unlike Bonnie and Clyde, Lilith and Eve have no issue holding a conversation. As soon as they learn who I am, and what I do for a living, they attempt to conscript me for an expedition to Roswell.

LILITH: We have a friend there, he's been seeing some-

EVE: -He's a seismologist

LILITH: Yeah and he's been recording readings over the years that show subterranean movement. Predictable movement.

EVE: We're going to see him in July, but we could work it around you if you're free.

AS: I'll have to check my schedule

EVE: OK cool let me give you my email...

They quickly hurry off to film an intro for their latest video, featuring a quick interview with Rob, who seems pretty welcoming of the attention.

The last two cars arrive within a few seconds of each other. A lithe, strong willed older lady who goes by Bluejay and a younger man going by the callsign “Ace”. Bluejay has arrived in a grey Ford Explorer. Ace, much to Rob's annoyance, has arrived in a Porsche.

ROB: Did you think that's gonna help on the road? I didn't write that-

ACE: It's my car. What am I meant to do,? It's my car.

ROB: You didn't read my itinerary, you got nothing packed in there.

ACE: I did read it sir OK? Calm down. I have a bag, I won't ask you for anything.

ROB: Well I know that's true.

Ace and Rob were off to a bad start. Ace takes a phone call, and despite my best efforts to get an interview with Bluejay, she doesn't seem interested in talking to a journalist.

With five cars, and seven travellers waiting for a green light, Rob hands out radios and charging packs, then launches into a quick safety briefing. Wear seatbelts. Stay in position. Communicate clearly and often. It’s at this moment I start to feel a little dismay. I like Rob, and clearly so does everyone else. He'd convinced all of them to drive across the country to join in with his game. I start to worry what will happen in the likely event that the whole thing isn’t real. Would Rob lose the respect of his peers? Would he accept failure when it comes? After seeing the effort he’s put into these runs, the next few hours have the potential to be wildly uncomfortable.

With a smile and a few encouraging words, Rob ends his briefing and beckons me over to the Wrangler. I clamber inside and make myself as comfortable as possible.

ROB: You ready for this Bristol?

AS: I'm ready.

ROB: Ok then let's hit the road.

The Wrangler pulls out of the driveway, and the convoy follows in order of arrival. Apollo, Bonnie & Clyde, Lilith & Eve, Bluejay and Ace keep a steady pace behind us as we come up to the first corner.

Rob slowly and deliberately turns left, checking on the others in his rear view mirror. He looks back to the road as Ace’s Porsche completes the first turn of the game. Shortly afterwards, Apollo checks in on the CB radio.

APOLLO: This is Apollo for Ferryman. How many to more go Rob? ahahaha

ROB: Hah as many as it takes.

I can tell Rob wanted the to reserve the radio for something other than Apollo's quips. But he seems to like Apollo enough to let it slide. I'm not sure Ace would have received the same treatment. We take the next right, then another left. Now safely assured that everyone's following correctly, Rob speaks my thoughts aloud.

ROB: You're wondering the same thing Apollo is.

AS: What do you mean?

ROB: You're wondering how many turns we're gonna take before we hit some wall or something. Before you find out this is all just a story.

AS: Does that disappoint you?

ROB: I'd be disappointed if you weren't thinking something like it. But now we're on the road I gotta say something and you gotta listen to it.

AS: OK...

ROB: We're coming up to a tunnel soon. Any time before we reach it you can get out, walk in any direction you like, and you won’t be in the game no more. Once we go through, you gotta retrace the route we took to get yourself back out that tunnel. That's when you’re home. And you gotta convince someone to take you back in a car coz I ain't ferrying you back 20 minutes in. You got till the tunnel to skip out on this, understand?

AS: I understand. Though I have to say I'm getting little nervous.

ROB: Ain't nothing wrong with a little nervous.

We've taken 23 turns by this point. Already I feel like we're traversing the city pretty effectively. Rob's heavily modified Wrangler solicits a few impressed glances from passersby, as well as several honks of respect from other Jeep drivers. Other than those few moments, everything seems completely indistinguishable from a regular morning drive. I even start to worry if there’ll be anything at all for this story. “Reporter Takes Drive With Interesting Man” isn’t exactly Pulitzer worthy.

Turn 33 leads us onto a short, unassuming street. A row of small businesses in a quiet Phoenician neighbourhood; liquor, second hand clothing, tools and, at the end of the street, a little shop selling antique mirrors. Ten or so people shuffle along the sidewalk, smiling, talking, planning their weekends. The only lone person is a young woman in a grey coat..

I briefly glimpse her at the end of the street, standing on our next corner, the back of her coat reflected in fifty old mirrors. Even from a distance I can see that she’s sullen, wide eyed and nervous. She shifts constantly on her feet, tugging at the button of her coat.

I look away to write some notes as we roll down the street. When I look up again, the woman is standing by my window, staring right at me. She’s smiling, a wide, unfaltering grin that seems almost offensive in its complete insincerity.

GREYWOMAN: Lambs at the gate. Hoping for something better than clover when all they find are things worse than slaughter.

AS: Rob what's happening?

ROB: Ignore her.

GREYWOMAN: He wanted to leave me so I cut him out. The lake was hungry it drank the wound clean.

AS: Miss, are you alright?

The smile vanishes, it snaps from her face and suddenly, the woman is furious.

GREYWOMAN: What do you think you're doing?! Have you gone mad?!

I reflexively press myself back in my chair as the woman, wild eyed and gaunt, slams her fists against my window, with every intent of breaking through.

GREYWOMAN: Would you dance down the lion’s tongue? It will shred you, you whore! It will shred you down to your sins! You fucking bastard!

Rob puts his foot down, and the Wrangler rolls defiantly away from the woman. As we turn the corner I watch her as she wretches, her every movement cradled in abject hysteria. She yells despairingly at the rest of the convoy, bursting into tears when the last car passes her by.

As she shrinks into the rear view mirror, I see her turn to a large mirror on the side of the shop, which the owner is in the process of polishing. I watch as she walks up to it, and with a convulsant scream, slams her head into the glass.

The mirror cracks around her forehead, the owner jumps back in shock, and as the woman pulls her head from the mirror's surface, the fractured spider’s web is dripping red. It all happens in a split second, and she quickly swerves from my view as we take the next left.

AS: Rob, what was that?

ROB: She's there sometimes.

AS: On that street?

ROB: On the 34th turn.

AS: Who is she?

ROB: I don't know. She's never acted out that much before though. Must be a special trip.

I find Rob's lack of concern a little unpleasant, and his implication that this woman's ravings were the symptom of an internet game leaves me more than a little perturbed. As I see it, there are a few explanations for what just happened, and none of them lead to a comforting conclusion.

If we had just encountered a bonafide crazy person, then one could argue that Rob is just seeing what he wants to see. Maybe he'd bought into the game’s story so much that every strange but explainable occurrence would be rationalised as the next step in his favourite paranormal narrative.

Alternatively, the woman could have been an actor, a more elaborate theory sure, but not unheard of. People have lied to the show before and Rob was receiving a tonne of publicity for this attempt from Lilith, Eve and I. I admit, Rob didn't seem like a liar, but good liars never do.

There is a third alternative however. An alternative which, if you put logic aside, explains the all troubling little details that I couldn't help but notice. Because as strange as the grey woman was, isn't it stranger that no one on the street would react? I couldn't recall a single glance in her direction by anybody on the sidewalk. Perhaps that theory falls apart when you consider the shock on the mirror seller's face but, when I think about it, he only reacted once the mirror shattered, and even then, I feel like his attention was on the mirror itself.

The radio crackles.

LILITH: Lillith to Bristol. Sara... Eve got that on camera! Do you have audio?

AS: I think it picked her up.

LILITH: My god that was so weird. Can you send us the file when we stop? Can you ask Ferryman when we're stopping?

AS: When's our stopping point?

ROB: For them, in about 30 minutes. For you? Well, you tell me.

Rob turns off a busy street just before a large intersection, onto a much quieter stretch of two lane road. Ahead of us the road slopes downward, leading into an underpass, which disappears into darkness.

We'd arrived at the tunnel.

AS: What is this supposed to pass under?

ROB: Ain't supposed to pass under anything, it's just there.

AS: And if we weren't playing the game?

ROB: Then it won't show. The question is, are you playing the game or not?

Rob turns to me. It’s the first time he’s taken his eyes off the road since we started. He pulls the car to a slow stop at the mouth of the tunnel.

ROB: You get out now you can go wherever you wanna go, but through there you'll need a car to get yourself home and, like I said, mine ain't turnin round for a long while. You understand?

It’s a dramatic statement, but unsettlingly, it doesn’t feel like he’s attempting to dramatise. It feels like I’m having something genuinely asked of me. Am I ready for what’s to come? Do I accept the risks involved? Do I consent to be taken down this road, and the next road, and the next? Am I prepared to see this game through, real or otherwise, to its end?

AS: What are you waiting for?

Rob smiles, and turns back to the road. He picks up the CB radio holds down the button on the side. The microphone crackles.

ROB: This is Ferryman to all cars. Anyone want to step out then pull to the side now. Otherwise, stay in formation and have some supplies at hand. We got a long ways to go.

Much like the game I’m so tentatively playing, my view of Robert J. Guthard seems to change direction frequently. I’d heard all about his life, but I’m sure that I know him. I like the guy, but I’m not certain that I trust him. And though I admire his dedication to the Left/Right Game, I’m not sure I’ll like where it might lead us. Yet as he takes us into the tunnel, his face vanishing and reappearing under the dim sodium lights, I can that tell he expects this trip to be a major step in his already impressive story, and this time, for better or for worse, I’m along for the ride.

[namariea]

Hello, Neighbor | IV

Since moving in you have compiled a comprehensive list on your mysterious neighbor across the way.

Do Kyungsoo, otherwise known as Asian Bobby Flay and apparently Bruno Mars’ protégé.

Pairing: Kyungsoo x Reader

Words: 1.9 k

Genre: Fluff

Previous: I II III

Today was a good day.

The sun was shining, fluffy white clouds dusting the sky like a painting. With all the windows wide open, you could hear the beauty of nature around you. Birds chirping, children laughing…

Your brain cells screaming in anguish as they were destroyed by a miasma of paint fumes.

Ah, what a time to be alive.

You wasted no time once you saw the sun begin to peak through your curtains, all but flying out of bed and getting ready to make the trip to the hardware store. You made the trip brief, grabbing rollers and various brushes while the paint was being mixed. Taping the edges went by fairly quickly and after pushing all your furniture to the middle of your room, you covered everything with a clear plastic sheet, your living room now looking very much like an episode of Dexter.

I knew I should have chosen red.

Taking down your curtains once again, you stepped back as your apartment reverted back to its fishbowl glory. Glancing over, you saw dark curtains still firmly closed. It made sense, it was the weekend after all and he was probably sleeping in. You faintly wondered what he would do once he pulled those curtains back and saw what you were doing. It should not come as a surprise since he was the one who picked out the colour, thus getting the ball rolling on your home renovation. You almost entertained the idea of asking him whether he would like to help, but you almost slapped yourself at the absurdness.

Putting on some music you had a pretty good pace going, by the time it was just past noon you were two-thirds done, humming along to the melody and swaying to the beat. As more and more paint covered the walls, washing the bland white away with deep blue you found yourself becoming more and more pleased as everything started coming together. Your neighbor had an eye for interior design, that much was certain. What a talented little thing he was.

Speak of the devil, as you swiped the roller along the corner wall beside the window, you saw familiar curtains slowly being pulled back and you almost dropped the roller as you felt your body go slack.

What the actual f-

Earlier you had assumed the reason for your neighbor’s absence was due to simply him sleeping in with it being the weekend and whatnot, doing what any rational person would do. Well, it appeared that you were half-right in your assumptions, he indeed was sleeping in… however your reasoning could not have been farther from the truth.

Once you saw the curtains being pulled back, you were expecting to be presented with a sleepy variation of the reserved man, dressed in crinkled pajamas and probably rubbing his bleary eyes or something along those lines.

But instead, you were greeted by a bloody harlot.   

Dressed in a tight black button down shirt and matching blazer, you saw an expanse of smooth pale skin as the top buttons were left undone. You took in how his usually limp black hair was fashionably styled up and tousled oh so nicely with sleep. Holding himself with an air of confidence even in his groggy state, you gaped at just how different he looked. So much more disheveled, so much more manly, you couldn’t comprehend how someone that was always so reserved could pull a 180 and look like that. 

He had yet to notice your presence, you watched as his face instantly twisted with distaste as the sun shone into his eyes, wincing away and bringing his hands up to massage his temples.

Was he wearing eyeliner-

Suddenly a charcoal rimmed eye cracked open, sights set on your general direction.

You literally threw yourself at the wall.

Feeling wet paint coat the entire left side of your body, you were not concerned in the slightest with the fact that you had just ruined your hard work. Instead, you were trying to focus on your heart, which seemed to be trying to burst out of your chest. Peeling yourself from the wall quite literally, you lowered into a crouch, keeping out of sight and held your hands out in front of you.

Gesturing with your left hand you imagined your neighbor – sheepish and kept, with his floppy bowl-cut looking hair and mild manners. Now with your right hand, you pictured…whatever it was you just saw. Maybe he has a twin? An evil twin that leads a life completely opposite of the man you had familiarized with for the past month.

There was just no way.

How could you not have noticed him dress like that before? You had admitted to yourself that he was a good-looking person sure; he had nice enough features and even wondered if he did modeling, but this. It was one thing to have an imagination, but to have fantasy become something of reality was making your head spin.

Actually, that might just be from the fumes again.

You should really get a fan in here to help with that.

Still trying to come to terms with the sick, twisted curveball your life had thrown at you, you began to think deliberately. So your squeaky clean looking neighbor was not so squeaky clean after all, where was he last night to be dressed like that. A party? Clubbing? Oh, what if he is part of a Host Club. You always prided yourself on being a good judge of character, acutely observant and silently assessing the world around you accurately.

But oh no, you have never been more wrong in your entire life.

Mentally reviewing the list you had put together about the mysterious man, you were coming to the very obvious conclusion that there was so much that you clearly did not know about him. Of course, you do not actually know anything about him, all preconceived notions you had were solely based on your own observations. You did not know anything about his personality other than what you assumed he was like by your chance encounters.

You didn’t even know his name for crying out loud.

A deep frown took residence on your face as you thought about this. You knew you weren’t exactly friends, far from it actually. You were simply two people who happened to live across one another and greeted each other cordially when the situation called for it. There was nothing special about your encounters, however, the fact that you only seemed to have said encounters with the dark haired man and no one else made it somewhat… special? Like there was a silent understanding between the two of you, one that no one in any of the other units was part of.

Did he also think about your encounters the same way? Did he share the odd sense of familiarity you felt towards him? Did you want him to think anything of you?

Because you sure as hell were going to do a whole lot of thinking about him now.

Oh boy.

Putting your head in your hands you grimaced at the slimy feel of paint in your hair, you also became aware of the left side of your face becoming stiff as the paint started to dry, pulling your skin taught as you moved it. Casting a forlorn glance at the unfinished wall, and a wary one at your window, you turned and started crawling down the hall.

You had to wash all of this paint off first. 

You will admit that you probably did not have to stay in the shower for as long as you did, but thought of leaving the confines of your bathroom and going out there, where he will probably be lounging in his living room, it was enough for you to just continue standing there in nervous contemplation. Eventually you had to cut your losses when you started resembling a human prune and dressing in paint free clothes you pulled your hair up into a bun and walked out of the bathroom.

Creeping down the corridor, you half-registered that there was no reason for you to be acting stealthily in your hallway, but nevertheless, you slowly peered into your living room. Not seeing any sign of the cause of your current strife, you quickly picked up your paint roller and began to hastily resume painting, suddenly wanting nothing more than to have it over and done with.

You had gotten back into your lull of painting, doing one final pass along the trim of your ceiling, you let out a satisfied hum, pulling back the brush and slowly climbing down the ladder-

“That colour ended up suiting really well didn’t it?”

You slipped on the last step, falling forward and slamming your arm down on the bone that isn’t actually all that funny.

A string of curses left you and dropping the paintbrush you grabbed your arm, wondering why the universe hated you today.

Turning you saw his body quickly make way to the side of the window closest to you, eyes wide with concern and arms out as if he were going to grab you for support.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you,” he hurriedly offered, looking instantly guilty at your pain-streaked face. He continued to fret, asking if you were ok but you weren’t listening, you were staring dumbstruck at him.

Long gone was the Host Club prince, and you were met with the sight of your sheepish neighbor.

What.

Did he not see you earlier? He must not have, and in the time you were in the shower, he also took the time to change, losing the provocative black ensemble and opting for a bright yellow hoodie. His face was also bare of any cosmetics, hair falling limply across his forehead.

What sorcery was this?

You could not believe you were looking at the same person. The difference is so jarring that you were beginning to wonder if you dreamt the other version. Why would he have such completely different types of styles, it was almost as if he was wearing a costume earlier and just forgot to take it off.

You belatedly noticed he had stopped talking and was now hesitantly waving a hand in your line of sight. Shaking your head slightly you looked at him properly, offering a slight smile, trying desperately to hide the flush that was creeping up your neck.

“Don’t worry about it, it was only a matter of time before gravity had its way with me” you bent down and picked up the paintbrush from the floor in a desperate attempt to hide from his eyes “Thanks again for the colour choice, I never did thank you, I think it turned out really great”

Glancing briefly at him as you placed the brush in the paint tray, you saw him nod, brows creasing slightly he opened his mouth to say something but before he could a faint ringing was heard. You watched him stall, before nodding slightly again.

“Yeah.. it was no problem, happy to have helped” with that, he excused himself and traversed deeper into his apartment, you faintly heard the ringing stop, meaning he probably went to go answer whoever was calling.

Letting out the breath didn’t realize you were holding in, you stared at the ceiling helplessly.

Why am I like this?

Chapter V 

[thelegendofclarke]

Sorry to bring up The Discourse again but how do you feel about the fact people don't acknowledge that while Sansa's traditional femininity is rewarded in-universe, it is a mark against her on a meta level? Many people decry Sansa as "weak" or "boring" or "stupid" due to her "girly-girl" status and her more traditionally feminine storyline, she is consistently in the bottom of character polls because people have been programmed to devalue or even hate "girly-girls".

Hey Anon!

You’re totally fine :) I really don’t mind discussing or even debating this topic tbh. It’s the condescension, vitriol, and being called an unfeminist asshole ect. ect. that I’m not particularly a fan of haha.

You’re getting into a few different points here and I’m going to attempt to talk about them in a semi -organized, coherent manner. So bear with me… Your first point of “while Sansa’s traditional femininity is rewarded in-universe” touches on one of the (floppity trillion) things that kind of ~grinds my gears~ about how this topic is discussed. 

Its a pretty significant misstatement and misconception to say that any woman is “rewarded in a patriarchy,” especially an incredibly oppressive patriarchy like Westeros. No woman is ever rewarded in a patriarchy. Not being punished is not a reward. Not being mocked or ostracized is not a reward. Being praised for conforming to an arbitrary set of standards aggressively imposed on you by society is not a reward. Not being beaten or otherwise abused is not a reward. Having basic human rights and freedoms is not a reward. Being treated with basic human decency and respect is not a reward. And tbh, thinking that these things are “rewards” is one of the things that allows a patriarchy to function in this manner in the first place. 

It’s one of the most effective tactics of oppressive societies: they shrink the size of your world and the scope of your permissible behavior, punishing you when you cross an invisible line that is perpetually moving, until you are basically stuck on a tiny patch of grass like a dog unwilling to cross an electric fence. So then, when they finally open the gd gate to take you for a walk, you’re supposed to feel grateful and say “thankyouthankyouthankyou” and pee yourself with excitement. And you do; even when you’re owned, even when you’re property. even when you’re still firmly on their leash, they can somehow make it feel like freedom. 

Margaret Atwood has some very good (and creepily accurate/applicable) quotes in The Handmaid’s Tale that really get to the heart of the problem with the idea that freedom in the most basic sense is a “reward”…

“A rat in a maze is free to go anywhere, as long as it stays inside the maze.”

“There is more than one kind of freedom,“… “Freedom to and freedom from. In the days of anarchy, it was freedom to. Now you are being given freedom from. Don’t underrate it.”

And also about the fallacy that women in an oppressive patriarchy are granted any kind of real agency:

“I compose myself. My self is a thing I must now compose, as one composes a speech. What I must present is a made thing, not something born.”

“I have failed once again to fulfill the expectations of others, which have become my own.”

“That was one of the things they do. They force you to kill, within yourself.”

A system of perpetually limited freedom, agency, and self determination doesn’t allow for rewards really, at least not for the oppressed demographics. Everyone is a victim of whatever group is in power (i.e. men in a patriarchy). So then you have to start getting into the area of debating who is a “better victim” or “more of a victim,” and those conversations are alwaysss yikesy. I don’t think there is any fair or objective or comfortable way to answer a question like “whose pain, abuse, and/or oppression is most important?” People like to point out that there is always the option not to engage in patriarchal standards, but the consequences for this can be severe. So then that begs the question, is there really an option? And are we willing to blame people for choosing what ever the “not abuse” option is. Its the concept that’s at the heart of coercion: taking away someone’s choices until they come to believe that the only choice left that isn’t ~terrible~ is the thing that they want.

I can ~kind of~ see where people are coming from when they make the argument that Sansa and women like her are “rewarded in universe.” Sansa does receive a lot of praise in the narrative from other characters for being good at traditionally feminine skills. Definitely far more by a large margin than characters like Brienne and Arya, who don’t comply with prescribed gender roles. The skills Sansa has are more socially acceptable in universe of course; they are much more valuable in terms of cultural currency, and make her much more marketable in a society where women are essentially chattel to be sold or traded. But as I have kind of talked about before, comparing the treatment different types of women are subjected to in a patriarchal society and how it affects them just isn’t that cut and dry. Traditionally feminine women are supposed to be the most “rewarded” group of women, while women who do not act “how a woman should” are meant to be the most disadvantaged or disenfranchised group. But when you really examine the POV’s of women like Cersei and Sansa vs. women like Brienne and Arya, you can see if affects them mentally in very different ways.

Cersei, who outwardly seems to be the epitome of a Good Westerosi Woman in her appearance and her actions, and has the ultimate “reward” (being the Freaking Queen), seems to have the most veraciously negative mentality about her gender and her role in society.

Cersei sniffed. “I should have been born a man. I would have no need of any of you then. None of this would have been allowed to happen. How could Jaime let himself be captured by that boy? And Father, I trusted in him, fool that I am, but where is he now that he’s wanted? What is he doing?”— ACoK

“We were so much alike, I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime’s lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood.”— ACoK

“If the gods had given her the strength they gave Jaime and that swaggering oaf Robert, she could have made her own escape. Oh, for a sword and the skill to wield it. She had a warrior’s heart, but the gods in their blind malice had given her the feeble body of a woman.”— ADwD

Cersei learned how to perpetuate and perform femininity in a socially acceptable way, despite her constant frustration and contempt for its constraints. But it has left her in a state of basically complete self loathing; she is bitter and angry and just so incredibly unhappy.

Brienne on the other hand, couldn’t look or act less like Cersei. She is one of the most “masculine” female characters in appearance and stereotypical behavior. and yes, Brienne does have insecurities from the criticisms and mockery she receives.

Lady Stark had been kind to her, but most women were just as cruel as men. She could not have said which she found most hurtful, the pretty girls with their waspish tongues and brittle laughter or the cold-eyed ladies who hid their disdain behind a mask of courtesy. — ACoK

There is not question she is judged and degraded and treated atrociously. BUT, she doesn’t seem to suffer from the same resentment, self loathing and all consuming anger that Cersei does. She wants to be a knight, but she never tries to pass as a man nor wishes she had been born male. Yes, she recognizes and resents the limitations placed on her because of her gender, but she also actually expresses respect for women as well:

“No, but you have courage. Not a battle courage perhaps but… I don’t know… a kind of woman’s courage.”— ACoK

“[L]adies die in childbed. No one sings songs about them.” — ACoK

So that kind of shows how even The Best Women aren’t really “rewarded” in a system like Westeros’s. There is nothing rewarding about being pigeon holed and forced into a teeny tiny box. There is nothing rewarding about constantly being at the mercy of rigid expectations based on conformity and stereotypes and prescribed gender roles. And there is definitely nothing rewarding about being taught to hate yourself based on your gender.  

Which also relates to your next point about how Sansa’s brand traditional femininity can be a mark against her on a meta level; and how she, and other characters like her, get called “weak” or “boring” or “stupid” due to their “girly-girl” status… This is essentially one of the reasons why people argue that the rise of the Warrior Woman Character can, at times (NOT ALWAYS), be sort of a double edged sword. 

On the one hand it has been amazing for feminism. Its breaking the mold, its fighting the idea that there is only one way to be a Good Woman, its showing that there is no wrong way to be a woman. These types of characters show that sword fighting can be just as feminine as sewing. In fact these characters represent the idea that there really is no such thing as the distinction between “feminine activities” and “masculine activities.” Things do not have a gender. Activities do not have a gender. They can’t actually be male or female. They are actually neutral; their existence or practice doesn’t exclusively depend solely on one gender or the other. There is no difference between sword fighting and dancing; they are both just physical activities people can take part in. There is no difference between pants and dresses; they are both just clothes, pieces of material we use to cover our bodies. The only reason we think of them as masculine or feminine, the only reason we consider them to be gender coded AT ALL, is because we are taught to do so. And the Warrior Woman character defies these stereotypes.

But these types of characters can also be ~warped~ to help perpetuate patriarchal norms just as much as classically feminine characters can, because the fucking patriarchy ruins everything. (Seriously though, it is the reason we can’t have nice things.) That’s one of the hallmarks of a patriarchy, it appropriates something that is supposed to be empowering for disenfranchised or exploited groups and ~twists it~ to their own benefit. The Handmaids Tale has another great example of this with The Republic of Gilead’s perversion of the bible verse Matthew 5:5, “blessed are the meek.” Instead of citing the entire phrase, as the narrator Offred points out, “they never mention the part where ‘the meek will inherit the earth’.” The quotation of scripture is manipulated to support the idea that the Handmaid’s should be submissive,  that it is their duty to acquiesce to their subservient role in society.

So as a result, instead of defying gender coded distinctions, these types of females can be applauded as the “superior” type of female character because they are skilled in areas that are “traditionally masculine.” A woman who is good at sword fighting is “more badass” than a woman who is good at sewing, because being able to sword fight is a more valuable skill than being able to sew. And of course it is, its a traditionally masculine skill; the Bro-er the Better. Then all the big time, toxic patriarchal shit rears its ugly asshole head with the concept that anything feminine or “girly” is bad and that anything masculine or “manly” is good. That femininity is weakness and stupidity while masculinity is superiority and strength; that masculinity is preferential while femininity is, at best, acceptable.

This type of thinking makes the Warrior Woman Character, who is good at combat and sword fighting, stronger and more admirable, and a superior role role model, and just all around Better than the Girly Girl Character who likes sewing and dancing. It takes beautiful, strong, dynamic female characters of both varieties and polarizes them in a really annoying and unnecessary way. It makes a plot/arc/storyline where a female character learns to fight or some other traditionally masculine skill an “upgrade” and a hero story, while a plot/arc/storyline where a female character does something more traditionally feminine is a “down grade” or a ~chick flick~ and not to be taken as seriously. It makes female characters who have many different skills (both traditionally feminine and masculine) into Mary Sue’s and says “she must be bad at something! she must have glaring flaws and obvious weaknesses!” or else she “isn’t believable, isn’t relatable, and isn’t at all lovable.” 

It dictates that characters like Sansa Stark must be weak and stupid, because they are skilled at sewing and not sword fighting and they have to rely on intuition and their intellect instead of fighting and their physicality to protect themselves.

And I mean, honestly… It 👏  Is 👏  So 👏  STUPID! 👏 

[metalshea]

A Perfectly Doomed Christmas Carol: A Reflection on A Perfect Circle Through Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”.

Reflecting on the holiday season, I’m a little surprised at myself.  Maybe it’s because the lead up to Christmas was shorter here in the United States than it usually is.  The Thanksgiving holiday, our historic kick off for the Christmas season, was very late this year and so in some ways it doesn’t quite feel like Christmas time, yet. And so, I have yet to watch what is easily my favorite Christmas movie, A Muppet Christmas Carol.

Now, don’t get me wrong, there are a TON of great Christmas movies: Die Hard (YES IT IS A CHRISTMAS MOVIE—I WILL FIGHT YOU!), Elf, A Christmas Story, Christmas Vacation, The Santa Claus, Miracle on 34th St., It’s A Wonderful Life, and, of course, How the Grinch Stole Christmas (the original with Boris Karloff, not that Jim Carey nonsense), but there’s something about A Christmas Carol that resonates so clearly and seems so relevant beyond the holiday season.  I can’t say that about many Christmas movies.  

Ok, maybe Die Hard.  Yippee Kai Yay!

Maybe it’s because I share a birthday with Charles Dickens, but I really love and appreciate his writings. There is a clear moralism running his body of work that is still pertinent even today.  He continuously tries to call attention to disaffected working peoples, structuralized disadvantage, and implores his readers to simultaneously feel empathy and outrage.  A Christmas Carol does this as well.  I won’t spend long summarizing it because, really, who hasn’t seen or read it in the English-speaking world?  If you haven’t, go check out A Muppet Christmas Carol, it’s surprisingly accurate to the original text and Michael Caine plays a great Ebenezer Scrooge.  Or just read the novella and prepare to be shocked at the surprisingly unsettling atmosphere of the book.  What, surprised that the original is actually pretty creepy? It’s supposed to be a ghost story!

“Dude, when are you going to get to the music?”

We’re getting there, I promise!

A Christmas Carol follows Ebenezer Scrooge, a deeply flawed and emotionally insecure man who insulates himself from his insecurities by devoting himself entirely to his business.  He takes an “I got mine” approach to life, disparages and ignores the outside world—often at the expense of those in his employ or influence, and in the process begins to literally damn himself. Not to mention his name is literally synonymous with miser.  Scrooge’s deceased friend appears to him in spirit form and basically sets him up for a round of speed dating with 3 ghosts who show him the error of his ways by bringing him through his past, the present world around him, and the very not too distant future.  

Sounds familiar, right?  If you speak English, it should ring a few bells even if you haven’t read any Dickens. The literary device he uses is pretty common in Western literature because it basically invokes Dante’s Divine Comedy: the idea of a character being led by around by spirit and shown a picture of the world around them or the world that awaits them.

“Dude, now you’re shifting to Dante Alighieri?!  When are you getting to the metal music??”

Right now.

Just like Dante and Dickens, Maynard James Keenan uses the same literary trope in the writing of A Perfect Circle’s, The Doomed.  

Did I just blow your mind?

Before I go further, if you haven’t heard the song, you probably should.  Otherwise none of this will make much sense.  If you have heard it, give it another listen.  Enjoy! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDvfbvuJtS8

When this song dropped in 2018, it immediately resonated with me because of it’s use of religious symbolism, particularly the invocation of the Beatitudes.  When I started actually reading the lyrics, I realized just what Maynard did in it’s construction and started to get excited, he basically alludes not only to the Beatitudes, the Seven Deadly Sins, and the Gospels, but the narrative structure of the song alludes to Dante.  This religiously-raised, English-majoring musician and metalhead in started bouncing for joy.  Not only is the song pretty damn good, but it has a freaking point!  Hold me, Maynard!

But it’s Christmas, dammit, so we’re going to ignore Dante for now and instead examine this through the lens of A Christmas Carol.  

Truth be told, I actually think A Christmas Carol is a better lens to view the song than Dante, anyway, but I’m pretty damned sure that Maynard wasn’t even remotely considering it when he wrote The Doomed, let alone the absolutely glorious Muppet version.  Alas!

Ok, let’s start with the song itself and maybe some context. 

The Doomed is a damning portrayal of our current societal state.  You could probably make an argument around equality or neoliberalism, Trump’s America or capitalism, or the global refugee crisis, but I don’t think it’s meant to be so narrow a commentary, and for our purposes, I’d rather focus on the religious language at play here.  

The song was released in 2018 and was probably written closer to, if not in 2017.  At the time there was a growing on focus on the plight of the disaffected and a growing dialogue about how people interact with others with different life experiences.  There was a Huffington Post OpEd from around that time that this was likely being written titled “I Don't Know How To Explain To You That You Should Care About Other People” that sums up the broader societal dialogue quite nicely.  I wonder if Maynard read it as well?

Before going too far down that particular rabbit hole, let’s actually break down the lyrics.  The vocals open:

Behold a new Christ    Behold the same old horde  Gather at the altering  New beginning, new word And the word was death  And the word was without light  The new beatitude "Good luck, you're on your own" 

To my eyes, the song opens from the perspective of Dante’s Virgil.  Or, since this is Christmas, the Ghost of Christmas Present (GCP).  In my head, I picture the scene where Scrooge and the spirit stand outside the window looking into the Cratchit’s kitchen.  The spirit explains to Scrooge what he is seeing, an impoverished family making the best of what they have.  In Maynard’s retelling though we aren’t greeted with a touching Christmas scene, but rather a new Sermon on the Mount.  In the opening lines of the song, he immediately calls to mind the Gospels of Matthew, Luke, and John.  But it is the last two lines of the verse that are the most striking and set the tone for the rest of the song:

The new beatitude "Good luck, you're on your own" 

For those who are not Christian, or for those Christians that never learned about The Beatitudes, it helps to have some extra context.  The Sermon on the Mount is a scene from the Gospel of Matthew and elaborated on in the Gospel of Luke.  Jesus Christ gives a lengthy sermon to a crowd and during this famous speech, he issues The Beatitudes.  You can kind of think of them as the New Testament’s answer to the Old Testament’s 10 Commandments and be kind of in the right ballpark.  For all the hype and focus in Western society on the 10 Commandments, the Beatitude are often overlooked by a lot of Christians.  Which is kind of bonkers if you think about it and may hopefully become more apparent by the end of this article.  

Christianity is big on layering imagery and call-backs to earlier Biblical writings.  Seriously, Christians love that shit.  It adds a feeling a depth and purpose to The Scripture.  We can sort of view the weightiness of The Beatitudes through the doctrine of the Trinity.  Basically the idea that The Son, The Father, and the Holy Spirit are all one in the same being.  Ergo Jesus Christ is the literal physical manifestation of God.  Just as God the Father literally wrote the 10 Commandments in stone, Jesus Christ, The Son, issues a new set of Commandments, The Beatitudes, in the Sermon on the Mount.  

Yeah, they’re supposed to be THAT important.

Most Christians can name probably 6-7 of the 10 Commandments without too much thought, but they probably don’t know The Beatitudes, at least as a term. That being said, almost everyone would recognize them:

Blessed are the poor in spirit; the kingdom of heaven is theirs.  Blessed are the patient; they shall inherit the land.  Blessed are those who mourn; they shall be comforted.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for holiness; they shall have their fill.  Blessed are the merciful; they shall obtain mercy.  Blessed are the clean of heart; they shall see God.  Blessed are the peace-makers; they shall be counted the children of God.  Blessed are those who suffer persecution in the cause of right; the kingdom of heaven is theirs.  Blessed are you, when men revile you, and persecute you, and speak all manner of evil against you falsely, because of me. (Matthew 5:3-11)

The Gospel of Luke, a later chronological writing than the Gospel of Matthew, further expounds upon The Beatitudes, adding a bit more flavoring and essentially turns them into action items rather than just virtuous states of being:

27 And now I say to you who are listening to me, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you; 28 bless those who curse you, and pray for those who treat you insultingly. 29 If a man strikes thee on the cheek, offer him the other cheek too; if a man would take away thy cloak, do not grudge him thy coat along with it. 30 Give to every man who asks, and if a man takes what is thine, do not ask him to restore it. 31 As you would have men treat you, you are to treat them; no otherwise… 36 Be merciful, then, as your Father is merciful. 37 Judge nobody, and you will not be judged; condemn nobody, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven. 38 Give, and gifts will be yours; good measure, pressed down and shaken up and running over, will be poured into your lap; the measure you award to others is the measure that will be awarded to you.  (Luke 6:27-31, 36-38)

Luke also offers a complimentary set of warnings to accompany the Beatitudes, known as the 4 Woes:

Woe upon you who are rich; you have your comfort already. Woe upon you who are filled full; you shall be hungry. Woe upon you who laugh now; you shall mourn and weep.  Woe upon you, when all men speak well of you; their fathers treated the false prophets no worse.  (Luke 6:24-26)

When I was growing up in a very devoutly Catholic household, I remember my mother telling me that as important as the 10 Commandments are to the foundations of what was then my faith, The Beatitudes were absolutely critical to my being a good Catholic and, what’s more, no person could ever hope to have a shot at entering heaven without ascribing to them.

Something about a rich man, a camel, the eye of a needle, and the prosperity gospel, amirite?  But I digress.

It’s funny, re-reading the Sermon on the Mount and Luke 6, after I don’t know how many years, I really am struck by how the Beatitudes really are positive action items.  The quotes I provided above don’t really delve too deeply into how the broader context of the Beatitudes demand positive action.  This is article is going to be long enough as is without dissecting the full text of the Sermon on the Mount from both Gospels of Matthew and Luke, but they’re interesting pieces to read from a moral philosophy perspective even if you’re not religious.  Where the Commandments say essentially, “Don’t do this or else”, the Beatitudes basically say: “Do these things, act this way, and you will be rewarded; don’t do them and you won’t be”.  That is a MARKED difference in tone from the Commandments, and it is baffling why as a religion Christianity focuses so much on the consequences of negative behavior as opposed to the positive outcomes for good behavior.

Getting back to the song, it is through the Beatitudes that all people are called to approach and treat others with compassion and empathy.  As the GCP shows us though, this is no longer the case: you are no longer expected to care for others, and you should not expect them to care about you. You’re on your own now.

As The Doomed progresses, we get a better picture of scene the GCP shows to Scrooge.  The underlying music shifts to more of a march feel.  There is a call-and-response at play between an unnamed preacher, the New Christ, and his followers, The Same Old Horde:

Blessed are the fornicates May we bend down to be their whores  Blessed are the rich  May we labor, deliver them more Blessed are the envious  Bless the slothful, the wrathful, the vain  Blessed are the gluttonous  May they feast us to famine and war

Maynard covers a lot of ground in these two short verses.  He’s alluded 3 Gospels already--2 of which we’ve dug into, I’m not getting into John here, but yeah that allusion to the Word comes from there (among other places… Christianity is big on scriptural call-backs, what can I say?)--and now he’s inverting the Beatitudes by referencing the 7 Deadly Sins and even the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Damn. Maynard’s smart.

Like the Beatitudes, the 7 Deadly Sins are familiar to most Christians, but they’re fundamentally misunderstood. They are not explicitly Biblical, and their legacy mostly comes down to us through early Christian mysticism and through the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas.  They are: Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, and Pride. What sets these apart from sin as it’s normally understood is that they are not actions.  According to Aquinas, sin is a moral evil that is not in accord with reason or Divine Law and it fundamentally requires some type of decision and action.  The 7 Deadly sins are more states of emotional being that lead us to moral evils. Through wrath and anger, we’re prone to violence and poor decision making.  Through sloth, we’re prone to inaction in the face of evil.  And so it goes.

The 7 Deadly Sins are inherently selfish mindsets.  They are considered so in Western culture because allowing ourselves to fall victim to our lust or greed is  the same as saying that we are sating ourselves potentially at the expense of others.  Such a mindset is in direct conflict with the words of Christ vis-a-vis the Beatitudes. The contrast is so strong that, in a way, you could look at The Beatitudes and the 7 Deadly Sins as extremes on the end of a spectrum. It is the human condition to err towards the Sins, but it is imperative for all humans to move towards the Beatitudes, not only for their salvation but for the betterment of society (anybody else catching a whiff of Freud here?  Id/Ego? Just me?).  Maynard flips the script: the worst impulses of humanity now guide us.

The music shifts again, this time to something more innocent sounding, and we hear our Scrooge speak for the first time:

What of the pious, the pure of heart, the peaceful? What of the meek, the mourning, and the merciful? 

It’s a little difficult to tell if it’s our Scrooge or GCP who utter the next two lines, I like to think it’s the latter, but the sentiment is the same either way:

All doomed All doomed

In this new world, those that embrace the values and actions embodied by the Beatitudes are left behind.  

The music picks up again and the GCP again address Scrooge.  The atmosphere almost feels more somber and reflective:

Behold a new Christ  Behold the same old horde  Gather at the altering  New beginning, new word And the word was death  And the word was without light  The new beatitude: "Good luck"

This repetition of the earlier verse brings us back to Dickens’ scene outside the Cratchit’s: The spirt echoes the earlier words of Scrooge while Scrooge solemnly considers Tiny Tim’s health: “’If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.’”

The music shifts, again, this time back to the innocent, meek section we heard earlier in the song. Scrooge interrupts GCP:

What of the pious, the pure of heart, the peaceful?  What of the meek, the mourning, and the merciful?  What of the righteous? What of the charitable?  What of the truthful, the dutiful, the decent? 

Once again Scrooge directly references the Beatitudes, but this time he expands beyond them, alluding to people that embody other parallel virtues to those referenced in the Gospels. There’s a sense of pleading and desperation to his words as Scrooge tries to capture the gravity of the implications of GCP’s descriptions.

The music shifts again to the marching beat, with a dissonant guitar lead, purposefully played off key. GCP is becoming angry and annoyed. “You’re not getting it, stupid”.  He responds through Maynard, who now sings with a clear edge to his voice:

Doomed are the poor  Doomed are the peaceful  Doomed are the meek  Doomed are the merciful 

For the word is now death  And the word is now without light  The new beatitude:

GCP directly calls out a number of the virtues of the Beatitudes, but this time his cynicism is crystal clear. He finally exclaims to Scrooge, anger boiling over:

Fuck the doomed! You're on your own.

Again, I’m reminded of Dickens and the final exchange between Scrooge and GCP.  Scrooge laments the state and health of those whose lives he has just seen.  The sprit, angry that Scrooge still seems to be missing the big picture—that Scrooge bears responsibility for their state, let alone their opinions of him—uses Scrooge’s own words to drive the point home: “’Are there no prisons?" said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. "Are there no workhouses?’".  It’s a final, damning rebuke for Scrooge to ponder before being confronted by the most terrifying spirit of the night.  Just as we are left to ponder the implications of the “New Beatitude”.

See, I told you there was a good reason to use GCP as the narrator as opposed to Dante.

Plus, Christmas.

So there.

Some final thoughts:

I’ve been struggling how to relate the two children that accompany the GCP in A Christmas Carol, named Ignorance and Want, back to “The Doomed”.  In some ways they could be tied into the 7 Deadly Sins as they are both expressions of pure human selfishness, but, you know, square peg/round hole. Still food for thought though.

Even as I have moved in my own faith journey from Catholic to absurdist (a la Albert Camus), I still refer to myself as “philosophically Catholic”, and have been known to reference Luke’s version of The Sermon on the Mount in casual conversation, specifically this gem:

By what right wilt thou say to thy brother, Brother, let me rid thy eye of that speck, when thou canst not see the beam that is in thy own? Thou hypocrite, take the beam out of thy own eye first, and so thou shalt have clear sight to rid thy brother’s of the speck. (Luke 6:42)

I love that image.

The Beatitudes, The Woes, the 7 Deadly Sins, and their larger roles as measures of personal morality are really meaningful to me.  Even though I don’t consider myself Christian, I still ascribe to them.  They are guideposts towards achieving The Golden Rule—if such a thing could be considered a state of virtue—and in their broader context they are calls for us to engage of certain types of action, especially considering Matthew 25:36:

I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.  

Re-reading The Beatitudes for this post, I’ve also been so struck by how little sense of primacy there is in them compared to the Commandments.  There’s no explicit demand that we follow the Christian God, but that we embrace the Beatitudes and their broader contexts as moral bedrock. Christ reflects later in the Gospel of Luke that not using them as the basis for our personal morality would be like building a house in a flood zone on dirt instead of bedrock.  There’s a lot of truth to that, and that message transcends a lot of the nonsense that tends to lead people away from the religion.

I think Maynard might be coming from a similar viewpoint.  The values that we are supposed to espouse and embody are outdated in this New World. Kindness is obsolete.  Those that embrace virtue are kicked aside just as readily as those that we would otherwise consider to be lesser than ourselves.  The Doomed urges us to reflect on this and consider how we view the people and world around us.  Like Scrooge, in order for us to make a substantive change in ourselves and around us, we need to really consider what we’re seeing before us in the present moment.

And it’s not a pretty picture.

But it’s not all bleak. The last line of the song uses the conjunction and pronoun “You’re” and “your”, respectively.  Both variations of “You”.  We could spend hours discussing and dissecting the grammatical implications of the lyrics, but suffice it to say: as much as a condemnation as the last line is, it’s also a recognition that it’s on us to act.  No one else.  

I’ll end this 3500-word beast on that note.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Let’s do a little bit better every day.

Shea \m/

[meeedeee]

If You Want to Write a Book, Don’t Listen to Stephen Hunter RSS FEED OF POST WRITTEN BY FOZMEADOWS

A few days ago, Pulitzer Prize-winning writer Stephen Hunter published an essay at the Daily Beast titled, rather provocatively, “If You Want to Write a Book, Write Every Day or Quit Now.” Since then, it’s been doing the rounds on Twitter, and not because of its quality. Hunter’s piece is so laughably bad in every respect that I damn near snorted vomit out of my nose while reading it.

There is, I have found, a distinctive type of faux-eloquent arrogance exhibited by your common or garden Serious Male Writer that endeavours to turn “he said, loftily” into an aspirational dialogue tag instead of, as is actually the case, a dismissively condescending one. Hunter’s piece is a case in point: setting aside the gross inaccuracies of its substance, the style is so deeply invested in celebrating itself that it’s less a case of gilding the lily than (to borrow one of my husband’s favourite phrases) sprinkling a turd with glitter. Presented without Hunter’s caveats and curlicues, the core recommendation – make regular writing part of your routine, because you can’t ever publish a book you don’t finish – is a reasonable one. That Hunter has managed to turn such simple advice into a purple, self-congratulatory screed about the failings of other, lesser beings is, if nothing else, a cautionary example of hubris in action.

He begins:

In a few days or weeks, I’ll start a new novel. I don’t know yet and won’t for years if it’s good, bad, dreary, enchanting, or merely adequate. Moreover, I don’t know if it’ll help or hurt my reputation, make me rich or a fool, or simply pass into oblivion without squeak or moan.

What is certain is that on that same day, whichever one it is, one thousand other people will start their novels. In order to publish mine, it has to be better than theirs. So, forgive me—I pretty much hate them.

I’d be very interested to know where Hunter is getting this figure about a thousand other people from, as he goes on to mention it more than once without ever citing a source. Even so, and regardless of whether his numbers are accurate or a mere illustrative hypothetical plucked from the aether, the following contention – that these other yearling writers are Hunter’s direct competition – is wrong in all respects. The number of people who start writing a book on the same day you do is completely irrelevant. Even if all those other novels ultimately end up finished and submitted to agencies and publishers, you’re only directly competing with each other if you’re submitting to the same venues, at the same time, about the same subject matter.

A writer of adult thrillers is not vying for marketspace with those producing memoirs or YA, but with other authors of adult thrillers – and even then, the outcome is largely contingent on context. If a particular genre is experiencing a boom, as urban fantasy was not long ago, then publishers looking to captialise on a trend are more likely, not less, to sign on multiple works in the same oeuvre, to say nothing of the existence of imprints which, regardless of market trends, are dedicated to specific genres or subgenres. The real competition doesn’t kick in until the book is actually being promoted – by the publisher, by reviewers and booksellers and librarians, by the readership in general – and even then, it’s neither an equal nor a predictable thing. Promotions can fail, viral successes can happen, an author whose first four novels were largely ignored can become a breakout success with their fifth, and so on through endless permutations of chance and context. Solid promotion is always helpful, of course, and there are things both author and publisher can do to maximise a book’s chances, but ultimately, it’s up to the audience.

Which is why Hunter’s opening premise is not only irritating, but deeply unhelpful to those budding writers for whom his essay is presumably intended. Unlike an annual literary award, an audience is not a finite resource, but a thing to be shared and cultivated: the reader who buys a competitor’s book today may well be inspired to buy yours tomorrow, and as such, hating them from the outset is not only pointless, but completely antithetical to the cultivation of professional writing relationships. In my own experience as a published author, other authors are frequently some of your best friends and biggest cheerleaders. We support, critique and learn from each other precisely because we’re writing in the same field, which is also how we come to share recommendations about new books to read. Regardless of whether I’m acting in my capacity as authorial colleague or delighted reader, taking note of which books my favourite writers are praising, criticising or otherwise discussing is a large part of how I stay abreast of the field.

Call me newfangled, but if I’m going to go to the effort of hating someone, it won’t be for merely sharing my ambitions: they have to actually earn it.

But let’s be honest: Of the thousand, 800 won’t cross the infamous Mendoza Line. God love them, God be with them, God show mercy to them, for whatever cruel reason they were not given enough talent or the right mind, or any of a dozen different pathologies to make them capable of writing a publishable book. No amount of labor will alter this reality.

There’s so much wrong with this, I scarcely know where to begin. 800 potential novels lost! Where is he getting these figures? And god, the condescension! If someone desperately wants to be a traditionally published author and finds themselves unable to achieve that goal, then yes, that sucks for them. But I intensely dislike the construction here – especially when “cruel” is paired with “capable” and pleading to the divine – that implies a person is somehow tragic or deficient if they can’t or don’t produce a published work. Many people write foremost for their own pleasure, whether in fannish contexts or otherwise, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

And then there’s the fact that, in dismissing these 800 potential writers, Hunter is apparently convinced that lack of ability is the only reason why, on this particular occasion, they might not succeed. Clearly, he’s aware that it’s possible for even a successful author to abandon a manuscript, given his admission that the same thing has happened to him. (“I know how books die. A few have perished under my saddle, believe me.”) So whence comes the conviction that the hypothetical majority of his hypothetical thousand competitors will drop out of the running, not because they, too, have just so happened to hit a stumbling block, but because they’re pathologically incapable of success? The idea that “no amount of labour” can help such writers is particularly incongruous – not to say disgusting – given that he’s ultimately asserting the value of regular writing and hard work. (But then, as we’ll see shortly, he’s also claiming it should be easy.)

Also – and I feel like this ought to be an obvious point to make – but “publishable book” is not a universally coherent standard, not least because we now live in a time when self-publishing is commonplace. Even so, plenty of books that I would deem unpublishable, were the verdict mine alone to make, have nonetheless been traditionally published, because – unlike the Mendoza Line – there is no single, absolute yardstick against which all potential novels are measured. (Whether Hunter believes there should be is a different matter.) Just as a great deal of comparative rubbish ends up on shelves, so too does a lot of excellent writing never make it that far, and while I’ve also encountered a lot of heinous attempts at narrative in unpublished contexts, I don’t for a red hot minute believe that the majority of bad writers are incapable of improvement. Hunter seems oblivious to the possibility that some among his theoretical thousand might be young writers – my first attempt at a novel was made at 11 – whose talents, like their interests, are far from fixed in stone, but who nonetheless might be grossly dissuaded by advice purporting to tell them otherwise.

Ugh.

So that really leaves but 200 to worry about. They are smarter, more talented, better looking, have better teeth, more hair, better bodies, and in most other respects are simply better. If they were writing this piece instead of me, you would like it a lot more. They are more charming, more beguiling, more charismatic, smell (a lot) better, have more polish and manner. They’re fun to be with! You’d be proud to have them as a friend.

I will beat them all, however, and I will do it on one strength they lack, the poor, good-looking devils.

I will finish and they will not.

The two most important words you can write in any manuscript are “the” and “end.” Somewhere along the line my brilliant competitors mosey off. I’m too dumb to mosey off. They’ll lose faith. I’ll never lose faith; it’s the only faith I’ve got. A new lover will come into their lives; I’m not even on speaking terms with my old (and only) lover. They’ll be distracted by so many other dazzling prospects; I have no other dazzling prospects. Their spouses will begin to grouse over undone errands and abandoned socks on the steps, there’ll be just too much research, they’ll grow depressed, sick of their own voice, unable to get themselves buzzed up enough. Their books will die.

Without wanting to veer too far into the perilous realm of psychological analysis, this entire section is like peering into a well of deep and unresolved personal bitterness. Other people might be handsomer, kinder, more likeable, smarter and generally more desirable than Hunter, but by god, he can write books! Which… good for him, I guess? Like, I’m not about to argue that writing stories isn’t a cool skill to have, but contrary to what he’s saying here, you can actually be an author and an intelligent, engaging, social human being. Crazy, right? The One True Path to authorial greatness doesn’t open only to those who suck at everything else, or who fail at interpersonal relationships, romantic or otherwise. I know plenty of authors who also have other, successful careers as scientists or academics or any number of things; who have partners or children or extensive social networks (and sometimes even all three!). By the same token, I also know plenty of writers, both published and unpublished, whose failure to complete a given manuscript has roundly failed to result in depression, divorce or anything more dire than personal irritation. Shocking, right?

Here’s the truth; sometimes a book just doesn’t go, and sometimes it’s only that it doesn’t go now. You have to set it aside for a bit, and maybe it dies and turns into fertiliser for future ideas, or maybe you cannibalise its parts, or maybe it’s only slumbering like Sleeping Beauty, waiting for some suitably handsome catalyst to wander along and offer the dragon a better gig at a newer, shinier castle. Either way, the price of failure isn’t the loss of everything you love, and success doesn’t hinge on having had nothing else to love in the first place. Hunter might well console himself with that particular narrative, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let him blithely hang its weight on the rest of us.

You work every day. You work so hard, you make such progress, you’re such a star that you decide to take a day off. The day after, you feel guilty so you work twice as hard. You set new records, you crash the 3,000-word barrier, you achieve epiphanies you never thought possible! Again you reward yourself with a day off. Then the next day—oh, actually, now it’s the next month—you can’t remember why you started the damned thing anyway and the anxiety of your sloth is crippling, turning you all beast-like and spite-spitting, so you formally surrender and feel a lot better. For a few months. Then, of course, you hate yourself and as the years pass, that hatred metastasizes into a cancer of the soul. If only… And you’re one of the forlorn ones who dies with regrets.

A lot of preps stared at Stephen Hunter when he wrote this essay. He put his middle finger up at them.

The most important thing is habit, not will.

If you feel you need will to get to the keyboard, you are in the wrong business. All that energy will leave nothing to work with. You have to make it like brushing your teeth, mundane, regular, boring even. It’s not a thing of effort, of want, of steely, heroic determination. (I wonder who pushed the meme that writing is heroic; it must have been a writer, trying to get laid.) You have to do it numbly, as you brush your teeth. No theater, no drama, no sacrifice, no “It is a far far better thing I do” crap. You do it because it’s time. If you are ordering yourself, burning ergs, issuing sweat, breathing raggedly through nasal channels that feel like Navajo pottery, you’re doing something wrong. Ever consider law? We definitely need more lawyers.

Like… I get what Hunter’s trying to say here, which is that merely wanting to be an author won’t get you very far if you don’t actually put the work in, but god, there’s such a crushing sense of nihilism to his version of things, I kind of want to ask if he’s okay. Speaking as someone with a fair knowledge of mental health issues, routinely doing anything “numbly,” even brushing your teeth, is not actually a good thing. Numbness is not synonymous with the mundane, and if you’re starting to think it is, you should probably seek help. I say that with absolute sincerity: feeling numb about everyday life is a genuine danger sign.

Which is also why this paragraph makes me fucking furious. There’s a reason we talk about having a will to live, and a reason why someone losing that will is a terrible, awful thing. For some of us, everything is a matter of will, because we’re struggling to even get out of bed. Telling someone to give up writing because sitting down at the computer takes effort is one of the most toxic, destructive and fundamentally insincere pieces of advice I’ve ever seen issued. I’ll tell you this for nothing: every single writer I know, myself included, has struggled to write at times. The reasons why vary – lack of time, mental health issues, exhaustion, problems with the plot – but even when you’re someone who writes regularly, routinely, as a matter of habit, it can still be difficult. Some things can only be done – or only done now – because we order it of ourselves; because we fucking try.

Work every day. Obviously I don’t mean every day. Hyperbole, it’s what we do for a living. So let me clarify and tell you what I really mean: Work every day.

This is because the most difficult test of the author isn’t his mastery of time or dialogue, his gift for action or character, his ability to suggest verisimilitude in a few strokes, but his ability to get back into the book each day. You have to enter its world. It demands a certain level of concentration to do so. You have to train yourself to that concentration. The easier it is to get there, the better off you’ll be, day in and day out. In fact, if you skip a day, much less a week, the anxiety you unload on yourself doesn’t increase arithmetically but exponentially. If it’s hard after one day, it’ll be hard squared, then cubed, ultimately hard infinite-ed. And that’s only by Wednesday!

And this, right here, is where we see that Hunter’s status as a single, childless, (presumably) antisocial man who doesn’t need to work other jobs to support himself has apparently birthed the assumption that all other aspiring writers are in the same boat – or, far more worryingly, that anyone who doesn’t meet that criteria naturally can’t succeed. It’s not just that he’s using masculine pronouns to refer to his archetypal author, although it certainly doesn’t help: it’s that everything he says here is predicated on “his [the writer’s] ability to get back into the book each day,” which doesn’t leave any room for people who need to work to live, or who want to go out with their partner or friends, or who need to spend time with their children – for anyone, in other words, who has an actual life.

To reiterate: making writing a habit is excellent advice, and writing a little each day is not a bad thing to do. But asserting that people can’t be writers if they do anything other than this is grossly false, not least because there are thousands of successful, published authors around to disprove it. If Hunter personally experiences anxiety when he skips a day of writing, that’s one thing, but it’s far from being a universal experience. God, I am so sick of Serious Male Writers assuming that what’s true for them must logically be true for everyone else! If that’s how narrow Hunter’s view of the human condition is, I shudder to think how his writing must suffer – or maybe he just avoids creating characters who aren’t fundamentally like him. Either way, I’m not in a rush to check out his back catalogue.

Some writers of my acquaintance find great success in writing a small amount per day, every day, but I can’t think of a single one who’d cry failure on anyone who writes differently, or who had to take time off. Personally, I write in bursts: I can produce huge wordcounts in a short amount of time, but only if I rest for a little while afterwards. Once recharged, I can go again – but if I hit a snag in the plot, it’s always less work in the long run if I stop and puzzle it out instead of forging blindly on in the wrong direction just for the sake of wordcount.

Find what works for you, is the point. Shouldn’t that be obvious?

Effort is pain. Pain is not your friend, not this kind of pain. Via pain, doubt, fear, self-loathing, stasis, heavy legs, and halitosis enter your life. Your skin hurts, your hair hurts, the little whatever-it-is between your nostrils hurt. You have the energy of a cat on a couch. Inertia is your destiny, your tragedy, your one-way ticket to where you already are. That is why the easy way is the best way. It is easier to work every day than to deal with the load of self-inflicted grief you’ll encounter when you skip one day, four days, or the rest of your life.

Listen. Stephen. Bro. I get that this is going to come as an alien concept to you, but effort is not always synonymous with pain, in much the same way that numbness is not always the same as mundanity. Maybe that’s how you experience the world, but it’s just not true for everyone. Yes, sometimes it takes effort to write, but often it’s the good, satisfying kind, where you know you’re achieving something, making yourself better and stronger by testing your personal limits. Also, technically? Inertia is easier than effort. Effort is how you break free from inertia, and I know I keep harping on this point, but seriously: one of the most toxic mindsets to impose on a person is the idea that small failures are inherently synonymous with large ones. This is why, for instance, recovering addicts who fall off the wagon with a small transgression so often feel like they’ve got no choice but to commit a big one: not because it’s inevitable, but because they’ve been taught that success/failure is a binary proposition, with one slip the same as catastrophe. Plus, uh. It is actually possible to be disciplined while including regular breaks as part of that discipline, you know? I’m just gonna put that out there.

Another helpful tip: F— research! I say this, knowing that my works are thought to be well-researched and I am proud of the research in them. But in research there’s also death and destruction and self-loathing. You can do the research later. You cannot use “more research” as a crutch to justify your sloth. You are selling narrative not background. The most important truths you tell involve what you know about human behavior, not what color the Obersturmbannfuhrer’s epaulets are. If you don’t know it, just bull on through and keep going. Make it up. Jam it with placeholders. It’s OK. At that stage you need momentum, not precision. That’s why it’s a first draft; that’s why there’ll be a second draft.

*pinches bridge of nose, breathes deeply*

I say unto thee again, not everyone feels this kind of way about research. It’s not goddamn poison, okay? Some people find it merely a chore and others, invigorating. Yes, there are certainly instances where the research can wait, or where there’s no harm done in writing first and fact-checking afterwards, but the belief that “human behaviour” doesn’t also require research is kind of why Hunter is giving such goddamn shitty advice in the first place, because – say it with me! – people are fucking different. It’s this kind of approach to writing that leads to all manner of bigoted stereotypes finding their way into mainstream works: the writer assumes that all people fundamentally think and feel and experience the world in the same way they do, that no particular circumstance, belief or identity requires investigation in order to be accurately represented by an outsider, and so they don’t do the research. Shit like this is how, for instance, you end up with a horrifically anti-Semitic book purporting to be the opposite, or endless faux Medieval Europe fantasy novels written by people who, like Hunter, think that “selling narrative not background” is a sufficient justification for shitty, inconsistent worldbuilding.

Plus – and again, I feel that this ought to go without saying, but apparently not – measure twice, cut once is also as applicable to writing as it is carpentry. Some writers thrive on letting the momentum of a first draft carry them through to the end, then going back later to rip the guts out of whatever doesn’t work. For others, though, it’s easier – and less time-consuming – to pause mid-novel, work out the problems as they occur and produce a cleaner first copy.

Finally: Writer, forgive thyself. You may write crap for years, decades, eons before your brain gets tired of being so mediocre. You will never know if that jump is possible if you don’t keep humping, every day. Numbly, you must do the necessary. Keep on slugging. Forward the light brigade. You can always fix it later. But none of this will be doable, understandable, possible, unless you get to the “the” and the “end.”

If Hunter hadn’t taken up the bulk of his essay saying the exact fucking opposite of this, I’d almost be inclined to think it a positive note on which to end, instead of a sad little retcon. But it is sad, in much the same way that the whole damn article is sad. There’s not a speck of joy or passion evident in it anywhere: no humour, no enthusiasm, and certainly no hint of why anyone might want to be an author in the first place. Hunter’s attitude to writing is a baffling mix of arrogance and nihilism: everything is awful in my life, but I console myself with the knowledge that other, seemingly happier people will ultimately suffer more by virtue of failing to write like me. It’s a type of seething misanthropy for which I have precious little time and increasingly little patience in any context, let alone when it’s misrepresenting itself as the be-all, end-all of my chosen profession.

Pulitzer be damned: when it comes to giving writing advice, like Jon Snow, Hunter knows nothing.

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[sunshineweb]

Latticework of Mental Models: The Rashomon Effect

The parable of six blind men and an elephant, goes like this —

When a group of blind men, who had never come across an elephant before, encounter the tusker for the first time, they try to conceptualize the animal by touching it. Each blind man feels a different part of the elephant’s body, but only one body part, such as the tail or the trunk. Then they discuss their understanding about the elephant.

The man who had touched the elephant’s side says, “It’s very much like a wall.”

The one who held the elephant’s tusk declares, “No! it’s like a smooth spear.”

“Not really. It’s like a python.” Claims the man who grabbed the trunk.

“You’re all mistaken.” shouts the man who got the elephant’s tail. “It’s like a thick rope.”

“I know we’re all blind but have you guys lost your mind also?” The fifth man who touched the animal’s ears says, “It’s like a big fan.”

“Come on, folks! What’s wrong with all of you?” Argues the sixth man who was leaning against the elephant’s knee, “It’s definitely like a tree.”

Image Source: John Godfre Saxe, “The Blind Men and the Elephant”

Who was right? In a way, everyone was right about what they perceived. At the same time, everyone was wrong about the elephant because their limited experience allowed them to figure out only a smaller chunk of reality in isolation.

The elephant in the fable is an apt metaphor for the complex problems we encounter in the real world. And who are those six blind men? Those are us — handicapped by our tendency to claim absolute truth based on our limited, subjective experience.

The fable is a reminder of how our overconfidence divorces us from other’s viewpoint and makes us unwilling to accept the fact that those who disagree with us are also under the spell of the same bias — looking at the problem from a single dimension.

Anne Duke in her book Thinking in Bets writes —

We’ve all experienced situations where we get two accounts of the same event, but the versions are dramatically different because they’re informed by different facts and perspectives. This is known as Rashomon Effect, named for the 1950 cinematic classic Rashomon, directed by Akira Kurosawa. The central element of the otherwise simple plot was how incompleteness is a tool for bias. In the film, four people give separate, drastically different accounts of a scene they all observed, the seduction (or rape) of a woman by a bandit, the bandit’s duel with her husband (if there was a duel), and the husband’s death (from losing the duel, murder, or suicide).

Akira Kurosawa deliberately used elements of perception and subjectivity to present conflicting versions of the same event through different characters in the storyline. This contradictory interpretation of the same event boggles the minds of the viewers because they are constantly trying to guess who is right and what actually happened.

The movie was a great commercial success and Akira’s insight — relativity of truth and the unreliability and inevitable subjectivity of the human memory — was recognized in the world outside the cinema also. The lawyers and judges commonly speak of The Rashomon Effect when first-hand witnesses give contradictory testimonies.

The Bollywood film Talvar — based on the 2008 Noida double murder case — used the Rashomon effect. The film depicts the investigation of the case from three different perspectives in which victims’s parents are either guilty or innocent of the murder charges by the police investigation, the first CBI probe and later an investigation by a different CBI team.

So why does this happen? Why do different people have such dramatically different accounts of the same event? Maybe they’re lying. That’s plausible but an easy explanation and pretty much useless in solving the problem. However, there’s another possibility.

Humans interpret any incident based on their own perceptions. Like those six blind men.

So, even when the incident is an independent event, what’s observed is modified by the observer’s mindset, experiences, and expectations. And when it comes to the recollection of the event, another distortion is layered by the memory. It is due to this that it becomes maddeningly hard to verify the truth based on narratives given by different people.

Morgan Housel, in his essay The Psychology of Money, writes —

Your personal experiences make up maybe 0.00000001% of what’s happened in the world but maybe 80% of how you think the world works. If you were born in 1970 the stock market went up 10-fold adjusted for inflation in your teens and 20s – your young impressionable years when you were learning baseline knowledge about how investing and the economy work. If you were born in 1950, the same market went exactly nowhere in your teens and 20s.

When everyone has experienced a fraction of what’s out there but uses those experiences to explain everything they expect to happen, a lot of people eventually become disappointed, confused, or dumbfounded at others’ decisions. Keep that quote in mind when debating people’s investing views. Or when you’re confused about their desire to hoard or blow money, their fear or greed in certain situations, or whenever else you can’t understand why people do what they do with money. Things will make more sense.

Brushing aside disagreement with others with an assumption that others are misinformed or are stupid doesn’t help the situation. When you become curious about why others believe what they believe, you open up the possibility to unearth important information that might help you in updating your worldview and making better decisions.

Everyone’s watching a different movie, writes Housel, “Personal financial success is all relative measured against the amount of effort you put into it and the expectations you set for yourself. Both are different for everyone. What seems trivial to you might be the most important thing in the world to me, especially if we’re at different stages in life – low interest rates are great for young borrowers, but disastrous for retirees needing fixed income. We’re all coming from a different place with different perspectives, which explains why so many equally smart people in finance and economics disagree with each other. When you find something crazy in finance and ask yourself “Why is this happening?,” the answer is usually “because someone with a different perspective thinks it should.”

Duke writes —

Even without conflicting versions, the Rashomon Effect reminds us that we can’t assume one version of a story is accurate or complete. We can’t count on someone else to provide the other side of the story, or any individual’s version to provide a full and objective accounting of all the relevant information. When presenting a decision for discussion, we should be mindful of details we might be omitting and be extra-safe by adding anything that could possibly be relevant. On the evaluation side, we must query each other to extract those details when necessary.

The lesson here is that we should never be overconfident about one version of the truth, especially the one we believe in. Being adamant about our version of truth makes it hard for us to share information that could give others a chance to find flaws in our decision-making. And that would eventually lead to fooling ourselves. That’s why Richard Feynman observed that fooling ourselves is the easiest thing to do.

Commenting on scientific truth-seeking, Feynman said —

A kind of utter honesty — a kind of leaning over backwards. For example, if you’re doing an experiment, you should report everything that you think might make it invalid — not only what you think is right about it: other causes that could possibly explain your results…

We have to realize that the elephant of reality hides in it a huge amount of information. And our cognitive abilities are limited and can never absorb all the details available at any given moment.

Reminds me of this intriguing quote from famous mythologist Devdutt Pattanaik. He writes —

Within infinite myths lies the eternal truth Who sees it all? Varuna has but a thousand eyes, Indra has a hundred, You and I, only two.

Which means we can never be sure of what we see as reality. However, being unsure doesn’t mean being indecisive. It means that this lack of surety is an opportunity to use it as a motivation to keep updating our hypothesis and acknowledge our fallibility so that the downside can be protected if our hypothesis turns out to be false.

Seeing the reality as it is may not make your life necessarily more comfortable. Most probably it won’t. But the idea of comfort itself is an illusion.

Anne writes —

In the movie, the matrix was built to be more comfortable version of the world. Our brains, likewise, have evolved to make our version of the world more comfortable…Giving that up is not the easiest choice. By choosing to exit the matrix, we are asserting that striving for a more objective representation of the world, even if it is uncomfortable at times, will make us happier and more successful in the long run.

Conclusion

The world’s smartest problem-solvers and decision-makers rely on a set of frameworks and mental models that help make decisions and separate good ideas from the bad.

These mental models help you perceive the reality in a manner which is closer to the truth. Once you learn these mental models, it becomes easy to change your own actions and avoid common traps.

A latticework of mental models assists you in interacting with the world with better results. Having these mental models in your head is like a bag of lego blocks which you can use to build your own decision-making framework and discover new insights on how the world really works.

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