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purgatoryandme · 3 years

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Hi, I fell in love with Illuminate Me, mostly because I'm a huge poetry fan, but I don't know a lot of poetry--you have such a way of pulling quotes and with words, I was wondering if you had a collection of favorite poems or quotes or works of literature and how you have such a wide breadth of knowledge of literature? Thanks, and thank you for sharing your work with us!

Hi! I'm so happy you enjoyed IM and that it's such a hit with poetry/classics lovers! I've got a few asks already answered with a literature list, some inspiration lit pieces, and inspiration lit for specific characters under the IM tag, but I don't think I've said anything specifically about poetry in detail yet.

I don't have any specific collection that's a favourite, but I do have poets whose imagery agrees with me more than anyone else's. These are the ones that are usually on the top of my head: I love Baudelaire for his religious imagery and overall use of symbolism (Les Fleurs Du Mal is a good collection despite me saying I don't have any fave). Yeats is a deeply talented poet, though a very hateable man, whose poetry tends to be self-referential is a delightful way. There's a certain breathlessness to it - clearly a man fascinated by the world around him. Poetic epics own my whole heart - The Odyssey, the Iiliad, the Aenid, Beowolf, the Divine Comedy, Paradise Lost and more. There's something about longform narrative poetry that is just deeply satisfying to read and connect with. The Wasteland is an excellent piece, though difficult to get into because it is EXTREMELY reference heavy. "April is the cruelest month" is a line that is forever and always stuck in my head. What an opener! How chilling! William Ernest Henley's poetry has this iron-willed spirit to it that calls to me on a personal level, and his use of meter and rhyme is just...good. It's so good. I'd recommend looking for concentration camp poetry if you're interested in history and the development of poetry as a form of resistance, healing, and speech. Fascinating stuff - I know in one of the linked asks I rec a book on it. The translated works of Jalaluddin Rumi is lyrical and measured and has such an amazing grasp of symbolism and the divine. The thing about translation is you have to poke around a fair bit to find something that balances honest translation with keeping the original feeling/meter/rhyming scheme of the original. Anything King Arthur related! I love me a good historical mythos!

My mother has a collection of illuminated world classics that I was pretty obsessed with as a kid. She kept them in this amazing walnut wood cabinet my grandfather made and I couldn't reach any of the books lol. They were shiny and gold and were full of translated poetic epics, plays, and cornerstone literature. I've always enjoyed classics for the referential aspects even if I wasn't a fan of the actual contents pretty often - it's cool to see how they shaped literature today - and admittedly some of my love was formed out of spite against the recommended reading curriculum. I loved English in elementary and high school (especially poetry - I used to be deranged about Shel Silverstein), but didn't pursue it further for my education because I didn't enjoy the overtly structured nature of interpretation you're forced into and, well...science was my second love, and the one that I moved on with. However, whenever I wanted a break from scientific academia, I used to go into the old arts library on my campus, go through the book stacks where nobody usually hung out, and pull interesting titles on historical and cultural literature.

To give more detail than I have before and to keep replies fresh: originally I was going to write a different story and Illuminate Me was just a tester fic. I was inspired to use classical literature quotes in it (before I had much of a plot fleshed out for it at all beyond "Space" and "Extremis" and "post-Siberia") after going through a classical Japanese poetry collection about moon watching so I could find a very particular phrase to use in ANOTHER fic (that I never actually wound up using the phrase in lmao). Going through the classical archives and struggling SO HARD to remember what exactly I wanted out of the symbolism got me mulling over examples of the kind of feeling I was going for, which brought me back to Eliot Kermode's "The Shudder" essay, and then I was back down the rabbit hole of all the classics I've ever loved and, in particular, that one line from Paradise Lost.

All in all, I wouldn't say I'm particularly well-read, but I would say I'm particularly stubborn about freedom of interpretation and the layered referential aspects of poetry! I like what I like, and I think was makes any good reader or writer is just that: you like what you like, and while you might learn to build on it, you shall not be swayed from what's in your heart. Have fun! Explore! Check out historical pieces and see how they sweeten more modern works, how slam poetry entirely evades a lot of classical convention for something raw and punchy, and bounce between dainty flowered depictions of love to tortured depictions of the divine and back again. Keep quotes that call to you close to your heart, and freely remove them from their context as you will, and go crazy. That's how you make love AND your research abilities fluorish!

#reply #illuminate me #ultimately I think the thing I never wind up saying in these replies #is that I'm a researcher!#and so despite the fact that my background isn't in the arts #I have a particular structure to my pursuits that ??? requires a certain degree of depth of interpretation #and usually pulls me in the direction of things with heavy historical and cultural impacts that feel very ? big ?#and give off a grander impression than perhaps they deserve when passed through my mouth #side note but there are SO MANY classicists on tumblr who do way cooler interpretation than me #especially for arthurian literature #found so many of them when the green knight came out and 10/10 would recommend looking them up #they're actual professionals/academics and are really informative and cool and ahhhhh

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moonflower-31 · 4 years

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Pen Pals - Spencer Reid x Reader

Part 1

Ongoing(?)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: None. Just some bullying.

A/N: Okay, so, I couldn’t wait. I Won’t Forget You is still gonna have updates. But it might alternate with this series. Also, IDK if this should be a series. What do you guys think? Tags are open, just comment to be added. Let me know what you think. I hope you like it.

Tags: @thatsonezesty13

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams” - William Butler Yeats

The comfortable, acquainted silence of your family home was the only sound you heard as you sat down at your desk. You were graduating in less than 24 hours. And yet not a single friend had written to you. No congratulations, no graduation cards, not even a ‘how are u?’ text. No friend you’d ever made ever stayed anyway.

Your mother always told you it was ‘their loss’ that they had lost you. Your father didn’t say much. He always just sat there stone-faced and let your mother do the talking. But he always made it known that his word was law in his house.

School wasn’t exactly the best source of socialization. If you counted the unsolicited texts of guys pranking you by asking you out or resetting the clock on your phone so you’d be late for your next class. If that were true you’d be one of the popular kids with nothing else to do but smoke and drink and go to college parties.

You sighed softly to yourself as you looked down at your soft, baby blue stationary. It was a gift from your aunt, who lived somewhere in Europe with a large library of ancient and historical texts she would make copies of and send to you when she got the chance. It was still unused. You had never really been one to write letters or resumes on paper. It was always digital. Texts got places way quicker than what the kids at school called ‘snail mail’.

You took in a deep sigh and picked up a pencil, sharpening it ever so slightly to give it the satisfying sharp point. Then, when you finished stalling, you finally let the pencil graphite hit the first line, and you began to write.

Dear Hello <3

Hi, so, I hope this letter finds you well. I’m paying good money for the stamps so I should hope they get delivered to the right damn address. But anyway, you’re probably wondering who I even am. Well, my name is (Y/N) (L/N). I’m 23 years old. I’m about to graduate from college for biology. I got my doctorate this year. I’m hoping to go back for med school and become a neurologist. I wanna study human behavior, so I’m going to try and get my minor in that.

A little bit about me, right? That’s what pen pals do? They share stuff with each other and hopefully become friends? I hope we do. No matter who you may be, Mr. Spencer Reid. Yeah, I had a bit of trouble spelling your name. I know it’s supposed to be simple but I’ve seen it spelled completely different. But anywho--(Who even uses ‘Anywho’ these days?) something about me… Well I like books? Lots of them. All kinds, really. You got the Divine Comedy in Italian? I’ll read it. I’m a huge history buff. Ask me anything about ancient cultures that lived in the entire east coast. I love reading their texts and learning how they lived. It’s crazy how far we’ve come from when humans first appeared. Can you even think of having to find a way to communicate without anything to base it off of? Other than maybe grunts and growls like other animals? Nothing in the workplace would ever get done!

Well… I guess I’ll limit it to one thing about me per letter. The only other thing I think you’d probably like to know is I like poetry too. I’m leaving one of my favorites at the end of this letter by the way.

Again, I hope you agree to be my pen pal or whatever this is. Also, as clarification, I only got your address because of this website I found that spat out your address when I asked for an available pen pal. So… if you don’t want to actually do this, you might wanna take your name down from Penpalsrus.com.

Hope to hear from you!

(Y/N) (L/N)

Once you finally finish, you find your once satisfyingly sharp pencil to be a nub of what it was and your hand to be aching. But you didn’t mind it. All you truly wanted to do was get this letter mailed to a Mr. Spencer Reid, someone you hoped would be your friend. It was pretty silly though. Asking what you assumed to be a man who didn’t even know you existed to talk to a college student. He probably had either a wife or husband and kids now. Your letter would be added to the junk mail pile. But at least you tried.

“(Y/N)!!”

You jumped slightly, grabbing the paper on your desk on instinct to fold it up and hide it under something so your parents wouldn’t see. They wanted you to focus on your schooling while you were still under their roof. The instant you went out instead of spending the night studying would be the day you’d be tossed out onto the street. Not that writing a letter would be that bad, it’s just that it would take away precious time worth studying with instead of replying to some random letter.

You quickly folded the blue paper and slid it into the white envelope with the proper mailing address written neatly on the face side. You decided against licking the seal of the envelope and just folded it into the slot before hiding it under your small utensil filing cabinet. You let out a sigh as you heard your bedroom door knob turning, reminding you of the lack of privacy you had in your family home.

“(Y/N), we brought back home some dinner. Come on down and eat sweetheart. Your father just got home from work.” Your mother reminded before letting your door stand open and began heading back downstairs. You sighed at the closeness that you had almost been caught. You hated hiding things from her especially. But she was glued to your father’s hip and whatever she heard went straight to your father. No matter how personal. Even when you told her about when you’d gotten your first period.

You picked up the letter and put the stamp where it should be. You then slid the envelope into your back pocket, ready to take it out to the mailbox when your father inevitably asked you to go out and lock the chicken shed and mow the lawn as he did everyday.

---

Spencer kept checking his watch as he waited by the check in counter for his mother to come greet him as she had been doing the past few visits. The team had just finished a case in Las Vegas, so he wanted to come see her. Apparently the doctors had been saying she was doing better. She’d asked to see him in a multitude of her recent letters, so he decided he’d oblige.

His foot tapped nervously against the tile as he looked around, a new book in his hands he wanted to give his mother.

After a few more idle minutes of just listening to the surroundings of the facility, he began to tap against the book’s hard cover. He tapped the beginnings of Fur Elise as his eyes scanned the building for his mother’s frame and or her figure.

He began recalling pi in his head as he waited, trying to pass the time. He managed to reach at least 975 digits in when he heard one of the nurses call for him.

“Dr. Reid? She’s ready to see you.” A tall and dark-haired male nurse called. Spencer adjusted his messenger bag and nodded as he made his way into the main common room. He walked into the well-lit room and very easily found his mother talking with another patient.

“I never thought it would work, Gladys. I mean, I put his name in there years ago I think. Yet no letter ever came. Why now?” Diana spoke to the woman on her right. The woman seemed to be too busy in her macrame to listen to what his mother had been talking about.

Spencer approached and made his way to his mother’s side, waving to her in greeting. She smiled as she saw him, something mischievous behind her eyes. “Spencer you’re not going to believe this.” She says, pulling a letter from the coffee table in front of her.

Spencer raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Well good morning to you too mom.” He smiled at her as he took a seat to her left. “What’s so unique about that letter that I won’t believe?” he asks with his smile turning to a half smirk.

Diana smiled at Spencer before she turned it over and handed it to him. “It’s for you. It got delivered at our old apartment a few days ago. I forgot that when you were younger, I think I put your name in some pen pal system. They’d send your address to someone, and they’d mail you a letter. Since you never got one I thought I’d just lost 5$ and shrugged it off. But I guess our address got lost in the system for over a decade. Maybe while they shifted everything to virtual.” Diana expressed delightfully, scoffing at her last sentence.

Spencer sighed as he was handed the letter. It seemed like something his mother would have done as he was growing up. She had been worried about his lack of friends. But this was probably some 6 year old who had to do this for a project or something. He didn’t need all of that childish writing to decipher while he had to decipher serial killer’s messages.

“Mom… I thank you for the opportunity, but don’t you think I’m a little old, for a pen pal? This is probably a small child, who can barely recite their multiplication tables.” Spencer explained slowly, trying not to offend his mother for trying to do what any mother would to help their son.

Diana shook her head. “That’s what you’d think, but I had one of my nurses look her up. She’s 23 and she’s in college. Just finished her doctorate for biology. IQ of 147. I think you both would get along great. You just turned 28. Maybe you should start looking into girls. Or men. I don’t really care which.” Diana raised a mischievous eyebrow as she nudged Spencer’s arm.

Spencer couldn’t help but blush as his mother brought up dating. He hadn’t even considered the idea for a few years, not since he met Lyla and even then, dating wasn’t really in the cards for him.

“Mom… she doesn’t even know I exist-” Spencer was trying to think of some way to let his mother down easy. He didn’t care if this woman was 5 years younger than him or that she wasn't a 6 year old obsessed with some mindless colorful cartoon. He had a job to do. And it didn’t involve him writing to a random stranger who didn’t mean anything to him.

“Spencer, please. Just try it. Write her back a letter telling her you don’t wanna be her pen pal at least so you don’t keep her hopes up.” Diana pleaded, putting a hand on her son’s shoulder. “At least read it for god’s sake.”

Spencer sighed at the interruption, but he didn’t argue. If his mother was pushing something this much, it had to be worth it to try. He looked at the return address scrawled on the left corner of the envelope. The handwriting was unique, giving him an idea of what he’d be met with when he opened it. The name written was a printed (Y/N) (L/N).

He flipped the letter and opened the envelope carefully. He was surprised to find it unsealed. He found it slightly amusing for someone to be so annoyed with the stale taste of the envelope seal that they’d instead choose to stuff it into the envelope itself.

He pulled the flap back and pulled out a folded letter on light blue stationary. He tilted his head in interest, unfolding the paper and beginning to read the very light handwriting that was on each line. Just from observing the handwriting he could tell she was nervous of something, perhaps someone. He could also tell that the writer was unable to fulfill her social need due to the bullying she received. Not only did the text say this, but the way the graphite was pushed into the paper was a key indicator.

As his eyes finished the letter in half a second, he decided to read it over a bit slower so maybe he could analyze it just a bit more. He finally pulled the letter away from his face after a few more minutes, thoroughly convinced you truly weren’t a six year old trying to get an A.

“So?” Diana asked, her head tilted slightly towards her son and her body angled there as well.

“Well I’ll have to reply when I get back to Quantico. I don’t want to take up my time with you, but… I think it might be nice, having someone I can talk to.” Spencer conceded, sighing softly as he gave into his mother’s wishes. It couldn’t be that bad. He’d just have an extra letter to write each week. To a miss (Y/N) (L/N).

----

Spencer’s shoulder loosened and his body untensed as he dropped his go-bag onto his couch, deciding to deal with it in the morning. He yawns softly, grateful for his day off in the morning. He hobbled through the apartment to his bathroom, groggily grabbing his toothbrush. He then began idly brushing his teeth as he tried not to give into sleep.

He let his mind wander. He thought about the case, the details he hadn’t forgotten. He thought about the team and the endless outings they invited him to. He thought about his mother, and how she’d obsessed over the recent book she’d finished. Then his mind traveled to the letter. The blue stationary with the quaintest of handwriting. The name that was printed on the top upper left of the envelope he had put into his messenger bag without a second thought.

He spat into the sink and faced his own reflection as he recalled what his mother had asked him to do. He breathed in and out tiredly, before he wiped his face and exited the bathroom. He wandered back into the living room and pulled out the envelope. He carried it back into his room and put it in his nightstand before he grabbed a piece of paper and a pen.

Hello,

You don’t have to worry, I found it alright. However my address has changed since my mother put my name in this system. It’s pleasant to know I’m not talking to a child. At the very least an uneducated child. Though I’m sure you are not that. Given the doctorate in biology at 23.

Also, I am not a Mr. I’m usually addressed as Dr. Spencer Reid. I have an IQ of 187 and have three PHDs and three BAs. One of which happens to be biology. Perhaps I can help you. It will be good practice.

I like to read as well. I have piles of books lying around my apartment. I’ve read them all at least 10 times. I can read 22,000 words per minute, so it’s honestly not that much of a feat for me. However, I do enjoy reading the classics. I usually prefer them to the more modern written works. My favorite seems to be Sir Arthur Doyle. Have you heard of him? Reading in another language adds an extra layer of difficulty. I may need to try that myself.

History is a fascinating topic, especially when delving into human behavior. Deciphering the scientific reasons behind why we make the choices we do and how we got to this point. It is quite interesting. I study human behavior on a daily basis. It’s my job. Do you work? Or are you focusing on schooling?

I hope to hear back from you, (Y/N). Perhaps I can suggest a book or two to you, if you haven’t read them already. I’ll include a list at the end of my closing that you should look into.

Regards,

Dr. Spencer Reid

Spencer folded the letter up and slid it into the envelope, deciding to place it into the mailbox in the morning once he’d gotten enough sleep. He got up from his desk and climbed into bed. As he began to try to doze off, he recalled the snippet of a poem that had been printed at the end of (Y/N)’s letter.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore.

-Edgar Allan Poe

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petruchio · 3 years

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this is random but what are your book recs? short stories/poetry work too! (you seem like you'd have really good book recs)

OMG stop this is so sweet!!! i gave a few book recs a little while ago here and i stand by all of those so that's one list! honestly any time i get asked this my mind just goes completely blank and i'm like oh i actually have never read a book in my life but i will try to think of some new ones for YOU anon!

a lot of the books i read at the moment are for school so i often feel like i don't actually have as big of a recommendation catalogue in my head as i wish i did because most of the books i read i actually don't LOVE but i have to read them anyway lol. plus i tend to focus on like, pre-1900 english literature, so i actually kind of have a hole in terms of my contemporary lit knowledge. i feel like (hopefully) once i graduate and i have a bit more control over my reading habits i'll be able to recommend a lot MORE books and a lot more contemporary ones too but i'm happy to share some for right now!

so in terms of poetry i don't have any specific book recommendations but i can share some of the poets i love! first i would recommend anything by eavan boland. some of my personal favorites of her poems would be distances, that the science of cartography is limited, and moths, but i would check out anything she ever wrote. my all time favorite poet (and person) by far. beyond that, i'd recommend the glass essay by anne carson, anything by elizabeth bishop (personally i love the moose and filling station, really her whole collected works are just incredible). i tend to be partial to women poets in general, especially in contemporary poetry, but i'll bite for some keats and coleridge if i want to go into the romantics. i like wordsworth too, he's just pissing me off at the moment because i'm in a class that's solely wordsworth focused HAHA! i think irish poetry as a genre is overall one of my favorites, so yeats and heaney too are just fantastic poets. check out the skunk if you haven't read it, i love that poem!

hmm in terms of novels/short story cycles, i read a book called a visit from the goon squad by jennifer egan for a class and i liked that book quite a bit. it's about the music industry, which i really liked because i feel like so often in recent literature you get a book that's like ~it's about the publishing industry! the main character wants to be a writer!~ so it's always refreshing to see something different. (obviously that's a HUGE generalization, it's just something you see a lot in contemporary popular literature.) i also love louise erdrich, love medicine is a great one, i wrote earlier about plague of doves which is also fantastic and since then i got to read love medicine too which i really enjoyed!! i'm excited to read more of her stuff. HMMM another book i would recommend i guess is north and south by elizabeth gaskell if you haven't read it? it's a mid 19th century novel and i think it's a fun read if that's something you're interested in.

AAAHH i wish i had more but that's all i have in me for now, honestly this summer i just read a lot of maeve binchy because i was trying to read something that was just easy and uncomplicated because i was so burned out from finishing my undergrad degree and doing my thesis and everything LOL so i wasn't exactly reading a lot of ~cool girl~ literature! but i promise you guys one day i will have good book recs i'm just not a cool enough english major to read cool modern books like i just read insane and very old literature that i cannot in good faith tell other people to read skjdhfjshd

#i always feel like i have to recommend contemporary lit and the thing is i just don't read that much of it #i'm guessing that i will once i finish my degree but i just don't specialize in contemporary stuff at all #so i am very much not an expert IM SORRY!!!#answered #anonymous

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suwya · 4 years

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Till the Stars Had Run Away - Chapter 3

Summary: Killian Jones was a voyager. Actually, he was many things, or at least he had been - a lieutenant, a brother, a loving boyfriend - until everything had turned upside down and his life had hit an all time low. So, he gave up. Aboard his spaceship he abandoned Arcadia, his planet, navigating the stars and other solar systems in search of... well, he still didn't know what he was searching for, but his rule was "never remain in the same place longer than necessary."

Rating: M

Prologue; Chapter 1, Chapter 2

AO3

A/N: Thank you @thisonesatellite for being the fastest and best beta reader I could ever ask for. And thank to all of you who are reading this.

Chapter 3 . . It takes more courage to

dig deep in the dark corners

of your own soul and

the back alleys of your society

than it does for a soldier

to fight on the battlefield.

(W. B. Yeats)

Many, many years ago,

in another solar system.

Arcadia was Killian’s place. His home. Not a happy one, but the only one he had ever known. Growing up as a mechanic slave of a greedy merchant was not the best childhood one could hope for, but at least he wasn’t alone, his older brother Liam had always been by his side.

An unexpected explosion in the factory where they used to work put an end to the merchant's life when Killian was only a teenager.

The brothers were finally free.

Liam worked as hard as he could to ensure his brother had a decent life. Killian wasn't as disciplined as his older sibling; he was more of a hothead who often had to be rescued from a whirlpool of rum and games, if not fights. But Liam never gave up, he was always there to remind his younger brother of what was important and to keep him on the right path.

When they both came of age Liam managed to enroll them in the Royal Army. A few quiet and happy years followed. The boys worked and studied hard and they soon reached high ranks. Liam was nominated captain of The Jewel of the Crown, the fastest spaceship on the planet, and Killian was his lieutenant.

Everything seemed to run smoothly.

Until one day their corrupted King put them in charge of a suicide mission, just for his need for power. Killian was skeptical about it, but Liam was stubborn and loyal in his duties and he accepted the mission.

On the way back home Liam died in his brother’s arms, and Killian swore to himself to not to obey another order for as long as he lived.

He took the heart of his beloved brother and fixed it on the inner part of the ship system: connected by electrodes Killian managed to keep at least his brother’s conscience alive and speaking. A poor substitute for what Liam was, but a constant reminder of how much he lost.

Killian then kept the ship and renamed it The Jolly Roger, and flew away from his planet in search of adventures, living every day as his last, and never giving a damn about anything else but his own survival.

In the beginning, Liam was the voice of wisdom and rationalism; he tried to talk his younger brother into not throwing away his life, but Killian didn't want to listen. It was too painful. So he started a life of selfish revelry, while not wallowing in self-pity and drowning his sorrows in every local tavern. As time passed Liam went quieter and quieter, until the day he stopped talking to his brother.

One day, on a strange armored planet Killian had landed, he met a beautiful and strong woman, Milah, and he fell in love with her almost at first sight. She was already married, but she wanted to leave her husband, and she chose to live a life of adventures with Killian. But her husband was jealous and resentful, and unfortunately, he was also a very rich and powerful business owner.

Killian took Milah back to Arcadia, to show her the places where he grew up. It was an unpleasant surprise to find out that his planet had been absorbed by the Lepka Industry, a company that, for its benefit, had depleted all the planet’s resources until it was no more able to produce anything useful, and left the planet inert.

Mr. Gold, leader of the Lepka Industry and also Milah’s husband, had found out where Killian was from and had started to enact his revenge: slowly but successfully. First Killian’s origins, then his love.

Gold showed up one day when the two lovebirds were having a night walk together, and he started a fight with Killian that ended with the latter one losing a hand and with Milah's death in front of Killian’s eyes.

While his destroyed planet was disappearing in the distance from his rear-view screen, tears were running down Killian’s face. Tears of sadness for everything that could have been and wasn’t; tears of rage and frustration for being powerless in front of such an evil creature; tears of longing... “I miss you, Liam.” He whispered to the silence of his spaceship cabin.

The red LED started blinking again and the cold metallic voice spoke: I'm right here little brother. I will never abandon you.

Tears ran even harder down Killian's cheeks.

~·~·~·~

Present time.

The rest of the day passed quietly, well almost. Henry was eager to discover everything he could about the spaceship, and he made Killian answer a lot of questions about the control system, the mechanical parts of the engine, and more specific stuff. He learned how to read the radar and that you need an extra tank of fuel, in case the planet you want to go to delays your permission to land.

Dinner was a pleasant relaxing moment for the three of them. The meal was simple. Given that not every kind of food was going to survive an intergalactic trip, they had had to limit their choices between some dehydrated vegetables and frozen spicy cream, but Killian soon found out that it was one of Henry’s favorite desserts.

“Can I have some more, please?” Henry asked after emptying his second bowl.

“You’re going to explode.” His mother pointed out.

“Oh, but I’ll die happy, mom.” He answered with a big grin.

Killian smiled and gave a mischievous look to Emma “The lad is growing up.”

“Killian, don’t.” She admonished him. But he ignored her and handed another full bowl of cream to Henry with a wink. “What…?” She started, but then: “Do you ever follow an order?”

“Only mine,” Killian answered matter-of-factly.

Emma rolled her eyes and shook her head, while Henry and Killian were sharing a laugh.

“I'm not sure I enjoy the idea of you two as best buddies,” Emma stated.

“He’s my father, of course we’re going to be best buddies!” Henry exclaimed.

~·~·~·~

The morning after Killian woke up early, as usual. They weren’t supposed to land before another four or five days at least, but he was used to long driving journeys. He had slept only a few hours, while he could use the help of the autopilot, resting on a hammock he had previously hooked behind the two leather seats that stood opposite the dashboard so that he could easily take control of the ship in case of emergency. But he didn’t feel tired, quite the opposite, he was feeling excited and curious towards what the day with his guests was going to offer him. He distracted himself preparing breakfast, and soon after the table was ready for the three of them, Emma appeared from her cabin, followed by a suspiciously silent Henry.

The boy sat on his chair and devoured his meal with his eyes fixed on his bowl. No word came from him and as soon as he finished, he stood up and went back to his cabin, closing the door behind him. Killian had the impression that if the door wasn’t automatic he would have probably slammed it.

Emma was still savoring her tea and she seemed quite concentrated on the liquid in her cup.

Killian sat back on his chair and crossed his arms; he tilted his head and kept looking at her for a few minutes, but when he understood she had no intention of having a conversation, he cleared his throat and asked: “Have I done something wrong?”

“It’s not your fault.” She stated and then finally looked at him. “Yesterday, before Henry went to sleep, I told him the truth. Or at least part of it. He now knows that you’re not his father. But he’s not upset with you.” And after a pause, she added: “He’s angry with me, for lying to him for so long.”

“Plausible.” Killian nodded. “Henry seems a perceptive boy, give him some time to let it all soak in.”

The rest of the day was much more boring than Killian expected. Neither Emma nor her son were very talkative, and after dinner, Killian wasn't sure if he was more upset by the long hours flying or the tense atmosphere in his ship.

Emma and Henry were sitting at the table, each one immersed in their own electronic screens, reading… whatever damn things they were reading.

Killian snorted, he put the autopilot on and stood up from his seat.

“If you would excuse me, I have a part of the turbocharger to check.” But as soon as two pairs of worried eyes looked at him, he hurried to explain: “Oh, it’s nothing serious, but better not to leave loose ends, right?”

Killian started his way down the stairs that led to the engine room, but after just a couple of steps, he stopped and looked back. “Henry, would you like to come with me? I may need a hand.”

Henry nodded and ran past him down the stairs. Killian smiled to the ever characteristic enthusiasm of the boy, and before resuming his descent he gave a side look to Emma and winked. She furrowed her brows in question.

Down in the storage room, Killian found Henry waiting for him. The lad was probably wondering why they hadn't entered the engine zone yet. But Killian ignored his silent question and went directly to a locker from where he retrieved a little box and something that looked like a toy sand mill with a switch on the upper right side and a glass flask at the bottom; he deposited everything on the small table in the center of the room.

“Wanna hold a bright star?” He asked the boy.

“That's impossible.” Henry was skeptical.

Killian hummed. “I wouldn’t say that. Given the many places I’ve visited and everything I’ve seen in my life, I’d say that there are just a few things that are not possible.”

He lifted the upper lid of the mill while saying: “We need to generate enough energy for the turbocharger.”

Then he opened the box and took a plastic bag with some grey powder in it. “You see this? This is stardust.” He said and immediately knew he had the boy’s attention.

“Did you collect it?” Henry asked.

“I like adventures, but I’m no fool. It's extremely dangerous to go near a star, especially one which is going to implode soon. You would not come back to tell the story.” Killian shook his head. “I bought it some time ago in an exotic market. Now, all you have to do is to pour some of the contents inside the grinder. But be careful, it's a rare item, don't spill it.”

Henry took the bag with reverential care and started to put some dust into the mill. “Like this?”

“You're doing great. That should be enough. Now switch it on.”

Henry closed the upper lid and turned it on. The sand started to swirl faster and faster until it began to shine so intensely that the mill could hardly be seen through the amount of light.

“This is awesome! It totally seems like a shining star.” The boy was staring in awe with wide-open eyes.

“Aye. I thought you would like it.” And after a pause, Killian added: “You can keep it if you want.”

“But what about the turbocharger? You will have to make another one.” But just after Henry said the words, he clearly understood the truth behind it. “Oh... you don't need stardust energy. You didn't even need my help, did you?”

Killian nodded. “You're a clever boy.”

Right at that moment Emma entered the room. “It’s time for you to go to sleep, kid.”

But Henry ignored her. He switched the mill off and the light softly disappeared. Without averting his eyes from it, he whispered: “It would have been cool if you were my real dad.”

Killian swallowed hard, a strange lump was forming in his throat, but that wasn't the right time to analyze it.

“You already have an amazing mother, as far as I know.” Killian briefly looked up at Emma, who smiled slightly at his poor attempt to mediate.

Henry shrugged.

“Just because someone helped in…” Killian searched for the best word to describe it, “creating you, it doesn't mean he's your father.”

“What about your dad?” The boy asked.

“Not the best example. My mother died when I was still a wee lad and my father, well, he did the best he could to raise my brother and me. At least he tried for some time. But he was addicted to games and he liked to bet more than he could afford. One night, surrounded by his creditors, he ran away. Never knew anything about him after that. My brother and I... uh... we were the ransom for his misdeeds. He sold us to a merchant.”

“Sold? You mean you were a slave?” The astonishment in the boy's voice was visible.

“Aye.” Killian sighed.

Henry wrinkled his nose in repugnance: “That's awful!”

“Aye. But I had my older brother with me. He was probably a much better father figure to me than my real papa. He taught me everything I know.”

Henry thought about it for a few seconds then he nodded. He took the mill in his hands: “Thank you, Killian.”

“No need. Now, be a good son and go to rest as your mother said.”

The boy turned around towards the stairs. Emma waited until he was almost upstairs then she looked at Killian and mimicked a voiceless thank you before following her son.

~·~·~·~

Later that night, Killian was concentrating on flying when he heard the sound of the sliding door behind him opening and closing. Emma soon appeared in his peripheral view. She slumped down on the seat next to him.

“Henry is finally asleep.” She let him know.

“You should rest as well, Swan.” He had happened to address her using her surname lately. He liked the way it sounded, and he thought it suited her. Swans were quite rare on any planet he had been, and they were known for their purity and beauty, but also their fierce temperament, especially when protecting their offspring.

“What about you? Shouldn’t you get some sleep too?”

“I usually don’t sleep much.” Was his evasive answer.

“Are you going to be at the helm all night?” She asked, a bit concerned.

“As soon as we are out of this group of meteorites I’ll put the autopilot. No need to worry. If there’s any problem, my ship will wake me up.” He reassured her.

But she didn’t move from her seat. She stared at the sidereal starscape; her gaze appeared to be lost somewhere far away. “It’s more than an automatic voice. Isn’t it?”

Killian fixed his sight to the horizon, as well. Emma thought that she may have trespassed some unspoken boundary, that the question she did was probably far too intimate to receive a proper answer. But after a few minutes of silence, he sighed “Aye. It’s my brother Liam.”

“How...?” She started to ask, and he could hear the wonderment in her voice, but then she changed the question: “What happened?”

“We were serving in the Royal Army, back on our planet. Liam was the captain of this spaceship. I was his lieutenant. Our King entrusted a perilous mission to us; I knew it was a suicide mission, but Liam was stubborn and very strict when it came to following orders. He didn’t make it. He died in my arms. I…” Killian breathed deeply. “I put his heart in the innermost part of this ship’s system. Powered by strong hydrogen electrodes I somehow manage to preserve his… soul? Being? I don’t even know what it is, but at least I still hear his voice.”

She didn’t react immediately to his story. She was probably assimilating the new pieces of information about him. Killian internally cursed because he couldn’t stop concentrating on the outer path, while he would have liked to have given her his full attention, to understand what was brewing in that beautiful head of hers.

When she kept silent for longer than he could bear, he couldn’t help avert his eyes from the meteorites just enough time to see her smiling at him. That was unexpected.

“I’m sorry for your brother, but now I understand your rejection of royalty.” She chuckled softly: “and your troubles in following orders.”

Killian found himself smiling too.

It was nice to spend a few moments with her sitting next to him, it reminded him of when he used to sit exactly where she was now, just to keep his older brother company during the night travels. A feeling of long-forgotten joy at the domestic situation warmed his heart.

They managed to pass the group of meteorites without any major consequences, and now there were only stars and distant planets in their sight. “This is beautiful,” Emma stated.

“Aye. It is.” Killian agreed, then he pushed a couple of buttons and lifted a lever in front of him activating the autopilot. “And now, I can finally stretch my bones on that hammock.”

“How can you sleep on that thing?”

“You wouldn’t say it, Swan, but it’s quite comfortable.” Then, wagging his eyebrows, he added: “I could show you how to relax on it?”

What was he doing? Was he flirting with her? But the shared moments before had left them in a bubble of closeness, and he was feeling audacious.

His attempt gained him a roll of eyes from her. “Thank you for the offer, but not tonight.” She stood up and Killian expected a strategic retreat from her. But she went closer to him and bending down she whispered in his ear: “Maybe another time.”

Killian’s jaw dropped open. Was she flirting back? While the door of his cabin was sliding close he could only mutter “Bloody Hell!”

#cs ff #cs au #Till the Stars Had Run Away #alternative universe - science fiction #space au #My writing

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junewild · 4 years

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tags masterpost

a couple of people have complimented me on my new tag system and a couple of people have asked me what tags go to what sort of content, so i thought i’d write up a little masterpost of what the tags mean, where they came from, and why they’re important to me! you’ll even get a sneak peek at a few tags that are very rare or have yet to be used 👀. this will be linked in my carrd when i get around to it. i’ve even tried to alphabetize them 😅 thanks for expressing interest, it’s very lovely of you all xoxo

#and i am close behind — home tag

a continuation of “the wild geese are heading home again” which is my nature tag. just for everything that makes me feel like i am coming home.

#and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart — quotes and words tag

from a poem by e.e. cummings. “and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart / i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)”. words are just hearts speaking to each other, after all.

#and i was like *screams* — space tag

from the jenny slate drunk history nasa episode, because she somehow manages to sum up fully 80% of my feelings about the universe in that one sentence

#angstposting — disordered thoughts tag

literally just stream-of-consciousness breakdown-posting. probably block this tag. i go back and clean it out after every breakdown.

#but they are all good stories — media analysis/literature critique tag

hilary mantel (whose work i have never read) wrote that “some of these things are true and some of them lies. but they are all good stories.” anyway, that’s how i feel about taking apart stories and narratives and looking at them from the outside.

#can you not hear the ocean in me — mental health and disorders tag

the non-breakdown version. from this poem, which i can’t find anyone but i think is a deleted inkskinned or caitlyn siehl one:

“i am alive;

can you not hear the ocean in me;

are you not aware of the war i am fighting ;

i am alive ;

you cannot take that from me”

#checkmate nihilism — crafts tag

higgsboshark wrote a lovely post about how knitting is a great treatment for existential dread & now that’s all i think about every time i’m crafting. checkmate, nihilism. look at this thing that i am making with my hands. it exists and it will change someone’s life.

#dumbposting — misc tag

for tag games and dumb comments and things that don’t fit in anywhere else.

#fashion is instant language — fashion/body art tag

okay. IS this a cliche prada quote? yes. but also, one of my first classes in college was about art & society & the first thing that we learned was that the human body is the first & most primal canvas. what you do with your body is a statement, a language you are sharing with the people around you. i get very emotional about it.

#felt rather than seen — poetry tag

YES i am a BASIC WHITE GIRL, thank you. the first half of the da vinci quote. “poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen / “

#fill your arms with the pink and white flowers — spring aesthetic tag

from one of mary oliver’s slightly less well known poems.

“do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, and softly

exclaiming of their dearness,

fill your arms with

the pink and white flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness

to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing

forever”

#get in good trouble — activism/politics tag

are you really living if you aren’t making trouble for someone? write more letters. leave more voicemails. go to protests. join a mutual aid group. donate. there’s something you can do, even if it’s small.

#i am building a world that is worth living for — moral living tag

slightly different from the activism tag bc this is more about what you/i can do in everyday life to make the world a better place. these are my own words, reminding me that to stay alive i have to build my own life and live in it.

#i care to look on the outside like i do on the inside — gender/ sexuality tag

maggie stiefvater is a poet.

#i have a magpie mind — happy tag

laurie graham’s version of the quote goes “i have a magpie mind, by which i mean i see and hear little things - photos, fragments of conversation - and store them away for future use,” and that’s what this tag is. just a lot of lovely things that i want to look back on.

#i think i was a selkie in a past life — ocean/beach/selkie myth tag

someday i’m going to walk into the ocean and never come out again. j promised he would take me to a warm ocean where i can stand in chest-deep waves until i can’t stand any longer and i’ve never looked forward to anything so much in my life.

#i wrote my own deliverance — creation/writing tag

this is not an admission of guilt. hamilton has a lot of words in it and these happen to be very nice.

#it would be a merrier world — food tag

because tolkien was right.

#laughter for no cause — humor tag

funny things. half of a quote by louise glück.

#let the wilderness engulf us again — discourse tag

i believe this is by christa wolf. anyway this is how i feel when i read Discourse. let’s all just get swallowed by the wilderness. who needs civilization anyway.

#loveposting — affection tag

look, i’m just really gay and happy and i love my followers and my mutuals. let’s move on

#nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it — memory/emotion tag

yes, i have read everything ever written by l m montgomery, why do you ask?

#offspring of heaven firstborn — light tag

constantly debating about whether i should change this one. i just have too many quotes about light. and too many posts about light. and too much love for light. this one is by milton, from the third book of paradise lost, and i memorized the entire chapter as a teenager because my “history” “class” believed in memorization as a form of education.

#our bodies are meant to hold other bodies — sex/eros tag

from that little comic by grendelmenz (?). i KNOW it’s about cannibalism i DON’T care don’t @ me to love is to consume

#seen rather than felt — painting/visual art tag

and here’s the other half of the da vinci quote.

#she stood in desperate music wound — music and playlists tag

from “a crazed girl” by yeats. tbh i usually lie upside down in my bed in desperate music wound but this poem kept me going as a teenager

#simply because the world is beautiful — misc tag

i just think the world is lovely and i am glad to be alive in it. this is where the rest of the assorted content goes.

#someday you will be old enough to read fairytales again — fantasy/gaming/scifi tag

cs lewis got one thing right.

#stardust will turn into kindness — joy tag

okay. okay i am still weeping about this man and his chickens. this tag is for every small creature who brings me delight. https://everychickdeservesamother.com/2019/08/17/all-the-good-there-is/

#thank god for the months after may — summer aesthetic tag

i haven’t listened to ben rector since i was seventeen but this is a good quote anyway and summer flowers are the thing that keep me going through the winter.

#the first sign of civilization is a healed femur — civilization/altruism/kindness tag

paraphrase of the famous (possibly apocryphal) margaret meade quote. i saw a criticism of it by the green brothers, who were like “but lots of people/animals show altruism without any connection to civilization (eg buildings and cities and record keeping systems)” and i deeply disagree with them. civilization doesn’t require monuments, only people coming together to build (metaphorically) something bigger than they could have done as individuals. humans aren’t the only ones on that path, just the ones who’ve gotten the furthest down it.

#the great sweeping wind — autumn aesthetic

yes i am a shameless l m montgomery stan. anne of green gables is my kindred spirit.

#the quick and the dead — fungi tag

from the bible. you know. we all sin, we’re all alive or dead or both. fungi don’t care.

#the race that knows joseph — kindred spirit tag

haven’t gotten to use this one yet. looking forward to when i do.

#the wild geese are heading home again — nature tag

shortened version of mary oliver’s poem.

#there is a history in all men’s lives — history/natural history/anthropology tag

shakespeare knew how to use words. everything is history and i am excited about ALL of it. when will someone admit me into a grad school???

#we are the children of an indifferent universe — community/fandom tag

but, like colin meloy says, we are also the inheritors of a wonderful world. i think it’s amazing how we look at the universe around us and build communities and find meaning out of sheer spite. also i have got to refine this tag set better i can’t just shove ALL fandom content into one tag. stay tuned

#we don’t love this world without reason — awe/joy tag

from catadromously’s comic. this is for things that make me go “oh.” when i see them.

#we shape our buildings; thereafter they shape us — architecture/interior design tag

churchill can have one right. architecture is one of my favorite art forms & interior design is something i love looking at and doing. someday i’ll even be able to afford it.

#we will be better than we were — recovery tag

from (yet another) caitlyn siehl poem that reads:

“love is quiet love whispers “it is okay, we will be better than we were” and we are. we are.”

and we are.

#within me; an invincible summer — winter aesthetic tag

albert camus wrote that: “in the midst of winter, i found there was, within me, an invincible summer. and that makes me happy. for it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.” winters are hard for me, but i hang on anyway.

#you have no idea the joy that is coming — love tag

guess who this quote is by? if you guessed caitlyn siehl, you are correct.

#you pull out the wild in me - feral aesthetic

not feral, just… wild. i don’t know. i don’t think i made this quote up but i can’t find it anywhere else so maybe i did. i’m guessing it’s now-deleted inkskinned or bonemeadows.

#you’ve got to be kind — misc humans tag

kurt vonnegut. because yeah. we’ve got to be kind. that’s the only rule. we’re just humans and we have to be kind.

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exalteranima · 4 years

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Haven't posted anything new in a while, just wanted to share my latest journal spread. Two Yeats poems + some collage + a magazine mini-review of one of my all-time favorite books.

And just for fun: I've already lined up some candidates for when I finish my current notebook. Though I'm still torn on which one to use next.

And yeah, those are a ton of stickers from my collection.

#notebooks #journals #journaling #commonplace book #smash book #mynotebooks #personal

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soracities · 4 years

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Helloooo!!! I love your blog and I always look forward to the works you share with us. As a lover of literature, how would you describe the major (most popular?) kinds of literature regarding themes? For example, Russian, German, French, American, Asian, and others? What do they typically revolve around or discuss, and which are your favorites ☺️ (I have a personal love for Japanese literature, always questioning the soul and existence)

oh i am absolutely not the best person for this, lovely--my reading is very scattered and very, very mood-based and i haven’t read nearly enough to be able to comment on this in any way. i’m also just...very hesitant about judging works culturally on a theme simply because, unless i’m from that culture or know that culture intimately, i think it is way too broad and sometimes it moves too close to notions of ‘national identity’ that are very open to exclusion and / or loss of nuance if we focus on that as a defining standard--culture is massively important, obviously, and i do not deny that at all, but i think that sometimes we may move along precedents that are based on outdated ideas or, if you’re not from the culture in question, preconceived notions that may not say as much about the work as we hope or expect--or they do say a lot but, at the expense of other equally important things because we aren’t looking for them--if that makes sense? like, i have very loose (ie. practically non-existent) ideas about what might constitute an “Irish” novel and while certain cultural factors do crop up through different works again and again (in every culture), someone like Yeats and Roddy Doyle are very different in my eyes and i’d feel uncomfortable approaching them as though they weren’t--both have had a massive impact and both are very, very Irish, but in most cases it’s Yeats’ view of Ireland that most people outside of the country recognise most, whereas for me it’s different.

this may just be me because i know i tend to be a bit cautious with these things but i’m just very wary of falling into stereotypical thinking because a) none of these cultures are mine and so i try to remain as open as possible and b) because i keep seeing what happens when you judge or presume all major works to adhere to a specific cultural expectation (i’m not saying it happens all the time but when, for example, you have an idea of the “typical” English novel, then sooner or later, someone, somewhere will want to define what “English” means and that has gotten very, very messy--the world of Zadie Smith is no less “English” than Dickens or Hardy but we still see the latter two as being the standard). on the whole i think sometimes specific historical periods probably give you a better idea of the main ideas that circulate in the works made at that time and the impact they had / what they show of a particular social consciousness. themes do come up again and again, across generations and they are very important but there are a lot of other things that play into them too or in how they manifest, and none of it is anything i am near learned enough to talk about, unfortunately.

in any case my favourites do tend to be a bit all over the place but they are all determined more by a particular mood than anything else i think--a lot of them are Middle Eastern or South American at the moment which i do have a very soft spot for, but my approach is the same as everything else in that i come to them on a writer-by-writer basis more so than any specific country. my starting point is usually just “read outside of English” and i just go from there ♡

#this is probably nothing that you asked for so im sorry bb #i love literature but my approach is ridiculous and v mood orientated which i think is probably of use to no one but me lol #ask #anonymous #notes from elsewhere

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meryton-etc · 4 years

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I saw @yeats-infection do this and I was so so so bored I decided it couldn’t hurt for me to do it too I shall tag @saumenschliesel, @combeferre, @likehandlingroses and anyone else who wants to do this, please do because it’s interesting to read!

ao3 name: InfiniteCalm

fandoms: I have written for many and then deleted them! At the minute it’s mostly Downton Abbey and Leonard Finch Grantchester. If you’d told me that this time last year I’d be so confused. I think then I was in the middle of the abandoned Merlin-realises-identity-politics-wont-save-him project. And of course Tolkein will forever have ownership rights to some of my brain real estate, though I find it difficult to write for that because the stories all seem quite complete to me.

number of fics: unlucky thirteen!

fic i spent the most time on: the hellish harry potter fic that was born out of a mental breakdown that i didn’t realise was a mental breakdown at the time. see if you can tell from the plot/prose/formatting....

fic i spent the least amount of time on: Lost in Translation just came and flowed and was finished during a time when that was particularly rare. I like it though! Nimona forever.

longest fic: Let’s not talk about TSOHS anymore!!!!!!

shortest fic: Let’s see... oh, it’s Photographs! I think I was 17 when I published that! So long ago... I still think the plot of this holds up, but obviously if I wrote it today I would change a great deal. Nimona was a really great webcomic, and I read it with two of my best friends. We were on a school trip once and had to go in search of wifi to steal in order to read the penultimate page.

most hits: i’m not talking about the real most hits!! The most hits of my Downton stories is Then Came Hallelujah Sounding, which checks out I guess, since I published so close to Christmas, which seems to be peak fanfic reading time.

most kudos: out of the Downton fics the most kudos is You’re Knee Deep in Clover. I guess because it has Daisy and Thomas dancing, Baxter/Molesley proposal etiquette and a nice little trauma response at the end. What more could you want from a fic?

most comment threads: Wake Up (Like This) and How the Note Lingers are tied for this one! Personally I find fic comments are the best things ever ever ever and I love them so much, and I’m glad that people responded to these stories so well in particular. The comments on How the Note Lingers were so so cool so thanks to youse for writing them :) also here I would like to stress that Wake Up (Like This) was such a joke title, it is not serious, please don’t take it seriously!!

most bookmarks: Overriding the question again! Both my Grantchester fics have one each (you know who you are <3 ). I love these scmoop-ridden cliché overwritten monstrosities so much. Thomas/Richard, despite being only 30 years apart from Leonard/Daniel, is an awful lot heavier than the latter, so it can be nice to write something where you don’t first have to work out how they get to each other’s houses.

total word count: 59,642???!!!!

favorite fic i wrote: choose between my babies? Or conversely, everything I’ve ever written is complete and utter garbage!! (It’s wake up like this)

fic i’d rewrite / expand on: like. at this stage, i read things and i’m like, everyone who says to edit things is clearly right! everything published is riddled with typos and sentences that make no sense because i cut out what went before it without reading over the paragraph. So in that sense, all of them! if i still liked HP i would rewrite TSOHS becuase there were some (some!!!!!) good ideas there.

share a bit of a WIP: under the cut! I have two “real” WIPs that i will not post because I’m superstitious so have a snippet of something i most likely will not post.

He’s a nervous little thing, though. A bit soft, though she’d never put it like that out loud. Sudden noises scare him- the news- traffic- his father. Too many adults looking at him have him shrinking shyly into her side, his hand searching for hers. He’s only four, she thinks desperately, he’s young enough to grow out of this stage yet, before we have to make him. He’s made friends with the little girl next door, and some of the older children are kind enough towards him, so at least there things are OK, and he’s not suffering the lack of siblings. His cousins are far away, and all older than him, though they do dote on him. And rightly enough, too. He’s a gangly, clumsy little thing, legs long, like saplings. He runs along after the other children. He’s trying his best.

...

One of the Flynns comes running in, followed by a grinning Leonard, interrupting their conversation with questions about their tea. Leonard comes over to her, his dirty little face flushed with fresh air and exercise, and he shows her the stuff they found on their adventure- bits of dirt, mostly, but not as bad as the time they brought a live leech home to show everyone. When they get home to start preparing their own tea, he makes her laugh by trying out some of Mrs Flynn’s idiosyncratic phrases in conversation. He’s full, these days, of malapropisms. But she looks at him gazing at the newspaper, tracing the headlines and frowning at the smaller print, and thinks that before long he’ll be using those words properly. He seems so young, to be sent away to school. But there it is.

#my fic #tag #ask me something!!!

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goodlucktai · 5 years

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without knowing how, or when, or from where

good omens pairing: aziraphale/crowley, crowley & warlock word count: 3517 part 4 of the is there a better bet than love? series read on ao3

Crowley is keeping a secret.

Come now, you old fusspot, Aziraphale scolds himself immediately after the initial thought. It’s not as though we live in each other’s pockets. A fellow is allowed to have his own life.

It’s just that— well, there’s no reason to live separately anymore, to be apart, not really. Weeks after the almost-end of the world, they’ve settled into the same side, their own side. There’s no need to be skulking about at odd hours so their superiors don’t get the wrong idea, no need to force distance and affect indifference.

And Crowley is such a darling now that he has room to be. Slinking in to share Aziraphale’s company every evening— and then, soon after that, to share his bed. He presses into Aziraphale’s hands at night, into the curve of his body, like a heat-seeking missile, like a creature left out in the cold. Not entirely sure of his welcome, not quite yet, but coming closer with every morning he wakes up in Aziraphale’s arms.

(They kiss, and they hold one another, and they go no farther than that. Crowley isn’t interested in carnal pleasures, and Aziraphale would only be if he was. It’s a blessing just to have him; to reach out and trace the curve of his cheek or the red of his hair and feel him lean into the touch; to finally love him as he deserves to be loved, utterly and with gleeful abandon.)

This intimacy they have found is something precious to the both of them. Aziraphale doesn’t want to begrudge his snake a single thing, but he doesn’t understand what place any secret might still have between them.

He brings it up to the Reading Circle one dreary Thursday morning, hoping for advice.

They’re a group of six or so seventy-something year old women who have taken to the shop twice a week ever since the church whose basement they used to meet in snubbed Greta’s gay granddaughter and henceforth incited the Circle’s collective, not-inconsiderable wrath.

The women refer to Crowley as Aziraphale’s “charming young man,” and keep Aziraphale up-to-date on all of the juicy Soho gossip, and have never attempted to make a single purchase. He quite adores them.

To his immediate consternation, the women exchange weighted, knowing glances.

“Well,” Laura says, “he’s a flash young thing. It could be that he’s not quite ready to settle down yet. Lord knows my Hector was flighty at that age.”

It takes Aziraphale longer than he’s proud of to realize what they’re implying, and then his first impulse is to laugh aloud despite all the feathers he ruffles in doing so.

“Forgive me,” he says, pressing a hand to his mouth. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid you’ve got quite the wrong idea about my Crowley.”

After six thousand years of not-very-subtle adoration and foolhardy devotion, the demon’s commitment can hardly be called into question; but Aziraphale can’t very well explain as much to the ladies in his shop. He pours out more tea and smiles to himself while they witter, deciding he might as well stop beating around the bush and just ask Crowley directly when he comes— here, a happy thrill at the concept— home.

And so that evening, after dinner together and a half a bottle of very fine red wine, he does. Crowley doesn’t look surprised to be caught out. He rubs a hand through his hair thoughtlessly, leaving it a charming mess, and can’t seem to meet Aziraphale’s eyes even from behind those silly glasses.

“I’d hoped to get away with it for just a bit longer, angel.”

Aziraphale is more relieved than anything that it wasn’t just the product of a restless imagination. He sets aside his crossword and beckons Crowley closer, having had quite enough of him existing outside of arm’s reach.

Crowley slinks across the room readily, climbing over the angel’s lap to get to the corner of the sofa he prefers. Tucked up against Aziraphale’s side, under his arm and against his chest, the tension ebbs out of his body like water down a drain.

“This is the part where you yell at me, I’d imagine,” he mumbles into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I should certainly think not,” Aziraphale says primly.

They bicker over just about everything— from any manner of theological issue to whose turn it is to pay the cheque at dinner to who cheated who in an Olympic game they both competed in nearly three thousand years ago— because it’s fun, even at its most annoying. Aziraphale’s fellow angels are humorless, and Crowley has implied that an argument in Hell is likely to spiral into a knife fight within the space of a few ill-chosen words, so they tend to pounce on any argument that lands between them with all the full-ahead eagerness of jousters in a tiltyard.

But they don’t raise their voices in true anger. It would hardly be worth the two steps back, when each step forward is a thrilling victory. It would be hard to summon the vitriol in the first place, really, when life is so pleasant anymore.

It’s still raining outside, and Beethoven is playing on the gramophone in the front room, and even Crowley’s plants are waving ever so slightly back and forth in perfect contentment.

Aziraphale says, “Tell me, love. I’m listening.”

Nanael has discovered poetry. They have spent countless hours curled up in an overstuffed armchair with a pile of books that refuses to shrink, doing nothing but drinking in the art of language that humans have dreamed up.

They are new to the concept of time, of seasons and changing things, but it has been about a year since they arrived in London. A year and four days, to be precise, marked by Crowley coming by with a clear pastry box containing a Battenberg cake that he plopped without ceremony on top of the jigsaw puzzle Nanael was picking their way through.

It looked very much like the same cake they’d eaten on their very first day here at the shop, right down to the expertly quilted pattern on the white marzipan.

“What’s this for?” Nanael asked, touching the green ribbon gingerly.

“Sort of your birthday, innit,” the demon had muttered before stalking off to the back room, leaving a fondly bemused Aziraphale to explain the concept of anniversaries and celebrations and birthday gifts.

Four days later, Nanael still smiles when they think of the cake. They have been on earth for a year, and they’re beginning to understand why Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, never came home. There are certainly no birthday gifts in Heaven.

The door above the bell rings, and Nanael looks up from their book in time to watch a man step inside. At the very least, they mentally amend a moment later, a man-shaped entity. He isn’t doing a very good job of suppressing his demonic energies, letting them flare and catch about Nanael’s periphery like fire.

Nanael tenses, but doesn’t leap from behind the counter or issue any Holy demands. They’re a little bit embarrassed about that sort of thing now, and waits instead for the demon to make his own introduction.

“To hear Hastur tell it, Crowley’s lost the plot,” he remarks snidely, by way of hello. “Far as I’m concerned, this sounds like the place to be. Where is he?”

His— her, Nanael can see now— voice is incongruent with her form, not entirely human, as though she hasn’t quite mastered this whole mortal flesh malarkey. It’s reminiscent of Poe, and makes Nanael think of talking ravens, and they’re rather charmed by the whole thing where they should probably rightly be horrified.

“Oh, you know Crowley,” Nanael says, relieved. “He and Aziraphale are out to lunch.”

Nanael was invited along, but one of the ladies in the Reading Circle gave them a Meaningful Look and said it was important for couples to have Alone Time every now and again. Nanael isn't sure what they meant by that, because there’s no stopping Aziraphale from looking at Crowley as though he hung the stars even when they’re surrounded by company— and that’s perfectly reasonable, Nanael thinks fairly, because Crowley did— but they went alone to lunch, anyway, and Nanael got to know Yeats instead.

And that is why, now, they are alone in the bookshop with an unfamiliar demon. They don’t regret it, though; Yeats has been worthwhile.

(There is a whole stack of nineteenth century poets, shelves and shelves of them, and Aziraphale says they’re dear to him; he says they kept him company when he was quite lonely, but he never says it when Crowley is around to overhear. For this reason, even though Nanael doesn’t fully understand it, those poets are dear to them, too.)

“Out to lunch?” the demon looks nonplussed. It’s a more pleasant look than the sneer had been. “Is that code for something?”

“What would it be code for? They went for Italian.” Nanael doesn't know if that meant an Italian restaurant nearby or the country of Italy, and they didn't think to ask.

“The Serpent doesn’t eat, ” the demon says. She sounds as petulant as a child Nanael overheard the other day, discussing the existence of Santa Claus with her mother. “It’s one of the oldest curses in the Book. ‘On your belly you shall go, and you shall eat dust all the days of your life.’ The punishment for creating original sin would have to be steep, wouldn’t it?”

She says it with a strange, backwards sort of delight, almost awe. Nanael’s heart— fragile, unreliable human thing that it is— gives a painful lurch.

Surely not, they think, but it’s more out of reflexive horror than anything else, desperation to deny the very idea.

All of those pleasant afternoons at all of Aziraphale’s favorite restaurants swim to the front of their mind; trying dish after dish of unfamiliar cuisine with their fellow angel while Crowley only nursed a glass of wine.

They think of their birthday cake.

Hands curled into loose fists, Nanael’s eyes stray from the stranger before them and toward a certain selection of books at the back— books that they were told to steer clear of until they had a better grasp on things.

“Tricky business, occult science,” Aziraphale had said. “You’re just as likely to lay a curse as break one if you don’t get the inflection right. Best keep out of it for now, hm?”

Nanael, in what was becoming habit, had looked to Crowley for the final word on the matter. Crowley leaned back on his elbows and said, “No knowledge is off-limits, Feathers, but you wouldn’t give an eight-year-old a book on astrophysics and expect them to work it out for themselves, would you? If there’s something you want to know in particular, just ask.”

And that had been that. But now… well, things have changed, haven’t they? That’s what things do, here on earth, is change, almost constantly.

The demon leaves with an unsettling lack of farewell, but Nanael hardly notices her go. They’re venturing into the stacks they’ve never ventured into before, abandoning their poets to reach instead for a book in weathered blue binding. The title has mostly faded; all that’s left of it reads Tractatulus Hyprocratis, and Nanael isn’t sure what that translates to.

But there are dictionaries here. There are encyclopedias and thesauruses. One of the first things Nanael learned was how to learn, and they lock up the shop with a thought and circle back to the chair that has become theirs.

If Crowley is cursed, it hardly seems fair that Nanael should have to sit around all this knowledge that might be of help to him and not be allowed to pursue it.

“I heard your parents are sending you away,” Roman says in a rather nasty tone of voice.

Warlock sizes him up, and Roman sees him sizing him up and puts a healthy extra step of distance between them. It isn’t that Warlock is very big or very strong, it’s just that Warlock doesn’t think twice about starting fights, and he’ll go to twice as much length as anyone else will to finish them.

“Whoever told you that’s a liar,” Warlock bites out. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s thirteen now, with grades near the top of his class after that dismal year between ten and eleven. His teachers aren’t sure what to make of him, but he’d tell them if they just asked; that Nanny said Warlock could do much better than he’d been doing, that it’s one thing to punish the people who hurt you but a whole ‘nother when that punishment bends back around onto you.

It wasn’t hard to tidy his grades up after that. He’s not an idiot.

“That’s not what dad said,” Margo pipes up. “Dad told me your dad told him that you’re on the waiting list for a program for troubled youth. Very private. Almost like they want to keep you a secret.”

The rest of the group gets a big laugh out of that, and Warlock glares at the bunch of snow weighing down a low-hanging branch above the sidewalk, willing it to fall on their heads.

Whether by nature or influence, it does. They shriek in surprise, and it’s Warlock’s turn to laugh.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says again, just so they don’t get any more stupid ideas. “I’ve got plans, you see.”

And then he rushes the rest of the way home, careful not to slip on the icy pavement, because it’s Friday, and Friday means Nanny will be there to pick him up after school.

“Oh, I forgot,” Nanael says. They’re hiding whatever book they’re reading in an open magazine, and Aziraphale hasn’t come around to asking why yet. Some things are better left untroubled. “Crowley, someone came looking for you. A demon. I didn’t get her name.”

Aziraphale sharpens, pen going still above his ledger. Crowley doesn’t look half as worried. He hardly looks up from his phone.

“As long as it’s me they’re looking for,” he says. “I’ll tighten up the wards tonight.”

“As long as— “ Aziraphale frowns mightily. “Danger to you is still danger, Crowley. We’ll tighten up the wards right now.”

“It's not as though they'll be back before dinner,” Crowley grumbles, but he picks his feet up off the ottoman and pushes himself upright nonetheless. He makes a show of it, making sure to look impossibly put-upon, and Aziraphale feels himself bristling.

“After what happened the last time we had unwanted guests,” he says tightly, unhappy, “I hope you’ll forgive my taking extra precautions.”

Crowley winces. Nanael looks stricken, and then miserable. “I’ve told Daniel not to come here again,” they say, picking guiltily at the edge of their strange amalgamation of reading material. “She promised she wouldn’t.”

“Well, that’s one angel we can cross off the list, then. We only have the rest of the combined forces of Heaven and Hell left to worry about.”

Aziraphale bustles into the front room, feeling prickly and restless. The idea of danger looms in all the dark corners of the dimly lit shop. Crowley follows, as silent as a winged creature, or in this case, one with scales.

He steps into Aziraphale's space, looping those long arms around his middle, and Aziraphale is distracted by him, the warmth of him. His hands come up almost on their own to hold Crowley where he is.

��You’re working yourself up, angel. There’s no need. We’re safe as houses, here in your little shop. I’d like to see old Michael take a swing at one of us behind these walls.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Aziraphale murmurs. “The last thing we need now is to invoke one of them.”

“We’ll tighten the wards,” Crowley says, giving, as always, where Aziraphale is stubbornly set in his ways. He's rubbing small circles against Aziraphale's back, the original tempter, convincing him to let go of all this reasonable worry despite himself. “Not even a mouse will get in without our knowing about it."

"I'm hardly worried about mice, my dear," Aziraphale says sternly, but it's a losing battle. "If anything were to happen to you— "

"I know, Aziraphale." Truly, he must. He watched the shop burn down and for a few bleak hours believed half of his soul was lost for good. Aziraphale can barely stomach the idea of such grief, and holds him tighter, as if to make up for not holding him then. "Nothing will. As long as we're together, we can weather anything they throw at us. It's worked out this far, hasn't it?"

"For better or worse."

Crowley leans back, eyes fully yellow, pupils round in the low light.

"They won't take me," he vows, vehement, full of a caring that crouches in his chest like a creature with teeth. "And they won't touch you. I swear it."

And what could he say? Aziraphale leans in to kiss him when the words all fail, on the corner of the mouth, the cheek, the stark lines of his tattoo, the lid of his eye, that stubborn brow. Faith and love and trust coalescing inside him into something fearsome, something next to divine.

He's afraid he's gotten used to being afraid, but for Crowley, Aziraphale would brave anything.

“Oh, darling, there was no need for secrecy and subterfuge. You need only tell me these things.”

Crowley squirms. Aziraphale lifts his sunglasses away with a proprietary air, then lifts his chin and holds him there. He strokes Crowley’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, one of those throwaway moments of intimacy that still blow Crowley’s mind. He hasn’t reconciled himself to this new normal as easily as Aziraphale has. He has to fight not to shiver when all of the angel’s attention or affection bends his way.

“After six thousand years of doing whatever I’d like to do,” Aziraphale says fondly, “it’s rather past time I indulge whatever whims of yours that I can, hm?”

“This is more than a whim, ” Crowley hedges. He was expecting more of an argument; he doesn’t know what to do with such an easy victory. “It’s a— it’s a whole kid.”

“He's important to you,” Aziraphale says, as if it’s that simple.

And so Warlock Dowling comes to the bookshop in Soho for a visit, wide-eyed and clutching to the hem of Crowley’s jacket, incredibly small, infinitely human.

But there is nothing fragile in the way he lifts his chin and seems to dare Aziraphale or Nanael to tell him he isn’t welcome. As though a child should expect to be told he isn’t welcome.

“Hello, dearest,” Aziraphale says. Crowley can see him remembering the boy when he was very young, when he still toddled around the gardens asking about all the flowers and bugs. “I’m not sure if you remember me.”

Something like fondness springs into Warlock’s eyes, as if it was just waiting for the invitation.

“Brother Francis,” he says promptly, a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. “Nanny said you fixed your teeth and left the church.”

Nanael makes a noise like a cat whose tail has just been stepped on, and turns bodily away to look with such pointed indifference at a shelf of self-help books that it’s obvious they’re suppressing laughter.

Aziraphale says “oh, really” and Crowley favors him with his most devil-may-care grin.

“Nanny said I could call him Crowley now, but it’s okay if I don’t,” Warlock goes on. “Is there something different you want to be called, too?”

A polite little Hellspawn when it suits him, Crowley thinks with displaced pride. He can see Aziraphale melting like butter, opening his mouth presumably to tell Warlock he can call him by whatever name he’s most comfortable with, when someone knocks on the shop window.

She’s a harried looking middle-aged woman, tapping her knuckles right next to where the Closed sign is hanging and seeming adamant about coming in anyway.

Warlock glares, and the shade comes crashing down with enough force that it knocks the window display clean over. The tapping, at least, stops dead.

“Oops,” says Warlock, shamefaced. He scurries over to pick up the fallen books, though he doesn’t bother lifting the shade. “Sorry.”

Crowley glances back at Aziraphale to find him stunned, staring at the books on the floor in bewilderment. Crowley rubs the back of his head, and says, “Yeah, um— there’s that, too. I think we may have believed in him a bit too much, during his formative years. Put some thoughts in his head that, er, took root.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says faintly. He comes to stand at Crowley’s side, watching Nanael crouch next to Warlock and show him how much more fun it is to order reality about with a snap of one’s fingers rather than a glare.

“If you’re Crowley’s child, you’ll pick it up right away,” Nanael says with perfect confidence.

Warlock brightens, and Crowley pretends not to notice the way Aziraphale is smiling at him.

#good omens #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #warlock dowling #nanny crowley #my writing #gomens fic #nanael is here to stay everyone #and Dont Worry that demon is too #is there a better bet than love

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britneyshakespeare · 5 years

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Get to Know Me tag

thank you so much @ohwhatamessiam <333 it’s been awhile since I did one of these :-)

Name: Diana

Height: 5′7

Wearing: An old high school improv shirt and some jeggings I’ve had for like 7 years

Introvert or Extrovert: Introvert

Siblings: One twin sissy and two brothers, 4 and 6 years older than me

Following: Ugh too many. I hardly use my dash anymore. Lemme check... 865. I should go and check when they’ve all last been active and stuff though.

Followers: I hit 3,000 just the other day so probably like... 3,002

Degrees: I graduated from high school, barely, after 4 tumultuous personal years and now I attend community college to become a teacher

Instruments: I used to play guitar but I don’t really anymore

Favorite author: Author like novelist author or writer in general? My favorite writer is William Shakespeare because I’m a basic bitch but I also love Emily Dickinson, Oscar Wilde, Christina Rossetti, W. B. Yeats, John Donne, Alexander Pope, Anne Sexton, and many others.

Favorite Star Wars: I’ve never served in a star war.

Last Google search: Don’t make me check. I think I was trying to guess how much older King Princess was than me.

Recommend a video game: I’ve only really played different Animal Crossing and Pokemon games. Unless you count mindless apps in which case lmao, Candy Crush.

Recommend a music album: (lmao ‘music album’ makes me laugh) idk maybe, So You’re Gonna Die by Get Set Go if we wanna talk obscure shit. If I let my basic bitch colors show then my favorite album of all time is the White Album by the Beatles, so judge me how you will for it.

Recommend a book: My favorite books of all time are Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, David Copperfield by Charles Dickens, and Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. I love each and every one of those so much, I’m always thinking about them. If we expand this to plays, we could be here all day.

Recommend a recipe: I’m a female born after 1993. I can’t cook, all I know is McDonald’s, charge my phone, twerk, be bisexual, eat hot chip & lie.

Share a creative thought that you had today: I consider all thoughts to be creative, as they originate within oneself as a new phenomenon each time. Even if it’s a thought one has had before it’s being enjoyed in a new context, because one has never lived this present moment ever before. And if by ‘creative thought’ you mean, something specifically artistic or philosophical, idk, maybe my spiel on all thoughts being inherently creative means something to you. Idk.

Anywho I love you all, and since I haven’t been as active on Tumblr in the last few months I think I’m gonna stick to tagging mainly some old friends, I’m sorry, I’ve missed a lot of you <33 But anyone who sees this and wants to take part can do it, whether we’re mutuals or not, idc. I’d love to be tagged by anyone.

@sneez @pavlovers @mylittlehappy @szappan @aliceic @ulitki @bohemian-brian @lonelyraddish @funky-plant-friend @buddyhollyscurls @dj-bi-luigi2005 @doitforparamore @revolutionarygirldaemona @gelaxy @toomcflyforawhiteguy if y’all want to <3 <3

#tag #love you all

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thejilyship · 5 years

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3, 12, 21?

Alright, I know I’m a few days late, but here we are!

3. Favorite line/scene you wrote this year

Oh no. I’m going to have to go and search. I wrote a lot this year. A lot that I’m proud of. The Petalpocalypce, Fighting the Odds and Let Me Love You. And those last two I’ve been wanting to write for years now, I’ve tried to write the princess diaries au a few different times now (I finally gave up trying to make James, Nick, and things fell into place nicely)

This is one of my favorites though:

He reached up and caught her hand before she pulled away.

“I’m gonna keep this for a while.”

“My hand?”

James smiled and nodded. “Yeah.” He laced his fingers through hers.

“Your phrasing could use some work.”

“I’m drunk.” He shrugged, none too concerned since she was letting him hold her hand while she was in his bed, wearing his clothes. He laughed. “This is a dream isn’t it? We fell asleep on the couch hours ago and this is all just a dream.”

“Pretty tame for a dirty dream.”

James looked at her with his brow raised. “Who said anything about a dirty dream?” He wanted to make her blush, but she just stuck him with a look and then laughed.

“So in this dream that you’re having about me, I build a wall of pillows between us?”

James smirked and started playing with her fingers. “Sure, but you let me hold your hand.”

12. Favorite character to write about this year

Hmm. I don’t know if I can choose between James and Lily. I have so much fun playing them off the other,

I think I’ve had a lot of fun with Mary MacDonald this yeat. She should be a fixture in Lily’s life in my opinion.

21. Most memorable comment/review

Obviously the most memorable comment came from @petals-to-fish when she recorded her live reaction to Petalpocalypse. That was amazing.

But to be completely honest, I fricking love every single comment I get from ya’ll. The jily fandom, by far, is such a nice group of people who are so supportive and kind to one another and it always makes me feel good when I read comments on my fics. I love knowing that I helped someone through a bad day, or that I moved them so much that they cried at work, or to know that I made you laugh or that how I wrote the characters is how you see them. I love it when you guys share your thoughts with me

#responses #ask game #I didn't expect these questions to take so long to answer #letthebookbegin

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thesimplyluxuriouslife · 5 years

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255: 34 Inspiring Daily Rituals to Ignite Your Creativity

We talk quite often about the importance of routine, and how by having a routine, we actually set ourselves free, especially our minds. And it is in that vein that Mason Curry shares his two books Daily Rituals. His second is focused entirely on Women at Work, sharing the routines and preferences of creative women who lived and created over the past four centuries.

I thoroughly enjoyed his second book, even more than the first which I also found great inspiration. It was refreshing to see so many women living their lives in a variety of different ways, but all in which they discovered worked well for them and the craft they most loved.

Not all of the ideas resonated with me, but it was wonderful to get into the minds for a moment of these women and how they approached their days. I highlighted vigorously from beginning to end, and would like to share 34 daily routines to consider to enable your creative ideas to flow freely and without withdrawal.

Some will speak to you, some will not, but each one is inspired by a woman's routine which is shared in the book: Daily Rituals: Woman at Work - 143 artists on how they paint, write, perform, direct, choreograph, design, sclpt, compose, dance, etc.

~Be sure to tune into the audio version of the podcast where much more discussion takes place on each point.

1.Begin with a hot glass of lemon water

Designer Elsa Schiaparelli woke up at 8 am, sipped lemon-juice-and-water and a cup of tea for breakfast as she read the papers, handled private correspondence, made telephone calls and gave the menus of the day to the cook.

2. Wake up early if that is when your creativity is most fruitful

—Lillian Hellman would wake up at 6am.

—Marie Bashkirtseff would wake up at 6am

—Maggie Hambling wakes up at 5am each morning

"I get up between three or four o'clock in the morning, because that's my best writing time." —Octavia Butler

3. If spending less time with people fuels your creativity, embrace it fully

"I enjoy people best if I can be alone much of the time. I used to worry about it because my family worried about it. And I finally realized: This is the way I am. That's that." —Octavia Butler in 1998

4. If traditional "holidays" don't work for you, create your own, or dive into what you love.

Coco Chanel worked six days a week, and dreaded Sundays and holidays. As she told one confidant, "That word, 'vacation,' makes me sweat."

5. Greet the day in a habitual way that sets the tone for a great day

6. Live your ideas, don't talk about them

"People would sit around and talk about things constantly. I never really went in for that. If you talk something out, you will never do it. You can spend every evening talking with your friends and colleagues about your dreams, but they will remain just that —dreams." —choreographer Martha Graham

7. Keep a small journal next to your bed to capture ideas

"I always have notebook and pencil on the table at my bedside. I may wake up in the middle of the night with something I want to put down." —American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay

8. If you work at home, carve out a part of the day to get out of the house and just absorb inspiration or let go of the day completely

"In the nocturnal evening, I get the hell out to some movie or damn play and I come back and sleep like a rock." —Frida Kahlo

9. Figure out the ingredients that are needed to let the ideas find you

To develop a new work of choreography, Agnes de Mille needed 'a pot of tea, walking space, privacy and an idea'.

10. Don't feel obligated to keep the same schedule when you are in the middle of creating your art or craft

Margaret Bourke-White required long periods of solitude to write, with as few interruptions as possible." In an interview with a Life photographer Nina Leen, Leen remembers after asking her if she would have lunch with her, "She told me she was writing a book and there was no hope of a lunch for several years.

11. Don't feel bad for loving your work and working on what you love beyond the traditional work hours.

"Everything seems petty and uninteresting, everything except my work . . . ". Russian-born painter and sculptor Marie Bashkirtseff

12. Do something during the day that is relaxing and keeps you present

'I relax before lunch by arranging flowers . . . When these are all beautifully arranged in bowls and vases, it's usually lunch time." —English actress Gertrude Lawrence

13. Have a studio or space of your own to create

"The most important thing is to have a studio and establish and preserve its atmosphere." —Agnes Martin

14. If you love solitude, embrace it

"But it is, as Yeats said, a 'solitary sedentary trade.' And I did a lot of gardening and cooked my own food, and listened to music, and of course I would read. I was really very happy. I can live a solitary life for month at a time, and it does me good." —poet Katherine Anne Porter

15. Trust your intuition as to what works best for you

"It's not right if it doesn't feel right." —English painter Bridget Riley

16. Find regular time to just read what you love

Rachel Whiteread [English sculptor] would "at some point stop for lunch, and she'd often spend an hour of the day reading sitting in a comfortable chair away from her desk.

17. Establish a flexible routine to work with what you need

Morning routine: "Zittel feeds her chickens, waters plants, and performs other outdoor chores before meditating, taking a shower, making breakfast and getting dressed. In the winter, Zittel's morning schedule reverses: She meditates, showers and eats breakfast first; then, once the sun has raised the outdoor temperature, she heads out on her hike and does chores. 'It's really all about establishing a flexible routine."Andrea Zittel, an American artist, in 2017

18. Don't quit trying to live the life you wish to live

"It never occurred to me that I couldn't live the life I wanted to lead. It never occurred to me that I could be stopped . . . I had this very simple view: that the reason people who start out with ideals or aspirations don't do what they dream of doing when they're young is because they quit. I thought, well, I won't quit." —Susan Sontag

19. Try a crossword puzzle like Joan Mitchell

20. Determine what view in your studio/sanctuary/work space is most productive for inspiration

"Where do I write? In a Morris chair beside the window, where I can see a few trees and a patch of sky, more or less blue." —Kate Chopin, American writer

21. End the day with a signal to your mind to relax

"During the performance I drink water with breadcrumbs, which is most refeshing. After the ballet I have a bath as soon as possible. Then I go out to dinner, as by that time I have an unmerciful hunger. When I get home I drink tea." —Russian prima ballerina Anna Pavlova

22. Let baths be your creative muse

"Baths also played a part in her creative process - a post-breakfast bath enjoyed regularly by Virginia Woolf.

23. Let lunch be a true mid-day break

At 1:00 p.m., Hambling has lunch, takes her Tibetan terrier, Lux, for a walk, and switches on the television to satisfy her tennis addiction.

24. Write when inspiration hits - even if it is in bed in the morning so as not lose the ideas.

25. Go outside and breathe in the fresh air

"Fresh air and cold water are my stimulants." —Harriet Martineau - the first female sociologist

26. Enjoy someone's company for tea, lunch or a walk regularly

Emily Post would regularly welcome a guest or two for tea in the afternoon.

27. It's okay for your personal time to be less than what others feel is acceptable

"It seems to me you have to have your personal life organized so that it takes as little of your time as possible. Otherwise you can't make your art." –Eleanor Antin

28. Don't expect the routine to come naturally, create one and stick with it as it enables you to flourish

29. Cook and walk

"The only other essential component of her day is a twice-daily walk with her dog, during which she avoids thinking about her writing project. In the evening, she makes herself a simple dinner and goes to bed at 10:00 or 11:00 p.m.." —Isabel Allende

30. Create space for your ideas to be seen

"Open a gap for them, create a space. Be patient." — Hilary Mantel

"I think the way to become inspired is to empty your mind and let things come into your mind." —Joan Jonas

31. Do you and don't apologize

"I live here as in Paris. I rise every day at 5 o'clock; I drink my two large glasses of hot water; I take my coffee; I write when I am alone, which is rare; I do my hair in company; I dine every day with the king, chez lui, or with him and les seigneurs. I make calls after dinner; I go to the theater; I return to my place at ten o'clock; I drink my hot water , and I go to bed." —Marie-Thérèse Rodet Geoffrin, a major salonniéres of the French Englightenment

32. Turn on music paired with your favorite drink to start the day

"I wake about nine, turn on the symphony and have juice, fruit and a pot of black coffee . . . " —Grace Hartigan, American painter

33. Leave evenings open for your social engagements

"In the evening, she would see a friend for dinner or attend another social engagement. But the real key to this perfect writing day, she said, was to know that the following day would be exactly the same." —Eudora Welty

34. Be patient until you find what works, then cherish it

"Trial and error, and then when you've found your needs, what feeds you, what is your instinctive rhythm and routine, then cherish it." —novelist Doris Lessing

~SIMILAR POSTS/EPISODES YOU MIGHT ENJOY:

~Why Not . . . Be Creative?

~The Benefit of Daily Rituals

~The Importance of a Daily Routine & How to Create One You Love, episode #164

Petit Plaisir:

~Chilled Cucumber and Yogurt Soup with Dill and Fresh Mint, a Patricia Wells recipe, click here for the recipe

~Why Not . . . Grow a(n) Herb Garden?

~Check out TSLL's IG account, see the Highlights and Part 3 of my FR Trip '18 - mid-roll to see the presentation of the dish in Provence.

~Chilled Cucumber and Yogurt Soup with Dill and Fresh Mint, enjoyed in Provence with Patricia Wells and the other cooking class students during the summer of 2018~

~the same dish served this past weekend as the second course during a dinner party at my home. Cool and crisp cucumber and yogurt soup.~

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