#i'll see you in court stephen king

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Manifessstoss

Stephen King: hey guys aren't you all excited for the next cormoran strike novel? Poe: Barker: Koontz: Lovecraft: King: boy, i sure hope robin and cormoran finally act on the repressed feelings Joanne has hinted at for the previous 7 books! King: i feel like they're due

Poe: just out of curiosity steve Poe: what exactly do you like about those books so much King: well, for starters, they're very very long! King: i dunno, i just find that relatable

JK Rowling: hello children Stephen King: joanne! King: when is your next cormoran strike book coming out?! King: i'm on the edge of my seat! Rowling: sssorry ssteve i've got sssome internet beefss that take priority

Rowling: i don't really write booksss anymore King: but joanne! i need closure on the cormoran/robin supercouple storyline! Barker: oh my god steve stop it you're embarrassing yourself Barker: it's fucking cormorant shrike Barker: have some dignity

Rowling: IT'SS CORMORAN SHRIKE Rowling: YOU'RE SSSAYING IT WRONG ON PURPOSSSE, I KNOW YOU ARE Rowling: well jussst you wait, you'll get yoursss Rowling: your kind is on my lissst Barker: "my kind?" Rowling: yeah i'll get to you eventually Rowling: probably by book 18 or so

Rowling: sssee, in every cormoran sssstrike book, i take aim at a different enemy of the people Rowling: the sssilk worm took on the transss Rowling: the ink black heart sshowed those autisticss a thing or two Rowling: and the running grave finally ended hippiesss!!

Rowling: expect book 8 to fatally sskewer the BIGGESST threat to englissh purity yet! Lovecraft: italians? Rowling: Rowling: no Rowling: acctually Rowling: actually yess tell me more about the italianss howard Rowling: they are kinda ssusss if you think about it

Rowling: but no it's not italianss! Barker: is it fat people? Rowling: Rowling: they're ALL about fat people Barker: oh i see why steve likes these books so much King: well gosh darn it it's just unhealthy ya know?

Rowling: look i'll get around to writing that book eventually Rowling: but lately i've been really busssy writing up these leaflets that ssay "if you want a [transphobic slur] for a neighbor, vote liberal or labor" for kids to pass out before the north birmingham by-election

Rowling: cuz you know labor'sss worked really hard to court me by becoming transsphobic Rowling: but i mean are they really transssphobic enough? Rowling: i posssit - they are not

[marblesarelost]

Update

Damn, it's been a while.

See, I have to get off Tumblr periodically and stay off for a while because unfortunately Tumblr can suck up all of my attention, leaving me with no time in which to actually, you know, work or anything. So when I disappear, dear friends, don't think I'm gone forever. It's just going to be a long break.

Since last I left you, I've been through court reporter school; the only thing I have left for said school is what's called a live mock, which is where a bunch of people pretend to be giving a deposition in which I have to keep up with what everyone's saying and make annotations.

I also am in ... limbo of sorts ... with a court reporting company, waiting to take and pass a live mock with them so I can actually start work. If any of you need a job, can type at a decent rate, and have no problems sitting for a long time, I highly recommend you check out The Court Reporting Academy; they have scholarships available if you're willing to do five jobs at a lower rate than normal, and once you pass, you can make really good money. Like, really good. I know of two court reporting agencies that are paying upwards of $30 an hour, and you can work from home.

So the biggest news is that @Palaquinn and I are living together now in a house. A house that we are buying. That's big news, you guys. The kids are all getting along pretty well, and while we still have boxes everywhere, we're all doing okay.

I'm about to start doing DDPY again, specifically his Kneehab program, because my knees keep getting worse. It wasn't so bad this time last year, but a year of living on the third floor walkup did not help them. That being said, it was my only recourse at that time, and it was a good apartment complex; never had any problem with the landlord or the neighbors, and God bless my downstairs neighbors patience with the fact that both my children walk like elephants.

Bee is doing well; they went to Chicago this summer to the SAIC Young Artists Program or whatever it's called, and they had a great time. They also earned two college credits doing it. I'm proud of them for so many things; they were able to navigate the streets of a very large city by themself, they were able to handle the activities of daily life by themself. Sometimes that can be challenging for them, so I'm proud.

Bonus Kiddo is doing well; they seem to be much more accepting of me these days, which is great, and they even let me hug them sometimes, which is awesome.

Palaquinn is, as always, amazing. I don't know what I'd do without him, it's one of those loves where you don't know how you breathed without them before. Going on two years now and we still have yet to have a fight, which really shouldn't surprise me but does; but I've grown and matured over my years, and we get along and have the same outlook on so many things, it shouldn't surprise me. I still do my best to court him the way he should be courted, the way he always should have been courted, I do my best to remind him of how much he means to me and how deeply I love him just for being who he is. He brings me sunshine every moment of my days.

Football Boy is now learning how to be, of all things, a banker. He's working for a bank here in the area and will eventually be able to do the junior banker type things, he's got his own little area and while he's still training, he's more than just a teller already, though he can do a teller's job as well.

All in all, we're all doing pretty well out here; I'm not looking forward to the winter because I've been assured that this last winter was mild, and to me it definitely was NOT, but maybe I'll be more accustomed to it this year. I'm still going to be surprised if it snows four inches on Halloween, though.

Speaking of Halloween, Bee wants to be, of all characters, Carrie from Stephen King's Carrie. Dear Lord. So we need to get to work shopping for that outfit soon.

As evidenced from my post the other day, I still miss Earthshaker; but i know he is always with me, in his own way. I will never, ever, doubt the existence of life after death again -- I had a couple of experiences this last summer that I cannot explain at all, and I know it was him. I just know. So Earthshaker, as always, pray for us, pray for me.

So in other words, TL;dr, we're all doing really well. We're blessed. We're blessed beyond comprehension. And I hope with all my heart that if you are reading this, that you are blessed as well.

(And seriously if you need work, look into The Court Reporting Academy. Patti is darling, and scholarships are pretty easy to get.)

[lezliefaithwade]

A Breath of Fresh Air

The summer after my first year of theatre school, I was sleeping on the living room floor of my cousin's apartment in Toronto, trying to figure out what to do with my life. My cousin had been an actor before he became a quadriplegic in a car accident, and as I unadvisedly bemoaned my unemployment status, he said something like, "Seriously? You're complaining about your life? Don't make me burst a colostomy bag." He was right, of course. I wasn't in a wheelchair, though I did have a stepmother who had rendered me homeless because of her dislike for me. She was always saying things like, "Your hair can't be as ugly as that hat you're wearing." Or simply refusing to invite me to things like Christmas dinner. I always admired people with families. My boyfriend at the time was one of five kids who were always doing things together. Their house was always full of noise and activities. Even as a shiksa, I felt more at home there than with my stepbrothers and sisters, who never lost an opportunity to point out that I was weird. I wanted to stand up to them, but not wanting to cause my father any grief, I held my tongue and sought refuge elsewhere. It occurred to me that perhaps I was using the theatre as an opportunity to say things through characters that I couldn't find the courage to express myself.

The Toronto Star was still open on the kitchen table, and I rummage through the Want Ads, that dirty part of the newspaper near the back where complete strangers will soon become complete assholes in your life by forcing you to work menial jobs in humiliating uniforms for minimum wage.

"Find anything?" my cousin called from the bedroom, where two attendants helped wash and dress him.

"Social services are advertising for camp councilors to work with emotionally challenged kids."

"Oh yeah," He said. "That might suit you."

I'm not sure I knew what he meant but, I was beginning to think I'd outgrown my welcome. My cousin probably would have encouraged me to join the circus if the option had been available. Knowing my living room days were numbered, I thought it best to make an effort and apply.

I had no experience teaching drama—no experience working with kids and no experience going to or working at a camp. Despite all that, I was hired. It's worth noting that it's probably not a good sign if you get a job with no qualifications whatsoever.

My official position was Drama Councillor, and I prided myself that with only a year and half of theatre training behind me, I was well equipped to help others benefit from the wealth of my experience. I imagined myself, Maria Von Trapp, teaching children how to sing while they looked at me adoringly. Somehow, I conveniently blocked out the rebellious early stages she experienced and skipped straight to the good parts. Also, I might add, forgetting about the Nazis and having to climb over a mountain. Still, visions of me biking around camp with a group of happy campers behind me filled me with a sense of self-satisfaction.

As I packed my knapsack with deet and a secret stash of Twinkies, I thought of how only three weeks earlier I'd been in New York walking through Central Park and savoring Cappuccinos at outdoor cafés on Columbus. Now, here I was, ready for something different. The wilderness, I imagined, would be a welcome change—fresh air and loons instead of smog and sirens. I thought smugly about my classmates sweating behind visors at take-out windows shoveling fries into cardboard cups or wrapping sandwiches in tinfoil. Thumbs up to adventure, I told myself. The fact that I'd never once in my life enjoyed the great outdoors didn't factor into my mind. All of this changed with each accumulated minute of the 391 Kilometer drive north.

It was late afternoon when I arrived at the compound. Overcast, sullen, it was a place so secluded you'd need flares to find it. It had that distinct aura of someplace time forgot. A place left behind and neglected. In the brochure, the sun was shining, flowers filled the meadow, and you could practically hear laughter floating off the page. What I was looking at bore more of a resemblance to a situation in a Stephen King novel where camp councilors discover a pack of hungry teenage zombies have lured them to a seemingly idyllic retreat. Situated right in the heart of black fly country, I spent most of my days swatting insects so big they seem Jurassic.

During our orientation, child care workers warned us that children with mental health needs tend to run away - a lot and to keep strict attendance records and all eyes on them at all times. "These kids are resourceful and clever," they cautioned. I couldn't imagine being so determined you'd risk your life by escaping through the woods that surrounded us, but then again, I'd never been around children who weren't allowed cutlery before either

I shared my cabin with three other women with who I had absolutely nothing in common. Delia, a humorless 27-year-old cooking instructor who answered every question with a monosyllabic grunt, Jennifer, a 26-year old tennis instructor with massive blond ringlets who talked so quickly she sounded like a record on high speed, and an older aboriginal woman named Sunny who made us all dream catchers and offered advice about how to heal ourselves on days when we'd feel spent. "Remember, these kids need us," she said while purifying our cabin with sage. As I glanced around my assigned bunk, taking in the spider webs and loose floorboards, I had that sinking feeling that comes when you know you've made a terrible mistake. Before long, I was eating copious amounts of peanut butter on stale bagels amid a never-ending supply of starch. I'm not sure who thought it was a good idea to feed children with challenges like anxiety, depression, hyperactivity, and eating disorders copious amounts of sugar and carbs. It certainly did nothing to help them or me.

On the first day of class, I sat everyone in a circle. "Welcome to drama class," I said with a smile. "Let's begin by sharing with everyone a little bit about ourselves. Anything at all you'd like us to know?" A hand went up.

"I'm Tracy, and I hate my stupid ass brother. He can go straight to hell."

"Okay," I said, "That's a start. Who's next?"

Another hand. "I'm Jonathan, and this place sucks so much I wish it would burn to the ground!"

"Fair enough. Anyone else?"

"I'm Jo. I'm schizophrenic. So sometimes I'm Rachel and Julia. You'll know the difference because Rachel has a British dialect, and Julia talks slang."

"O-kay." I glanced at the social workers who sat on the edge of the room and looked at me with an expression that basically said, "We can't wait to see what you do next."

"Let's write a play," I suggested. "Write anything you want. Once you're happy with the work, I'll shape it into a cohesive piece that we'll rehearse and then present at the end of the season talent showcase."

The kids liked this idea. The showcase was a big deal. It was an opportunity for them to blow off some steam and express themselves to friends and family in a creative way. My only stipulation was not to use profanity. As the weeks passed, I was impressed with how well they all threw themselves into this project—all except Eric, the oldest boy in my 12 to 15-year-olds. Eric often wandered around the rehearsal space, unfocused and sullen.

"Any ideas for your piece?" I ask, checking in to see if I could help.

"I'm thinking," he'd say and then pace.

With three weeks left in the summer, I took my well-deserved week off to decompress. My boyfriend came up from Toronto and drove me to his parent's house at Post and Bayview, where caterers were preparing the tennis courts for an outdoor party. I walked into his mother's living room, and she gasped. "What happened to you?"

I didn't blame her. I hadn't spent much time looking at a mirror the past four weeks, but one glance at the large one in their bathroom told the full story. My hair was ratty; I had scabs on my knees, bruises on my arms and legs, and I was sunburnt. I was wearing a vintage skirt and blouse that was probably more Value Village than vintage and a pair of worn, scuffed purple moccasins; in essence, I was wearing slippers on my feet.

"Please take her to the mall and at least buy her a pair of shoes," his mother said, handing me her credit card and then rushing off to make sure the stuffed alligator would float in the pool. That week I ate my way through rugelach, hamantaschen, brisket, and bagels while his family watched me with awe and disgust.

Back at camp, the smell of burning insect repellent greeted me along with the news that the sailing and tennis instructors were sacked for disorderly conduct. Never mind, I had renewed energy and a sense of purpose. There were costumes and props to make. Sound and lighting effects to create. And we needed to rehearse. It was only a tiny stage somewhere on a remote camp in Northern Ontario, but the excitement was palpable. I was excited. This would be the best talent show ever, and my kids were going to blow the socks off everyone there!!!

"Eric," I said, "How's your piece coming along?"

"I finished it," he mentioned casually

"That's great. Can I see it?"

"I want to surprise you. You're going to love it, though. I promise."

I patted myself on the back. Eric had a breakthrough. All my encouragement and patience had paid off. Perhaps I'd helped him have a developmental breakthrough.

"Can you tell me what it's about?" I asked.

"The Beatles."

"Great. Okay," and left it at that.

Talent Night arrived along with parents and family friends. The lights dimmed, the kids performed, and the audience enthusiastically applauded as each "Mighty Mite" or "Spirit of Paradise" breezed across the stage, acting out skits about fairies and monsters and assorted escapades. Finally, it was Eric's turn. Out he came, looking serious and theatrical. He cleared his throat and addressed the audience.

"This is called, The Beatles Last Recording Session. By, Me."

Three of his closest camp friends filed out and took a space on the stage. The audience was silent.

There was a dramatic pause, then the piece began.

"Fuck you, Ringo,"

"Fuck you, Paul."

"Fuck you, George."

"Well fuck you, John."

Then they bowed and left the stage.

Personally, I thought it was kind of brilliant. Needless to say, I wasn't showered with accolades about my teaching methods or the effect I had on kids. I left there having no catharsis about mental health except that giving people the opportunity to express themselves without censor is probably a lot healthier than insisting they stay quiet. I admired the honesty displayed in the kid's work. If only, I thought to myself, I could be half as brave. Wasn't that what I was spending time and money learning how to do?

A week after being home, I found myself packing, once more, for school in New York. Our term letters had arrived with instructions on where to buy character shoes, leotards, copies of The Children's Hour, and Death of a Salesman. The camp already felt like it was 391 kilometers away - soon to be 659. My father drove me to the train station with my stepmother beside him; she was there, no doubt, to ensure I boarded.

"You going to be okay?" my father asked, giving me a hug and slipping a $50 bill into my pocket.

"She'll be fine." Elsie chimed in. "You don't have to worry about her. Let's go."

But I wanted my father to worry about me. Not all the time and to the exclusion of all else, but certainly the appropriate fatherly amount.

As I settled myself on the train, I watched my stepmother pull from father from the platform to the car and thought of Eric's brilliant play. Under my breath, I whispered the immortal words of the Beatles, "Fuck you."

#stepmother #mental health #children #young people #summer camp

[denrbough]

In defense of bill denbrough

I don't have the room for screenshots (I tried to make them a gif of a slideshow but it kept crashing Tumblr bc huge files) but I'll sum up a few things I want to clear up in this

People thinking that Bill chose to be in charge of the losers to be bossy

Him wanting to leave Eddie in the sewers just because

That he was selfish

That he didn't have important problems ig?? Or that his story was uninteresting??

I want to talk about his perseverance despite a bad home life

And how the losers love him, if the losers you love can love him, you can too

And my last point is about how most people think somehow that Bill would be at all discriminatory??

I have bits and pieces from the book for all the claims and more coming below; I reread the whole book for this but kept what seemed most important to bring up

First; I'm going to start with how Bill didn't actually choose to be in charge, he didn't want to boss people around. It was clear in him and also sometimes noticed by the other losers, notably Eddie:

Eddie notices twice that the whole leadership thing is taking a major toll on Bill's physical and emotional health. That and Bill doesn't want to be the planner and the leader. He thinks he's a freak and he doesn't think he knows what he's doing. They nominated him as leader from a young age. He couldn't control that. (In order to preserve image quality and go into more detail on specific screenshots I will be making individual metas on each of my bullet points, this is just the large post where I vent my issues with the fandom perception)

Next I'd like to debunk the assumption that Bill wanted to leave Eddie in the sewers. He didn't, he wanted to come out alive with the others who still had a chance at making it. If you want further to analyze this, it can be brought up that Richie and Bev didn't want Bill to take Audra's alive body from the sewers despite us all saying Bill is the asshole for not being able to carry Eddie out.

In fact, Bev and Ben were the ones to originally suggest leaving Eddie. And to further that, Bev yelled at Bill for trying to get the living human out as well. Bev's motivations were more rushed and selfish, but Bill had the overarching goal of getting them all out.

That segways nicely into a point I'd like to make about how Bill genuinely was the most determined to kill It and not just for his own reasons, he thought of the other kids who might die several times while the other losers like to gloss over that:

When Richie went to go see the horror picture, he decided to pretend Bill's fingers hadn't almost been cut off. Put it off as a joint hallucination. And direct quote "besides there was no law saying he had to spend the next ten years thinking about it, was there? Nope"

If Bill hadn't pleaded with Richie to help, Richie would have had no intention of trying to get rid of It and save the other kids, even after Richie had to watch his friend get injured firsthand.

Stan was the same, not wanting to end up in the "nuthouse" on juniper hill. But Bill's motivation to save the town pulled even the most hesitant losers in to help.

And it's not just saving the kids from pennywise. No, he initiated a fight with Bowers not even knowing that his friends would join him and help, all to help a kid that he didn't even know. Mike Hanlon.

Not only was he the most determined, but in regards to pennywise trauma, he already had something very lasting to deal with as far as his mental health. His parents were neglectful and his brother was dead, and he kept on trying regardless. He was depressed, which is very clear in the book.

There's the point when he's getting Eddie's inhaler and it states "just as if Ben would be astounded if you asked him if he was lonely, Bill would have been likewise astounded if asked if he was courting death."

The narration makes it abundantly clear that Ben is lonely and always has been, which symbolises here that Bill is clearly suicidal, even if not actively, he does try to die/do things to harm himself with no intention of stopping.

This passage was heartbreaking. His fear in this scene was that everyone would forget about him, like his parents did, and like Georgie was gone. It's all his fault, he decides, and he thinks he deserves to be punished but he's still fully terrified of what he thinks he deserves.

In that note, his parents were neglectful, which affected him consistently in his thought process.

He wouldn't finish dinner because he couldn't stand to sit with them when they were so cold with him.

Mike mentions as adults that Bill practiced that poem so much because Bill wanted so badly for his mom to think he's a good boy. Bill cried at this, again as an adult.

He wanted to take pennywise's severed head to his parents and talk about how he'd avenged Georgie and "would they please finally talk to him"

He even thinks one point about how his parents are so caught up in their grief that he wonders if they know he's hurting, or if he's being reckless.

But unlike Sharon and Zack Denbrough. The losers were smitten with him. There's several passages of the losers talking about how much he means to them or how good he is.

Not to mention that Bill is the only one Bev told about her abusive father. She told him and he coaxed it out of her to let herself say she hated him, which is a huge turning point in the development of the way she views evil.

On a whole new thread of thought, I'd like to bring up how the fandom likes to pretend that Bill would be the most discriminatory loser?? I have a whole other meta to write about comparing losers in that way but Bill very clearly had the least ill intent towards minorities.

He met Mike and Mike was scared he'd ask questions about what it was like to be black, but Bill just asked him about baseball, and this comforted Mike. There's also when Richie is teaching Eddie about syphilis and how men and women get it from fucking, and Bill jumps in to say "unless it's two guys who are queer" and he had no malace or upset towards gay men, he just found it important to include in the conversation, which could be a nod to Bill accepting Eddie as gay, or even being mlm himself because it was a quick thought to have if it wasn't something prevalent in his life. He knows the shopkeep where he got silver the second time was gay, and was apologetic for scaring him, mentally acknowledging the hate crime

If you read this whole thing you deserve a prize for being a champ bc I'm more long winded than Stephen King himself Anna oop-