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wiypt-writes · 3 years

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Consciousness Of Guilt

Chapter 1

Summary: It’s a year since Ransom was murdered, and you’re settling well into your new life in Boulder. It hasn’t just provided you with a fresh start-it’s brought you a new sense and purpose, an appreciation for the things you took fore grated, and the friendship of a former ADA…

Warnings: Bad Language, allusions to past abuse (Non Con/Dub Con) but nothing explicitly described in this chapter.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar the reader and any other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

W/C: 5k

Consciousness Of Guilt Masterlist // Main Masterlist

A/N- So, here it is! The sequel to Murder, He Wrote . This is the last time I’ll post this note, however, please be aware that the prequel is a Dark series. Whilst this is not, it will contain flashbacks and themes as we progress, however nothing will be as dark as MHW. Chapters will be clearly labelled with appropriate warnings. If anyone is uncomfortable with the themes of a certain chapter, I will be more than happy to post/provide abridged versions which will not deviate from the storyline.

Sunrise. You used to hate the coming of each day. It meant another monotonous day in your young adult life. A 'depends on the day' type of job at the paper in which you got your start, it meant earning little for the slave work you put into each piece or research. It meant another day you'd woken up in fear, not knowing what was coming next. Then, for a little while, sunrises were okay. They were a soft glow across the room, illuminating hard lines and soft curves, whispering words and lingering kisses. And then, they became fearful again, bringing the unpredictable nature of a life in which you were trapped.

But now, over the last few months, since taking up your new hobby, sunrise had become a beautiful thing. The feeling of peace and comfort washing over you like a warm rain, bringing the redeeming nature of a new day as vibrant watercolours paint the new-born sky. Whether you caught it from the East side of your condo; your master balcony and study or your garden, or even your hikes, you appreciated every, single sunrise as if you were seeing it for the first time ever, each and every day.

For this morning's sunrise, you were perched along Boulder Creek Path, a trail that runs from the foothills to across town, a typical recreational getaway for many locals and tourists. You looked out over the bridge as the creek flowed beneath your feet. You were lost in the serenity of it, the bubbling water lulling your mind into a deep mediation that washed peacefulness through your entire body.

A year ago today, your life changed and you were freed. Free of the nightmare that had plagued you, robbing you of nearly a year of your life. The months that followed weren't so easy, but once things settled and the fires were extinguished, you found peace.

You found you.

Your phone buzzing in your pocket brought you back from your reverie, pressing your thumb onto the screen to unlock it. You opened your messages tab and tapped the most recent incoming text.

A smile flicked on your face as you slipped your phone back in your pocket. It didn’t escape your knowledge how Andy didn’t need to even ask what coffee you wanted. But then again, this wasn’t the first time you’d had breakfast in the small, independent coffee place not far from your home and place of work. You knew when you arrived that a large caramel vanilla latte, with an extra shot would be waiting. But no food, your order varied depending on your mood.

Twenty minutes or so later, you parked your sting-grey Jeep Grand Cherokee SRT 4x4 back in your garage to your condo at the corner of 9th and Pine Street and set off on the short ten minute walk to your designated meeting place, centred near the town square, not far from your office which was a gorgeous old red-brick building on the corner of 16th and Walnut Street.

As you approached, you didn’t spot Andy’s black Audi TT in any of the spaces littered around but it didn’t bother you. Barber was reliable, if he said he was going to be there, he’d be there.

And sure enough, as you walked along the side of the cafe you, spotted him at your usual, preferred table by the large window, overlooking the street. He saw you approaching and smiled, giving a small wave.

The smell of roast coffee beans, baked treats and other delicious aromas hit your senses as you opened the door. You approached the table and Andy stood up to great you, smiling. A light grey tee sat exposed under a partially zipped up light weight blue leathered hoodie whilst dark and crisp denim covered his narrow hips and long legs, his go to well-worn black work boots on his feet. His hair was styled and soft looking, his beard always trimmed and neat. He gave you a strong, yet gentle hug, a juxtaposition he managed effortlessly before he turned and waited for you to sit first before he took up his previous seat, nodding to your waiting drink.

“Thank you.” You beamed at him, taking a quick sip. "Of course." He smiled as he took a drink of his own coffee, straight black, before he leaned back a little. His left arm rested over the back of the booth bench, the platinum of his wedding ring catching the early morning sun which streamed through the window. You momentarily glanced at your own hand, bare of the heavy rings which had been taken in the ‘mugging’. Mind you, you wouldn’t be wearing them even if you still had them. Your story was a lot different to his.

“So, where'd you go this morning?" his soft baritone drifted across the table and you glanced back at him. "Fiddled around down Boulder Creek Path." "You seem to be getting around better now." "Yeah, thank God for GPS. Did I tell you that last week I was looking for some store Amber vaguely told me where about it was and ending up like thirty minutes down the highway towards Denver." He laughed, his whole body smiling, radiating genuine amusement. "You have more faith in GPS than me, when I first moved here I got pulled over for going the wrong way down a one way street because it told me to.” You grinned as he shook his head. "And that annoying voice! I want to wring her damn neck." You gave a chuckle but before you could reply, the middle-aged woman, who owned the café, interrupted you both with her usual familiar greeting and the smile she reserved for Andy. “Hey Patti, how are ya?” He smiled back. “Same old, same old.” She winked back. “What can I get you kids today?” “Y/N?” Andy looked at you and you smiled. “Can I get an almond croissant and a granola pot, please? With the blueberry compote.” “Sure honey, and for you Mr Barber?”

“French toast please, all the trimmings.”

A fizzing filled your ears as you were suddenly back on a clinically clean, modern kitchen, nervously scouring a fridge and cupboards for something to make your captor breakfast with. You swallowed, taking a deep breath, counting backwards from five as you always did to keep the memory from swallowing you.

“Hey,” a gentle touch to your hand jolted you back and you looked at Andy who frowned. “You okay?” "Yeah, no, I mean yes, I'm okay. It just…it dawned me this morning that this was the best thing I could have done for myself. Like there's just a newfound peace that's settled with me, you know?" He just smiled as he squeezed your hand before slipping his away. “Yeah, I do.” No more was said about it, and Andy didn’t press. He never did. In the eight weeks or so that had passed since you’d met him that Friday evening in the bar, the pair of you had struck up a friendship that was based on a mutual understanding. You both carried a heavy burden of a traumatic past on your shoulders, but you had an unspoken rule. He had never mentioned Ransom. And you, in turn, never broached the subject of Laurie or Jacob. You understood you were both moving on with your life, both wanting to heal from the past and you wanted to spend the rest of your life never in fear again. Instead, a simple chatter always flowed between the two of you, and today was no exception. You barely stopped to thank Patti for dropping your order off at the table. Current work was never a topic of conversation, although office gossip featured on occasion, but mostly it was always about happenings around town, him asking about you, your parents and your old job, the two of you talking about your favourite places in Boston. You never missed certain facial and eye cues Andy gave off at the mention of certain things, but when you saw them, that sag in his smile or the far off look his eyes would give, you'd change the subject. You ate in comfortable companionship and after another coffee, Andy asked for the bill and then pulled out his card to pay. "Next one is on me, you paid for the last two and coffee all this week." You gave him a stern look as you headed towards the exit. “Well, if you wanted you could grab us a beer later.” He shrugged, pulling the door handle to open it, allowing you to step out before him. “I gotta nip into the office for a coupla hours but...” "Breakfast AND drinks?" You smiled as he fell into step beside you. The July day was starting to warm a little now, the slight chill of the early morning all but gone. “If I didn't know any better, I'd say you actually like hanging out with me." “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I just find you slightly less irritating than everything and everyone else.” He teased and you laughed. “So... Happy hour?" "Yeah." You nodded “It's a date." Andy confirmed and you quirked your eyebrow, trying not to laugh at the look on his face as he realised what he had said. “A date?” “Well, I don’t mean a date date but...” You felt the heat in your neck a little, so to save your embarrassment and his blushes, you smiled, "it's a date-not-date. Say Oskar’s, 6:30?" "Oskar’s." He confirmed. "I'll save you a tall, cold one." “You’re an angel, you know that?” "I wouldn't go that far. My halo is held up by horns” “Even Prometheus was an angel at some point, Y/N.” He replied as you reached the corner of the street where you would part. Him towards the office, you back home. You rolled your eyes and shook your head. "I'll see you tonight." At that he gave you another quick hug, his hand rubbing your back over the top of your light jacket before you headed your separate ways.

You enjoyed the walk home. It gave you the perfect chance to just mellow out and walk off a bit of your breakfast. You tucked your hands into the pockets for your vest, your white thermal keeping your arms covered. You headed down Pearl Street, watching as the little shops and boutiques began to set up their patios and side walk spaces for their Saturday. You took in the clean fresh mountain air deep into your lungs and allowed a warm smile to cross your lips.

From Pearl to 9th you went, hooking a right up 9th until you walked to the corner of Pine, and onto the porch of the nice and spacious condo you closed escrow on just weeks ago.

That deep feeling of home greeted you as you stepped inside, wiping your boots on your door mat just before kicking them off and setting them by the back door you’d come through. The cream walls invited you in, the oak furniture and fixtures, a feature that reminded you of home, the decor you grew up with, a safe place.

You'd bought the condo outright with the money you'd inherited from Ransom's untimely death and subsequent estate. You knew before you'd even stepped foot into the property initially, that it'd become yours. The week you closed escrow, you and your parents moved you into the three bedroom, three and a half bath condo, never looking back.

The open floor plan and panoramic views had stolen your breath and it was then, the first night your parents had left you alone, too anxious to sleep alone, you had fallen in love with the sunrise, seeing it from your front garden patio, bundled up with tea and a wool blanket. All three rooms in the space had no adjoining walls and their own en-suites. The master bedroom, your room, was massive. An en-suite with walk in shower, soaking tub and Jack and Jill sinks. Two walk in closets that you knew you'd probably never fill completely, an Eastwardly view and balcony. The two spare rooms, were separated, one on the second floor down the hall from yours where it's balcony looked West, as it were above the garage and the third on the top and final floor with its own balcony. That was your office space, a spot for you to work and to breathe in the fresh air.

Everything in that condo was yours, down to the logs you'd put in your fireplace and the silly little amenities you'd given yourself from knickknacks to the colour of your dishes. There was one space however you left untouched. And only your parents had been inside to pack away your unused things as storage space. That room was your basement. You didn't need to go down there, you figured if you needed something from there, you'd go buy it anyway. All that was truly stored down there anyway were things from your childhood your mother insisted on you bringing along.

As if her ears were burning, your phone buzzed from your back pocket, revealing your mother calling.

"Hey, Mom." You answered.

"Hi, honey. I was just calling to see how you were doing. Check in on you." You could hear the worry in her voice and you couldn't help but smile.

"I'm really good, Mom. It’s been good here." "You still hiking every day?" She sounded hopeful now. "Lately it's just been on the weekends. I've been really busy at work, which isn't exactly a bad thing either." You had made your way to your room, looking for some lounge pants to change into while you continued your conversation. "Well, busy is a blessing. Do you have anything planned for today or...." "Uh, well I just had breakfast with a friend from work who I'm also meeting for drinks later." You smirked at the thought. There was a joyful sigh that poured into your ear from the ear piece, "Oh, this friend wouldn’t happen to be the mysterious Andy you’ve name dropped the last few calls would it?" You hesitated, "y..ye...yeah." Then you heard the tell-tale sound of your mother's chuckle. “We’re just friends.” "I'm not saying anything." You could picture her with her hands held up in defence. "You sound happy." “I am. I feel okay, more than okay even. I’m good.” "Alright. Well, don’t waste your day. Enjoy it. Your dad and I will talk soon." “Yeah, listen Mom, why don’t you come over for a few days in a couple of weeks? You’ve not been since the week you came to help me move in. It would be nice to show you round now I’ve got my bearings.” "We would love that. I'll have your father look at booking some time." “Okay just let me know. Tell Daddy I said hi.” "I will, sweetie. Love you, bye.” "I love you too, Mom, bye." The seventeenth of July, a date that you hope one day will come to mean nothing and be like any other day. But for now, it was a sting that reminded you of all that had happened. Not unlike Halloween, a day in which you'll forever hold in a fearful anxious place in your soul. It served as a reminder of the moment your life had taken a very dark turn, a darkness that you were still, in a lot of ways, finding your way through. Ransom. His name still tasted sour on your tongue. But left a sadness over your heart like a sheer curtain. You had truly hoped he wasn't going to revert back to the beast that held you captive. But you were wrong, and post the revelation of the real reason he had taken you, he’d been far more brutal and cruel than he had with you before, something you’d thought was impossible. And he’d broken you for a second time, or so you’d let him think. Desperate to escape his clutches, you’d done the only thing you could- you’d killed him. Whilst you may not have held the knife, you’d arranged it all. And, even though it had been an absolute last resort, you’d be lying if you said there hadn’t been a satisfaction to watching him bleed out and choke on his own blood. The realisation that had clouded his arrogantly handsome features as he came to understand it was your doing would be forever etched into your brain. That said, it made you feel a little bit queasy when you thought about how taking someone’s life could make you feel a sick sense of pleasure. The nightmares had plagued you for months after. The torture which sleep brought you only ceased around the time things were settled within the system between you and his parents. With a deep sigh and the need for distraction, you set about some spot cleaning in between loads of laundry and by early afternoon you had settled in on your couch with a beer and your latest box set binge. Not two episodes in and your phone pinged next to you.

With a smirk, you snapped a photo of your beer bottle in your hand and a few moments later his response came through.

The angel made you laugh, a direct reference to his teasing before. But before you could reply, you got another text with simply saying “fuck it” along with a picture of a tumblr of whiskey on his desk. With a snort you replied

With a smile you tossed your phone down onto the seat beside you, and resumed your watching.

***** Andy was kidding when he playfully said he'd be there by 6:45, fully intending on their agreed upon 6:30. But, he was late. He'd been so involved with his brief that he'd lost track, and for the first time since meeting her, was late for a meet up with Y/N. She was fully understanding as he'd text her apologizing for the time as he'd rushed out of the office and quickly headed for Pearl Street. He'd gotten very lucky with close parking and literally stepped inside Oskar's Taproom promptly at 6:45. He found Y/N sitting at the bar, her hair down, a nicely fitted black tee and skinny denim jeans, her foot tapping against her bar stool in waiting. Next to her was an empty stool and a full, cold looking tall pilsner on the bar, saving his space.

"Hey," he said as he leaned into her, a gentle hand on her back, getting her attention.

Y/N startled a bit but realized it was Andy and grinned, "'bout time! I was going to get started on yours without you." She nodded to the cold beer. “I’m so sorry.” He shook his head, “I just got caught up.” "Well, you haven't stood me up yet, so I trusted you'd show." “And I did tell you 6:45 before. You know, on account of you being a cheeky little shit.” She rolled her eyes at him, "whatever." She smirked. He slid onto the stool next to her and took a long pull of his beer, damned it tasted good. He gave an appreciative sigh and turned to her. “So, do anything much this afternoon?” "I did absolutely nothing, well nothing of importance. Talked to my mom, did laundry, you know nothing exciting." “To be honest, sounds like a pretty good afternoon.” He chuckled. “Sometimes there’s nothing better than laying in front of the TV with no where you have to be.” "Cheers to that," she raised her glass to him. He clinked his with hers and returned the smile she had. The blues band that was set to play happy hour was starting to tune up and it gave Andy an idea. "What do you say we find a spot in the patio, little less noise." “Sounds good.” She nodded. Andy flagged the bartender down for another round to take with them. But before Y/N could pick up her glass, Andy took it for her and gestured with her head for her to go on in front. She looked a little surprised at his act of basic good manners, and not for the first time. He'd often seen her look at him in a similar way when he held doors open for her or helped her with her jacket. It made him wonder what kind of asshole Drysdale had been. But, then again, he got the impression it hadn’t been a particularly happy relationship to start. Not that it was any of his business, nor was he one to talk. The last seven months he’d been married to Laurie had been as strained as they'd ever got. They found a spot at a two top near the corner of the patio at the gate that separated it from the sidewalk. Andy waited for Y/N to sit before he set their glasses on the high top table and took his own seat. "So...much better," he leaned in across the table. "Love this place, but it's not always the best for conversation." “Yeah but it has a good atmosphere.” She smiled. “I like it. Not the type of place that-“ she stopped dead and took a deep breath. “Doesn’t matter.” He half smiled, "you know, I've been meaning to tell you, it's okay to talk to me about anything you want. No pressure, no strings. Just a friendly ear." She smiled. “I know, thanks. And the same goes for you too.” For the first time, an interesting silence came between them. They each sipped their drinks in an almost a mirrored like fashion and chuckled when through. "I think that's the first time we've ever not had something to say." Y/N shrugged. He nodded, and then she took a deep breath. “I was just gonna say its not the type of place Ransom would ever have taken me. He’d have thought it beneath him.” "I think that's the first time you've ever mentioned his name." He pointed out. "Yeah, I try not to. It's uh," he watched her as she struggled to start her story, playing nervously with the earring in her ear. "Complicated." He leaned on the table, his forearms crossed and supporting his weight. He wanted her to know she had his full attention. “Well, from what I know about him, which granted is only what I saw on the news or heard around Boston, he certainly enjoyed the finer things in life.” "That's one way of looking at." She chuckled dryly. "It wasn't an easy marriage, despite how short lived." "Well, I was with Laurie since law school and we still had our ups and downs. I don't think marriage is easy in general." Andy admitted. "I was with Ransom less than nine months before we got married. It, uh, lasted three weeks."

Andy paused, “okay, so granted Laurie and I were a whirlwind what with her falling pregnant so fast but... I’ll give you that one.” “A whirlwind?” She asked and Andy nodded. “Yeah, we hadn’t even been together a year when she got pregnant with Jake. Not gonna lie, I shit myself but...” he sighed, swallowing. “Well, he was worth it.” "I'm sure he was." She nodded. Andy cleared his throat. “He was a good kid, despite what he, well what he was accused of.” “I can’t even begin to imagine how that felt, for any of you.” She said gently. “Fucking shit.” He said bluntly. She blinked and then the pair of them laughed quietly. "I'm sorry, Andy. And I mean that in all sincerity." He sighed and gave a soft little smile. “Thanks. You know, for the most part it’s just happy memories. But then sometimes it’s hard...” he trailed off shaking his head, “but of course you’ll know that.” “Suppose so.” She shrugged. “I doubt our marriage was anything near as loving as yours. I, uh...well, Ransom was mentally abusive, very controlling. Getting married wasn't exactly what I'd wanted but, I felt trapped in a way." She paused as he listened intently. "I guess it's harder to explain than I thought." She bit her lip and then shook her head. “Then the asshole went and got himself killed.” "I hate that you had to witness that." She shrugged and her finger swiped at the condensation on the outside of her half empty beer glass. “It was a year ago today.” “Jesus fucking Christ.” Andy shook his head in shock as he took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry.” “I’m not.” She sighed. “And I know that probably sounds awful but... I don’t mourn him, I can’t. Not after everything. I’m just glad to be away and out of it. Fuck, that makes me sound like a really cold hearted bitch.” She scrunched her nose and chuckled a bit. Andy cocked his head to one side, studying her face which was, despite what she said, laced with sadness and he took a deep breath. There was more to her story than she was telling him, he could see that, but he had his own secrets too. And he found himself realising he didn’t care. Moving away post the accident that claimed Jake and later Laurie’s life had been a way for him to leave all that shit behind. And she was trying to do the same. “Okay, let’s make a deal.” He leaned forward. “No reverse gear. We look forward and not back, at least not at the hard stuff.” It took a moment for her to process it, and Andy watched her expression behind her eyes as he did so. Then she smiled, "deal." Andy smiled as she reached for her beer. He watched her pretty face as she drained her glass, setting it down in the table before she leaned towards him. “Have you eaten? Because I’ve suddenly got a hankering for something greasy and very bad for me.” “Sounds like someone I used to work with.” Andy shot before he could stop himself and Y/N threw her head back in a loud laugh. “Lawyers for you.” “Hey, not all of us are jerks.” He pouted and she shrugged. “Jury’s out.” She winked. At that Andy raised his brows, downed the rest of his pint and then stood up. “Something dirty and greasy that isn’t an attorney coming up, I’ll grab us a menu.” They each ordered a greasy, filthy cheeseburger with all the fixings and two smaller beers a piece to go with it. They moved their conversation away from their pasts and talked music as the band played some songs they were familiar with. Y/N finding the perfect moment to joke with Andy again about his age versus hers, despite it being maybe seven or eight years. Neither seemed to mind. Again, when the bill came, Andy slapped his card down before Y/N even had a chance to grab her wallet, which caused him to laugh loudly at her pout. “You’ll just have to get it next time.” “Oh," she smirked, "so that’s your game? You paid, so I owe you a next time?” He shrugged. “Would that be such a bad thing?” She bit her lip and grinned with a shake of her head. “No, not really.” “Good, I’ll hold you to that. And, as a lawyer I feel obliged to tell you that’s a legally recognised verbal contract.” “Uh, I’m sure there’s a rule that a social agreement made between friends is done so without an intention of being enforceable.” Y/N shot back and Andy felt his mouth curl up on a little surprised smirk. “Therefore no intent, no legal comeback. Your move, Counselor.” He laughed and shook his head. “Nope, I got nothing.” “In that case, I call recess.” She grinned. “Oh faahk off with the legal puns!” Andy snorted and once more she laughed as they stood up, their night at an end. He walked behind Y/N with a gentle hand on her back as she weaved through the tables on the patio, eventually ending up on the sidewalk out front.

"Thanks, for breakfast, dinner, drinks," Y/N shook her head, feigning annoyance. Andy smirked, "thanks for meeting me. You're not walking home are you?" "I can, it's not far." She replied, folding her arms over her chest.

"Absolutely not, I'll take you," he nodded his head in the direction in which his car was. He gave a small wink when she accepted his offer. He held the door open for you as you slid into the passenger seat of his Audi TT. You quickly realized that this was the first time you'd been in his car and the very first time he would see your doorstep. However, the thought of both those things didn't bother you one bit. In fact, you found yourself more comfortable than you'd expected.

All in all the drive was no more than five minutes, and if he hadn’t been going that way already, you’d have felt like a complete fraud, but he assured you it was on his way.

You helped yourself out but Andy waited for you around the front hood and walked you to your doorstep, lit by the lantern porch light your Home Owners Association contract insisted be up. "So, this is me," you sighed. Andy had his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans and he rocked a little on his heels as he waited for you to open your front door. When you'd opened it, he scratched behind his neck and said, "so I'll see you Monday?" "Yeah," you agreed. He turned to go but you called out to him, "Hey, Andy?" He quickly turned back to you, his one foot on your stoop, the other the next step down, "yeah?" In a sudden moment of courage, you stood on your toes and placed a soft kiss to his cheek. His smooth cheek and the slightly rough yet softer than anticipated scratch of those dark whiskers, intermittent speckled with auburn, felt amazing against your lips. And fuck, did he smell amazing. Which you knew already from the tight and friendly hugs he'd seemed to start giving you. The first hit of his aftershave was always the same, dominated by a white-out of bergamot and pepper, a bright flash of sweet, dewy citrus that is both crisp and clean, underpinned by a freshness that was both light and gentle and completely different to the heavy sandalwood based fragrance you’d grown so used to. It was brief, but when you pulled back, you gave a content huff, “Huh.” “What?” He was clearly puzzled. “Your beard. It’s kinda soft.” “What? What the hell did you expect?” He laughed. “I dunno, maybe a toilet brush type bristle.” “You kiss a lot of toilet brushes Y/N?” “Try not to.” She winked. “Thanks again, Andy. I enjoyed today.” He chuckled and shook his head as he watched you turn back to your door and finally stepped inside your home. Before you closed the door, you turned back, noticing he was watching you go in. "Bye."

"Goodnight, Y/N."

**** Chapter 2

#consciousness of guilt #andy barber #andy barber x reader #andy barber x you #andy barber fanfiction #chris evans #chris evans characters #reader insert

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not-close-to-straight · 2 years

Note

20. On average how much do you write a day?

29. What does writing mean to you?

Do you have a favorite character you write or do you just love them all?

I am always wondering when you have time to sleep because every week there’s a new story! I imagine you are the most organized person on the planet to be able to work, cater, write, and just live! I can barely keep up with my laundry and dishes! Also, your writing means so much to me and I know to your other readers as well. There are so many characters I have gone back to re-watch the movies or research the comics because after reading something you wrote about them, I realize I must have missed something. For example, I never paid attention to Tony Stark but your stories revealed a depth to him that I didn’t see at first. Now I love him! Same with Spiderman and Deadpool. They are my ultimate favorites because of your writing. You have the gift of seeing the truth and depth beyond what is merely presented and you not only help others see it, you make us feel it. Your stories truly keep me going! They inspire me and give me something to look forward to. Thank you for sharing your wonderful talent with us all. ❤️

On Average How Much Do I Write a Day--My days change depending on whether I'm actively writing a chapter or just outlining upcoming fics, but during a normal month? In 2021, I published an average between 20-25k words a week, whether that was two or three chapters of a full length fic (my chapters are about 7k words now) or one of my shorter fics that are pretty much between that 20-25k mark.

This month I'm writing less obviously cos I'm focusing on pulling over KoFi fics and cleaning up my masterlist and that sort of thing, but starting in February I'll probably be back up to the 20-25k words per week mark.

What Does Writing Mean to Me-- Everything? Yeah, basically everything. Writing (in general, not just fic) has always been my "chosen" artistic outlet. I've played the piano since I was three but basically as soon as I could read, I also wanted to write stories. Some of you guys know that growing up for me was *not great* and as a result, I was fairly non verbal for huge stretches of time (hello trauma response) and had a very hard time articulating... anything? Writing helped me find words and find a way to speak for myself but because my adopted family was very conservative, I was extremely censored in everything I wrote, even my private journals so eventually I gave up and stopped writing altogether.

Finding Tumblr and AO3 and discovering fan fiction was literally mind blowing for several different reasons but mainly because it was the first time in years (YEARS) that I thought I would want to write again. For that reason, most of my earlier fics in 2017 and 18 are very obviously me working out internal issues and mental health struggles and a fair hint of PTSD but once I got through alot of that, I found such a JOY in writing again that now it's all I want to do. Being able to write and to have the freedom to write what I want and lately, have a few of my bills paid every month thanks to commissions, is like a dream come true for me.

Not to put too weird a point on it? But for eight and nine and ten year old Kara who shut down to the point of never talking and used to write in journals and then shred the pages so she wouldn't get in trouble and who gave up altogether on her dream of being an author... this is amazing. Being able to write every day is AMAZING. It's literally my voice out there in the world and that is really truly something I never thought I would have.

(ASK LIST)

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miekhead · 2 years

Text

CW: Mentions of antipsychotics, mania.

I used to write lies. Waves of false imagination, scribbled down in school exercise books. Trips to Scotland at the age of six. Trips to Wales, usually accompanied with pictures in crayon of purple mountains with snow blanketing their peaks. Truth be told, I never once stepped foot in Scotland until I was about nineteen years old. But at a young age, whenever I received the brief to tell a story at school, the lies kept coming.

My dog had puppies (I didn’t have a dog), I went to laser quest (I wanted to go to laser quest). My mother had twins (my mother wasn’t even pregnant).

My mind would run a mile a minute, thinking up the next fantastical thing to lie about.

My thoughts were always inspired by make-believe.

By the time I was about twelve, I was writing non-stop. Filling notepads with stories full of queer angst. Characters were forged finally, until the lies I told were pure, mystical fiction. I had unlocked that part of my mind where my muse gave and gave. Gifted stories flowed from within, inspired by the women who inspired me.

I knew who I was from a very early age. I remember standing in the living room at the age of five or six getting glimpses of Carol in ER, transfixed and unable to take my eyes off the television. The locks of black curly hair, the smile. Those amber eyes. I didn’t have a name for my queerness, that would come much later. But my special interests were usually women, or TV and films featuring men with long hair. And through the daydreaming of being with these beautiful people, I told stories.

But of all the stories I told, the ones that involved queer love were my favourite. And they were favourites among my peers too.

Socialist youth camps in the summer with the Woodcraft Folk came and went, and with them, pages of stories were produced, chapters scattered around the camp as my friends, or sometimes strangers, would line up outside my tent as I hastily scribbled down the next few chapters of my work.

Writing was always there for me. I was never lonely when I had my mind and a pen and paper. I was forever asking my Oma in the Netherlands for more paper as I wrote down Willow and Tara fanfiction, sat at the coffee table with my legs crossed and ink stains smudged across the heel of my left hand.

Fanfiction. Original prose. Screenplays. Poetry. Songs. An autobiography at the age of eight. A fantasy novel by the age of twenty-six. I wrote it all.

Then one day, my muse left me. Or maybe I killed her? I had a psychotic episode. I was extremely manic and wrote everywhere. I wrote on the walls. I wrote on the windows, I wrote in books. Mostly words when I was really in deep, catch phrases here and there. Limericks were a favourite of mine at the time.

It was 2020. I was recovering from long-covid and the world had locked itself down, but so, with the help of very strong antipsychotics, had my mind.

My muse died, so I thought. Just writing about her chokes me up (which given the perpetual dosage of antipsychotics is quite the feat as crying doesn’t come easy to me like it used to).

I used to experience this astonishing phenomenon of forgetting everything I’d written. Re-reading would be an experience for me, narratives always surprising, plot twists leaving me stunned. I could only describe it as if someone were to take my brain, use it for a bit to get words down, then give it back to me afterwards. I have no recollection of writing a lot of this blog. I’d given my mind willingly to my muse.

Re-reading the novel that I wrote back in 2015 has been a painful experience. Not because the writing is atrocious (though in some places, it truly is) but because I can’t get back to that place. I can’t travel to Emoa, or the Kingdom of Emallorn and write about my dear Alois and that dastardly wicked Queen. Can I?

Perhaps what died that day when I struggled to write a sentence together was my confidence. Because here I am, writing. I have covid for the second time. My body aches, my head hurts and I have this ridiculously annoying cough. But here I am. Letting my fingers do the work, tapping the keyboard until words form and that, friends, is writing. Shit writing probably, but it’s something.

My imagination is somewhere, and I desperately cling on to every moment I get to spend with it. Her? Them? Can imagination be a friend? I think so. Because my imagination has kept me company for 30 years.

I miss my friend.

But I know that when the words that form within the pages of my recovering writing, my shy, dear imagination is loitering in the background, dormant but unmissable. I will see you soon, dear friend.

So long as my fingers continue to type, so long as my antipsychotics get safely reduced, so long as I continue to hermit and read and love the women-loving-women inspirational tv shows and films that I’ve been gifted with this winter, my friend will greet me once more.

#writing #antipsychotics #mania #imagination station #queer fiction #queer #wlw blog #the sixth child

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maggiec70 · 3 years

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The Fictional Take on Jean-Claude

As I've said before, fiction often presents the opportunity to write really nest things and in an engaging way that non-fiction, especially the historical type, rarely allows. So here is yet another scene from the Longest-Running WIP, this one about Jean-Claude, and what Jean-Boy thinks of this entire mess for which he was responsible:

Mariana sat opposite Jean in a small paneled study tucked away at the rear of the house. The two south-facing windows stood open, midmorning sunlight falling across the country pine table, a faint breeze stirring the edges of papers spread out in front of him. While she went to Mass, Jean spent his Sunday mornings with account books and other documents. She knew how little his extravagant properties in Paris and Saint-Germain-en-Laye meant to him, and he cared nothing about their management. He’d bought them both at Louise’s insistence and the emperor’s decree, as he’d often reminded her. Yet his acres, vineyards, farms, and other properties here mattered very much. She had felt his deep-rooted attachment from the first day she’d come to Lectoure and walked into this house. For a long, peaceful moment broken only by the scratching of his pen and a dove cooing on the window ledge, she pictured Louise living luxuriously in Paris. In contrast, she and Jean lived here in simple bucolic harmony. A perfect dream—she and the seigneur of this lovely hill town, the lord of a small realm who didn’t care if he got dirt on his hands and his breeches and who could—and did—pick grapes with the best of his tenant farmers.

“I waited for you before having coffee,” Jean said, and her sweet fantasy popped like champagne bubbles. “How was Mass?”

“Spiritually refreshing, as always. You should go,” Mariana replied and rose to fetch the coffee. She returned a few moments later and set a tray on one end of the table, away from the inkpot and the account books. “I saw a young boy, perhaps a year or two older than Augie, after Mass,” she said, pouring the coffee from an earthenware pot and sliding a cup over to Jean. “He must live in that house across from the cathedral, the one with the three iron balls over the gate. He was playing with an enormous fluffy white dog in the courtyard.”

Jean set his cup aside, untouched, and gazed out the window. His face was suddenly as featureless as a frozen plain scoured by a cruel winter wind. “Nothing unusual about that. There are plenty of children from one end of town to the other. Plenty of dogs, too.” He spoke to the windows, not to her, and his tone was flat.

Mariana swallowed half her coffee and leaned forward, the cup cradled in her hands. “This boy looked so much like you that I stopped where I was and stared at him. He saw me and grinned back, as you sometimes do, with a little wave more like a salute. Who is he? Do you know him?”

Jean stood in a single fluid motion and strode to the windows, his back to her. The silence spun out, no longer peaceful but heavy with something she couldn’t identify. Dread, perhaps, or anger, even fear. She could almost see a dark aura settle around him despite the bright summer sun, and leaned back in her chair, coffee forgotten, everything forgotten. He turned from the windows and crossed to the door, shutting it so hard with his fist that the wood rattled in its solid frame. Dragging a chair around, he sat opposite her, very close, almost touching. She didn’t move, waiting for whatever he chose to tell her, the chill of unease growing in her breast.

“We won’t speak of this again, ever. Do you understand?”

She gazed back at him. The blank expression and flat, unemotional tone had gone. Now his eyes were dark, as stormy as the Irish Sea when she had crossed it eight years ago. The lines on his face cut deep and stark, his voice harsh. Suddenly she wanted her coffee, but the cup was out of reach, and she dared not move.

“I understand.” Her voice was no more than a dry whisper, the best she could manage.

“I told you once that Polette, my first wife, was a flirt and liked anyone in a uniform. Do you remember?”

“I remember.”

“She married me because of my rank, the amount of gold braid on my uniform, and because I told her a good story. She told good stories too, and so did her mother, as it turned out. Afterward, all Polette wanted was money, status, and a big house, the biggest in town. Our marriage was already in ruins when I met you. I told you that, but not in any detail. It didn’t improve later that summer, when she insisted on coming to Lombardy—” Her gasp interrupted him, but only for a second or so. “She got nothing from me then, Mariana, other than some jewelry and a gown or two to wear to Bonaparte’s festivities at Mombello. Nothing—do you understand that?”

When she nodded, past the ability to speak, he continued. “It ended in Egypt, or rather because of the Egyptian campaign. We didn’t get much news in the desert, but we got enough. Some member of Bonaparte’s family cheerfully wrote him of his wife’s presumed infidelity, and my brother Bernard wrote me that Polette had given birth. Bernard was cagy about the date, but he swore it wasn’t my child, that she’d been carrying on with someone even before I’d left. Several nights later, Bonaparte drank too much wine—he rarely did, then or now—and told me women were worthless, faithless sluts, and we both would do well to cut ourselves loose the moment we returned to France.”

Jean glanced away from her to the earthenware pot beside their abandoned cups, and reached for it. He poured quickly, his hand steady, and slid her cup toward her. He did not touch his. “This isn’t Bonaparte’s story, though. It’s mine. By the time I reached Toulon in October, I was outraged, and I hated Polette, truly despised her. I’d gotten another letter from Bernard, this one telling me my mother had died. He wrote that she’d been distraught over the erroneous report that I’d been killed at Saint-Jean d’Acre, and very upset with Polette’s behavior. So I went straight to Paris with Bonaparte and left the matter of the divorce to Bernard and Dominique Montbrun, an attorney here I’d known all my life. Montbrun was a snake, utterly ruthless and doubtless unethical, but he succeeded, and that’s all I cared about. He beat Polette down at every turn, playing on her naiveté, producing witnesses who swore they’d seen her at one time or another with every male in town over the age of sixteen. No one would believe a thing she said, even when she fought back and told the truth.”

He stopped and picked up his cup, draining it in two quick gulps. Mariana was surprised he didn’t choke. When he set the empty cup down, his hand shook badly. She didn’t move and didn’t speak. It was not the time to say anything. That much was evident in his eyes, still stormy, but something else hovered there too, something she didn’t recognize. Hands clasped in her lap, tighter now, she waited for him to tell her the rest of what was already a sordid story.

“I divorced her for adultery. That was easy, and I never regretted it for a moment. I still don’t, although I often wonder if the divorce was even legal. But I never took the final, separate action that would have declared her child a bastard, deprived him of my name, and any rights to whatever I owned or would own. Montbrun hounded me about that, so did Bernard and everyone else I knew. I didn’t listen to them, and I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it.”

She understood in a flash of painful clarity why he had not taken that final legal step. And now she recognized what had been swirling and growing stronger in his eyes—guilt, and shame. She clenched her hands tighter still and said nothing.

“Polette had traveled to Toulon before I left for Egypt, not because I wanted to see her but because she was her usual willful self. So there she was, saying she wanted to see me, be with me, before I left for what she described as the ends of the earth. I suppose the empty-headed daughter of a minor bank official from Perpignan did think Egypt was the end of the world.” He looked down, but there was nothing to see but their knees nearly touching and the tips of their shoes touching. Her nails, clipped short, dug into her palms, and every finger ached. She had no idea how she managed to breathe quietly, steadily, while at the same time, her heart lurched from side to side, and her mind raced in frantic circles.

“I slept with her, Mariana, somewhere north of Toulon, in a nondescript posthouse I don’t recall to this day. And not just once. I admit that to you now just as I admitted it to myself then. Yes, I could count. For selfish purposes, for wounded Gascon pride, for whatever pointless reasons you can imagine, I refused to acknowledge that child publicly because I hated his mother so much that I wanted to get rid of her at any cost. Because I knew the real possibility—the real probability—that the child was mine, I couldn’t sever that last legal tie. Now it’s too late.”

She forced herself to tamp down the emotions roiling up and clamoring to spill out in a loud and messy pile in her lap or his. She breathed steadily, certain that her nostrils were flaring like Odysseus’s did after a hard gallop, and struggled to keep her face calm, expressionless. Surely he could see what must be flashing in her eyes. If he did, he should run from it.

“Polette remarried a year or so later to a respectable and prosperous man who treats them both well. Jean-Claude has a step-father, two step-sisters, a step-brother, and a mother who dotes on him. He’s happy and cared for. He always has been, I believe.”

Mariana stood so quickly that her wooden chair rocked on its back legs and crashed to the floor. Stepping around it, she moved to the windows, where the warm breeze cooled the heat rising from her breast and up her neck to her cheeks. She unclenched her hands and flexed her fingers, not caring that her breath came in short, audible puffs.

“I was afraid you’d be upset—”

“Upset? Oh, yes, upset, and furious,” she replied, whirling around to face him. “Not for the reasons you think, you and your stupid male pride. I’m not angry because you had sex with your wife after you’d made all sorts of promises to me. I’m infuriated because you allowed Bonaparte to influence you—again—and poison your mind. You never stopped to think for yourself. You didn’t weigh what your brother said or what your lawyer did and come to your own conclusions. You let other people make intensely personal decisions for you. Worse, you never thought about how your dreadfully cavalier actions might affect other people, especially that little boy. That’s what makes me so furious with you. Sweet Mother of God, has Louise ever seen him?”

“She doesn’t know about Jean-Claude, and she’s never seen him.”

“That’s something to be grateful for, I suppose.” Mariana remained by the window, thumbs hooked in her sash. Even from this distance, she saw that shame was writ large on his face and was glad. She had many things she wanted to say, all of them sharp and hurtful, and none of them serving any useful purpose.

“How do you think Louise would handle a challenge to your estate from this young boy if anything happened to you?”

“I’d hate to think of what she’d do to protect Augie and the boys, even little Joséphine, from anyone challenging what she believes belongs to them and to her. She’d be lethal, like a lioness with new cubs.”

“So, Jean, because of your pride and pigheadedness, six children and two women may well find themselves in an impossible legal situation at some point. Of course, you won’t be around to see what a disaster you’ve created. Did this never occur to you? It’s not as if they would be squabbling over a ten-acre vineyard, either. People unused to wealth, status, and possessions often lose their reason when those things become part of a vast inheritance.” She picked up the chair and collapsed onto it, hands on her knees, and concentrated on catching her breath from the last outburst before beginning the next. Judging from Jean’s expression, she would have ample time to recover. Beneath the guilt and shame, a slight glint of hope swam to the surface of his eyes. She had seen this before, not often, but enough to know he wanted her to make it right and patch up—or clean up—whatever mess he’d made of something. Not this time, though, and not the way he wanted.

“I can’t help you with this. It’s a matter for lawyers, a roomful of them. It’s also up to you, and only you, to decide if you will acknowledge him as your son, perhaps not in the legal sense, but in the most elemental, personal way. But it might be too late now for even that.” She rubbed her forehead, over her right eye, where a headache had taken hold. “What would you do, Jean, if I had your child, unlikely as that may be?”

“Take care of you and of the child. You know I would, so why ask?”

She stood, her anger spiking along with the persistent throbbing in her temple. “Polette might have thought you’d do the same for her and Jean-Claude. She was wrong, as it turned out. I asked because we’ve spent the past half-hour discussing a child you didn’t take care of. You’ll do it, now, though, by all the saints, you will! Somewhere in these books and papers you care so much about is a tidy inheritance for Jean-Claude. You probably can’t touch what the emperor’s given you, and it wouldn’t be fair to Louise and Augie. But these lands and properties are yours to give. So do it, and do it now. I want to see what you’ve drawn up, ready for a lawyer’s finishing touches, when I get back. I will choose the lawyer for this task, however. No more unethical snakes.”

“Where are you going?”

“To light a candle for your son and an even bigger one for you.”

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vanillasakura · 2 years

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4, 41 and 56 please :)

4.) What makes you stop reading a fic right away?

I’ll usually stop if one of three things:

the writing is bad. I’m not talking unpolished or written by a non-native speaker, etc, I’m talking it’s so unrealistic there isn’t any suspension of belief, nothing is made clear, the scenario is unbelievable, etc

everyone is wildly ooc. This applies to my favs especially. I get not everyone will have the same view of the characters as I do, and that’s okay! I’m more so referring to things like “Abigail doesn’t know how sex works” (literally impossible) “Karen is racist” (actual fic I had to stop reading because like three paragraphs in they had her bust out a slur for no reason) or “rdr1 John would cheat on Abigail” (HUH???)

Confusing formatting or no formatting (especially if multiple characters talk in the same paragraph or I see quotation marks touching)

41.) Can you envision the day you stop writing fanfic?

I’ve been doing this since I was eight or so, so not really. First fanfic was a Phinneas and Ferb one I wrote by hand in a notebook where everything went horribly wrong, and I freaked out and changed all the names so that I wouldn’t get sued by Disney. Most likely reason I would stop is that life gets in the way and I stop doing it, then one day like four years later I’m like “oh holy shit I haven’t written fan fiction in fucking forever”

56.) Favorite ships

Just gonna do rdr for this one

Abi/John, but only really chapter 6 and onwards, mainly after he builds her Beecher’s Hope

Sean/Karen are adorable and they have such great chemistry together. Very obviously in love with one another

Charlotte/Arthur are similar in a lot of ways, but also compliment each other in others. I wish we got to see more of their relationship

Abigail/me ((half) joking don’t worry)

#asks #lettie’s mailbox

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purplesurveys · 3 years

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1277

Who are you most nervous about introducing potential significant others to? Ooooh moving forward, probably Angela hahahaha I have no idea how I’d break it to her if ever I do start seeing somebody again. She’s well aware of all the shit that I let slide so she might get intense with the scrutineering.

What is the most exciting thing about your life right now? Just the fact that I feel on top of the world these days. My days of being depressed and picking at my insecurities seem to be far behind me and the change has looked to be apparent coming from friends who’ve told me I seem happier, louder these days.

What was the most important non-academic thing you learned in high school? To not be scared to fight harder for the things you believe in or what make up your identity, coming from having to hide a same-sex relationship during that period. That feeling of being constricted and having to hide to stay on some conservative seniors’ good graces really pissed me off so high school was really crucial in letting me discover just how much I’d be willing to fight and test the waters to be able to live as me.

Have you ever had a job that deeply affected your personal life? How so and do you still work there? Hmm no, not really. If anything my job is one of the things that helped make me a lot livelier and happier.

Do you have a “one who got away”? It felt that way at the start when my view was still skewed, but it didn’t take long until I realized she was not a loss at all.

If you were in a superhero movie, would you be the hero or the villain? Hero.

If you found a mouse in your house, would you be frightened? Mice or rats are the literal worst fucking thing I could see in my house. I definitely see myself making a big deal out of it lmao, especially rats.

Have you ever tried to perform magic tricks? Nobody ever taught me, so no.

Can you do more with a yo-yo than just "go up and down"? Nah, which kinda makes me feel ashamed because considering it was a Filipino who invented the modern yo-yo, I feel like it should be my responsibility to know a few tricks LOL.

What is one form of technology that you wouldn't be able to live without? Instant messenger.

Did you get an allowance, growing up? Why or why not? Starting high school. Before that I was living in our family’s duplex, so my grandma could make packed meals for all of us – not to mention the fact that my parents were also still on their way to establishing themselves at their respective workplaces so we weren’t all that well-off yet.

When we moved into our own place, we started with my mom making our meals but eventually it just proved to be time-consuming and a lot of work considering she also had a job to go to. With that and the fact that both my parents at that point already got a couple of promotions, we switched to allowance.

Would you rather go to a water park or an amusement park? Why? Amusement parks though I would only probably head to the safer rides and food stalls with all the deep-fried offerings haha. I cannot handle more intense rides. On the other hand, water parks have always sounded nasty to me.

What is one instrument you wouldn't mind learning how to play? Piano.

What's the longest amount of time you've had to wait in line for something? The stupid LTO, because you can never count on government agencies to be efficient. Technically my whole time in there took a couple of stages, but all in all I spent eight hours there.

What is something that you would like to learn more about? Korean. I just graduated from my Basic Korean 1 class but I already have plans to enroll in the following course, since I seemed to do well and I want to keep the momentum going.

What is something that one of your family member collects? Mom has a large collection of chef-themed figurines and other sorts of trinkets like a chef timer, shot glasses, etc - but mostly the figurines - that she has displayed in a glass case. I should keep that in mind for when I start Christmas shopping, actually...she hasn’t updated that collection in a long time. Thanks for the idea!

Have you ever moved to a new school before? If so, how did it feel? No, not in the middle of the same period since I went to the same school from kinder to high school for 14 years. I only “moved” when I started college. Like I’ve said in previous surveys, it felt freeing to finally not under be the hands of an environment ran by...well, Catholics. It was a culture shock to see rallies everywhere, to find out I could wear short shorts or even go to school naked if I wanted to, and to see boys in my class (I went to an all-girls), but it was all the good kind of shock.

Have you ever legitimately forgotten to do homework? Always, because I never wrote them down.

Do you enjoy autumn leaves or spring flowers more? Why? I experience neither season.

Depending on where you live, why might a day of school get canceled? Typhoon.

If you could meet any fictional character from a book, who would it be? Melanie Hamilton from Gone with the World.

What are some common places that people tour when they come to your city? I rarely see foreigners here since my area isn’t particularly known for tourism; most go to the island provinces like Cebu, Aklan, Palawan, etc. If I had to recommend spots here, I’d tell them to go for Pinto and maybe the rooftop bars that offer a view of Manila’s skyline.

What's one food that you did not enjoy as a child, but do as an adult? Chicken curry, which I used to dread.

Would you rather have a mermaid tail, a fairy's wings or a unicorn's horn? I guess the wings just because I feel like it’s the only practical one.

What is an animal that you'd like to have as a pet but it's not allowed? I don’t think that way about animals I can’t keep as pets anyway.

What are some things that you do to make the world a better place? I always clean up at restaurants (my mom doesn’t understand why I do it because “the servers are here for a reason, Robyn”) but I always see the relief on their faces when they see I’ve stacked up the plates and cups so I don’t see a reason to stop doing it. I keep the door open for people who happen to enter/exit a building the same time as me, share dog adoption posts, don’t make a fuss about or towards a shop staff who messes up...things like that. I hope it’s able to help, even if just in a small way.

Has the last person you had sex with ever had sex with someone besides you? I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has already.

What’s your favorite store at your mall? We have several malls within the vicinity but I like frequenting NCAT.

Have you ever done a workout DVD? No but my mom is fond of those.

Who usually takes out the trash in your family? Either of my parents.

What song are you currently obsessed with? My Universe is soooooo good. It’s Coldplay’s classic sound but they somehow managed to perfectly blend in BTS’ style as well, so I love how it turned out.

When you go fishing, do you make someone else get the fish off the hook? I've never gone fishing.

Do you take any prescription meds? Nope.

What happens if you don’t take them? Who was the last person you dreamt about? My dad.

Do you prefer your tea sweetened or unsweetened? Sweetened, though I don’t usually actively look for iced tea. I’d have it if it was served, but I don’t typically order it for myself.

How often do you honk your horn? As long as I am annoyed, which gives my mom a mini heart attack every time because she insists I just let people have their way to avoid getting into fights. Sometimes when she’s driving and someone’s being stupid on the road I lurch forward to do the honking for her and it pisses her off soooooooooo much but it also gets the job done so *shrug*

Do you have any children? If so, names and ages? I don’t.

Have your parents ever witnessed you doing something inappropriate? What? TMI but I almost got caught doing the m-word once but my reflexes were at lightning speed that day so when my door opened I was able to fix myself up and appear as though nothing was happening lol. My mom also saw a hickey on me once but I was able to veer the conversation away when she started inquiring.

Did you get babysat a lot as a kid? No, I did the babysitting.

If you were the principal of a school, what would you do differently? Actually deal with teachers who mistreat or make issues towards their students. I had several teachers I know didn’t like me but I could never do anything about it because there was no way in hell the school was going to take my side.

Are you doing anything fun tomorrow? Continued from yesterday. If I took this question yesterday to refer to today I would’ve answered yes because we actually have a really fun PR stunt scheduled for execution today, wherein we get to sponsor someone’s whole wedding from food to flowers to the host and fillm crew :D :D But tomorrow is just Monday so the real answer to this is no.

What is something you'd like to receive as a housewarming gift? I dunno the usual housewarming gifts, but I would appreciate anything practical, or anything that you’ll need at the least expected times, like batteries or even like Sticky Tack.

How old were you when you first experienced the effects of puberty? Oooh I was an early bird – I was 9 when I could first tell my first period was on its way; it came a month after I turned 10.

What is your least favorite holiday, and why? I don’t dislike any holiday because they all mean a day off work lol.

What were some outdoor games you played as a child? We usually played piko (hopscotch), our local version of freeze tag that we dubbed “Ice ice water” for whatever reason, and a garter game that we call 10-20. Dodgeball was a favorite during recess and lunch, too.

Did you accompany your parents on "Take Your Child to Work" Day? That’s not observed here, but my mom did use to take me and my siblings to her first workplace. Are cemeteries peaceful to you, or do they freak you out? They’re actually more interesting to me than anything else. I like learning about the different lives of many different people, even if I only technically know them by their birthday and date of death. Sometimes the inscriptions would be more detailed and tell more about their life, sometimes I’d come across babies who only lived a few days...and it’s just interesting to have those glimpses into life.

Which ancient civilization would you be interested in learning more about? Filipino, because Western colonization destroyed proof of most of it.

Do you have better long-term memory or short-term memory? Long.

What was the last situation that made you cry? Describe. I cried this morning. Nothing bad or heavy, I just found myself thinking again about my mental state last year.

Which forest animal would you be most afraid to encounter? Anything that wouldn’t hesitate to tear my limbs apart.

Do you believe in anything supernatural? (ie: spirits, etc) No.

Has anyone close to you ever gone to war? No. The closest link I have to the military, other than my dead great-grandfather, is Angela’s uncle who’s like a general or like a colonel or something, idk titles.

Have you ever experienced altitude sickness? Yeah, occasionally. Pressure in the ear is a bigger nuisance to me, though.

Is there anything, any event, you wish you could remember more clearly? The last time I saw my grandfather. My only clear memory of him that day was stepping out of the house to leave (my mom and I were visiting) and him sending me off with the message to always be kind and good. If I had known I would never see him again, I never would’ve left.

Have you ever rubbed anyone’s feet? Hmm no, not that I can recall.

If you had to get advice from someone of the opposite sex, who would you go to? I’d go to Hans for certain advice, but not for every single situation. He’s the only person that comes to mind.

What was the last new food/drink that you tried? So last Wednesday I finally got to try this Instagram-based doughnut shop that I’ve been eyeing since August and it turned out to be even MUCH BETTER THAN EXPECTEDDDDDD. Like yeah their photos were always mouthwatering but I didn’t expect it to taste as good as it looks, since most pretty food I’ve encountered usually end up just tasting meh. Anywho, I got two orders of their sampler box and they served me their specialty bacon doughnut, signature brown butter, and a bunch of their chocolate and peanut butter variants and I loved every single fucking thing.

Have you had a good day today or was yesterday better? Oh it’s hard to tell, it’s only 9:05 AM. Both days might be uneventful, though.

Have you ever played Sudoku? I don’t actually get how to play it hahaha. I feel like I’m too stupid for sudoku.

Do you ever take surveys for money? I tried it last year when applying for jobs was still a bitch for me, but the thing is most of those surveys look for employed participants so there was rarely ever a survey that fit me anyway.

Do you like Barbie or Bratz better? Bratz.

Do you prefer purple or green grapes? I don’t like grapes.

Who was the last person that made you laugh? Idk, probs one of the boys since I was watching videos of them earlier today.

Where does your best friend live? A nearby city.

Who did you last confide in? Angela.

Does your car have an alarm? Sure.

Where was your mom born? Somewhere in Metro Manila.

What can always make you feel better no matter what? My dogs.

What is something you’ll never eat again? Why? I don’t think there is anything. I feel like I’m always bound to retry things and that I would be open to doing so, even fruits. One thing I’m firm about never drinking again, though, is coconut water. Get that SHIT away from me.

What is currently happening that is scaring you? I’m not feeling scared these days.

Have you ever found a stranger’s note somewhere? If so, what did it say? Probably. But nothing sticks out.

#survey #surveys

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somewatching · 3 years

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An apprentice turns artist

‘Paris Calligrammes’ (2020) Review

Ulrike Ottinger drives her petite sky-blue Isetta with owls she has painted on it herself towards Paris in 1962. The car breaks down due to engine damage. She hitchhikes only to find a cool black Citroën stopping. This big car has five men in it. Ottinger assumes they are bank robbers but feels safe around them. They bring her to Paris.

She is 20, and has gone there to become an important artist. “Everything fascinated me,” she says, “walking and seeing became my most exhilarating pastime.” Calligrammes, on the other hand, is the title of a “collection of poetry by Guillaume Apollinaire, published in French in 1918,” according to Encyclopaedia Britannica. The subtitle of this collection is “Poems of Peace and War.”

She walks around with and sees everything through a camera. This helps this documentary find its footing and footage very much. It is her personal account, nonetheless, that breathes life into the film.

Yes, Paris is the protagonist. There are so many details, people, and places, though, that you will lose count of them. Each of them has a backstory that is equally interesting. And tangentially fascinating to why the 20-year-old set out to Paris in the first place.

To exemplify, she reads out from her French book in English. It turns out that almost all of it but the last line is a quote from a polymath, who died in a forest at the age of 41, with an open copy of ‘Hamlet’ by his body: “Advice to the good traveller: A town at the end of the road. And road extending a town. Do not choose one or the other. But one and the other by turns. I gladly followed that advice of Victor Segalen”

If I were to detail the backgrounds and trivia about each of the individuals that Ottinger goes through in the course of her 129-minute documentary, I would be writing about 20th century France and not about Ottinger's 2020 film. I will stick to the prominent ones because the documentary is about the artists she meets. She herself has made the job easier by dividing the film to ten chapters.

Fritz Picard of the Librairie Calligrammes is first. The name ‘Baxter’ has replaced ‘Calligrammes’ today, and the storefront has Ottinger’s books. Back then, too, it was a place for “anyone with an interest in German literature.” “An antiquarian bookstore” which was a hangout for the Jews. Most books were authored by banned writers, or rescued from being burnt in Nazi Germany.

Picard, in a 1963 interview, says that his bookstore houses everything “from Goethe all the way ‘downhill’ to 1933.” He had to flee, however, leaving behind his beautiful private collection. Famous names from 1952 onwards drown Picard’s guest book, which Ottinger finds in time for her film. Of actors, artists, scholars, sculptors, writers, Dadaists, Marxists, and “Heideggerians” (Picard was a classmate of Heidegger, apparently).

On the one hand, you have Ottinger dropping names and, on the other, you have them complemented with the visuals from the guest book – people have drawn and doodled (a lot!), left messages, just signed, praised the man, and seemingly pasted an entire postcard. There is footage of Picard’s interview and Ottinger telling us how he could identify them by typeface. He shows us by recognising an 1843 German Shakespeare book.

It is almost as if he is hunting fossils at a rapid pace in any second-hand book storage facility, classifying them, labelling them, and saving them for the future. He also ruminates about passing them on and how all antiquarians have to pass on their collection.

Johnny Friedlaender is second and Ottinger takes us to his studio. A member of the École de Paris, she learns etching techniques from him. Working with him establishes Ottinger as an artist and lands her a radio interview for her ‘Israel’ portfolio. There are eight more chapters to the documentary, but not all of them are as long as Picard’s. Friedlaender’s bit was lesser than ten minutes.

The third chapter is Saint Germain des Prés, famously known to have the literary and philosophical giants Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone De Beauvoir write their books in there, as Ottinger mentions. The café finds multiple mentions in Sarah Bakewell’s acclaimed non-fiction, ‘At the Existentialist Café: Freedom, Being, and Apricot Cocktails,’ which is a gem of a book. “You could receive phone calls there, and they would reliably pass on messages,” Ottinger says, and acknowledges the apricot cocktail.

By the time we come to the fifth chapter titled ‘Pop! My Parisian Experiments with Forms,’ colour takes over the documentary briefly and it is, rightfully, introduced by the 1964 ‘Dieu, est-il Pop?’ The gaze then turns towards three-dimensional art, exhibitions, moving images; all of which can be glimpsed on Ottinger’s website. The film itself seems adapted from a book she wrote, the one she was reading out from, and she has written quite a few.

‘Paris Calligrammes’ is an example of how an artist took the trouble to be at the heart of where everything is. She worked hard under the mentorship of true artists. And became one herself – one with too many feathers in her cap. Ulrike Ottinger wrote, filmed, and directed this documentary. She not only brings in the personal, but the political, too, which I have not gone into. Anette Fleming edited the film while Timothée Alazraki gave it its original sound.

Ottinger has let her work and inspiration speak for her. Little do we know of her personal life, or parents, or partners, or politics through this documentary. She has never been to Israel when she is called for that first radio interview, yet her paintings – at least, the ones she has shown us in this film of that collection – are stunning. She's gone back to Germany now, but how can anybody dare not call her a Parisian?

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wintaejk · 4 years

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Jungkook’s FIC REC | series

Because I spend a lot of time here on tumblr reading fanfictions, I wanted to create my own fic recs. Like that, I can recommend fictions that deserve more recognition and at the same time, if I want to reread one of them, I just have to come here.

Everything on this list is about Jungkook. And of course, all those works have been written by the authors I tagged next to the name of the fictions, they do not belong to me (and if the authors want me to remove their work from my rec, I will).

I also want to thank the authors. I really appreciate all your works and efforts to create all those beautiful stories. I send you all of my love.

I decided to try writing a commentary for each of the stories. I always try to use the right pronouns when talking about the authors, but if I used the wrong ones for you, don’t hesitate to tell me. I will change it in a minute.

(f) = fluff

(a) = angst

(m) = mature

The following fictions are all about completed and finished series. I hope you will enjoy them as much as I did.

Complete

— wanted (F) (M) | One ; Two ; Three ; Four ; Five ; Six — by @jincherie

You were a deserter, a renegade, a wanted “criminal”. It was never in your plans to crash land on that planet, and it most certainly wasn’t in your plans to fall in love with it’s handsome ruler.

space au | alien au | royalty au | soulmate au | +56k

Commentary - To be honest, I don’t even know where to start and what to start with. But I think I’m simply gonna start with my first thoughts of this story. Because this fiction, I saw it multiple times on many fic recs. And to be completely honest, every single time I saw it, I found the summary attractive and intriguing but something was holding me. Probably the universe. The fear of being unsatisfied and disappointed. Because the difficulty with that kind of fiction is to immerse the reader in a universe they don’t know. You then have to describe it enough so that the reader can represent it in their head, but not too much to the point of becoming heavy. And this balance between the ‘enough’ and the ‘not too much’, you find it perfectly in ‘wanted’. I was not only imagining the scenery, I was totally living it. I was seeing everything, I was completely immerged, as if I had been living in that world my whole life. Also, the other risk with diving into a fantastic universe is the possibility of writing (or reading) something that has already been done. Yes, I already read stories where the characters are traveling from planet to planet. Yes, I already read love stories between an alien and a human. And yes, I read stories with kings before. However, this story is totally coming from the author’s imagination, or at least that’s the feeling I have. I don’t feel like I’m reading another story with aliens or in the future or a love story between a king and a non-royal reader that eveybody already knows by heart. No, I am reading Rha’s own story, her scenery, her plots, her descriptions... It was coming from her and it was her interpretation of an ‘alien world’ in the future. And I was even more stunned that I was not expecting that at all. It was in definitive a fucking good surprise. If you ask my opinion, I could even imagine it being the next best-seller book and then someone adapting this fiction in the next record-breaker movie. Now, let’s talk about the love story. Shit, fuck, damn. I’ve been craving a good love story these past few days and she gave it to me. A slow burn with a good amount of actions between the two characters, a flirty and sensual back and forth, a little bit of soulmate au, characters who have a personnality and feel truthful emotions, a last chapter with full on smut... It was for me a delight! And can we talk about that smut? Spoiler alert: Rha will make you wait until the very last minute, the very last chapter. And after waiting five long chapters, I personally only had two words for that smut... The. Fuck. I was so scared when I read the warnings and I saw tentacles and triple penetration. I was wondering where the author were bringing us. BUT BUT BUT!!! Holy fuck! I think we need all to respect a minute of silence in memory of the old me who just died. BECAUSE HOLY CRAP I FEEL LIKE A NEW WOMAN. No, but honestly, I am starting a new day tomorrow as a new person. This smut was something else. Never thought tentacles could be that exc.... Okay, I’m stopping now before making a whole essay on that perfect-amount-of-kink smut :))) I am going to conclude this lil (lol lmao lmfao) comment by emphasizing the work the author put in that fiction. For me, Rha’s story deserve so much recognition. Because this is clearly one of those fics where you can feel everything has been thought. Everything has an explanation, everything arrives at the perfect moment, everything is followed by a logical event, without being predictable. The plot, the secondary plots, the characters, the details... This author truly has nothing to envy to those ‘famous authors’ like J.K. Rowling, J.R.R. Tolkien, Jane Austen... This was not the first fiction she wrote that I read (she actually is the second account writing about bts I followed) and it is not a surprise that I loved so much this story. I am even certain, even if I just finished reading it, that this fiction will be one of those that you remember of, even years and years after you first read them. So Rha, if you happen to read this, let me tell you that you have a real talent, and you should keep embracing it! Love you lots, sweetheart, and I’m looking forward your next pieces of art.

— Falling Skies (F) (A) (M) | Prologue ; One ; Two ; Three ; Four ; Five ; Six — by @fortunexkookie

Jeon Jiyeon was your childhood best friend; her brother, Jungkook, was something else entirely. Once upon a time, she had called you her sun and him her moon; it was fitting, given the constant push-and-pull between you two. You used to consider him a friend, but then he had gone from endearingly frustrating dumb boy to card-carrying fuckboy so fast it had given you whiplash.

You often wondered how Jiyeon wasn’t bothered by his behavior. In fact, she often seemed to encourage it. What you failed to see was that she was just trying to show you how he reflected your light. Jiyeon had realized he was in love with you even before he did, but of course she knew. It was a twin thing.

So despite the fighting and teasing, you always found yourself drawn back to him. You knew he was one of two constants in your life: the Jeon twins were - and had always been - your one indisputable truth. You were the sun, Jungkook was the moon, and Jiyeon was the sky holding you both up When she died, it ripped a black hole right through you.

friends to enemies | enemies to friends | friends to lovers | +50k

Commentary - I think I will never have the words to express how much I love this story. This fiction has its own place in my heart, and I have the need to come back from time to time to read again and again and again this beautiful piece of work. I’m gonna be honest with you. If you don’t like angst, if you don’t want to suffer even a little bit, this fiction is not for you. However, you would miss something. And a big something. Yes, your heart will sink, you might even cry but dammit, it is so worth it. Plus you will find some comfort in Jungkook and reader’s love story. Who doesn’t love a good ‘enemies to lovers’ at the same time of a ‘friends to lovers’. Did I mention smut? No, I did not yet. SMUT, ladies and gentleman. Good smut. In a few words to summarize that all, this is an amazing, wonderful, brilliant masterpiece. Just... go read it.

— Roommates (M) | One ; Two ; Three — by @tayegi

When you accepted to let Jungkook, your best friend’s younger brother, to live with you, you did not take into account how much he grew up… and became that handsome young man.

roommate au | best friend’s brother | college au | +25k

Commentary - I’m pretty sure I couldn’t count how many times I read that fiction on only one hand. This story is the definition of slow-burn itself. As well as a collation of a roommate au, a best friend’s brother au, a friends to lovers au and an older reader. Let me tell you that when Jungkook and reader finally decides to act on that tension, it doesn’t end up in fire, but rathen in a volcanic eruption. And let’s be honest, that is exactly what we are here for.

— Animal (F) (A) (M) | One ; Two ; Three ; Four ; Five ; Six ; Seven ; Eight ; Nine — by @cutaepatootie

“I don’t want to die without telling someone about her,” he says, his voice softening when he says ‘her’. “I don’t want to disappear without the world knowing about her and what she did for me.”

“About her?” the girl frowns.

Maybe his daughter? His sister?

The man turns his head and faces the girl, a soft, distant smile plastered on his lips. The gesture is nostalgic, sad, almost loving.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, the name rolling off his lips softly, just as softly as the waves of the sea roll over the sand. “Her name was Y/N.”

boxer au | flashback au | +115k

Commentary - I’m not gonna lie, this story, I haven’t read it much. Simply because every single time I read it, I left some parts of my heart behind me. You can’t and I promise you that you won’t come out of this fanfiction in one piece. My heart broke the first time I read it. And the second time. And the third time. And this is probably the most I read it. Not that I didn’t like it, on the contrary: it is one of my favorite fictions in here. But there are some stories that you can’t read too many times, because they bring you such a combination of pain and joy, suffering and contentment, sorrow and euphoria that it is hard to handle, that you need some time to heal before reading it again. Putting words on what I felt while reading it is hard. I loved the characters, I loved the plot, the different stages of their relationship... And the end! I don’t think I would find someone who wouldn’t want for the end to be different. The last part let me in pain. Literally. I had a knot in my stomach and tears in my eyes. I had to stop two or three times to breathe in before continuing. In conclusion, if you love stories full of emotions, just go for that one. I read a lot, like a freaking whole lot. And fuck, this fiction is beautiful. Destructive also, but it is really worth it.

— Bunny Boy (M) | One ; Two ; Three ; Four ; Five — by @parkmuse

Catching feelings for your sisters friend wasn’t part of your plan.

sister’s best friend | older!reader | virgin!reader | +17k

Commentary - If you have the same taste as me in terms of fictions, you will like this fiction. There’s no complicated plot behind this story, but this is exactly what I loved about it. Sometimes, you just need a simple story between the reader and her sister’s best friend. A simple story between two young people pining for each other. A simple story maybe, but with a lot of charm. I particurly appreciate this story because of its simplicity. Love is not always complicated and impossible, and it is refreshing to read a story that remins you of that.

— Cream & Sugar (F) (M) | One ; Two ; Three ; Four ; Five ; Six — by @taehyungforreal

Stepping into this coffee shop was either the best or the worst idea of your life. You know that barista, you know he’s great in bed. You also know he’s the biggest asshole you’ve ever met.

escort au | barista au | enemies to lovers | +36k

Commentary - Cream & Sugar is another gem you can find on tumblr. Every time I read this serie, I fall in love once again with the characters of this stories. They are realistic, genuine and fierce. And this is what I love the most about Ashley’s fictions: the realism she puts in every single one of her work. The stories are thought, the psychology of the characters have been analyzed, the plot is consistent. This is not a coincidence I love everything that she writes; she has talent, and you should go read her fictions. And if you love slow-burn, sexual tension, and a good enemies to lovers universe, I warmly recommend you to start with this beautiful serie that I read multiple times and that I will continue to read again and again.

— Everything in you (F) (M) | One ; Two — by @jjungkookislife

Y/n wants a baby, Jungkook is wiiling to help.

best friends to lovers | roommate au | pregnant!reader | +24k

Commentary - If you are looking for a cute and soft Jungkook’s story, I hardly recommend you to not click on this one. And for the others who are ready to give it a go, make sure to prepare your eyes and soul beforehand. This fiction is made of 90% of smut. This is kinky Jungkook asf, this is filth, this is all we like to read. Plus if we add the friends to lovers theme on top of everything else, this fiction can be considered as the holy grail for sinners like me. (But if you consider yourself pure and innocent, I promise the damnation is worth it.)

— the jeon twins (F) (A) ; kookie ending ; jk ending — by @krreader

jk thought he was doing this for his twin’s good. falling in love with you while pretending to be kookie was never something he planned on doing and he hated himself for it.

twins!jeon | college au | badboy!jk | nerd!kookie

Commentary - I loved the concet of this fiction. A double ending, so everyone is happy at the end. Plus we have the duality of Jungkook in one fiction: the nerdy part of him vs the iNtErNaTiOnAl PlAyBoY one. And I have to admit that I’m a sucker for both of them. So having them reunited in one fiction is a delight.

— fear is forever (F) (A) | One: fear in your eyes ; Two: forever and a night — by @gukyi

there’s a werewolf in that forest behind your house, they told you, and he’ll eat you before you can even beg for mercy.

werewolf au | strangers to lovers | +8k

Commentary - For some reasons, this story hit me hard. I love reading werewolf au, or should I say that I just love everything that is supernatural and magical. But this one was different. No crazy smut, no mate au, no pack. At some point, I even thought about Red Riding Hood, but not because the stories are similar. Far from it. I didn’t realize it directly, but after a few days, I was still thinking about it, and I could imagine telling that story to my future children. And then I realized why I was associating it to Red Riding Hood. This story feels like a fairytale. The famous ones. The ones that you tell your children before they go to sleep. The ones with magic, as much in the story itself as in the way it is written. The ones that make you still think about them days after you first read it. This story is literally a fairytale.

— Cafuné (F) (A) (M) | One ; Two — by @daffodilon

cafuné - (brazilian portuguese)

“the act of running your fingers through your lover’s hair; among the few words that cannot be directly translated into english”

roommates au | friends to lovers | +19k

Commentary - This fiction is the personification of the friends to lovers au itself. You want soft? You will have soft. You want soft smut? You will have soft smut. You want soft smut with Jungkook? Seriously, I don’t know why you still are here reading my bullshit when you could be reading that beautiful baby instead.

— vaunt (M) | One ; Two — by @yminie

Every weekend Beta Tau throws a ‘little’ party to help students relax and let loose, and the frat resident Jungkook has a big mouth that talks a lot of big game. You finally get sick of the lack of relaxation on your end and set out to see if he’s all talk.

college au | fratboy!jungkook | enemies to lovers | +18k

Commentary - I only have three words to describe that fiction: big dick Jungkook. You want reasons to go read this story? A lot of smut. A good amount of crack. A little bit of fluff to end the story. And also, fuckboy!jungkook; fratboy!jungkook; and Big. Dick. Jungkook. You want a little bit more of filth and sin in your life? You are in the right place, that’s all I have to say.

— bad for you (A) (M) | drabble 1 ; drabble 2 ; Epilogue: undressed — by @yoonia

His whole presence emits sin and danger, and you are not supposed to be attracted to him on the first glance.

stripper au | bachelorette au | +31k

Commentary - Another fiction that I love reading again from time to time. And yes, cheating is wrong. Don’t do it at home kids. But no, I am not ashamed to love that fiction so much. I’m a sucker for Jungkook. But I’m a hoe for stripper!Jungkook. Plus the alchemy between reader and Jk is too good to not count that fiction in the top of my list of fictions. You add smut, fluff and the right amount of angst and BAM! You end up with a five stars fiction that you will devour until the very end.

#fic rec #jeon jungkook fic rec #jeon jungkook #bts fic rec #series fic rec

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therollingstonys · 3 years

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Thirsty Thursday Q's (these aren't for a specific fic, just generally speaking): I wanted to know how writing fics became one of your passions? what in you clicked and made you think (or decide) that writing different outcomes for a story (Stony wise) would be a great thing to put your energy towards? and also as someone who has had a writer's block for 3 years now, how do you deal with a block yourselves?

Huzzah I finally have time to respond lol

Well, first things first, I started writing fic on Quizilla when I was...eleven? Lol Before that I wrote down little story ideas in notebooks, and eventually, after college, the writing bug bit hard!

I wrote my first fic after seeing Captain America Winter Soldier because I loved Bucky’s character and I had a story I wanted to read, so I wrote it! Once I started writing, there was no stopping me and I’ve been writing since then, for about eight years, non stop lol

I think the thing that made me want to write different outcomes from canon is the desire to see more of characters. So often in canon movies or shows, we only get a surface level look at the characters and their relationships and I wanted to dig into them and see what makes them tick. I’ve always been interested in people and their behavior and for me, writing about these characters is sort of a study of humanity. I think humanity (whether fictional or real) is deeply fascinating and as a student of social work and psychology, it’s absolutely a delight to do in depth character analysis on them as I write.

Ahh writers block, you fickle bitch...

I find that when I’m blocked or stressed or unsure about what to write, I need to step back and take a break. For me that means going for a walk, doing some baking or boxing 🥊—anything to take my mind off of it and stimulate those happy brain hormones.

It’s also helpful to have friends who I can go to and ask them to read over my writing, to see if they spot the same problems I do, and then brainstorm how to fix them. Sometimes I also find it helpful to do some sprints through Discord (where you write for a certain amount of time). In that way I’m able to just put words down and even if they’re shitty words and all wrong, it helps me to think and process and go “oh THAT’S why Steve is doing this!” From there I can edit or erase and move forward.

Lastly, and this is something I’ve discovered this last year, I’ve found joy in writing the stories I want to write—not the ones I think fandom wants, but what I want. I’ve forced myself to stop comparing myself to other writers because frankly, I don’t want to be like other writers, I want to be me. I love my style and voice and it brings me joy to share my stories with fandom, but more so with the friends I’ve made.

Releasing that stupid pressure valve of “oh god I have to write XYZ fic because it’s a popular trope” or “oh what if I’m not writing enough and people forget I exist” has been amazing for my mental health and has encouraged me to be a better writer frankly. It’s removed the blockage and fear that I had and allowed me to write joyfully, and in these times, that’s really all I want.

Thanks for the ask!!

#mod stella answers #asks about writing

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thosequeenboys · 4 years

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36: Half Full (Joe Mazzello x Y/N)

A/N: 36-year-old teacher Y/N seeks the right man with whom to start a family. One day while working as a camp administrator, she shares a mutual attraction with the uncle of one of her favorite young campers. Could her dream become a reality or will old fears prevent her from taking a risk? This is Y/N’s perspective of my story 36: Reset, in which Joe Mazzello, also eager to start a family, meets Y/N while caring for his nieces. Joe’s family members are written as fictional characters. This story is dedicated to my mother, who strives to keep the glass half full and reminds me to do the same.

@warriorteam1924 @marianaletosnape @im-an-adult-ish @johndeaconshands @thatstuckyhoe @amethyst-serenade @orionis8689 @jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

Y/N opened her eyes and followed the morning sunlight fanning across the floor. She palmed her phone on the side table, then flipped onto her back and brought up her Notes for the day. She took in the mundane reminders about camper pick-ups and staff time sheets and focused on the day’s big event: a reunion with her eight college friends. The tight group remained close in their 20’s. Now, a decade later, it was harder to stay connected as their lives splayed in different directions, as evidenced by the reason for tonight’s festivities: Vanessa’s engagement and Ashley’s pregnancy.

She looked forward to celebrating with her friends. Yet, Y/N couldn’t ignore the gnawing feeling that her dreams, those dreams, seemed unattainable. A wall had been erected within her from a past experience, creating a barrier. That inner turmoil, however, was countered by her day-to-day reality. Y/N was a woman with full life: a passionate educator, an art enthusiast and a skilled improv performer. What she longed for most was missing: a loving husband and children. For now, Camp Administrator extraordinaire would have to do. To that end, she rolled out of bed and slipped into a pressed shirt, capri pants and sneakers.

Her carefully folded sundress and her favorite strappy sandals for the evening joined lunch, water bottle and phone in her backpack. She stepped outside to greet the humid day. Arriving at the YMCA, she locked her backpack and retrieved her clipboard, looping her key lanyard around her neck. Y/N entered the large gym, observing the children with their counselors and eyeing the many pockets of action. She offered greetings while ensuring everything ran smoothly.

Suddenly, a small familiar figure came toward her. A man navigating a stroller followed behind.

“Hi, Jessie,” Y/N greeted one of her favorite campers. Y/N bent down and glanced at the toddler nestled in her stroller. “Hi, Josie,” she said, then rose.

“Hi, Y/N. This is my Uncle Joe.” Jessie’s head tilted up to the slender gentleman with wavy auburn hair, who looked around Y/N’s age. Jessie clutched her uncle’s hand tightly as she elaborated. “He’s taking care of Josie and me while my parents are at Cousin Carol’s wedding this weekend…” Jessie provided a litany of details as Joe and Y/N looked at each other and laughed. When Jessie paused, Joe extended his hand. “I’m Joe, nice to meet you.” Suddenly an item on her morning Notes flashed before her: Jessie, Yellow Group: Joe Mazzello pick up. He seemed so at ease. How lovely that he was caring for the two girls for three days. Not an easy feat. His sister must really trust him. And Jessie certainly seemed fond of him. She smiled at the sweet, attractive man before her. “Hi, Joe.” Joe’s eyes lingered on her.

Y/N shook Joe’s hand and continued, “Your sister wrote saying you’d be helping with the girls. That’s so nice. I’m Y/N/Z, the Assistant Director of the camp. If you need anything please let me know. Jessie is a wonderful camper!” She winked at Jessie who smiled and then spoke to Joe before joining her group. Suddenly, Y/N felt a tap on her arm and turned to speak with a parent, reluctantly losing sight of the handsome man she had just met, who softly uttered “Thanks.” Then, as always, Y/N found herself caught up in the fray. It was her favorite place, really: people coming to her with issues to resolve, questions to answer, laments to be heard.

Y/N caught Joe leaning down to check on Josie who was sitting comfortably in her stroller playing with a toy. She spotted a towel and water toys in the lower basket of the stroller and figured he’d be taking her to the playground for sprinkler fun. Joe spoke to his niece softly and then gave her leg a kiss. It was a natural, loving gesture. Y/N forced her gaze away from him to focus on two counselors who suddenly were speaking before her, but she sensed he was watching her as he strolled away. And just as he reached the exit, she turned and waved to him. “Oh. My. God.,” she thought, catching herself and bringing her hand to her clipboard. Was she flirting with a child’s guardian? What was wrong with her? Before she could further berate herself, Joe waved back with a big smile. It had been awhile since her body had an involuntary reaction to a man. Her heart suddenly started to ramp up like a pole vaulter tearing down the track, gaining speed, preparing to catapult. Yes, she felt like she was flying. Warmth rushed through her and she felt a lightness she couldn’t quite describe.

The day ran smoothly and at 3:00, she took a quick break, heading to the restroom with her make-up bag. Y/N checked herself in the mirror. She looked like she had been running up and down three flights of stairs non-stop, except for a few minutes to down a sandwich, yogurt and fruit, chased by a few swigs of water. That look, though accurate, should be addressed before she saw Joe again, she thought. She reapplied make-up and freshened up. She tucked her bag away in her office and picked up her clipboard. Back in the gym, she took in the quiet activities that signaled the wrap up of the day: board games, crafts and ice pops.

A half hour before camp ended, Joe wheeled Josie into the gym. Y/N appreciated he wasn’t among those who arrived late for pick-up keeping the staff waiting. The man took his responsibilities seriously. Mostly, she was glad to be able to cast her eyes on him again, and hoped for the chance to speak with him.

Joe let a restless Josie out of the stroller, and he followed behind her closely as she walked around. Y/N was impressed that he was mindful about preventing her from getting in the way, or worse, getting hurt. Setting out to make group rounds, Y/N approached them. “Hi, Joe,” Y/N said softly. She bent down to Josie. “Did you have fun in the playground with Uncle Joe?”

“Fun Un JoJo!” Josie responded as she toddled around and clapped her hands.

Y/N laughed and turned to him. “A standing ovation. I’m impressed.”

He chuckled and looked down briefly. “Well, we had fun, but I have to say, it was tiring. And I’m just watching one! Amazing you look so, uh, calm after running the show here.” Joe said admirably, extending his hands in a grand gesture.

“I’m a third-grade teacher so I’m used to it,” Y/N said. “I’m working on my master’s degree so I can be a Principal one day. This gives me good practice,” Y/N offered up some personal information to see if Joe responded. So many guys were so self-involved.

“Wow, that’s really impressive,” Joe said sincerely, eyeing her. His response caused her heart to flutter again. The conversation was cut off as Josie bolted toward her big sister. Joe fell into step close behind her. Y/N made her way across the gym, checking in on groups and finally sidled up next to Jessie, who was embroiled in a game of Chinese Checkers with a counselor. Kneeling on the floor next to the game, Joe unwrapped a watermelon-flavored pop a counselor gave him and offered some to Josie, who eagerly took some bites. The sticky pop started to drip, and Joe took his backpack off and unzipped it with a flourish, retrieving a napkin to wipe her up. “Good reflexes,” Y/N mused.

Jessie glanced at Y/N as her opponent contemplated her move. “Y/N, did you know Uncle Joe is a FAMOUS MOVIE STAR?” she bellowed.

Y/N immediately flashed back to her conversation with Jessie’s mother the prior evening. “Oh, Y/N,” she had said, “Remember, my brother Joe will be picking Jessie up tomorrow. You got my e-mail. You’ll recognize him.” She said with a wink. “He was in Bohemian Rhapsody. And, The Social Network. Bunch of things.”

Back in the present, Y/N played it cool. “Wow, interesting,” she responded evenly. “And he’s a GREAT UNCLE!” she added enthusiastically, trying to steer the conversation to the present, seeing Joe looking down embarrassed.

“Who is successfully making a mess with this pop,” Joe retorted, wiping his mouth with the napkin and giving Josie another wipe, before she took off for the crafts table. Joe rose, his face a shade of crimson, and followed her.

Y/N’s boss signaled the floor was covered, and she took her leave to change. She reemerged wearing her flowery sundress with wide straps and a deep neckline that accentuated her figure. Her elegant sandals gave her shapely legs a nice lift and embodied the ease and comfort of summer. Standing near the doorway, Y/N bid good-bye to families, wishing them a good weekend. Joe walked toward her to retrieve the parked stroller.

“You look…nice,” Joe said haltingly, without any emotion. “Big night out?”

“Thank you.” Her faced flushed. “I’m meeting my college friends. One just got engaged and another is expecting.”

“Lots to celebrate.” Joe said, his taut lips relaxing into a wide smile, seemingly relieved by the answer.

“Yeah,” she said wistfully. “You know, life in the 30’s…”

‘Uh. Yeah,” Joe uttered, his eyes trained on her. Suddenly distracted by his nieces, Joe turned. Squatting to his knees, he spoke quietly but firmly to Jessie. Then he stood and turned to face Y/N. He caught her eye, his face full of intensity. “Y/N,” he said softly, “I was wondering, if, uh, one day, you might want to grab dinner.” She looked at him. And the reality hit her. She could be present, rather than thinking of yesterdays. She could take in the joy she was feeling. She could take the risk. “I’d love that. Let me give you my number.” She hastily wrote it on a paper on her clipboard and gave it to him. She sighed, feeling that inexplicable lightness return. Maybe part of that wall was chipping away.

“Great,” Joe said to Y/N with a smile. “I’ll probably need two days to recover after my sister gets back,” He laughed. “I’ll text you. Maybe we can get together next weekend?”

“That should work,” she said. “Bye...” her voice trailed off, as a counselor interrupted.

“Have fun tonight,” Joe called after her. After a quick check of the stroller buckle, he took off, taking Jessie’s hand. “Bye, Y/N!” Jessie called, turning.

Y/N waved to Jessie, noticing Joe’s nicely filled out cargo shorts and firm biceps extending from his t-shirt, as he headed out the door with his two charges.

*****

The latest Williamsburg bar considered all the rage was dimly lit with modern brass drop fixtures and a plethora of votive candles. The friends gathered on comfy chairs and a couch set in an oval. They held colorful drinks and indulged in the bounty of tantalizing appetizers set out on the tables before them. They toasted Vanessa and Ashley. The years hadn’t changed their easy banter, and their shared jokes and memories transported them back to golden, carefree days. The conversation grew more serious as the friends discussed their present lives.

“What’s going on with you, Y/N?” Vanessa asked eagerly. Her pear-shaped diamond glistened as she raised her mango-infused drink.

“Well, I LOVE working at the camp.” Y/N began. “The kids are great, and this year, we have a dance competition.” She shook her head. “Well, we’re not calling it a competition, cause we want every kid to express themselves. Our dance teacher is a member of the dance company Alvin Ailey II….”

Vanessa cut her off with no qualms. “Yeah, that’s great. Come ON! Get to the good stuff. You seeing anyone?”

Y/N paused. Images of Joe shaking her hand, waving to her, blushing and asking her out flashed, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. “Well actually…just today, the uncle of one of my campers asked me out. He’s really nice and so…handsome.” She knew she was sporting a dreamy expression.

Awkward side glances were exchanged by the friends, who fell into an uncomfortable silence. Y/N looked around at them perplexed.

Vanessa, always one of the boldest among them, cocked her head and spoke. “So…um, is this a sugar daddy situation?” she asked.

“WHAT??” Y/N gasped. She started to laugh so hard her breath suspended for a moment. “OHMYGOD!! What are you thinking?? He’s not, like, YOUR uncle. He’s our age. He’s in his 30’s. The girls dissolved into uproarious laughter, falling into each other.

“Here’s to the 30’s,” Ashley said, through her own laughter, rubbing her curved belly with one hand and raising her cranberry juice with the other.

“To the 30’s,” Y/N said, raising her Cosmo.

*****

Therapy was every other Tuesday at 7:00 p.m.

Ann Garnett, Ph.D. saw herself as a tour guide accompanying her patients as they revised their pasts and envisioned their futures, offering a fresh canvas on which to sketch new interpretations, plans and realized truths. She gingerly accompanied Y/N back in time to allow her to work through her painful break-up with Derek. They had loved each other passionately, but it became clear that they were on different tracks. For Y/N, there were education certificates to obtain, cultural events to experience, improv shows to perform and friends to see. Derek, six years her senior, was eager to buy a house in the suburbs and start a family. He had enough of tiny apartments with unreliable plumbing and the constant churn of neighbors who kept late hours. He was unwilling to wait-or compromise. Staying in the city for even a few years so Y/N could engage in her enjoyments was out of the question. Y/N had to choose between a life she wasn’t ready for with a man she was in love with or creating her own desired life. She chose the latter. And though her life was fulfilling, Y/N often wondered if she gave up her one chance at love and having a family, which now, she wanted more than anything. Ann helped her to accept that she made the right decision based on who and where she was at the time. Most importantly, Ann helped Y/N work through the fear of repeated disappointment that lapped at her and prevented her from entering another serious relationship.

Y/N planted her backpack on the couch next to her. “So. I had a date.”

“Oh?” Ann’s voice and eyebrows raised slightly. She took in Y/N’s evident excitement.

Y/N recounted meeting Joe at camp and their interactions. She spoke warmly about the affection and care he demonstrated toward his nieces.

“That’s lovely.” Ann said.

“It was.” Y/N said. “He took me for a delicious dinner. We both like good food and travelling. It was so easy to talk with him. He was interested in my work at the camp, having seen me in action.” She giggled proudly before continuing. “He asked me a lot about my improv with Upright Citizens Brigade. He’s an actor, and he described how he improvised during some of his scenes. Yeah, we really connected about that.”

“Sounds like you have some shared interests. And he respects YOUR interests.” Ann concluded.

Talking about the date laid bare the plausible reality that it was positive – and it could evolve. And that made it feel so fragile and scary. Y/N felt like she was clutching a vase of etched glass closely to protect it. Yet despite her efforts, it tumbled from her firm grasp in slow motion. She reached for it in mid-air, but before she could swoop in, it crashed and shattered. Suddenly, the positive feelings dissipated. She just couldn’t risk having them wrap around her heart, create a stronghold, and then witness the inevitable unraveling of a promising future. Again.

“Well,” Y/N asserted, her tone becoming firm, “It’s not going to work, unfortunately. He’s going to move to LA.”

“Oh? When’s he leaving?” Ann asked casually.

“It’s not planned. Yet. but he’s an actor and director. He’s going to have to go at some point.” Y/N sounded annoyed having to explain what seemed like an inevitable reality, not worth additional discussion. Case closed. Next subject.

Ann considered her patient, whom she greatly admired. “You don’t know if Joe will move to LA. His family is here, after all. And if he does, well, many couples relocate for jobs. Fortunately, wherever you go, there will be a need for teachers-and one of your caliber would be in demand. And LA has a great Citizens Brigade.” She added with a smile. Her voice and words opened up the canvass for sketching. “You’re not tied down. You can be flexible. And, there’s no need to plan everything today. You can’t, really. Let yourself enjoy the unfolding. Get to know Joe. See if you fit together. You’re at a different place now than you were with Derek. And Joe is a different person than Derek. He’s proven that already.”

Y/N stared at Ann, taking in her wise and objective words.

“You know, Y/N,” Ann said, her eyes taking in the lovely young woman before her, so deserving of love. “The glass can also be half full.”

Ann closed her notebook, signaling the session’s end.

That evening, Y/N slept restlessly as dreams spun through her head. In the last one, she was clutching a vase tightly, protectively. A figure stood in the darkness. Fearing it would take her vase, she turned to run. “Wait, Y/N!, Wait for me,” the figure called to her pleadingly. She turned back. The figure stepped forward into a spotlight. She strained to make out its features. It was Joe, wearing black trousers a button-down shirt and black blazer. The vase in her arms, now also shrouded in light, caught her eye. As she gazed down, she realized it had transformed to a baby swaddled in a blanket.

The dream startled Y/N awake. Her phone vibrated. She pulled it out and saw a text from Joe: “Enjoy the kiddos today. Can’t wait to see your show tonight! Break a leg.” A smile emerged, as Y/N replayed her dream and reread Joe’s text, excitedly anticipating her show that evening.

Maybe the glass can be half full.

My Masterlist

#joe mazzello #joe mazzello fanfic #joe mazzello x reader #joe mazzello fan fiction #joe mazzello fanfiction #joe mazzello x y/n #romance #upright citizens brigade #true love #borhap fanfic #improv #adulting #therapy

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ginnyzero · 4 years

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Success is a Journey, Not a Destination

Last Friday, my father called me before he left work. I have a fairly close and adult relationship with my dad. He's the one I talked to before deciding to self-publish. He's a pretty non-judgemental guy with a out of left field sense of humor. We are often told we share a brain, which when it comes to working together can be detrimental because we really don't. I can't read his mind. It can't be frustrating.

But, I don't talk to him about my creative endeavors. I didn't talk to him about my fashion projects or my creative writing. I sat in the office of his shop and between screens loading with his old accounting and job building software frantically typed the first draft of the Lone Prospect and an office manual for said software. So, I was pretty happy when I published the Lone Prospect in paperback that he actually bought it even though he knows I only get 34 cents from the sale. He's not an ebook reader type of guy. I wasn't even sure if he'd read it.

My dad's reading taste is pretty eclectic. He works a lot so seeing him read anything other than the Bible or machinist magazines was pretty rare when I was growing up. When I was a teenager, his reading habits were whatever book you left laying unattended in the living room. I learned quickly not to leave my books unattended. He had the ability to flip open a book I was reading (and may not have even finished yet) and find the one sex scene in the book (that I hadn't gotten to and didn't know existed.) Embarrassing. As a teenager I didn't want him to know I was reading about sex, just as much as I didn't want to know that he and mom still had sex. (Oh the stories from my sister and cousin whose bedroom was over my parents.) When I was in college, I didn't really want to know that my father knew I wrote sex scenes. When I found out from my mother that he'd found my fan fiction LJ accounts and had looked into what I was doing online, I f-locked the accounts. (I was in my early twenties for God's sake.)

So far, sex hasn't come up in anything I've published. I can put off this dilemma for another day. (Thank Goodness.)

Last month, he told me he was reading Honor Harrington. Hard political science fiction mixed with hard core space battles. I was pretty floored. Not what I expected. Friday, he told me that he'd read my book and was actually reading it again. I asked him outright if he liked it because he won't tell me these things unless I do. (Working for him was a pain because I never was sure I was doing a good job.) He did. (He also found grammar errors and missing words in the first 70 pages that have been through three Microsoft products, two format changes and then adobe products and losing words is what happens when too many software formats collide and I refuse to touch it again or else I'll scream. But he notices these things! Engineers.) His approval and enjoying my book made me really happy. Because I want my father's love and approval. In fact, he wanted to know if there were more books.

If this was the pinnacle and definition of success, then I'd reached that goal. Success achieved.

Of course, that's not really where my goal of success lays. But it's a good, life affirming step.

Being a successful published author isn't easy no matter if you're a self published author or if you're a traditionally published author. You end up doing a lot of the marketing work yourself. You aren't just a writer. You're an entrepreneur of your own brand. And it's work. It's a journey, a road, an experience not for the faint of heart. Because you can spend hours and hours writing something, publish it, grind your tailbone flat marketing and promoting and get no response, and then spend an hour dashing off a meaningless dribble and be an overnight sensation. You just don't know how it's going to play out.

I'm at the beginning (2020 here, STILL at the Beginning it feels like) of this original work self-publishing journey. I published my first book in August of 2016 and I know that it may be years before I get more than drips of sales. I'm still on the "what type of promoting is going to work best for me" stage. (Especially since I have no money to put into it.) It doesn't make me a failure. It means I don't know where I'm going yet. I'm at the fork in the road and trying to determine which way looks the best. (I may look back at this in a few years and go, oh Ginnikins, you naive little sod.)

Everyone's journey is different. Everyone has their own realizations about themselves, their writing, creative process and what is important to them at different times. Sometimes, the first step of the journey as a writer is to realize that you can't stop writing. Then the next is whether or not it's important to you to share that writing. The journey is about yourself, the inner you and while other people may come into this journey, they aren't the stars of it. Trying to make someone else the star of your journey is at least a very big distraction. During the journey, you can grow or you can stall and stay the same.

Eighteen years ago, I started writing in order to connect with a friend. Fifteen years ago, I was writing fanfic. Where the hardest thing after having a successful story was writing the next story and trying to duplicate that success. Ten years ago, I was a big name fan (BNF) running a pairing community and hosting awards. Nine years ago, I burnt out. I switched fandoms. I stopped posting WIP. I stopped posting stories all together. I faded out of fandom. No one looked for me. Six years ago or more, I said I'd never publish an original book. Because I didn't want to lose creative control of my characters, plots and writing style. Four or five years ago, I finally had an emotional breakthrough and came up with my ideas for the Lone Prospect. Two years ago, I looked at my health and faced reality that I needed to try to get another source of income that I could get while sitting on my couch, writing. I started querying agents. Six to eight months ago, I decided to self-publish because even if I got an agent to look at my writing, it'd be another two years before I was published by a publisher. And in two years, I could publish 5 books myself plus whatever short stories I wanted.

Who knows where I'll be in two years? I don't.

Even if I'm not getting a lot of sales. Even if I'm working part time jobs or as a consultant or whatever I need to do to keep a roof over my head and food in my fridge. I won't be a failure. I will just be at another part of my journey. As long as I don't give up and I keep writing. (I can't stop writing. I get frustrated and depressed if I stop writing.) Then I'm still a success because I'm moving forward slowly, one step at a time.

One of the major realizations I had in this journey is that I don't need outside affirmation that my writing is good, that I have good stories to tell. I know I'm a good writer. I know I'm a creative person. There are stories I write, that I only share with one person because I know she'll like them too and she wants them. And if I didn't have her, I wouldn't have to share the stories with anyone else. Because they are for me. (Self indulgent character driven stories of properties I don't own and one or two I do.)

The stories I write and that I do share, they're for me too. I share them because I hope others will also enjoy them. I hope that others will find meaning in them even if it is a few hours of entertainment. But it took a great deal of time for me to come to this realization and that if people have problems with the stories I write and the way I write them (outside of technical things like grammar and missing words) then they aren't the audience for my stories. Their opinions don't have to sway me from doing what I love to do.

I don't say this out of arrogance or hubris. I say this out of confidence. I know what I do well and while I may stretch myself in order to grow and improve, it won't change my style and method of writing. There are things I can't do and don't need to do in order to tell my stories. And I acknowledge those things and move on. There are enough people out there that could and would tear me down and shred me apart that I don't need to do it to myself. (And there are lots of lovely people out there too that could build me up.)

I say this because the moment I let an outside opinion define my success, then that person has power over me. That lack of power can undermine my confidence, make me second guess myself. It takes way from me being single minded in my goals to write. This leads to fear of not being good enough, of being rejected and of being a failure. Fear leads to depression. Depression leads to being paralyzed.

And then I'd be stuck on my journey, not willing to go forward, unable to go backwards. And even if you're just taking that first step in your journey by opening a document and writing the first sentence, you've come too far to stop now.

As long as you keep going, as long as you stay on your journey, then you can't be a failure. There may be mountains and molehills or turning molehills into mountains. There will be flat spaces where it's happy and easy and storms when it's hard and you're anxious and stressed and not sure if getting out of bed in the morning is worth it. There can be twists and turns. Sure, maybe your journey will veer away from writing. Maybe there will be a new passion and a new place to put your energy. But that doesn't mean you're a failure as a writer or a person. It just means that there is a new exciting path ahead of you.

Please, don't give up on it.

#writing advice #dad story #success #positivity

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charnamefic · 5 years

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There was some interest in the introduction to the William the Antichrist book that came with the Ineffable Edition of the Definitive Good Omens, so here are the pictures of that. As with the rest of my posts on the book’s contents, I’ve provided a transcript below the cut.

I was twenty-six. I had just finished writing Don’t Panic!

The Hitchhiker’s guide to the Galaxy Companion. There was something comfortable about the style I was writing it in: I wasn’t trying to pastiche Douglas Adams, but I was trying to write in a style I thought of as ‘classic English humour’ – P. G. Wodehouse was in there, and so were Alan Coren, Richmal Crompton and Stella Gibbons, Caryl Brahms and S.J. Simon, and many others. And by the end of the book, in the spring of 1987, I felt comfortable writing in that style.

In the summer of 1987, several odd ideas came together: the film The Omen; a scene in Christopher Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta; Richmal Crompton’s Just William books. I found myself imagining a book called William the Antichrist, in which a hapless demon was going to be responsible for swapping the wrong baby over, and the son of the US Ambassador would be completely undemonic, while William Brown would grow up to be the Antichrist, and the demon would need to stop him ending the world. The unfortunate demon, whom I called Crawleigh, because Crawley was a nearby town with an unfortunate name, would have to sort it all out as best he could.

It felt like a story with legs.

I wrote an opening. It was 5,000 words long, and I sent it to several friends to take a look at, and one of those friends was Terry Pratchett.

And then, in October 1987, a hurricane hit England, and in its aftermath I plotted the first eight issues of a monthly comic called Sandman, and pitched it to DC Comics as soon as the power went back on. They said yes.

My life was swept up by a whirlwind of work: I was writing Sandman, and pretty soon afterwards I was also writing The Books of Magic. William the Antichrist was going to have to wait until The Books of Magic was done, before I could get back to it.

In the middle of 1988, Terry Pratchett called. ‘Are you doing anything with that thing you sent me?’ he asked. l told him that, no, I wasn’t. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Sell me the idea, or let’s write it together. I know what happens next.’

‘Let’s write it together,’ I said.

So we did. Terry took the 5,000 words, and rewrote them, calling me to tell me what he was doing and what he was planning to do. The biggest thing he was going to do, he told me, was split the hapless demon into two characters – a would-be-cool demon in dark glasses (which was, I think, Terry’s way of making fun of me, a never-actually- cool journalist in dark glasses) who had renamed himself Crowley, and a rare-book dealer and angel called Aziraphale, who would embody all the English awkwardness that either

of us could conceive.

Once he‘d done that (bringing us the Chattering Order of Saint Beryl on the way, to replace the nurses that I’d invented) he sent his new version to me to read, and then we began to plot. There was a lot of plotting. And there was a lot of writing and rewriting and re-rewriting. Neither of us was precious about our words, so we cheerfully footnoted each other, adding in jokes or lines if we thought the work would be better for them.

There were very long daily phone calls. There were floppy disks that were posted back and forth weekly.

Terry had written a dozen novels by that point, but this was my first. My books to this point had been non-fiction. I learned so much from him. I felt like an apprentice to a medieval guild master, enjoying Terry’s confidence that, even if we didn’t know how the plot would sort out, we were certain that it would sort out. And it did.

We enjoyed the writing-together process, enough that when it was done we plotted a sequel to the book we had written, and a book about a serial killer who killed serial killers (we didn’t write it, and I was pleased, some years on, to see the Dexter books, as it meant that the Universe hadn’t wasted the idea on us).

William the Antichrist XXX being finished, we reached out to the Richmal Crompton estate to see if they’d countenance the book being published with their characters. They didn’t reply, and we were already talking about some of the fun

things we could do to the characters if we weren’t stuck with William Brown’s world – Adam’s second in command could be female, for a start – so our second draft of the book formerly known as William the Antichrist, which was mostly an attempt to make it look like we knew what we were doing all along, and not just filing off the serial numbers and doing a Find and Replace to change William to Adam (although we did that, too, resulting in Gollancz’s copy editor asking who composer Vaughan Adams was). Then we just had to title it – I suggested Good Omens, and Terry suggested The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch, so we compromised, as we usually did, and used both of them.

Rereading my Very First Draft here, I’m struck by a number of things. The first is how much of an early pencil sketch it was by a young man who had sold at most half a dozen short stories. And the second is how much Terry, wisely, changed about it, and how much he left the same. Once he had changed my first 5,000 words into our first 10,000 words, the book had a voice, and it kept that voice until the end.

When we finished the book we estimated that the words were 60% Terry’s and 40% mine, and the plot, such as it was, was entirely ours.

Nobody has seen this original opening before. Not since I sent it to half a dozen friends in 1987, anyway.

I’m so glad one of them was Terry.

He told people in interviews that he didn’t collaborate well, but I look back on the writing of Good Omens with nothing but joy. It was an education.

Neil Gaiman

#good omens #Definitive Good Omens #ineffable edition #william the antichrist #williamtheantichrist #transcript #sIp

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maddie-grove · 4 years

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The Top Twenty Books I Read in 2019

My main takeaways from the past year’s reading:

Sometimes you think something is happening because of magic, but then it turns out to have a non-magical explanation so weird that you find yourself saying, “You know what? I wish faeries or God were responsible for this. I’d honestly feel less disturbed.”

Stop bathing and changing your clothes and shaving for three years, three months, and three days. You’ll find out who your real friends are. I promise you that.

I want more books about bisexual ladies!!! Give them to me!!!

Anyway...

20. The Prodigal Duke by Theresa Romain (2017)

Childhood sweethearts Poppy Hayworth and Leo Billingsley were separated when his older brother, a duke, sent him away to make his fortune. Years later, the duke is dead, a financially successful Leo has come back to England to take his place, and Poppy has become a rope dancer at Vauxhall Gardens after a life-shattering event. New sparks are flying between them, but is love possible when so much else has changed? Leo and Poppy are believable and charming as old friends, Romain makes great use of obscure historical details from the oft-depicted Regency period, and I loved Leo’s difficult but caring elderly uncle.

19. Simple Jess by Pamela Morsi (1996)

Althea Winsloe, a young widow in 1900s Arkansas, has no interest in remarrying, but almost everyone in her small Ozarks community is pressuring her to remarry, and she still needs someone to help farm her land. Enter Jesse Best, a strong young man with cognitive disabilities who’s happy to take on the work. As he makes improvements to her farm and bonds with her three-year-old son, Althea gets to know him better and starts to see him in a new light. This earthy romance could’ve been a disaster, but instead it illustrates how people with disabilities are often...uh...simplified and de-sexualized in a way that denies them autonomy. Morsi has a similarly nuanced take on Althea and Jesse’s community, which is claustrophobic and supportive all at once.

18. Leah on the Offbeat by Becky Albertalli (2018)

Outspoken and insecure, bisexual high school senior Leah Burke is having a tough year. Her friend group is in turmoil, her single mom is seriously dating someone, and she’s caught between a sweet boy she’s not sure about and a pretty, perfect straight girl who couldn’t possibly be into her...right??? The sequel to the very cute Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda, Leah on the Offbeat pulls a The Godfather: Part II with its messy protagonist, sweetly surprising romance, and masterful comic set piece involving the Atlanta American Girl Doll restaurant.

17. Copper Sun by Sharon M. Draper (2006)

Kidnapped from her home in eighteenth-century Ghana, fifteen-year-old Amari is sold into slavery and winds up on a South Carolina plantation, where she faces terrible cruelty but finds friends in an enslaved cook, her little son, and eventually a sulky white indentured servant around her age. When their master escalates his already-atrocious behavior, the three young people flee south to the Spanish Fort Mose in search of freedom. Draper’s complicated characters, vivid descriptions, and deft handling of heavy subjects makes for top-notch historical YA fiction.

16. A Prince on Paper by Alyssa Cole (2019)

After her controlling politician father was jailed for poisoning a bunch of people in their small, prosperous African country, Nya Jerami gained unprecedented freedom but also became the subject of vicious gossip. Johan von Braustein, the hard-partying stepson of a European monarch, wants to help her, partly because he sympathizes and partly because he has a crush, but she thinks he’s too frivolous and horny (if wildly attractive). After an embarrassing misunderstanding compels them to enter a fake engagement, though, she begins to wonder if there’s more to him. I’m not a huge fan of contemporary romance, but this novel has the perfect combination of heartfelt emotion, delicious melodrama, and adorable fluff.

15. One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney (1997)

Stephen, the Duke of Ashburton, has always done the proper and responsible thing, but that all changes when he learns that he’s terminally ill. Wandering the countryside in the guise of an ordinary gentleman, he ends up joining an acting troupe and falling in love with Rosalind, the sensible adopted daughter of the two lead actors. Like another Regency romance on this list, this novel celebrates love in many forms: there’s the love story between Stephen and Rosalind, yes, but there’s also Rosalind’s loving relationship with her adopted family, the new bonds she forms with her long-lost blood relatives, the way her two families embrace the increasingly frightened Stephen, and the healing rifts between Stephen and his well-meaning but distant siblings. Stephen’s reconciliation with his mortality is also moving.

14. My One and Only Duke by Grace Burrowes (2018)

Facing a death sentence in Newgate, footman-turned-prosperous banker Quinton Wentworth decides to do one last good thing: marry Jane McGowan, a poor pregnant widow, so she and the baby will be financially set. Then he receives a pardon and a dukedom at the literal last minute, meaning that he and Jane have a more permanent arrangement than either intended. I fell in love with the kind-but-difficult protagonists almost at once, and with Burrowes’s gorgeous prose even faster.

13. Eleanor and Park by Rainbow Rowell (2013)

It’s 1986, and comics-loving, post-punk-listening, half-Korean Park and bright, weird, constantly bullied Eleanor are just trying to get through high school in their rough Omaha neighborhood. He’s only grudgingly willing to let her share his bus seat at first, but this barely civil acquaintance slowly thaws into friendship and blossoms into love. Far from being the whimsical eighties-nostalgia-fest I expected, this is a bittersweet love story about two isolated young people who find love, belonging, and a chance for self-expression with each other in an often-hostile environment (a small miracle pre-Internet).

12. Shrill by Lindy West (2016)

In this memoir, Lindy West talks about the difficulties of being a fat woman, the thankless task of being vocally less-than-enthused about rape jokes, the joys of moving past self-doubt, and the very real possibility that Little John from Disney’s Robin Hood was played by “bear actor” Baloo, among other subjects. I was having a hard time during my last semester of law school this past spring, and this book’s giddy humor and inspiring messages really helped me in my hour of need.

11. Seduction: Sex, Lies, and Stardom in Howard Hughes's Hollywood by Karina Longworth (2018)

In 1925, very young businessman Howard Hughes breezed into Hollywood with nothing but tons of family wealth, a soon-to-be-divorced wife, and a simple dream: make movies about fast planes and big bosoms. He got increasingly weird and reactionary over the next thirty years, then retired from public life. More a history of 1920s-1950s Hollywood than a biography, this book has the same sharp writing and in-depth film analysis that makes me love Longworth’s podcast You Must Remember This.

10. The Beguiled by Thomas Cullinan (1966)

In Civil-War-era Virginia, iron-willed Martha Farnsworth and her nervous younger sister try to run their nearly empty girls’ boarding school within earshot of a battlefield. When one girl finds Union soldier John McBurney injured in the woods, she brings him back to the house, where he exploits every conflict and secret among the eight girls and women (five students, two sisters, and one enslaved cook). Charming and manipulative, he nevertheless finds himself in over his head. Cullinan makes great use of the eight POVs and the deliciously claustrophobic setting; it’s fascinating to watch the power dynamics and allegiances shift from scene to scene.

9. A Gentleman Never Keeps Score by Cat Sebastian (2018)

Reserved tavern keeper Sam Fox wants to help out his brother’s sweetheart by finding and destroying a nude portrait she once sat for; disgraced gentleman Hartley Sedgwick isn’t sure what he wants after having his life ruined twice over, but he happened to inherit his house from the man who commissioned the painting...plus he’s not exactly reluctant to assist kind, handsome Sam in his quest. I wrote about this heart-melting romance two times last year; suffice it to say that it’s not only one of the best Regencies I’ve ever read, but also possibly the best romance I’ve ever read about the creation of a found family.

8. Frog Music by Emma Donoghue (2014)

Blanche Beunon, a French-born burlesque dancer in 1876 San Francisco, has a lot going on: her mooching boyfriend has turned on her, her sick baby is missing, and her cross-dressing, frog-hunting friend Jenny Bonnet was just shot dead right next to her. In the middle of a heat wave, a smallpox epidemic, and a little bit of mob violence, she must locate her son and solve Jenny’s murder. This is a glorious work of historical fiction; you can see, hear, smell, and feel the chaotic world of 1870s San Francisco, plus Blanche’s character arc is amazing.

7. The Patrick Melrose novels (Never Mind, Bad News, Some Hope, Mother’s Milk, and At Last) by Edward St. Aubyn (1992, 1992, 1994, 2005, and 2012, respectively)

Born to an embittered English aristocrat and an idealistic American heiress, Patrick Melrose lives through his father’s sadistic abuse and his mother’s willful blindness (Never Mind), does a truly staggering amount of drugs in early adulthood (Bad News), and makes a good-faith effort at leading a normal life (Some Hope). Years later, the life he’s built with his wife and two sons is threatened by his alcoholism and reemerging resentment of his mother (Mother’s Milk), but there may be a chance to salvage something (At Last). Despite the suffering and cruelty on display, these novels were the farthest thing from a dismaying experience, thanks to the sharp characterization, grim humor, and great sense of setting. Also, I love little Robert Melrose, an anxious eldest child after my own heart.

6. The Perilous Gard by Elizabeth Marie Pope (1974)

In 1550s England, no-nonsense Kate Sutton is exiled to the Perilous Gard, a remote castle occupied by suspicious characters, including the lord’s guilt-ridden younger brother Christopher. Troubled by the holes she sees in the story of the tragedy that haunts him, she does some problem-solving and ends up in a world of weird shit. Cleverly plotted, deliciously spooky, and featuring an all-time-great heroine, this book was an absolute treat. The beautiful Richard Cuffari illustrations in my edition didn’t hurt, either.

5. An Unconditional Freedom by Alyssa Cole (2019)

Daniel Cumberland, a free black man from New England traumatized from being sold into slavery, and Janeta Sanchez, a mixed-race Cuban-Floridian lady from a white Confederate family, have been sent on a mission to the Deep South by the Loyal League, a pro-Union spy organization. Initially hostile to everyone (but particularly to somewhat naive Janeta), Daniel warms to his colleague, but will her secrets, his shattered faith in justice, and the various dangers they face prevent them from falling in love? Nah. Alyssa Cole’s historical romances deliver both on the history and the romance, and this is one of her strongest entries.

4. The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics by Olivia Waite (2019)

Heartbroken by the death of her father and the marriage of her ex-girlfriend, Lucy Muchelney decides she needs a change of scenery and takes a live-in position translating a French astronomy text for Catherine St. Day, the recently widowed Countess of Moth. Catherine, used to putting her interests on hold for an uncaring spouse, is intrigued by this awkward, independent lady. I’ve read f/f romances before, but this sparkling Regency was the first to really blow me away with its fun banter, neat historical details, and perfect sexual tension.

3. The Wager by Donna Jo Napoli (2010)

After losing his entire fortune to a tidal wave, Sicilian nineteen-year-old Don Giovanni de la Fortuna sinks into poverty and near-starvation. Then Devil makes him an offer: all the money he wants for as long as he lives if he doesn’t bathe, cut his hair, shave, or change his clothes for three years, three months, and three days. This fairy-tale retelling is an extraordinarily moving fable about someone who learns to acknowledge his own suffering, recognize it in others, and extend compassion to all.

2. Vampires in the Lemon Grove by Karen Russell (2013)

In this collection, Russell weaves strange tales of silkworm-women hybrids in Japan, seagulls who collect objects from the past and future, and, yes, vampires in the lemon grove. She also posits the very important question: “What if most (but not all) U.S. presidents were reincarnated as horses in the same stable and had a lot of drama going on?” My favorite stories were “Proving Up” (about a nineteenth-century Nebraska boy who encounters death and horror on the prairie), “The Graveless Doll of Eric Mutis” (about a disadvantaged high school student who discovers an effigy of the even more hapless boy he tormented), and “The Barn at the End of the Term” (the horse-president story).

1. The Wonder by Emma Donoghue (2016)

Lib Wright, an Englishwoman who has floundered since her days working for Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War, is hired to observe Anna O’Donnell, an eleven-year-old Irish girl famous for not eating for four straight months. With a jaundiced attitude towards the Irish and Catholicism, Lib is confident that she’ll quickly expose Anna as a fraud, but she finds herself liking the girl and getting increasingly drawn into the disturbing mystery of her fast. Like The Perilous Gard, this novel masterfully plays with the possibility of the supernatural, then introduces a technically mundane explanation that’s somehow much more eerie. Donoghue balances the horror and waste that surrounds Anna, though, with the clear, bright prose and the moving relationship that develops between her and Lib, who grows beyond her narrow-mindedness and emotional numbness. I stayed up half the night to finish this novel, which cemented Emma Donoghue’s status as my new favorite author.

#books #reading #top twenty

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