#rosen writes

[artyandink]

amoralism | twelve

SUMMARY: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: Chuck. That’s all it is.

Song Inspo: Feeling Good by Michael Bublé

SERIES MASTERLIST

bureaucratism

President Chuck Shurley wasn’t like other presidents. He didn’t have the gravitas of Roosevelt, the poise of Kennedy, or the eloquence of Obama. No, Chuck was more of a “deer-in-the-headlights meets caffeinated-squirrel” kind of guy. And if the public knew just how haphazardly he started his mornings, well…let’s just say the stock market might crash out of sheer panic.

Chuck’s mornings began in the most predictable way possible: with an alarm clock blaring at an ungodly hour. The digital numbers on the clock flashed 5:30 AM, casting an eerie red glow across the darkened room. The harsh sound of beeping echoed off the walls, loud enough to wake the dead—or at least the leader of the free world.

But Chuck was having none of it. Still deep in sleep, his hand shot out from under the covers, flailing around wildly until it made contact with the clock. After a few moments of blindly slapping the top of the clock, he managed to hit the snooze button, silencing the infernal beeping for a glorious nine minutes.

In the brief moment of silence that followed, Chuck’s body relaxed, sinking back into the mattress as he let out a contented sigh. But before he could drift back into unconsciousness, the alarm blared again, sending a fresh wave of panic through his half-asleep brain.

This time, Chuck groaned as he rolled over and opened his eyes, squinting at the blinding red numbers. With a resigned sigh, he reached over and turned off the alarm properly. There was no escaping it now—the day had officially begun.

Chuck sat up slowly, rubbing his bleary eyes as he tried to force his brain to wake up. It was a struggle every morning, as if his body was rebelling against the very idea of consciousness. He fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand, squinting until the blurry room came into focus.

His bedroom was what you might expect for a president: luxurious, spacious, and impeccably clean. But for all its opulence, it still had Chuck’s personal touches scattered here and there. A stack of comic books sat precariously on the nightstand, a Captain America figurine stood guard on the dresser, and a half-eaten box of Twinkies was hidden in the drawer.

Sliding out of bed, Chuck shuffled his way to the bathroom, his feet dragging across the plush carpet. He flicked on the lights and winced at the sudden brightness, his eyes narrowing into slits as he blinked in the mirror.

The man staring back at him was disheveled, with a mop of bedhead and pillow creases etched into his cheek. His eyes were still puffy with sleep, and his glasses sat crookedly on his nose. Not exactly presidential, but then again, it was still early.

“Morning, Mr. President,” Chuck mumbled to his reflection, offering himself a lazy salute before reaching for his toothbrush.

He squeezed an excessive amount of toothpaste onto the bristles—enough for two people, really—and started brushing. It was a vigorous process, more of a scrub-down than a clean-up, and the foam quickly built up in his mouth, turning into a frothy mess.

Chuck wasn’t one for subtlety, and his morning routine was no exception. As he brushed, he paced around the bathroom, checking his hair, inspecting his stubble, and occasionally pausing to make ridiculous faces in the mirror just to see how silly he could look.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally spat out the toothpaste and rinsed his mouth, giving his reflection an exaggerated grin. His teeth were sparkling, if a little too brightly—perhaps he’d gone overboard with the toothpaste again.

Next came the shower, which, for Chuck, was a battle of wills. On the one hand, he loved the warmth and relaxation of a hot shower; on the other hand, he knew that once he stepped out, the cold reality of the day would hit him like a ton of bricks. But duty called, and so, with a dramatic sigh, he turned on the water and stepped in.

The shower was quick, efficient, and slightly chaotic, as Chuck managed to knock over every bottle of shampoo and conditioner on the shelf. By the time he was done, the floor was a slippery mess, and he nearly wiped out twice as he climbed out and grabbed a towel.

Wrapped in his fluffy robe—embroidered with “POTUS” on the back, a gift from some well-meaning advisor—Chuck made his way to the kitchen. His stomach growled in anticipation, and he rubbed it absentmindedly as he contemplated what to eat.

Chuck wasn’t much of a cook. In fact, his culinary skills were limited to microwaving, toasting, and, on particularly adventurous days, scrambling eggs. But today, he was in the mood for something special, something that would really set the tone for the day.

Cereal. But not just any cereal. Today was a Cap’n Crunch kind of day.

He rummaged through the pantry, pushing aside the healthier options—granola, oatmeal, something that looked suspiciously like cardboard—until he found the bright red box. With a grin, he grabbed it and poured himself a heaping bowl, the sugary scent wafting up to greet him.

As he reached for the milk, his phone rang, vibrating loudly on the counter. Chuck jumped, startled by the sudden noise, and nearly dropped the milk in his haste to answer it.

“Hello?” he answered, his voice still a bit raspy from sleep.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” came the chipper voice of his assistant, Becky. “Just wanted to give you a heads-up on your schedule today.”

Chuck’s stomach sank a little as he realized what was coming. The dreaded schedule rundown. He glanced longingly at his bowl of cereal, which was rapidly getting soggy, and sighed.

“Go ahead, Becky,” he said, trying to sound more awake than he felt.

“Well, first up, you have a meeting with the Joint Chiefs at 8:00 AM. They’ll be discussing the new defense budget and—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Chuck interrupted, waving his free hand in the air as if she could see him. “Do we really have to start with that? Can’t we, I don’t know, ease into the day? Maybe with something less…defense-y?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Chuck could practically hear Becky rolling her eyes. “Mr. President, this is important. And besides, after that, you’ve got a briefing with the National Security Advisor, so—”

“Let me guess,” Chuck cut in again, his tone dry. “More defense stuff?”

“Pretty much,” Becky replied cheerfully. “But after that, you have a lunch meeting with the Senate Majority Leader. That should be a little less intense.”

Chuck groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Becky, remind me again why I signed up for this job?”

“Because you wanted to make a difference,” Becky replied without missing a beat. “And also because you were the only candidate left standing after that scandal involving the goats.”

Chuck grimaced at the memory. The less said about the Goat Incident, the better.

“Right,” he muttered, resigning himself to the day ahead. “Anything else?”

“Oh, just a quick note: the First Lady called and wanted to remind you about the charity gala tonight. Black tie, starts at 7:00 PM sharp.”

Chuck’s eyes widened in alarm. “The gala? That’s tonight?”

“Yes, sir,” Becky confirmed, clearly amused by his panic. “And don’t worry, I’ve already got your suit and tie picked out. Just make sure you show up on time.”

“Great, great,” Chuck said, his mind racing as he tried to remember the last time he’d even thought about the gala. “Anything else?”

“Just one more thing,” Becky said, her tone suddenly more serious. “The press has been asking a lot of questions about the incident at the summit last week. They’re looking for a statement from you, so you might want to be prepared.”

Chuck winced. The incident at the summit had been…well, let’s just say it hadn’t gone according to plan. But that was a problem for later. Right now, he had to focus on getting through the day.

“Thanks, Becky,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “I’ll handle it.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” Becky replied, her voice brightening again. “I’ll see you at the office.”

Chuck hung up the phone and stared down at his now thoroughly soggy cereal. The day hadn’t even started, and he was already feeling overwhelmed. But there was no time to dwell on it—he had a country to run, after all.

With a resigned sigh, he shoved a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, grimacing at the mushy texture. It wasn’t the breakfast of champions, but it would have to do.

Once breakfast was out of the way, Chuck shuffled back to his bedroom, determined to at least look the part of a confident, capable president. He flung open the doors to his walk-in closet and surveyed his options. Row upon row of suits hung neatly on hangers, each one tailored to perfection and carefully labeled with the occasion it was meant for.

But despite the impressive selection, Chuck found himself stumped. Did he go for the classic navy blue? Or maybe the gray pinstripe? And what about the tie? Was it a power tie kind of day, or should he go for something more subdued?

As he pondered his options, his phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Becky: “Don’t forget the blue suit.

It’s the one I picked for you.”

Chuck sighed in relief. Sometimes, it was nice to have someone else make the decisions.

He grabbed the blue suit and laid it out on the bed, then turned his attention to the tie. After a few moments of deliberation, he opted for a simple red tie—a classic choice that wouldn’t draw too much attention.

Getting dressed was an exercise in patience and coordination, two things Chuck wasn’t exactly known for. But after a few minutes of struggling with his tie and nearly tripping over his own feet, he managed to pull himself together.

He checked himself in the mirror, adjusting his tie one last time and smoothing down his hair. The man staring back at him looked every bit the president, even if he didn’t always feel like it.

But there was no time to dwell on that now. The day was waiting, and so was the rest of the world.

With a final deep breath, Chuck grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door, ready to face whatever chaos awaited him. After all, if he could survive the morning, he could survive anything.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself as he braced for the day ahead.

President Chuck Shurley wasn’t what most people envisioned when they thought of a president. In fact, he wasn’t what most people envisioned when they thought of a fully functional adult. His mornings were chaotic, his days filled with barely organized mayhem, and his nights ended with the quiet terror of knowing he had to do it all over again. But if anyone knew how to navigate the unpredictable seas of Chuck’s life, it was his sister, Amara—who just so happened to also be the First Lady.

The sibling relationship was unconventional to say the least. While most First Ladies were the spouses of the President, Amara was Chuck’s older sister, the one who had always been there, guiding and, occasionally, strong-arming him through the rough patches of his life. Their bond was the foundation of Chuck’s presidency, and while the world saw her as the serene, supportive figure beside him, Chuck knew the truth: Amara was the real force to be reckoned with.

It was after one of his more frantic mornings—complete with cereal disasters and a narrowly avoided wardrobe malfunction—that Chuck found himself sitting in the Oval Office, trying to mentally prepare for the day ahead. His phone buzzed, signaling an incoming message from his assistant Becky: “Amara’s on her way over. She wants to talk.”

Chuck sighed. Amara’s talks were rarely just chats—they were more like interrogations wrapped in silk, pleasant enough on the surface, but always digging deeper, trying to unearth something Chuck would rather keep buried.

Not five minutes later, Amara swept into the room, her presence commanding and yet somehow soft, like a storm that wasn’t quite sure whether it wanted to wreak havoc or simply pass by. She was dressed in a chic, tailored suit, her dark hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her expression was as unreadable as ever.

“Chuck,” she said by way of greeting, her voice carrying that familiar mix of affection and exasperation that only a sister could muster. “We need to talk.”

Chuck offered her a smile, though it was a little strained around the edges. “Good morning to you too, Amara. What’s on the agenda today? Let me guess—another lecture about how I’m not taking things seriously enough?”

Amara didn’t return the smile. Instead, she crossed the room with purposeful strides, coming to stand directly in front of his desk. “This isn’t a joke, Chuck. We need to discuss your security.”

“Ah, here we go,” Chuck muttered under his breath, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples. “I’m fine, Amara. The Secret Service is on top of things. I don’t need you worrying about me.”

But Amara wasn’t having any of it. She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes narrowing as she studied her brother. “You were nearly killed in that suicide bombing last month, Chuck. And that wasn’t just a random attack—that was a targeted attempt on your life. You can’t just shrug it off like it’s no big deal.”

Chuck shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the memory of the bombing still fresh in his mind despite his best efforts to bury it. It had been a routine event, a charity dinner at a downtown hotel, when all hell had broken loose. The blast had come out of nowhere, the force of it rattling his bones, shattering glass, and leaving a ringing in his ears that had taken days to fade. He’d been lucky—unbelievably so—but luck wasn’t something you could rely on forever.

But Chuck was nothing if not stubborn. “I’m not shrugging it off,” he insisted, though his tone was more defensive than confident. “But what do you want me to do, Amara? Hide away in a bunker? Cancel every public appearance? I’m the President, for crying out loud. I have to be out there, doing my job.”

Amara’s expression softened slightly, but there was still a steely determination in her eyes. “I’m not saying you should live in fear, Chuck. But you need to be smart about this. We can’t afford to take any more chances. The security detail might not be enough next time.”

Chuck sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I trust my team, Amara. They’re the best in the business. They won’t let anything happen to me.”

“I’m not questioning their abilities,” Amara replied, her voice gentler now. “But even the best teams can be outmaneuvered. You have enemies, Chuck—powerful ones. And they’re not going to stop just because you got lucky once. We need to be proactive.”

The seriousness of her words hung in the air, and for a moment, Chuck was quiet, his usual bravado slipping away. He knew she was right, deep down. The attack had shaken him more than he cared to admit, and the thought of another attempt on his life was enough to make his stomach churn. But there was a part of him—a large part—that refused to live in fear, that clung to the idea that he could somehow carry on as if nothing had changed.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice subdued. “So what’s your plan? How do we ‘be proactive’ without turning me into a paranoid wreck?”

Amara took a seat across from him, the tension in her shoulders easing just a bit. “For starters, we need to increase the security around your public appearances. That means more thorough checks, tighter protocols, and maybe scaling back some of the events that aren’t absolutely necessary.”

Chuck grimaced. “So you want me to cancel half my schedule? That’s not exactly going to look good, Amara. People will start asking questions.”

“And we’ll have answers ready,” she countered smoothly. “We’ll frame it as a temporary measure, just until we’re sure the threat level has decreased. But more than that, Chuck, you need to start taking your personal security more seriously. No more late-night strolls without protection, no more impromptu detours. You need to stick to the plan.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at that last part. “You know me, Amara. Sticking to the plan isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

Amara’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile. “Then maybe it’s time you learned, little brother. This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about the country, about the people who depend on you. You have a responsibility to stay safe—for them.”

Chuck leaned back in his chair, the weight of her words settling heavily on his shoulders. He knew she was right—he’d known it from the moment the dust had settled after the bombing. But admitting that meant confronting a reality he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

For as long as he could remember, Chuck had always felt like he was in over his head, like he was playing a role he wasn’t quite cut out for. Becoming President had only magnified that feeling, amplifying his insecurities and fears until they sometimes felt insurmountable. And now, with the added threat of assassination hanging over his head, it was all too easy to let those fears take control.

But then he looked at Amara—calm, composed, and as unshakable as ever—and something inside him steadied. She believed in him, believed that he could do this, and that gave him the strength to keep going, to face the challenges head-on.

“Alright,” Chuck said finally, his voice firm. “We’ll do it your way. But I’m not going to live my life in a bubble, Amara. I need to be out there, doing my job. We just have to find a balance.”

Amara nodded, satisfaction flickering in her eyes. “That’s all I’m asking, Chuck. Just be careful. You’ve got a lot of people counting on you, and we can’t afford to lose you.”

The sincerity in her words caught Chuck off guard, and for a moment, he was at a loss for how to respond. Despite their frequent clashes and differences, there was no denying the depth of their bond, and the thought of how much Amara had already done for him left him feeling both humbled and grateful.

“I know,” he said softly, meeting her gaze. “And I’m counting on you too, Amara. I couldn’t do this without you.”

Amara’s expression softened, and for a brief moment, the stern First Lady persona melted away, revealing the caring sister underneath. “You’re stronger than you think, Chuck,” she said gently. “You’ve come this far, and you’re going to make it through this too. We just have to be smart about it.”

Chuck nodded, absorbing her words like a lifeline. “Yeah. Yeah, we will.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the tension between them easing into something more comfortable. Despite the gravity of their conversation, there was an underlying sense of unity, a shared understanding that they were in this together, no matter what.

Finally, Amara rose from her seat, smoothing down her suit as she prepared to leave. “I’ll talk to the security team about the new protocols,” she said, slipping back into her composed First Lady demeanor. “And I’ll have Becky coordinate with you on any changes to your schedule.”

“Thanks, Amara,” Chuck said, genuinely appreciative of her support. “I’ll try not to drive everyone too crazy with my…improvisations.”

Amara’s lips quirked into a wry smile. “Just try to keep the improvisations to a minimum, okay? The Secret Service would appreciate it.”

Chuck chuckled, the tension in his chest easing a little. “No promises, but I’ll do my best.”

As Amara turned to leave, Chuck called out to her one last time. “Hey

, Amara?”

She paused in the doorway, turning back to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Thanks,” he said simply, his voice laced with a rare vulnerability. “For everything.”

Amara’s expression softened once more, and she gave him a small, genuine smile. “Anytime, little brother.”

With that, she was gone, leaving Chuck alone in his office, the weight of their conversation lingering in the air. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself for the day ahead. The challenges were mounting, the threats looming larger than ever, but with Amara by his side, Chuck felt a little more equipped to face them.

He still wasn’t sure how he was going to navigate the turbulent waters of his presidency, but one thing was clear: he wasn’t going to do it alone. And with Amara’s guidance, maybe—just maybe—he could find a way to steer the ship in the right direction.

Lunch in the White House was supposed to be a grand affair, or at least that’s what President Chuck Shurley had imagined before he actually became the President. He’d pictured long tables filled with dignitaries, crystal glasses clinking, and silver platters overflowing with food. Instead, most days it was just him, a small table set up in one of the many dining rooms, and a staff member awkwardly hovering nearby in case he needed something.

Today was one of those days.

Chuck sat at a round table in a private dining room just off the Oval Office. The room was ornate, with heavy drapes, thick carpets, and enough gold trim to make a pharaoh blush. But instead of feeling like the leader of the free world, Chuck felt a little like a kid playing dress-up in his dad’s suit.

He glanced at the table, where his lunch had just been placed: a modestly-sized plate with a sandwich—turkey on rye, a bowl of soup that he couldn’t quite identify, and a small side salad that looked more decorative than edible. Next to it was a glass of water and a lone apple, shining under the lights as if it were some forbidden fruit that had found its way onto his tray by mistake.

“Well, this is…something,” Chuck muttered to himself as he picked up the sandwich. He eyed it suspiciously, as if it might suddenly spring to life and start talking. “Not exactly what I had in mind when I thought about lunch at the White House.”

He took a tentative bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly as he let his thoughts drift. It wasn’t bad, exactly, but it wasn’t particularly good either. The turkey was a little dry, the bread a little too chewy, and the lettuce a bit too wilted. It was the kind of meal that wouldn’t be out of place in a hospital cafeteria, which only added to the surreal feeling that had been following him around since the day he’d been sworn in.

“Could be worse,” Chuck mused, trying to look on the bright side. “At least it’s not another one of those fancy dinners where I have to pretend to know what all the forks are for.”

He chuckled to himself, taking another bite as he glanced around the room. The walls were adorned with portraits of past presidents, all of them looking stern and dignified, as if they were silently judging his every move. Chuck could practically hear them muttering among themselves, comparing notes on his performance.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said aloud, addressing the silent audience of former leaders. “I’m not exactly a Lincoln or a Roosevelt. But hey, I’m trying, okay?”

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was talking to the walls—maybe it was the isolation of the job, or maybe it was just that he’d always had a habit of rambling when he was nervous. Whatever the reason, it made the room feel a little less empty, so he kept going.

“Anyway, I bet you guys had some pretty weird lunches too, right? I mean, Harding probably had to deal with some Prohibition-era weirdness, and I bet Nixon had more than a few awkward meals.” He paused, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. “Come to think of it, Kennedy probably had a great time with his meals. That guy could charm anyone.”

Chuck’s mind wandered as he stared at his plate, which was quickly becoming less appealing with every bite. The soup, which he’d been avoiding, sat there like a murky mystery, daring him to try it. He wasn’t sure what kind it was—potato? Leek? Something else entirely?—and he wasn’t particularly eager to find out.

“Well, here goes nothing,” he muttered, picking up the spoon and dipping it into the bowl. He hesitated for a moment, then brought it to his mouth.

The taste was…bland. Not bad, just not memorable. If the soup had a personality, it would be the kind of person who never took risks, always played it safe, and probably collected stamps as a hobby.

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” Chuck decided, pushing the bowl away and focusing on the salad instead. It was small, more garnish than a real side, with a few sad-looking leaves of lettuce, a couple of cherry tomatoes, and a drizzle of what was probably supposed to be vinaigrette. He speared a tomato with his fork, popping it into his mouth. It burst with a sour tang that made him wince.

“Who knew a tomato could taste that aggressive?” he muttered to himself.

Chuck pushed the salad aside, feeling like he’d done his duty by at least trying everything on the plate. The apple, however, remained untouched. He picked it up, weighing it in his hand as if it might reveal some hidden secret. The fruit was pristine, almost too perfect—no bruises, no blemishes, just an unnaturally glossy surface that practically screamed “processed.”

He rolled it around in his hand, thinking about all the bizarre twists and turns his life had taken to get him to this point. Who would have guessed that Chuck Shirley, of all people, would end up here, in the White House, holding a waxy apple and trying to pretend he knew what he was doing?

“I wonder if Washington ever had to deal with this,” he said to no one in particular, imagining the first president sitting in a similar room, dealing with the mundane problems of running a country. Somehow, he doubted it. Washington had probably had bigger things on his plate—like, say, founding a nation.

Chuck shook his head, chuckling at the absurdity of it all. “Well, at least I’ve got the easy part, right? Just keep the country running, avoid starting any wars, and try not to choke on a lousy apple.”

He set the fruit back down, deciding that he wasn’t quite ready to tackle it yet. Maybe later, when he had a bit more time to contemplate life’s mysteries.

His phone buzzed on the table, and Chuck glanced at it, seeing a text from his assistant Becky: “Meeting in 15. You ready?”

Chuck sighed, the brief respite of lunch already coming to an end. He quickly typed back, “As ready as I’ll ever be,” and sent the message, knowing that he was never really ready for these things. But that was the job, wasn’t it? Always moving forward, always dealing with the next crisis, whether he was ready or not.

With one last glance at the half-eaten sandwich, Chuck pushed his chair back and stood up. “Well, I guess that’s that,” he said to the room, grabbing his water glass and taking a long drink. He could hear the faint sounds of activity outside the door—staff moving about, phones ringing, the constant hum of a place that never really stopped.

As he walked to the door, he gave one final look around the room, as if hoping to find some last bit of wisdom hidden among the portraits or in the shadows of the ornate decor. But there was nothing—just the quiet, persistent sense that he was a little out of his depth, that he was still playing catch-up in a game that had started long before he’d ever even known he’d be a part of it.

Chuck squared his shoulders, taking a deep breath as he reached for the door handle. “Alright, time to get back to work,” he told himself, his voice a little more confident now, a little more certain. After all, he might not always feel like he was cut out for this job, but he was here, and he was doing it. And that had to count for something.

As he stepped out of the dining room and into the bustling hallway, he couldn’t help but glance back at the table one last time, where the apple still sat, untouched. It almost seemed to mock him, a reminder of the little things that always seemed to slip through the cracks, the tiny details that no one else ever noticed but that somehow always seemed to matter.

Chuck gave it a small, rueful smile before turning away for good, leaving the room behind as he headed off to tackle the rest of his day. There would be more meetings, more decisions to make, more crises to manage—but at least he’d have a story to tell the next time someone asked him what lunch in the White House was really like. And who knows? Maybe he’d finally get around to eating that apple.

Chuck Shurley sat at his massive oak desk, drumming his fingers against the polished wood. His schedule for the day was a neat, orderly list, meticulously prepared by his assistant, Becky. Meetings, briefings, a photo op, lunch (which he’d probably end up eating alone again)—it was all just so predictable. Too predictable. For a man who once wrote best-selling books full of excitement, danger, and drama, the reality of the presidency was...well, it was a little boring.

He sighed, glancing out the window at the meticulously manicured White House lawn. The groundskeepers were out there, trimming hedges with the same precision they brought every day. Everything was perfect, nothing was out of place. Which, if he was being honest, was exactly the problem.

The intercom on his desk crackled to life. “Mr. President?” Becky’s voice was bright and cheery, as it always was. Too bright, too cheery for someone who was about to bring him yet another stack of dull briefing papers.

Chuck leaned forward and pressed the button to respond. “Yeah, Becky?”

“Your ten o’clock is in fifteen minutes,” she said, her voice tinged with the kind of energy that suggested she’d already had three cups of coffee this morning. “Should I bring in the briefing materials?”

Chuck sighed again. “Sure, bring them in.”

A moment later, Becky bustled into the room, a thick folder of papers clutched in her arms. She was wearing her usual office attire—an overly colorful blouse and a skirt that might have been fashionable in the nineties but was now just…retro. Her enthusiasm was as bright as her wardrobe, and it was infectious, even if Chuck wasn’t quite in the mood for it.

“Here you go, Mr. President,” she said, placing the folder in front of him with a flourish. “All the details for your meeting with the Joint Chiefs. I color-coded the important points!”

Chuck blinked at the folder. Of course she’d color-coded it. She always did. “Thanks, Becky,” he said, trying to muster some enthusiasm. But as she stepped back, ready to leave him to his reading, he couldn’t stop himself. “Becky, wait a second.”

She turned back to him, eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Yes, Mr. President?”

Chuck leaned back in his chair, searching for the right words. “Do you ever feel like things are just...too calm around here?”

Becky tilted her head, confused. “Calm, sir?”

“Yeah, you know, like everything’s just...routine. Predictable.” He gestured to the folder. “I mean, look at this. Meetings, briefings, photo ops. It’s all the same, day in and day out. Where’s the excitement?”

Becky blinked, clearly trying to process what he was saying. “Um...you want more excitement, sir?”

Chuck nodded emphatically. “Yes! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad the country isn’t in chaos or anything, but it’s like...there’s nothing happening! Everything’s under control, and I’m just...here. Sitting in meetings, signing papers. There’s no adventure.”

Becky chewed on her lip, thinking hard. “Well, sir, I think it’s good that things are under control. It means you’re doing a great job as President! No crises to deal with, no wars to fight—just smooth sailing.”

Chuck frowned. “But that’s just it! Smooth sailing is boring. I used to write stories, Becky. Stories full of action and drama. Now look at me—I’m the most powerful man in the world, and the most exciting thing I do all day is pick out a tie!”

Becky furrowed her brow. “I...I guess I never thought about it like that. But, Mr. President, we’re running a country here. It’s supposed to be stable. Exciting is usually bad in politics, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Chuck conceded, “but still...it feels like I’m stuck in a loop. And it’s not just the job—look at my lunch! I had the same thing three days in a row last week. There’s got to be more to being President than this.”

Becky’s face brightened suddenly, as if she’d had a brilliant idea. “What if we mixed things up a bit? I could schedule some more interesting meetings for you, or maybe plan a surprise event or two?”

Chuck sat up a little straighter, intrigued. “Go on…”

“Well,” Becky continued, warming to the idea, “we could set up a meeting with some, uh, more unconventional figures. Like...like artists or writers or inventors! People with big ideas, who aren’t just talking about policy all the time.”

Chuck’s eyes lit up. “Now you’re talking! That’s the kind of thing I’m looking for. Something different, something that makes me feel alive again!”

Becky was getting excited now, too. “Or what if we organized a surprise visit somewhere? Like a school, or a hospital—or maybe even a local diner? Something that’s not on the schedule, where you can just...I don’t know, interact with regular people. Get out of this bubble.”

Chuck smiled for the first time that morning, a real smile. “I like it. Let’s do that. Let’s shake things up a little.”

Becky beamed, pleased that she’d hit on something that made him happy. “Great! I’ll get to work on it right away, sir. This afternoon, maybe we could—”

“Wait,” Chuck interrupted, holding up a hand. “There’s something else.”

Becky paused, mid-thought. “Yes?”

Chuck leaned forward, lowering his voice as if he were about to reveal a state secret. “I want you to plan something big. Something no one expects.”

Becky’s eyes widened. “Big? Like...how big?”

Chuck grinned mischievously. “Big enough to get people talking. Something that’ll shake up this place and get everyone out of their comfort zones.”

Becky hesitated, clearly unsure of what he meant. “Are we talking about a policy announcement, or...?”

Chuck waved a hand dismissively. “No, no, nothing like that. I mean something more... fun. Something that shows I’m not just a boring old politician.”

@goldngguk @sweetpeachbombshell @slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510

@lucyholmes13 @pandadork-blog1 @nicolstancu @malusinhaaaa @dybalabandolero

@a-cup-of-nightshade @tomatoessoup @sh0rtcakee @fall-06 @mckaykay-fandoms

@b3th13

@demonxangelomegaverse @deanwinchestersgirl87 @capailluiscedove @i723l-interrupted2323 @niyomiii

@all-the-fan-fic @eviekinevie8 @sunflowerlover57

@1-800-dean-winchester

@darichvep @idk-usernme @supernaturalmarvel3000 @ega2025 @deanbrainrotwritings

@targaryenluvs @bucky-hydra-hoe-barnes @leigh70 @aintnowayboi @ripoffsteveharrington

@gleefulleve @sacrosankta

@riteofpassage77 @eevvvaa @thedevilortheangel @thorsballhair @barbienotdoll

@4e1h3r @wolfieblue03 @kianaleani @vicky199625 @sassyslut2003

@impyrz

@didisull @miwp @lastcallatrockysbar @rizlowwritessortof

@zepskies @angelbabyyy99

@autisticgothic

@yourgoldengirls @deansobsessedgirl @mrsjenniferwinchester

@aylacavebear @lailawinchesterr @brightlilith @arcanaa @hobby27

@lyarr24 @ximm19 @deanbrainrotwritings

@a-girl-who-loves-disney @jeneelsworld @deans-spinster-witch @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @kayleighwinchester

@k-slla @muhahaha303 @suckitands33

@dean-winchester-is-a-warrior

@katherineeekai @freefallthoughts @angzls @deans-baby-momma @syrma-sensei

@cheynovak

[garadinervi]

From: Yuki Okumura: ‘29,771 days – 2,094,943 steps’, (installation views), La Maison de Rendez-Vous, Bruxelles-Brussel, February 21 – April 13, 2019 [© Yuki Okumura]

[foreststarflaime]

Am I going crazy or is there not a single fic on ao3 with Rosen tagged as a character

[xeoniq]

[samsrosary]

wait. did becky keep writing gay incest fanfiction about her ex's books. that's so funny

[stardust-sunset]

me? making a south park oc?? never.

anyway. heres my south park oc

Her name is Baylie Rosen. She has albinism. She comes from an interfaith family; her mother is Jewish and her father is Catholic. Most fics with her will likely have her aged up but ykyk. I wanted to blab about her and I wanted a face claim first so here she is!

She’s pretty bubbly and charismatic. (Think Pinkie Pie from MLP lol) She knows when to settle down though and can be pretty comforting. She loves animals and is very good with them. She can be pretty hotheaded and opinionated at times. She can be difficult to manage sometimes and doesn’t really have social skills. She can be too trusting and a bit ditzy at times. But she is pretty smart. Especially when it comes to biology or history. She’s ambiverted and despite her bubbly personality, she loves nothing more than curling up in a warm blanket and drawing for hours. She can be really confrontational when she thinks she’s being wronged and sticks up for herself and those who may need it.

She’s really good friends with Kyle and Kenny. Her best friend is Heidi, but she considers Kyle a second best friend of sorts. She doesn’t get along with Cartman but can give him the benefit of the doubt when she absolutely has to.

If you have any questions about her or if you’re interested in learning more about her please ask! i would love questions lol

[suncaptor]

the thing about 7x08 is that Sam does not shy away from talking about how Becky roofied him/drugged him. and YET the entire episode is still framed like some joke and he calls her a good person at the end of it all.

[hobbitual-psychick-art-stuff]

Suptober 2023 Day 3: Inspired

Becky Rosen’s heart was beating out of her chest seeing the name on the caller ID. How many times had she hoped and dreamed of this moment and yet now it was finally here she could barely believe it was happening.

Straightening her shoulders and attempting at poise she answered the phone as calmly as she could. “Hello Sam.”

“Becky.” Sam Winchester’s voice was not filled with the penitent longing of a man in the third act of a romcom, it was hard and cold, the voice of a man who was not going to spill forth a monologue about how he’d seen the light and come to realise she was the only woman for him.

“Hi Sam,” she tried again, “why are you… I mean, it’s lovely to hear from you after so long.”

“The story, take it down!”

Something twisted guiltily in Becky’s guts. “Sam I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but she did. The fanfiction story about y/n meeting Sam Winchester in Las Vegas, a 4 day whirlwind romance and a wedding…

”You tagged it as being ‘inspired by true events’ Becky,” Sam said his voice incredulous and angry in her ear. “The chapel … the waffle iron… Dean… No one else knows those details, Becky! And it wasn’t inspired by anything, especially not true events. You drugged me, you tied me to a bed and shoved a sock in my mouth. Take it down … or… I’m telling Dean.”

Becky shuddered at the thought, Dean had put a gun to her head and said there were other ways to annul her marriage to his brother if she didn’t sign the paperwork.

“Okay, Sam. I’ll take the story down,” she said and heard the phone cut off and click dead in her ear.

Becky stared miserably at her computer screen, then sighed and clicked the button to delete her story.

It really wasn’t fair, she’d even tagged her story properly (something so many other authors didn’t do.) Her story had been just as ‘inspired by true events’ as all those stupid movies that claimed the exact same thing… So what if she’d left out the part with the love potion and the demon.

It had been so very painful to delete the one story which had earned more kudos than all her wincest stories…

Then it hit her, if Sam Winchester had read her Las Vegas wedding story… how many of her other stories had he read?

[7khz]

Remember, the blank page is your friend: it doesn't laugh at you, it doesn't sneer at you. It doesn't say that you're no good. It doesn't say, 'Who do you think you are, kidding yourself you can write?' It just takes what you write. It's just there for you. And when you write on the blank page, what you've written is there for you to look at and to think about. If you want to, you can then share it.

some advice for creating, from 'Getting Better' by Michael Rosen. make the blank page your friend! :')

[lcatala]

The Decline of Exhilaration: was meant to be a melancholic review of The Boy and The Heron, devolved into a rambling essay about the negative forces afflicting the world of traditional animation

Content warning: this text contains a negative review of Hayao Miyazaki's movie The Boy and the Heron, as well as an even more negative one of his previous movie The Wind Rises. I am aware that I'm in the minority on this one, and this isn't meant to dissuade anyone from watching either film. It is more about clarifying my own thoughts and feelings on why recent Miyazaki movies have not worked as well for me. This will be largely spoiler-free.

Tastes are diverse and subjective — work with me here; yes tastes most often come in normal distribution and are strongly correlated within specific demographics — doesn't matter, even if everyone in the world thought that blue eyes were the most beautiful, "blue eyes are the most beautiful" would still be a subjective statement — that is, "being the most beautiful" is not a property of blue eyes, it's property of how people feel when they look at blue eyes.

Tastes are diverse and subjective, and for some people, Miyazaki doesn't work.

I'm not one of them some people tho. I have been a fan of Miyazaki before I even knew Miyazaki was a person — no, really, I remember seeing bits of Future Boy Conan on tv when I was like 5, and being absolutely fascinated, even if it would be years until I properly discovered Miyazaki, and a few more years still until I realised that Future Boy Conan was from him. A few years after that first incident, I remember catching bits of a documentary showing excerpts of various animated films which at the time were mostly unknown in the west, and My Neighbor Totoro was in the lot — I was again captivated, but unaware of the name of Miyazaki, or even of the title of that movie, at the time — I was too young, not paying much attention to what was written on the screen, just looking at the pretty moving pictures.

I remember starting to becoming aware of Miyazaki as an entity at a time where the only movie of his that was avalaible in France was Porco Rosso. A bit later, My Neighbor Totoro was on tv, and after seeing it, I bought it on VHS — not from a regular store; it was sold in one those "collect them all" magazines, in this case each issue of the magazine had a different animated movie on VHS — I remember being very secretive about that purchase, I was in my first year of high school and didn't want anyone to know that I was watching movies "for little girls".

I remember getting someone on the internet (back when the internet was young and death was but a dream) to send me a burned cd-rom with a low-res bootleg copy of Vision of Escaflowne: the Movie fan-subbed in English (in which I was not yet fluent), by physical mail (downloading movies at the time was not a thing — connections were too slow) — and because there was still some room on the cd (you can imagine the quality of the encoding…), I requested that they add a copy of Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind as well — it was the only way to see these movies at the time.

A bit later still, I remember dragging my father and sister to the theater to see Princess Mononoke, back when Miyazaki was not yet an established name in the west, and basically winning them over — one of the very rare times I managed to share something I loved with members of my family (or with anyone really), after which we often went to the theater to see both Miyazaki's new releases and his older movies finally getting to the big screen in the west. Each time was a great moment of joy, among the rare memories of my teenage years that I recall fondly.

I am not saying any of this to gate-keep — if you discovered Miyazaki in 2008 with Ponyo and call yourself a big fan, you're legit. I wouldn't even call myself the biggest Miyazaki fan outthere, but still, Miyazaki has been a very important figure in my life, and even if over time I have cooled down a bit on some of his earlier movies, Princess Mononoke and My Neighbor Totoro remain among my top favorite movies of all times (not just animated, movies period), and the manga version of Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind is still one of most amazing and powerful fantasy series I have ever read.

Things started to shift around Howl's Moving Castle and Ponyo. I still eagerly went to see them in theater, I still enjoyed them a lot, but the spark wasn't quite there anymore, I didn't leave the theater with the same feeling of intense joy, with the same renewed love for life that I felt everytime I rewatched the older ones, and I never felt a strong urge to rewatch those new ones later on.

I didn't really notice that feeling at the time; it was a gradual shift, and was happening while my movie tastes were also rapidly changing. But the result was that when The Wind Rises came out in theaters in 2013, I found no desire to see it, and so I didn't. I told myself I would watch it later, on dvd or some such.

And so I ended up watching it… in 2022, 9 years after its release. Not a long time in itself, but when you considered the lengths I had gone to in the past to watch every Miyazaki movie as soon as possible… Still, I was optimistic; the movie had really good reviews, and in my head Miyazaki's name was still synonymous with "he never misses, the absolute legend!" (even tho I had already had a disappointing experience rewatching Castle in the Sky back to back after The King and the Mockingbird [remember that title for later], a comparison where the former pales a little — but at the time I had dismissed that experience as a fluke).

---

So I watched The Wind Rises… and didn't like it.

The problem wasn't the subject matter — I know that some have criticized the movie for its rather idealistic portrayal of Jiro Horikoshi, the designer of the Zero fighter planes, but for me this was just another movie in a tradition of Japanese cinema that, while condemning Japan's involvement in World War II, places the blame solely on the army's high command, absolving Japanese civilians, and sometimes even ordinary Japanese soldiers from any wrongdoing, and mostly emphasizes the suffering the war brought on Japanese people first and foremost, not so much denying as simply not adressing Japanese war crimes and the general hardship the war brought to other people.

In this respect the wind Rises is not different from The Burmese Harp (1956) or Dr. Akagi (1998); even movies like Grave of the Fireflies (1988) or Black Rain (1989), which are unambiguously anti-war and pretty critical of how Japanese society behaved during or right after World War II, still focus specifically on Japanese suffering — it's not an unproblematic narrative, but it's one I know my way around; an unfortunate but common blind spot of how Japanese people often see their own history, which you just have to expect if you're going to watch Japanese movies set during or in the aftermath of WWII (you can of course chose to skip those movies).

No, the problem with The Wind Rises is that I just found it boring. It felt like a meandering story that never really went anywhere, with characters that never felt more than surface-level, empty puppets existing only for the duration of the movie. This was compounded by an animation style that somehow felt both rigid and wobbly, coming very close to uncanny valley — it felt like Miyazaki didn't have a shred of empathy for the human characters in the movie and only cared about the planes, which were the only part that I enjoyed looking at.

I know how harsh this sounds, and how no one else seems to perceive the movie that way, but that's really what I felt: a huge, depressing disappointment — especially because I was apparently the only person who didn't like the film, adding a weird sense of alienation on top of it (to a degree — at this point I was already aware that my movie tastes had become quite weird).

A year passed, and The Boy and The Heron came out in theaters. I decided not to skip it, if only because it might well turn out to be Miyazaki's final film — I know he once again decided to postpone his retirement and start working on a new project, but Miyazaki is 82 and has not had the healthiest lifestyle, a whole 10 years have passed between The Wind Rises and The Boy and The Heron, and animation remains an extremely physically and mentally demanding job, so I have some serious doubts about whether we will really get another Miyazaki movie before his passing. The production of The Boy and the Heron was a lot more relaxed, Miyazaki setting no deadline and letting the animators work normal hours, declaring that the movie would be complete whenever it would be — a healthier approach for sure, but at the cost of more time, which Miyazaki doesn't have a lot of left.

---

So I went to see The Boy and The Heron, with pretty low expectations — not wanting to hate it, but severely tempering my expectations so as not to be too badly disappointed again.

The beginning was rather positive. The animation didn't have that uncanny quality that I had found in The Wind Rises, and there were even some interesting experimentations in stylicisation and visual metaphor, some stuff I hadn't seen before in a Miyazaki movie. As the movie settled into its story, I rather enjoyed the first half of it. I liked the slow burn mystery vibes, the cozy, detailed environments. I liked the portrayal of the main character as a boy trying very hard to hide his strong emotions and his grief, trying to appear calm, strong and well-behaved to others, while often acting impulsively and eratically when the his emotions crack thru the surface.

Even when the story shifted from magical realism into full on otherworldly fantasy, I was still on board, as the sense of mystery continued smoothly into the second part of the story. This wasn't amazing, this was a far cry from the extraordinary feelings that fill me when I watch Miyazaki's best stories, but it was fine, it worked.

Until it didn't.

I don't know exactly when the movie failed for me, but somewhere in the second half, the story lost its focus. It kept introducing more and more elements that had little relevance to the story, where never explored more than superficially, and felt like they were present solely because they were Classical Miyazaki Elements That Have To Be There In A Miyazaki Movie. This took the story from something that felt, if not wholly novel, at least somewhat different for Miyazaki, to a lesser, messier and less tight version of Spirited Away.

This kept going on for the last third/quarter of the movie, the story spinning in circles, the characters not making any progress — which highlighted the other flaws of the movie that I had so far overlooked: the characters who (outside of the protagonist) felt like lightly brushed caricatures with little substance; the inconsistency between characterisation and dialogue — several characters berate the protagonist for being "pretentious", even tho almost all he does is listen quietly, even to people disparaging him, and follow instructions given to him without protest.

At the end I was even noticing little flaws in the animation. The animation is good, but it's not great, or at least not as great as some previous Ghibli films — all the more baffling since The Boy and The Heron is reportedly the most expensive movie ever produced in Japan, and yet looked nowhere near as good as say, Makoto Shinkai's Suzume.

In a way, the last act of the movie felt — if you know of a less problematic way to put this, let me know — like an old person's ramblings: stories that don't go anywhere, full of tangential, unnecessary details that make no sense without a missing larger context. That made the whole thing crumble for me; these last thirty minutes, while they didn't outright make me hate the movie, pretty much destroyed what enjoyment of it I was having.

It's not that nothing happens anymore in the story, but it all feels ungrounded, floating, disconnected — emotionally disconnected that is, actions unfolding in front of my eyes yet without any tangible reality to them, as if the boundaries of fiction within which pattern recognition is enabled have broken, and I'm now just looking at… shapes.

I couldn't help but think of what a tragic contrast this was with My Neighbor Totoro, the best example of a movie where almost nothing is happening, and yet where your attention is being held the entire time, because of how perfect in its timing and details the storytelling is, because of how empathetically connected we are to the characters thru the extraordinarily accurate and yet amazingly simple exploration of their emotions and humanity. When I'm watching Totoro, I'm watching a human life, I'm watching the work of someone with profound understanding of human emotions. There was seemingly little left of that understanding in The Boy and the Heron.

And paradoxically, when the ending finally arrived, it felt sudden and abrupt — for a second I was certain there was going to be a continuation shot or something, but no, end credits. That's it then, huh? That's all that's left of Miyazaki's talent and storytelling skills.

Even the music turned out to be a disappointment, retrospectively — it didn't bother me during the movie, but once it was over, I could not remember a single melody, a single musical moment from it. I know there was music, I remember noticing some piano, but that's it, the music was otherwise just kinda there, and even as I was leaving the theater, all I could conjure up was instead the soundtrack from, again, My Neighbor Totoro.

---

I can easily rationalize this decline, find many material reasons for why it might have happened. It could be that the a large part of the Ghibli staff is now old — or dead; people aren't at the peak of their art anymore. Relatedly, a lot of the people who could say "no" to Miyazaki, or even more modestly give him advice he would actually listen to are no longer there. Still related is the apparent absence of a new talented generation at Ghibli — not thru any fault of their own, but rather because, between the shadow of Miyazaki looming over every Ghibli project, leaving little breathing room for other creators, and the apparent difficulty for the older generation to communicate and transmit their institutional knowledge, it seems that Ghibli has always been Miyazaki and Takahata's very personal medium, and not really a place for other creators to learn and thrive, and as the result the whole enterprise cannot but decline into old age and creep toward death along with its creators.

And yet, everyone else's reaction to the movie tells me that I am wrong. Reviews have been overwhemingly positive, and the movie has been doing numbers in theaters despite an intentional almost complete absence of promotion (at least initially). Why am I seemingly the only person for who this doesn't work anymore?

(Well, not quite the only one; I've definitely seen a few confused reactions among Miyazaki enjoyers, not least among them youtube essayist and Miyazaki expert STEVEM, whose opinion does seem to line up with mine.)

Is it that everyone else is too emotionally invested into Miyazaki's work, which has nurtured them since childhood, one of those rare pure and authentic things in our world, to admit to themselves that his movies do not work as well as they used to? That seems deeply unlikely — if only because of how self-flattering that explanation would be — implying that I alone am able to see past the nostalgia filter because I am so very smart, which, come on.

Is it that my tastes have radically changed? My tastes have radically changed, but I still consider Princess Mononoke and My Neighbor Totoro among the best movies ever made. There's a lot of movies I used to like as a kid/teenager/young adult that I am now completely indifferent to, but Miyazaki's early films are definitely not in that category.

Is it that I got wise to Miyazaki's tricks and no longer get the joy of discovery and surprise? But I had no idea where this movie was going for a good while, and knowing Princess Mononoke by heart doesn't prevent me from still enjoying it.

Is it that I am missing some context, some specifics of Japanese culture and beliefs that would help me make sense of the themes and plot of that movie? But I feel like I have developed a good "intuitive" understanding of Japanese culture; when I watch a Japanese movie, I don't understand everything I see, I don't know what every little detail mean, but I have a sense of how they fit together, I'm not surprised or confused by what I see, it doesn't feel out of place. I'm perfectly fine with Spirited Away and its many never-explained weird details, that doesn't impact my enjoyment.

Every explanation I come up with for the gap between my perception of Miyazaki's last two movies and that of the general public and critics fails short. I am really at a loss for a satisfying theory.

It seems that I have, then, to operate on the logic of alternate realities, having found myself (almost) alone in a reality where it is a fact that Miyazaki's directing abilities and the skills of the people who surround him have dramatically declined, (almost) everyone else living in a different reality where it is equally factual that Miyazaki is still at the top of his art and Ghibli is still the best animation studio in the world.

Here is my attempt to communicate what it's like to live in my reality, then:

More than any other form of creative endeavour, art or craft, the world of 2D animated movies appears to be cursed.

[note: I have an extremely materialistic, naturalistic and nihilistic view of reality, so I actually despise appeals to mysticism and magic as explanatory devices — even using them as metaphors displeases me, but by the point I noticed this is what I was doing here, the writing of this essay was too advanced, and taking the curse metaphor out would have required rewriting it entirely from the ground up, when I have already been working for weeks on it and I'm tired and it's not worth it, no one is going to read this anyway.]

---

Walt Disney started by making cartoon shorts (this will become relevant to Ghibli again at some point) for various companies, often struggling financially. In the late 20s, he was working for producer Charles Mintz at Universal Studio. Disney had ambition, he wanted to do more with the medium, and tried to negotiate with Mintz for higher budgets.

Instead, Mintz told him he was going to pay him less, and that Disney could do nothing about it because Mintz owned the rights to the characters Disney had created with his friend and collaborator Ub Iwerks. Mintz had also hired all of Disney's animators to work directly for him behind Disney's back. Mintz thought he had Disney cornered. Disney told him to get lost, and he quit, him and Iwerks founding a new studio in 1928 and creating the new character of Mickey Mouse as replacement for their lost IPs.

Under Disney's supervision, animators pushed the medium of cartoons to new technical ground, until the logical next step was to make a full feature length movie, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937) — many thought this was an absurd idea and that the movie would flop badly. It was instead a huge success, but this would turn out to be the exception.

Many subsequent Disney films performed much more lukewarmly, while getting more expensive to make. There were enough successes to allow the Disney company to thrive for a while and establish itself as synonymous with quality animation. But with the advent of television, things started to get shaky — even Disney had to cut costs, simplify the animation and design, reuse old animations, with only middling returns at the box office. At some point Walt was outright told by his brother Roy that he should just shut down the studio completely and concentrate on the theme parks.

Things didn't really get better after Walt's death — if anything his spirit had strongly taken root in the company, and proceeded to fight back against attempts at modernization (sounds familiar?) A new generation of younger animators found themselves constantly opposed by the old guard; the making of each movie became a messy warzone where everyone was pulling in a different direction. Delays between movies got longer, productions got over budget while public reception continued to be milding.

Many prospective young talents (Don Bluth, Tim Burton, Brad Bird…) quit the company to try their luck elsewhere. When the production of Who Framed Roger Rabbit finally got off the ground after nearly a decade of development hell, Steven Spielberg, who had been brought in as executive producer, had so little faith in Disney that the entire production was instead given to Richard Williams' London-based animation studio, with post-production handled by ILM, Disney merely distributing the movie (not even under their Disney brand, using their Touchstone label instead). Disney really looked like it was about to die.

But the old guard died off first, and the young animators had a chance to prove temselves, leading to the Disney Renaissance, a decade of box office and critical hits, once again pushing back the limits of animation.

Then things got rocky again. They started experimenting with 3D animated films, while the 2D ones rapidly became less profitable, and finally, in 2011, Disney abandonned 2D animated films, seemingly forever. Now Disney is a juggernaut, they own Pixar, Lucasfilm and Marvel, they produce completely devoid-of-personality, factory-churned, designed-by-comittee but highly profitable movies, and the curse of 2D animation is behind them. They survived, and it only cost them all of their talent and institutional knowledge.

Nonetheless, having pushed the limits of the medium for many decades, Disney inspired many others to try to follow in their footsteps. A lot of people suffered as a result.

---

Don Bluth joined Disney in 1971, a few years after Walt's death, working first as animator, then as animation director. He was part of that new generation of animators who tried to make Disney evolve toward a more mature approach of their stories, conflicting with older animators who wanted to keep things whimsical. This escalated until in 1979, during the production of The Fox and The Hound, Don Bluth resigned along with 11 other animators, and created his own animation studio.

Their first movie was The Secret of NIMH (1982), an amazing work of art that used many advanced animation techniques and required the work of 160 animators. It was a critical success… but had mediocre box office returns, forcing the studio to fill for bankrupcy.

Undeterred, Don Bluth went looking for other sources to finance his next projects, and found Steven Spielberg (it's 80s Hollywood, Spielberg is never really far), with who he produced An American Tail (1986) and The Land Before Time (1988). Both were huge success — An American Tail was the only Don Bluth film to beat Disney's competing movie (The Great Mouse Detective). This led Spielberg to form the new animation studio Amblimation, which produced 3 animated movies before getting folded into DreamWorks Animation, which itself alternated 2D and 3D animated films before entirely giving up on 2D animation after 2003, escaping the curse almost a decade before Disney.

Don Bluth however wasn't a fan of the collaboration and of the family-friendly edits Spielberg kept demanding to give the movies a wider appeal — as much as 10 minutes of footage were cut from The Land Before Time. He parted ways on the belief that he could do better on his own.

Using their own earnings from An American Tail and The Land Before Time, Don Bluth and his two close collaborators Gary Goldman and John Pomeroy produced two more movies: All Dogs Go To Heaven (1989), despite strange tonal shifts (it was a very dark story with violent character deaths and visions of literal hellfire — you know, for kids — interspersed with silly, surreal, acid-colored musical numbers), was a success. Rock-a-Doodle (1991) wasn't.

The early 90s were tough for Don Bluth: Rock-a-Doodle bombed so badly that, in order to avoid another brankrupcy, he had to sell the rights of all of his previous films — leading to the many direct-to-video low quality sequels that Don Bluth had no involvement with, while he struggled to finance his next movies, which all suffered from heavy executive-meddling and were critical and box office disappointments.

Then 20th Century Fox came to the rescue, signing Bluth a contract to produce animated movies for them, and staffing the newly created Fox Animation Studios with Don Bluth's own crew. Their condition was that the first movie had to be based on an existing property owned by Fox, leading to the creation of Anastasia (1997). The movie felt more like Disney than Don Bluth, but it was a huge success, the highest-grossing movie in all of Bluth's career. It gave him much more creative freedom for his next project, which was going to be something ambitious, something grand — finally Don Bluth was back!

And then Titan A.E. (2000) bombed so badly that it lead to the closure of Fox Animation and effectively ended Bluth's career, who never directed another movie after that.

Of course, he was still luckier than some.

---

Martin Rosen started his career as a literary agent then moved to become a movie producer. He eventually acquired the rights for an adaptation of Richard Adams's beloved childhood classic Watership Down, for which he also wrote the screenplay. Originally working only as producer, he took over as director after the original director left due to creative disagreements. It turned out to be a good move: the film, released in 1978, was a commercial and critical success, and went on to traumatize generations of British children.

Strong from this success, Rosen went on to adapt another book by Richard Adams: The Plague Dogs. The production was ambitious, bringing in several former Disney animators, included an up-and-coming Brad Bird and veteran Retta Scott. Unfortunately, the movie, after struggling to find distributors, flopped at the box office in 1982, a large part of the audience being turned off by the bleak story and graphic violence. Martin Rosen never directed another movie after this.

Of course, he was still luckier than some.

---

Paul Grimault, who had started making animated shorts in France in the 1930s, had a dream: creating a big animation studio that would be the French answer to Disney, and would produce feature-length animated films on a regular basis. He found financing, hired animators, and in collaboration with French poet and screenwriter Jacques Prévert, started working in 1947 on a first project: an adaptation of Hans Christian Andersen's The Shepherdess And The Chimney-Sweep, in what was going to be the first feature-length animated film produced in France.

However, in spite of a crew of over a hundred people working on the movie, production ended up taking 5 years, with costs escalating to (adjusted for currency and inflation) 40 million dollars — a colossal budget in France just after WWII (of the 19 animated movies Walt Disney personally produced, only 3 had a higher budget than that). Paul Grimault was blamed for his perfectionism and was removed from the project, which was then hastily completed and released in 1953, in a version that Grimault and Prévert disowned, while the studio had to declare bankrupcy and close down.

While the movie had disappointing results, after a few years it found its way to an arthouse theater in Japan, where it was seen by two university students: Hayao Miyazaki and Isao Takahata, who at the time were not even considering animation as a career. They were so transfixed by what they saw that they went to find the projectionist and convinced him to lend them the reel for one night, which they spent studying how the animation was made. This was one of several key films that convinced them to change their career and go into animation.

Meanwhile, back in France, Paul Grimault refused to let that story end there. In 1976, he bought back the rights of The Shepherdess And The Chimney-Sweep along with the original reels, and assembled a small team of young animators who worked to finally complete his vision of the movie, while making a number of additions, such as a new soundtrack composed by Wojciech Kilar. This version released in 1980 as The king and the Mockingbird, to high critical acclaim. Miyazaki and Takahata praised the new version, and Ghibli, as part of their Ghibli Museum Library, organized a theatrical release of the movie in Japan in 2006, followed by a dvd in 2007.

Paul Grimault was vindicated — but in the end, he only ever got to direct one feature-length animated film, when he dreamed of a career like that of Walt Disney.

Of course, he was still luckier than some.

---

Richard Williams was already working as an animator in the mid 50s, but his career consisted in directing tv commecials and short films (including an Academy Award winning adaptation of A Christmas Carol in 1971), with only one full length feature film, Raggedy Ann & Andy: A Musical Adventure (1977).

But he had a dream, a project he had been slowly developing since 1964: The Thief and the Cobbler. Williams accepted to work on Who Framed Roger Rabbit for Disney and Spielberg mainly because they offered to finance his ongoing project to completion. After Roger Rabbit, Williams got a production deal with Warner Bros, and things looked good. But because of Williams's extreme perfectionism, things went slow, and eventually, in 1992, even tho the movie was almost complete, the production was taken away from Williams, and the movie was rushed into completion to be released ahead of Disney's Aladdin, under the name Arabian Knights, to generally bad reviews.

Williams didn't give up, he continued working on short films and tried to regain the rights to The Thief and the Cobbler to work off and on it, trying to finally bring his vision to completion.

Unfortunately, he died in 2019, and what should have been the work of his life was never completed. All that exists is a bootleg, incomplete cut put together by fans — they meant well and did their best, but the result is clearly not the finished movie Williams had in mind.

Of course, he was still luckier than some.

---

Yuri Norstein started working as an animator in the Soviet Union in the 1960s, for the studio Soyuzmultfilm. After participating in more than fifty short films, he was finally given a chance to direct, for which he developed a highly elaborate, personal style of cutout animation, with which he made the short films Hedgehod in the Fog (1975) and Tales of Tales (1979), both highly acclaimed internationally (including by Miyazaki). He then started working on his masterpiece, a feature-length animated adaptation of Nikolai Gogol's short story The Overcoat.

But because of his perfectionism, work advanced slowly (sensing a theme there). Too slowly for the taste of his employers, and in 1985 he was fired from Soyuzmultfilm. He was however able to keep the rights of his unfinished movie, and kept working to it on his own. But between his perfectionism, the difficulties of finding fundings, and the fact that he mostly just works alone with his wife, work has been very slow… In fact, as of writing these lines in 2023, Norstein is still working on The Overcoat, at the age of 82 (the same age as Miyazaki!), having completed just a third of the planned movie. Altho he claims that he currently has reliable funding and is working full time on completing the movie, the hopes of ever seeing the full film are not high.

---

Of course, all these men still got to direct at least short films and have their art recognized while they were alive. They are still more lucky than the nameless, countless individuals who tried to study and work in animation only to get burned out, never even getting a chance to prove themelves and show their creativity, ground to fine dust by one of the most demanding and least rewarding artistic professions, where even success is just the delaying of faillure — unless you stop playing first.

If you even survive the grind and get a chance to direct at all, if you aren't sabotaged by producers or by your own perfectionism, if your studio survives bankrupcies and your own decline, if it's not poisoned by your own shadow after your death, it will be only to lose its identity and abandon all that originally made it praised and loved.

There's no winning in animation. This is the curse.

---

---

Notes:

Most of this was written from memory based on stuff I've read sometimes more than a decade ago, using Wikipedia to fact-check names, dates and chronology.

Some sources I do remember drawing from include: STEVEM's video-essays on animation in general and Miyazaki in particular Defunctland's video-essay on the production of Who Framed Roger Rabbit Atrocity Guide's video-essay on Yuri Norstein

[dk-thrive]

I was very proud my mother was a writer, and loved the sound of her typing in the attic late into the night. “Everything exists to be put into a book,” a French poet said, a line my mother quoted with approval. It was a big job. I lay in bed listening to the keys of her manual machine rapping on the paper like heavy rain falling on a tin roof.

— Jonathan Rosen, The Best Minds: A Story of Friendship, Madness, and the Tragedy of Good Intentions (Penguin Press, April 18, 2023)

[garadinervi]

From: Yuki Okumura: ‘29,771 days – 2,094,943 steps’, (installation view), La Maison de Rendez-Vous, Bruxelles-Brussel, February 21 – April 13, 2019 [© Yuki Okumura]

[eightspringdays]

There's something about physics that makes me incredible melancholic :')

[writersrumpus]

HONORING JEWISH AMERICAN HERITAGE MONTH!

by Danna Zeiger Dear Kidlit Community,Unfortunately, Writers’ Rumpus was not able to air this post earlier in the month for logistical reasons. For this, I would personally like to apologize to the Jewish Kidlit community, as I would have liked to have seen both AAPHI and JAHM honored together. There have been many community discussions highlighting the lack of JAHM recognition and awareness…

[nana-glass-chillhop-radio-hour]

The Bell in the Fog was so good. Everyone in the world is sleeping on this noir detective book series that centers around the 1950's queer underground in San Francisco. It's an ongoing series and the audiobooks are fantastic. Run, don't walk, to your local library / bookstore.

[samsrowena]

season 15 becky is such goals honestly, she was a full-time fandom girlie AND had a family