#the booksellers acted like I was crazy

[syntax6]

Some Truest Truths about Publishing

Being a published author is a lifelong dream of mine, and many aspects of it are indeed awesome. I love telling stories and sharing them with the world. Seeing my books in a bookstore or a library will always be thrilling! Meeting new readers from all over the globe is huge fun. But there have been a bunch of “being a published author is bad for your mental health” threads lately, and I think part of why this is true is that people don’t understand how the industry works before they get into it. So, here are some things about how publishing functions that I did not know before I became part of the machine:

1. You can know your book’s likely trajectory at the time you sign the contract. The publisher decides how well your book will sell. Large publishers sell more books than mid-sized publishers, which sell more books than small- or micro-publishers. A large publisher doing minimal publicity for your book will probably still sell more copies of it than a small publisher, simply because they already have the machinery in place. But, if your large publisher does not offer you a large advance at the time of signing, they are not going to do much more than their basic-level publicity for your book. They are going to focus their efforts on books they paid a lot of money to acquire because they want to get that money back. So, if your large publisher is not offering you at least a quarter of a million dollars to acquire your book, they aren’t going to be gunning to make it a NY Times Bestseller.

2. Books are a hit-driven industry. Most books lose money so everyone is counting on the few bestsellers to finance the whole industry. This is why big names like Stephen King or Danielle Steele suck up huge amounts of the publicity budget. Publishers need their books to sell sell sell, which means reaching fans who only buy Stephen King and Danielle Steele books. These fans aren’t paying a lot of attention, so publishers need to get that “GO BUY NOW” bat signal into the sky to wake up these fans. They pull out all the advertising stops. This is why big-name authors eat up so much of the publicity budget despite being household names. Publishers need to reach those fans for each new book to ensure the book makes the $$$$ that the publishers are counting on.

3. Everyone who is in the industry is riding the same train. So when the large publishers decide which books to push (because they have paid a lot to acquire them and/or the author is already a household name), booksellers and librarians have to get on board too. Yes, librarians and independent booksellers can also promote smaller titles that they really love, and that’s GREAT, but they mostly have to march to the tune set by the large publishers. Bookstores are usually operating at razor-thin margins. They need to sell the books that people want to read. Which books do people want to read? The ones they have heard of! How did they hear about them? The big publishers spent the $ to advertise! See how it’s all connected? Libraries, too. They need to stock the titles that will rotate well; books people want to check out and read. Which ones will they stock? The ones that the large publishers are pushing, because these are the titles that people will ask for.

4. Almost nothing good happens to your book without your publisher paying for it. Often, even things that look like awards or editorial decisions involve money changing hands.

5. Because of points 1-4, the author can do very little to influence the sale of their book. Giants like Amazon or Barnes and Noble already know which books are going to be the lead titles because the publishers told them so. Outlets like the NYT know too. Libraries, indie bookstores...they all know the signs of big publisher investment. For example, if the publisher says they are going to print 250,000 copies of your book, then everyone knows the title is going to be pushed HARD. If they say they are publishing 10,000 copies, then the author has no hope of competing with the lead title. So, the author can’t, on their own, do anything to change the fate of their book. However, the author is held accountable when their book doesn’t sell, despite the fact that everyone in the industry does understand that publishers sell books, not authors.

6. Because of points 1-4, how well a book is written or how talented the author is has not much to do with how many copies the book sells. Often bestsellers are really great and the authors are extremely hardworking...but not always. And there are zillions of hugely talented, diligent authors whose books don’t sell well at all because a large publisher has never shone that kind of spotlight on them. To exist in an industry where talent and hard work don’t influence the results is maddening, and a big part of why authors go a little insane.

[sleepynegress]

On YOU and Black Women Characters, Karen, Sherry, and Marienne...and a little bit of Peach (who is a mixed-race Filipina).

Okay so, that meta... Seeing how Marienne has been handled in the most recent season (among other, IMO, improvements character-wise), while also being all-too-typically handwaved and/or ignored by fandom....I got the urge to write some meta... Because I feel like the difference between how Karen and Peach were written in the first season, vs. Sherry and Marienne in the third, exemplifies typical pitfalls TV and streaming media too often fall into when it codes it's side female black/brown-skinned characters and ways they can avoid it. BTW, one big change this past season is that Penn Badgley is now a producer. And if you've ever heard the man speak on this show and character, among other things... You'll know he makes an effort to be aware of social causes and ways he can personally improve things for marginalized folks. He's a real mensch, when it comes to that. He's been vocal about correcting fans who unironically stan Joe as a romantic ideal... Because yeah, that dude is ALL redflags, stalking, and excuses for his serial killing. Yeah, the voice is nice, and it's fun to watch all of that play-out, but one can stan an anti-hero/villianous charismatic character while understanding that ish isn't something to *actually* want IRL. People. Just to reiterate. JOE IS ONE OF THOSE CHARACTERS for which you stay far away from people w/ those tendencies, in IRL. So... w/ that preface, I think it's incredibly interesting and thoughtful how Marienne and Sherry were handled, as black women supporting characters. ...While Peach and Karen in season one? Yeesh... (cut because it's loooong yall)

Yall remember Karen?? She was thirsty for Joe, unabashedly so.

But the reality was that she was just a convient placeholder, a tool to make Beck jealous. So, the double-edged stereotype was that she was both undesirable and the sexual aggressor *sigh*. ... Thankfully, the one good thing about the writing choices for her was that she peeped that Joe was crazy and she listened to the little voice and got out ALIVE. I hated that she was invisible to him as an actual living breathing attractive woman though, except to be used. Again, this is a typical and stereotypical construct for black women side characters.

HOWEVER. Season three actually corrected that, by explicitly showing Joe as the problem there... And not Karen, or any other WOC's desirability (as is all too typical a message media tends to send out for drop-dead gorgeous black/brown women side characters in yt media). You see, Joe is a snobby yt man who has been running away from his poor-orphan-grown-up-in-the-system roots. His "education" from an abusive bookseller (yikes) and genuine love and breadth of knowledge of books, he thinks, elevates him above certain people, -plebes, in his mind. But oddly, at the same damn time, he looks down his nose at wealthy people for being handed what he sees as something he worked -and was worked over (all that trauma and abuse) for. And all the issues he has (which is NO excuse BTW), stem from his Oedipal complex. The root cause being his "failure" to protect the mother figures in his life, when he was a boy. One rejected him after the trauma of child-Joe having to shoot/kill someone to spare her more harm/abuse, and the other died (in his mind) because he *failed* to act violently to protect her from fatal abuse. Thus, his stalking behaviour, obsession, and feelings of ownship over women he fixates on. He can both "protect" them and keep them from abandoning him, by acting (often violently) for them, on their behalf (w/o their knowledge or consent), to keep them (with him) safe. So every woman he has looked at as "The One" (until Marienne, but I'm getting to that) has been a yt woman who needs saving, just like the nurse and his mom. All were in toxic relationships with other men, in some way shape or form, relationships he could twist in his mind as someone he could white knight her away from... From Beck's narcisisst two-timing boyfriend, to Love's unhealthy co-dependency on her brother, to Natalie's distant relationship w/ her workaholic husband. The difference between them and Marienne though, is Joe was already stalker-fantastizing about them from the first look. Marienne, however, was written as purposely invisible to him, in a expansion (and fix! IMO) for why he *also* didn't see Karen.

I'm saying, that despite Joe having grown up in the system, he's always been a hypocrite. He looks down on other yt people (especially if they have wealth privilege) calls out all of the excesses, while he himself *also* wasn't able to see those he unconsciously saw as beneath *his own* gaze. It was NO ACCIDENT and IMO a brilliantly rare little bit of telegraphed writing...That Joe only started to actually see Marienne as a person beyond the bossy irritant in the way of his book hobby, when he #1 heard the White Woman Syndrome definition and call-out (*lol* Joe didn't know shit about it, until Marienne and Dante told him and took his know-it-all ass down a peg) and #2 learned she spoke French... What I'm saying is Joe is diet-racist, in that yt moderate way MLK called out, i.e. "good" yt people who are unconsciously biased, ignore/prejudge the black people the see everyday, but don't think of themselves as actively racist... And the fact that she "surprised" him, in that way... Made him unconsciously feel like he had to prove he wasn't that typical yt person he tends to eviscerate in his narrations. Because, not only was she dismissed from the jump, but it turned out that she checkmarked all his hallmark stalking points, but went one or two better(!)... In that she has a similar background to himself, having grown up in the system abandoned by her mother, -which is the aspect that cemented his obsession... She is also "educated", has a daughter (which he wanted Henry to be) is a good and loving mom, and is targeted by... you guessed it, a toxic -ex, which makes him feel like the better alternative, necessary protector. So, to him... Marienne is perfect. And for me, it's so fascinating to see White Woman Syndrome, desconstructed and flipped on it's head with this storyline of Joe actively "protecting" her in his fucked up way, i.e. shivering with bug-eyed mania, as he stabbed her -ex multiple times in the chest while saying it was "for her". And that conversation between Marienne and Love??? WHEW!! I fucking LOVED THAT. Because, Love did not lie. Everything she said about Joe was absolutely correct. In fact, the reason why Joe couldn't obsess over Love anymore was because he saw in her, everything he hates about himself. And Marienne?? I loved what she had to say, calling out her own damn self for falling into self-destructive habits. She *admitted* that she had purposely ignored that little voice that told her Joe was bad news (a reason why she played up the suspicion and "tough boss" at first). IOW, Marienne is Joe's ideal self, if Joe had handled his trauma better. She's not out here killing folk. Yes, she fell into addictive substances, but she actively is doing what Joe *wishes* he could about his serial stalking and murdering, and healing herself. That is the root of his fixation... Oh! That's another thing. Joe is a sociopath and a narcissist, so he also fixates on women he sees *himself* in... He loses interest, when he sees the flaws he'd like to fix in himself. And that is why he literally burned his entire life down (including abandoning his son *smh*, mainly because he fears his taint will make the boy just like him) and went to Paris to find her. In the meantime, while I see Marienne as a bit of a correction to how Karen was shafted in the writing, I also see Sherry as a correction to how Peach was done. Peach was a typical bitchy brown girl side-character, without the benefit of nuance, beyond her crush on Beck. Meanwhile, we got to the see the nerdy rejected roots Sherry and the unhealthy coke-head roots of her soulmate husband behind the type-A "mean-girl" too many black and brown girls are simplified into in shows. I liked that. Sherry, was that way to protect both herself and her family from ever being seen as the rejected out crowd, she and her hubby used to be when they were kids. Cory's hyper-fixation on projecting a feminist hyper-masculinity was for her... And kudos to them casting a buff non-ugly partner for her.

I have heard and repeated that actual love is loving the "crust" of a person. And goodness knows, THAT was Sherry/Cary in that box. Just ALL of the most BURNT crumbly, crust pieces ever and *still* beneath that... at their very bottom, was their love. And the delicious irony of it, was that once again... Snob-head-ass Joe (and Love too, this time) got it wrong. They weren't a fake plastic love, but the real damn thing... If I'm being really-real, Love saw that too. It was the reason why she put the gun in the box w/ them. Say what you will about the weirdness of these two, but you CANNOT say they don't love each other. It was to the point that that aspect of their marriage triggered Love, when it came to her and Joe. And that... (a black woman being truly loved and having a "happy" ending) is always subversive in yt media. Also, both the actors gave... *lol* A+ partnering work, in this. I really enjoyed that messy bisexual couple. Anyway... Sorry about the length and scatterbrained aspect of this meta... but I had to write this down.

P.S. I forgot to add Delilah from season 2 as yet another WOC Joe failed to see in that way until she became useful/unavoidable and Ellie as another way he projects protecting himself (and his mom) from trauma. Ellie is a fifteen year old girl w/o parents who most definitely would have been subject to abuse, if Joe had not intervened and killed that grooming creep.

[aziraphales-library]

Hello. I'd love some recommendations for Human AUs, any rating, where the Ineffables are celebrities of some kind (either one or both of them). Thank you!

Hello!

We had a very similar ask answered here, and here.

More stories like this:

The Value of Wild Hearts [E] by Lurlur

Crowley has a crush on a very minor celebrity, a book expert on Antiques Roadshow. When the opportunity arises for Crowley to meet the object of his affections, he knows he'll have to bring something really special. Will it be enough to secure the attention of the delightful Aziraphale, or will fate have to intervene for the course of true love to run smooth?

An Absence of Stars [E] by TheKnittingJedi

A.Z. Fell is a famous (well, in his circle) Soho bookseller whose selection of volumes is the epitome of respectable (and boring) literature. One of his favourite authors is the renowned science writer A.J. Crowley, whose books on astronomy have popularized the subject — and also sell very well.

Mr Fell is overjoyed when Dr Crowley accepts his invitation to do a signing of his new book in the bookshop, but their first conversation is a disaster: for some reason, Crowley does not share Fell’s distaste for romantic literature and acts very cold when the bookseller berates the author of one of the most popular romance series of the moment, Madame Ashtoreth.

Little does Fell know that his favourite writer and the one he hates with a passion are the same person…

~Mod N

I’ve got a few for you too...

Veni Vino Vegas (I Came, I Got Drunk, I Got Married) by A_N_D (T)

After a whirlwind drunken evening, author Az Fell came home from Rom-Con without his heirloom pinkie ring – but with a wedding license from a 24-hour Las Vegas chapel. Elsewhere, book fan Tony Crowley woke up with a hangover, vague memories, and a brand new ring he’s only seen in author photos.

Mutually attracted, mutually terrified the other one thinks it was all a regrettable mistake, they turn to their dear but anonymous online friend to vent and ask for advice.

…Maybe they should tell each other their screennames someday.

666 Heartbeats by AppleSeeds (T)

Aziraphale is a contestant on his favourite game show, 666 Heartbeats, where the amount of time he will have to answer the questions is dictated by how fast his heart is beating. If he wants to win big, he'll just have to stay calm. Easier said than done when he has an enormous crush on the host, who won't stop reassuringly touching him.

Crazy Ineffable Thing (Called Love) by TawnyOwl95 (E)

“You’ve lost the children!”

“We’ve lost the children.”

“The children have been lost.”

Pepper Galadriel Moonchild-Fell does not want to be sent to live with her distant, career driven mother. Adam Crowley does not want to be shipped off to military school by his slightly satanic grandmother.

They both think that their fathers should stop being idiots and fall in love already.

No one is going to listen to a pair of eleven year olds though. A plan is required.

A plan that will throw their fathers together on a high-stakes rescue mission where they will be forced into dangerous, intimate proximity. They must rise to occasions, overcome bullshit and, oh my god, there will only be one bed to do it in!

Texts from an Unknown Number by GaryOldman (T)

The human wrong number AU I have been craving.

Trapped at a boring Halloween party, Aziraphale tries to get in touch with Gabriel but his text ends up in the wrong place.

- Mod D

[looniecartooni]

Now- I don’t know if defending Gaston in the original animated Disney Beauty and the Beast is still a thing, but I’m gonna say this once and say this now... Gaston is FAR from a “good man who just wanted to sleep with Belle.” I’m tired of people saying he was the misunderstood good guy.

Exhibit A: We all know Gaston was arrogant. “So what?” you might say. Well you see- he only wanted to marry Belle because “she’s the most beautiful girl in town. That makes her the best! Abd don’t I deserve the best?” From his next lines... we can assume he does kind of have the hots for Belle. But we also hear from the other villagers that they think she is beautiful and of course- everyone in town loves Gaston therefore... that’s why Gaston thinks Belle should be his prize. He sees her as a token for his beauty. Think of it as a popular boy and popular girl situation. Not entirely that bad, but kind of some red flags. Like- he only likes her for her beauty and the fact everyone else thinks she’s beautiful.

Exhibit B: He doesn’t support her interests or cares. We see this when he and Belle first interact on screen where he takes her book, mocks her for liking it (like most of the villagers, but they’re more discreet about it) then tosses the book into a mud puddle before practically saying “You should be more interested in me.” He’s also expressed much distaste for Belle’s father, her only living relative we know of, calling him crazy and even trying to put him in an insane asylm because Belle wouldn’t marry him (big red flag I will cover again). He often projects his interests on Belle and interests for Belle on to Belle like wanting her to bear 7 boys and massage his feet. Every given moment he is with Belle he mocks what she wants and like and tells her what he wants from her and what he likes. That’s not- no. I would not (at least I hope I wouldn’t) want to date a man- or woman for that matter- any person who tells me how they want me to be and that I’m pathetic for liking what I like and not them. Big... Red flag.

Exhibit C:  Biggest red flag- He’s forceful. Very forceful. When he was going to propose to Belle, he already had a wedding ceremony set up outside. Say what you want about French culture in the 1700′s or whatever time it was, but that’s a bit sudden for someone who isn’t living in Spartan times. And of course- in that same scene we see Gaston not just invite himself in wearing muddy boots he put right on Belle’s favorite book she got to keep (the same one he threw in the mud). Oh no... he backed Belle into corners while projecting his interests, about ready to force her out the door, even pinning her to said door. Now I understand some people find that sexy... Belle sure didn’t.  She said no and nervously tried to get away a few times. Sure- she was strong and smart enough to give him a slip into a mud puddle, but that sure didn’t stop his temper (take out usually on his loyal friend).  You still find him innocent? Need I remind you that the man’s next resort after moping like the loser he really is was to PUT HER FATHER IN A MENTAL ASYLUM!!! Not just because he was ranting off about some beast he saw- no, that was part of the excuse. It was blackmail to get Belle to marry him. By threatening to take away the one person she truly cares about and truly cared about her (other than maybe the bookseller and maybe a couple other villagers like the baker), he was going to force her to pick Gaston or her closest family. But what Gaston didn’t expect was there to be a beast. Was he worried about the village that adored him now that it existed? Was he worried about Belle’s mental state after hearing her say the Beast was kind and was stuck with her? Was he worried about how he kidnapped her father? Hahaha- after trying to throw said father into a mental asylum if Belle didn’t marry him? Of course not. In fact, I remember him asking something like, “Wait, do you actually have feelings for this beast?” Then the look on his face changed as he rallied up everyone’s fear and forced 50 Frenchmen to the castle where either they would die or the Beast would be unjustifiably murdered by the people he lied to. He even when fighting the Beast eggs him on with the line “What’s wrong, Beast?! To gentle and kind to fight back?!”

He sees Belle as his prize. He’ll sacrifice anything for that prize. Her family, her happiness, whatever she cares about that isn’t him. And because everyone likes him for his macho attitude and looks, he has influence over the people whom he could sacrifice to a hungry beast as long as it means he gets is prize. And they’re all on board with him marrying Belle (well- except for the triplet ladies who adore him)- they all probably saw it coming- heck even Belle’s father was like, “Why aren’t you going out with that Gaston fellow? Isn’t he nice?” (at least I think he said something like that. Could’ve sworn he did...). Everyone probably thought those two would settle down- Gaston’ll get her eventually. And Gaston was determined to do anything to get her... anything that would force her to be a part of his ideal life. And what about the Beast?

- The Beast did trap Belle’s father, but the father did enter unannounced. The servants were nice to him, but the Beast had an uncontrollable temper. Granted, he may’ve been transformed into a Beast when he was 12 because he had apparently no parents around and acted angry and selfish to the wrong person.

-Belle said she’d take his place instead to which the servants (granted wanted to be free from the curse but were also pretty nice) insisted he give better living conditions to.

-When Belle ran away (respectively frightened after he got mad about the rose which he told her indirectly to stay way from) he saved her from being attacked by wolves.

- When he got mad at her for trying to help, Belle got mad back (which is granted unhealthy for starting a relationship) it made him stop and rethink things.

- Despite people claiming it to be Stockholm Syndrome, the Beast and Belle got to know each other and try to understand one another. When the Beast couldn’t eat with a spoon, she decided not to eat with a spoon. He let her teach him how to get birds to eat out of his hand and playfully had a snowball fight where he lost.

-In return for Belle’s kindness, the servants gave her fancy dresses and he gave her his Library and let her read to him. Note that Belle loves reading and in a holiday special he got mad he got a storybook for his birthday. Something’s there that wasn’t there before ;-)

- When Belle missed the outside, he gave her his only window outside.

- When Belle saw her father in danger, he let her go, despite if it benefitted him (granted the servants were a bit peeved because it affects them too). 

-He didn’t really fight Gaston. He asked why Belle came back after he freed her.

I mean- both men have their ups and downs (kind of some crazy downs) on why Belle should not be with either of them. But would you rather have a person treat you like you’re their trophy and everything you do reflects their ideals or someone who tries to understand you and grows from the person they were to someone who understands and tries caring about what you think?

Think Gaston would have eventually listened to Belle read a story book? Or the Beast never could control his temper? Go ahead. Tell me. I know where I stand

[tatyana-dreaming]

Potenza irresistibile: Leonora is Unstoppable

aka an empowered reading of (yet another) tragic opera heroine

aka my thoughts on Il Trovatore pt 3

(title from Manrico’s line in Act 2: Potenza irresistibile hanno de' fiumi l'onde! - The waves of the rivers have an irresistible force!)

with pictures because I have provided you ample walls of text as it is

Quick aside before we get into the libretto: in part 2 I concluded that both Azucena and Leonora are the only ones who really get what they want in this opera, and I think it’s pretty clear with Azucena... “Sei vendicata, o madre!” (even if we are unclear if she intentionally organized Manrico’s death and/or was conflicted by it or not).

Leonora. “I just came out to have a good time and honestly I’m feeling so attacked right now.” @ Ines, @ di Luna, even @ Manrico at the end

Because, out of everyone in this opera, Leonora is... happy? (I mean, yeah, she’s kind of set 100% of her hopes and dreams on this guy, and when she thinks he’s dead, she’s ready to head to the convent to pray to God until she can be reunited with him in death, saying “un riso, una speranza, un fior la terra non ha per me!”  - earth no longer has for me laughter, hope, or flowers! But look at her circumstances and context, and it’s still a choice she’s making, herself, about how she wants to live. Respect.)

[sociological examination about religious/cultural factors influencing WHY she would make that particular choice: coming to a bookstore near you in 2022]

“I swear go God, Ines (literally, I just did) can you just support me for once and trust me on this” (jk I love Ines she’s just doing her best too)

Okay, but to get back to the point... Leonora just has this sparkle. She’s filled with life and joy and happiness in the beginning (and - while yeah, my 21st century feminist me is like *facepalms* don’t make it dependent on another person, especially not a guy, especially not a guy who isn’t really even that focused on you as a person, but more as a possession he has to jealously protect from Rivals - her joy is revived when Marico returns and honestly thank gosh he does, since otherwise di Luna was gonna wreck those convent plans.) ANYWAYS  - di Luna clearly sees and wants to possess this sparkle, clearly having none of it himself.

Some exerpts from the libretto of this sparkly joy none of the characters ever get....(di Luna tries, haha...“la gioia che m'aspetta, gioia mortal, non è!“ but learns that maybe trying to seize someone against their will isn’t the best way to Spark Joy)

We’ve got Act 1 - “Gioia provai che agl'angeli solo è provar concesso! ...Di tale amor che dirsi mal può dalla parola...”  Joy only the angels can feel...such love that cannot be described by words! - Act 2, upon rescue by/reunion with her beloved - “Non regge a tanto giubilo rapito il cor, sorpreso!”  My surprised heart cannot bear such joy! - and finally, Act 4, once she is certain of saving Manrico - “ Vivrà! Contende il giubilo i detti a me!” He’ll live - my joy strips me of words!

Gosh, for such a tragic opera (if you take it seriously), Leonora is just this bundle of joy. Even in Act 4. It’s impressive.

She just has this energy, and I think it’s some sort of radiance from self-awareness and knowing exactly what she wants. You also may notice Leonora doens’t leave a body count the way di Luna, Manrico, and Azucena do. Well, unless you count herself :( but my point is she’s not about hurting people to get what she wants. And Leonora makes it explicitly clear from Act I: “ S'io non vivrò per esso, per esso morirò” - if I cannot life for him, I will die for him.

Leonora knows what she wants and nothing, NOTHING, and NOBODY is going to get in her way! And HOO BOY does di Luna try! So the convent kidnapping shit he tried to pull with the “not even God can claim [Leonora]” attitude didn’t pan out... but it also proved to Leonora that God wouldn’t necessarily save her (convent-style at least) so she leveled up and remembered OH YEAH PLANTS! *cue Juliet line*:

“ I'll to the friar, to know his remedy: If all else fail, myself have power to die.“

And honestly, she’s badass about it, too. From Act 1, she’s pretty fearless, from the moment Ines expresses fear and doubt about her infatuation with Manrico -

INES: Quanto narrasti di turbamento m'ha piena l'alma! Io temo...   What you say disturbs my soul, I fear [for you!] LEONORA: Invano! [You fear] in vain! (or: don’t fear!)

Leonora’s not afraid. She’s simply on a mission. Once Shit Gets Real and di Luna promises to kill Manrico, maintaining strict alignment with Mission “S'io non vivrò per esso, per esso morirò,”  asking di Luna to “Piombi, piombi il tuo furoresulla rea che t'oltraggiò, vibra il ferro in questo core che te amar non vuol né può”- Let your fury fall on the evil girl who offended you; plunge your sword into this heart that cannot, will not love you!

[again, not condoning Leonora’s choices, such as throwing herself under the ‘di Luna is going to blame Leonora for all his psycho actions’ Bus, but I respect her making her choices and fighting back]

Of course, di Luna is like “YOU CRAZY!” and literally tells Leonora her blood wouldn’t be enough to quell his rage. “l tuo sangue, o sciagurato, ad estinguerlo fia poco!” - Your blood, wretch, would hardly be enough! ~really playing the romance here~ :)

Leonora doesn’t get the point, since in Act 4, she repeats her pleas to exchange her live for Manrico’s - still not getting the Blood is Not Enough memo, apparently - “Svenami, ti bevi il sangue mio!” - Take me out**, drink my blood!

**no, di Luna, she isn’t asking you out on a date (sorry it’s so hard not to just 100% shitpost this opera) - but I couldn’t find a better translation. You don’t really say “faint me” in English and I don’t think the direct translation is “kill” but “take me out” seemed like an acceptable euphemism.

Of course, Leonora ultimately ends up accomplishing her Mission. [Like I said in part 1, my initial reaction to her self-sacrificial death was just anger and disappointment. But in context, she’s pulling a valid Juliet move... her circumstances are awful and suffocating and there are very few ways out for her in the world she lives in... but she ends up exiting the game on her terms.

{At the subjective level, at least. Objectively, her only choices are a vampire who will suck her life dry [di Luna] - in which life might be merciless - or choosing to withdraw from life with Help from Plants [poison] - in which death is merciful. Again, sociological exploration of Leonora’s CHOICE ARCHITECTURE coming to booksellers near you. Might even include Alternate Ending: running away into the mountains with the gypsies instead, but we all know that isn’t part of Mission “S'io non vivrò per esso, per esso morirò.” Plus I think we are all familiar with the concept that as humans we are more likely to stick with the evil we know rather than strike out into the great unknown. Heck, somebody stop me, these asides will be the death by boredom or exasperation of us all. Wait, are you reading this!??! WOW and bless you!! Thanks and I’m sorry}

Unfortunately, Manrico has to be a little turdball and start cursing Leonora, being the jealous self-centered guy that he ultimately is, before he realizes what she’s done to save him. “Manrico I’m literally dying FOR YOU and this is how you repay me?”

In Act 1, she begs di Luna to see reason through his jealous rage, but by Act 4 it’s her own beloved, the person she’s organized her Life Goal around, who is displaying the same jealous, blinding rage, refusing to listen to her. “Oh come l'ira ti rende cieco! Oh quanto ingiusto, crudel, crudel!” Oh how rage blinds you, how injust, how cruel you are [Manrico]!

Oh, the sweet and cruel irony Leonora getting her unconditional, immense, “eternal” love dismissed because Manrico doesn’t get it the way he wanted it [i.e. uh oh are we going to circle back to possessiveness/jealousy? Is Leonora the only one - and granted, she is a little psycho/obsessed/infatuated à la di Luna, but without trying to POSSESS her object of affection -- who can love in a semi-healthy way in this opera?? apparently]. My poor girl. At least Manrico Comes to his Senses before she dies (just in time for him join Leonora’s fate himself). *sad cheering*

Let me end by emphasizing that Leonora did not die JUST to “save Manrico.” Yes, the libretto says “Prima che d'altri vivere, io volli tua morir! “ - Rather than live as another’s, I wanted to die yours. But to me, it’s pretty clear she’s dying for herself - dying as her own self, as hers (I mean, technically she never became Manrico’s “legal property” anyways if we want to get into the morbid lack of womens’ rights, so she wasn’t even “his” in that way). And in the end, choice architecture aside, the point is that all the way, Leonora knew what she wanted, made her own decisions, stayed true to herself, and accomplished what she set her mind to. Nothing and nobody stopped her. Who’s to say what else she might have wanted if she had had different opportunities, choices, knowledge, or most importantly had been born in a different context.

(*faceplams* had been born?!! She’s a fictional character god Karo go to bed already) (*peels hands off face* it’s okay you are processing outrage over the Female Experience and Leonora represents a lot of real women, living and dead)

I conclude. LEONORA IS UNSTOPPABLE. Let’s part with some lovely lines from our complex (if a bit compulsively devoted), tragic, yet joyful, empowered, and fearless heroine:

Tu vedrai che amore in terra mai del mio non fu più forte: vinse il fato in aspra guerra, vincerà la stessa morte. 

You will see that never on earth was there a stronger love than mine; it defeated Fate in violent strife, it will defeat death itself.

*              *              *              *              *               *              *             *        

Screencaps from IL Trovatore (Met 2011) ft. Sondra Radvanovsky, Dmitri Hvorostovsky, and Marcelo Álvarez

[pagingevilspawn]

The Way I Loved You

hey there! i wrote this on Friday, but i heard the song “The Way I Loved You” for the first time on Thursday and immediately thought of jolex. When i listen to this song the on Friday after the whole jo and jackson thing i knew that i HAD to use this song. idk if anyone has used this song already, but i hope not lol. this is pretty short but i wrote it really quickly lol. and i just realized that @odd-birds-and-booksellers has a similar thing with a photograph in one of her stories, so i’m sorry about that, it was an accident.  

on a side note... happy bday to me hehe. i wanted to post a fluffy one-shot, but i’m too lazy to finish writing it. 

~*~

He is sensible and so incredible

And all my single friends are jealous

He says everything I need to hear and it's like

I couldn't ask for anything better

In everybody's eyes, Jackson Avery seemed like the perfect guy, especially for her. He was funny, smart, caring, and handsome as hell. He was pretty perfect, there was no way she could deny that. He told her she was beautiful, how brilliant she was, and he held her and whispered sweet nothings in her ear in the morning while the sun cast gentle glows on them through the window. 

 He always somehow knew the right thing to say, but it wasn’t always what she wanted to hear. Sometimes she didn’t want to hear she was amazing and she had no reason to be worried. Sometimes she just wanted to hear ‘shut up, get over it’ followed by an I love you and a quick peck on the lips.

 He was every girl’s dream; he just wasn’t hers. No matter how much she liked him or wished he was, he wasn’t. 

 He opens up my door and I get into his car

And he says, you look beautiful tonight

And I feel perfectly fine   

 He was such a gentleman. He complimented her, showed her off proudly to his richy-rich family, but not like a prize. He was proud to call her his girlfriend. He drank in the sight of her in tight dresses and boring scrubs like she was the last glass of water on a scalding hot day. 

He never makes her feel second best. 

He was falling, but she was still on ground, content with how she was. She wasn’t soaring in the clouds like she had been once before. She was at peace with standing on the concrete streets below her feet. 

But I miss screamin' and fightin'

And kissin' in the rain

And it's two a.m. and I'm cursin' your name

You're so in love that you act insane

And that's the way I loved you 

 She misses the rush. The rush of fighting. The rush of getting so mad at someone that you wanted to just punch them, but kiss them all at the same time. 

She misses him getting agitated over stupid things. She misses seeing the lust in his eyes when he was mad at her. She misses the angry sex. She misses feeling the thousands of emotions flowing through her body when they kissed, even if it was just a simple brush of the lips. 

She misses him acting crazy over a cut she got on her knee when she tripped, or when she complained about accidentally slicing her finger when she attempted to use a knife. He always hated to see her hurt. 

 How ironic, considering he was the one who hurt her the most.  

 Breakin' down and comin' undone

It's a roller-coaster kinda rush

And I never knew I could feel that much

And that's the way I loved you 

 She misses how they could just yell at each other. For hours, days. They could yell at each other about their crappy surgeries or patients that deserved better than the cards they were dealt. They could take out their anger on each other, trusting that it wouldn’t affect them. And it didn’t. 

She misses the way he looked at her like she was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen, unable to grasp that fact that she was his. She misses that crooked smile that seemed to brighten her day, no matter how bad it previously was. 

She misses how she could go from wanting to yell at him to holding him in a matter of seconds. She misses feeling like she had no control over herself whenever she was around him. 

She misses him and the way he made her feel. 

 He respects my space and never makes me wait

And he calls exactly when he says he will

He's close to my mother

Talks business with my father

He's charming and endearing, and I'm comfortable 

 When she asks for time alone, he doesn’t push her. When she is feeling down, on the brink of another episode, he lets her lay in bed and doesn’t bother her. And if she wanted him to get pizza in the middle of the night, he’s ordering it before she even needs to ask twice. 

He never left her on read or ignored her voicemails. She never needed to call or text him twice for an answer about their upcoming date. 

She liked being with him. She felt safe, knowing that he wouldn’t hurt her. She liked knowing that somebody loved her, even if she was currently only capable of saying she liked him a great deal. 

 But I miss screamin' and fightin'

And kissin' in the rain

And it's two a.m. and I'm cursin' your name

You're so in love that you act insane

And that's the way I loved you 

 She misses how in the middle of arguments he would pull her into a searing kiss, pouring all of his emotion into it. She could feel them best then, his emotions. She could tell by the way his kisses were needy and frantic as he pressed his lips to her neck, sometimes biting just a little too hard on her sweet spot, a bit of both pleasure and pain. 

She misses seeing the look on his face when he would catch guys at the bar staring at her, trying to deny that he was jealous.

She even misses how insane he acted sometimes, whether it be making animal noises at couples going at it, or how he beat up DeLuca when he thought the man was taking advantage of her.

She misses being able to look at him and everything seemed alright, that even though people were dying and the world was heating up, as long as she had him, she felt okay.

 Breakin' down and comin' undone

It's a roller-coaster kinda rush

And I never knew I could feel that much

And that's the way I loved you  

 Jackson doesn’t like to argue much. He doesn’t really yell. He’s good at expressing his emotions and talking about them. He doesn’t bury them like her, but at times she wishes that he did. 

She wishes he knew what it was like to have all these feelings build up inside until they break, shattering everything you worked towards. 

But he makes it better. He helped her talk and now it’s easier. She doesn't feel the need to combust with anger. 

 Sometimes, but not all the time. 

He can't see the smile I'm fakin'

And my heart's not breakin'

'Cause I'm not feelin' anything at all

 When she’s at Meredith’s she is happy. It had been a while since he had left, more than a year actually. And she was getting to be fully okay. She still smiled, but it wasn’t the full-blown grin that could once light up an entire room. She’s back to laughing more now, but it’s not the same one that would come out when he said something stupid and she was belly-laughing as tears streamed down her face. But she could easily say that she was okay. She was doing well. She was happy.  

It was when she wandered into the hallway and started randomly opening drawers, looking for a pen to write down an idea she had that she came across a photo Meredith has shoved in her drawers. It was of him. His son was on his left knee, while Izzie sat next to him, their daughter on her right knee. They were smiling, his looking awkward because he tried to smile straight and not crooked, but he was smiling nonetheless. It looks to be a selfie of some sort, the woman holding the camera flashing a dazzling smile. 

They look so happy. She's glad that he’s happy, but she’s jealous. She hadn’t smiled that wide in a long time. 

When she heads back down the stairs she plasters on a smile, knowing that nobody would be able to see through it. She didn’t really feel anything, all she really felt was numb.  

It’s selfish, but she wishes she was the one in the photo instead of the blonde.

 And you were wild and crazy

Just so frustrating, intoxicating, complicated

Got away by some mistake and now

 He drove her crazy. She wanted to smack him upside every second of the day. He made her mad and he hurt her, but at the same time she was only able to see him as perfect. He was so screwed up, but it fit so perfectly alongside her. His crazy fit her crazy. 

He always drove her mad. But she could never get enough of him. She could never get enough of the feeling of his skin on hers, the taste of his lips, the smell of his clothes, she never got tired of hearing his voice and the sound of his laugh. It was like she was constantly high on him. 

If only he had talked to her, maybe things wouldn’t be this way. 

 I'll be screamin' and fightin'

And kissin' in the rain

It's two a.m. and I'm cursin' your name

I'm so in love that I acted insane

And that's the way I loved you  

 She wants to fight with him one more time. It’s been a long time since he left. Over two years. And she’s loved again. The perfect man loves her, and she can truthfully and whole-heartedly say that she loves him. He took her broken heart and pieced it back together. But the wounds were still there.  

But she wants to fight with him again. She wants one more chance to call him a stupid moron. She wants to be arguing with him late into the night about who’s a better character on that latest TV show they were binging. 

She wants to shove him like she did before the storm, finding some way to exert her anger. 

She wants him to pull her into a supply closet while the rain pounds on the window as he tells her that he loves her, kissing her with a passion she had never experienced before.

 Breakin' down and comin' undone

It's a roller-coaster kinda rush

And I never knew I could feel that much

And that's the way I loved you  

 She remembers what it was like to love him so much it was like she couldn’t breathe. That he was the oxygen she desperately needed to survive. She remembers what it was like, the fear, the longing, the need. It was all there. 

She never knew then how much this man would affect her. 

She never knew that feeling all of those things was possible.

 And that's the way I loved you oh, oh

I never knew I could feel that much

And that's the way I loved you  

 Jackson Avery was perfect, and she loved Jackson Avery. 

But he wasn’t perfect for her. 

Because the only person perfect for Jo Wilson was Alex Karev. 

It was a shame, the life they could’ve lived if only he had answered her calls.

[thebittervampire]

20 random facts about yourself that may surprise people

I was tagged by @yverocher and can’t believe I forgot to post it (instead of ‘saved as draft’...), thank you dear!!

Do you make your bed? Only if it's really a mess

What’s your favorite number? 27

What’s your job? I'm a bookseller in a medical bookshop, due to my studies, I take care of the psychology & psychiatry departement.

If you could, would you go back to school? I'm not sure, but I'd say no: I miss the atmosphere of it, sure, but the stress before all the exams? Hell no.

Can you parallel park? I haven't my driving licence... yet. :|

A job you had which would surprise people? I don't think I have one... I just want to say that, some days, working in a Post Office looks like working in an asylum.

Do you think aliens are real? Yes! Just very far away.

Can you drive a manual car? ... I haven't my driving licence yet. :|

What’s your guilty pleasure? Maybe this one: I don't drink alcohol during the week (only the week-end), but sometiiiimes, my mom and I break this rule. "Chears to sex and alcohol" she said last Tuesday when we drank, and I said "Fuck yeah".

Tattoos? One on my shoulder, a salamander, and the next one will be a spider on my forearm. I need time because of work, etc. But maybe next Spring!

Favorite color? It depends for what, but mostly purple and black.

Things people do that drive you crazy? Rudeness. I hate when people don't say hello-thanks-please, the basics. Don't worry: manners won't tear your jaw from your fucking face, you can be polite. I'm very coarse myself since I swear a lot, but it's not the same: it's about some fucking respect, think about the people around you and act polite.

Any Phobias? Even if I feel better now, I've emetophobia. There were days when I could leave because someone said their stomach hurts.

Favorite childhood sport? Table tennis, I was good and I remember hilarious games with friends at school...

Do you talk to yourself? A lot, yes, but I feel good about it.

What movie do you adore? Spider-man: Into the spider-verse in the first to come in my mind right now.

Do you like doing puzzles? Yes: But only the big ones and they take too much space...

Favorite kind of music? It depends the mood, but mostly rock.

Tea or coffee? Tea all the ways!

The first thing you remember you wanted to be when you grew up? Frankly, I don't remember, but my mom keeps telling me I wanted to be a dentist.

I tag @sapphicmadameumbralis, @red-ekimmara, @siluriasanguine, @jasontoddism, @bluebloodedsweater, @gay-sorceress, @blind-venerer and @labyrinthinepaths if you want to answer it!

[hug-your-face]

Octavia Butler’s SF as Hope for the Future

In the 1980s I was a smol babby whose Science Fiction reading had largely been the works of authors like Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein and maybe, if I was feeling REALLY grown-up, Alan Dean Foster. But I would read any SF I could get my hands on and when I saw that my mother was reading a title by an author I had never heard of, with an unusual first name, I started sneak-reading the book when she wasn't.

It was Dawn by Octavia Butler, and it fucking blew my young little mind. And then I found it was part of a SERIES called the “Xenogenesis” trilogy:

Dawn starts with our heroine Lilith being wakened by an alien, in an utterly alien environment. Humans have -- surprise, surprise -- ruined the Earth, and the aliens have stepped in and harvested a few of us in an attempt to save the species.

We humans, the aliens explain, have two traits coded into our DNA which never go well together: intelligence and hierarchy. The aliens have seen a lot of variety in the universe, and one without the other is fine. Both together always ends in self-destruction. So they stepped in to yoink a few of us away for safekeeping before we completely did ourselves in and now humanity may have a second chance.

But there's a catch. All human reproduction is mediated through the aliens. Like, literally. Genetic manipulation comes as naturally to them as twiddling a coin between our fingers does to us. By acting as genetic intermediaries, the aliens can fix that pesky human tendency toward hierarchy. (Oh, and cure cancer. They think cancer is kinda cool and have a few ideas for how to use it more productively.) And now Lilith has to awaken the other saved humans and explain all this to them.

As you can imagine, humanity doesn't love these creepy alien plans. Thanks for the assist, bugger off and let us do things the human way, we'll get it right this time, what do stupid aliens know anyway?

And this is just the setup in the first act of the first book. 

I HIGHLY RECOMMEND this trilogy. Throughout the rest of the series, Butler uses every gun that she shows us in the first act of book one. Human conflict. Conservative fears of genetic purity. Paranoia and rejection of the "other," whether alien or human. Gender identity. Parent-child relationships. It's good SF not just because of the world-building, but because of the depth with which she explores these themes. And she doesn't hit you over the head with them: it's pure "show, don't tell." So much so that I didn't even see them until I re-read the series as an adult.

Funny story, and by "funny" I mean super cringy: growing up in my white midwestern town and reading the authors I had read up until then, to me Dawn was just a story about aliens. I had pictured the heroine, if I pictured her at all, as a white woman. A white woman named "Lilith Iyapo." I mean, here was her picture on the cover:

Yep, that's the human face of our protagonist whose whole existence is defined by how she has to regularly deal with prejudice, as envisioned by this author:

(Ms. Butler has no time for bullshit 1980s publishers’ idea for her book covers)

Right.  Fortunately these covers aren’t in circulation anymore. The series is now called the “Lilith’s Brood” trilogy and looks like this:

Flash-forward three decades. I'm at the National Black Theatre in Harlem, New York City. I'm listening to a panel of amazing people speaking about strategies for living in, and changing, the crazy world in which we live today.

And everything the panelists are speaking about anchors to two of Butler's later books (collectively called the "Earthseed" series) because one of the panelists, Toshi Reagon, has made a fucking OPERA based on them:

(Video trailer to the opera: https://vimeo.com/273550563 )

The panel discussion was incredible. Some choice tidbits I jotted down as I could:

"All that you touch you change / All that you change changes you / The only truth is change / God is change."

"There aren't two camps, even if it seems like there are. We have to confront the system at the same time we are learning to live sustainably."

"The fight that is happening is to take the truth away from you."

"How important it is to open your mouth even when your voice is shaking, and to stand even when you are shaking."

"Our disconnection from our bodies is dangerous. If I touch you sonically, you will accept the visual. If I touch you in ways other than words, you'll accept the words."

“We live in this clenched shape that was expected of us to navigate this capitalist racist society; we need to open up, open up the circle wider and broader to find your folk."

"We need to make justice the most pleasurable thing in our communities. We are in a battle of imagination and we need to find our way out of others' boxes for us."

Okay, I know I said go read the Xenogenesis Trilogy. But that's like, in your spare time, whenever.

Go RIGHT NOW to your library, your library's website, or the bookseller of your choice, and grab the first book in the Earthseed series, titled PARABLE OF THE SOWER. Because it's disturbingly relevant to life today.

But these two books set in a dystopian 2024 (only four years from now!) that looks so much like our world today -- these books also contain so much hope. 

If you read them as I did, with the thoughts of some of these 21st-century artistic activists like Toshi Reagon and adrienne maree brown echoing in your mind, you begin to see the emergence of some 21st-century strategies.

Strategies for not just surviving this changing world, but for shaping it into a better one.

(Tagging @biodead-on-the-biobed @this-lioness @probablynotasquirrel @tinyballoffury cos I’ve talked to you about this series at one point or another.)

[intakeofbreath]

Details (Chapter 7)

Fandom: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Lord's Blade Ciaran & Dragon Slayer Ornstein, The Nameless King/Dragon Slayer Ornstein, Artorias the Abysswalker/Lord's Blade Ciaran Additional Tags: Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Hurt/Comfort, Alcohol, Vomiting, Tags May Change Summary: Secrets can also be told by corporal language and Ciaran is too good at reading it.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23427736/chapters/58109368

AO3 link to first chapter: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23427736/chapters/56150551

“I think I’m going crazy. I don’t know why I even listen to you in first place.” Ornstein voice came out as a whine.

He was laying splattered on Ciaran’s bed, covered with a heavy blanket although the room was starting to get warm thanks to the fireplace they littled a hour ago to endure the winter days of Anor Londo.

Ciaran was sitting on the frame of her window, also covered with a blanket, and reading a book deeply absorbed by it. After hearing Ornstein’s voice, she hummed and briefly raised her eyes from the words without paying too much attention to him. “Weren’t you going to take a nap?”

Ornstein let out a sigh and mumbled, “I just couldn’t sleep...”

It had been the weirdest and most stressful month Ornstein had ever had in his life. First, he spent every day training that damned knights of Osmela and just the thought of them made him grunt and writhe with disgust. They were nothing compared to their Silver Knights, who were so respectful, hard-working and prone to learn. No, they were the completely opposite and they sure got on his nerves more than once since the first day they put a foot on the training field. 

No wonder they were at the very verge of losing a war if they took so lightly the commands from their captains. Goddamned, even them seemed like they didn’t hold any authority upon their knights!

Ornstein didn’t know how he ended up forcing some respect upon them, but he recalled he kicked many of their asses clouded by anger, and they were far less than the amount he actually wanted to kick. Not like he was proud of it and neither used to resort to that kind of behavior towards his knights, but, god, he reached a point where he didn’t know what else he had to do with them anymore.

Secondly, and out of nowhere, Artorias started to avoid him too and weirdly act around him. He just walked off wherever they happened to be on the same room and he just stopped meeting him between their shifts to chat for a while. Ornstein knew their meets weren’t arranged at all, they just came across each other because their paths crossed, but that only served to create a weird feeling on him. Why he was avoiding him? Surely, that didn’t made Ornstein sad like Ciaran was, but oh, he was starting to get really pissed off.

And last but not least, for some unknown reasons, Prince Gwynsen started to need him more around him, even to do errands he always has done by himself. In fact, he didn’t complain, he was always glad to be able to serve him, but it was the worse moment to start demanding so many things of him. And if he wasn’t training knights, he was running behind the Prince every minute he was awake. 

It was awfully exhausting. So, if before Osmela Knights came Ornstein barely has free time, during the last month he didn’t have time to breath or even blink. And when the knights finally left for good, leaving Ornstein at the very verge of a mental breakdown, Ciaran successfully convinced him to go on leave, though the urge to get things done didn’t stop chasing him.

Ornstein groaned, sitting with his legs folded on the bed. “I shouldn’t have took a week off. This was such a stupid idea!”

Ciaran was on leave too, because knowing the bundle of nerves her friend was, it was better to kept him company and prevent him to run back to Lord Gwyn and renounce his days off after being one hour without anything to do. So far, it was working, but the only drawback was hearing him whine almost every minute.

“How about you do something more interesting than laying in my bed?” She said, turning a page without looking at him.

“Any thoughts?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you start painting again? You can use the paper and ink from my desk.”

Ornstein looked at the furniture with a long face and, after a couple of seconds, dismissed the idea with a noise. “I don’t feel like it.”

Ciaran let out a sigh, rolling her eyes and resuming her reading, but just when she turned another page, her face lit up with a new idea, “Wait, I know the perfect thing you can do!” He gave her a lazy sideway look, and when Ornstein saw that Ciaran had that smirk on her face, he knew that whatever she was going to say next it was far from perfect. 

Quickly, she rushed to his side and started to push him out of the bed. “Go grab your coat.”

“Why?” He asked, grimacing.

But Ciaran just kept pulling him through the room by his arm, until she opened the door and widely smiled at him. “We are going to the market.”

And just like that, they headed off the castle.

At first, Ornstein thought Ciaran was referring to the highest part of the city, which was full of elegant shops, not so far of the castle and where many servants stopped by to do their God’s errands. But no, an hour’s walk later confirmed him the contrary when they both reached the lower part of the city, walking past people far away form the divine in a noisy street full of shops with a cold weather that didn’t invite at all to be outside.

Ornstein looked down to Ciaran, who happened to be enjoying the walk way too much, looking around with excitement, and asked her, “So, where are we going to?”

Ciaran looked up at his clearly uncomfortable expression for being surrounded by a lot of people, and smiled, “I want to buy a book.”

Ornstein hummed, “Don’t you have plenty of them already?”

“Not this one! Besides, what is the problem of having new books?”

“Well, you still have a huge pile of unread books and you are supposed to read them first!”

Suddenly, Ciaran grabbed him by his arm and pointed to a bookshop. It looked very old from the outside, with a wood sign, where you could read the name of the shop, hanged on top of the door. And when they crossed it, they were welcomed by the heavy smell of old wood. It was so strong that Ciaran sneezed multiple times and Ornstein felt the urge to clear his throat. There were several shelves stacked up with books, books piled up on the floor, on desks and on a counter. Behind it, a young man with a weird hat was seated reading a book, and after hearing the jingling of the door, he raised his gaze with a kind smile.

He greeted them and asked if they needed help. After that, Ciaran approached him and started to ask him about the book she needed. Ornstein, meanwhile, started to wander between the shelves, curiosity growing though he wasn’t an avid reader as much as Ciaran or Artorias were.

Ornstein noticed the books weren’t classified with any criteria, they were just placed on the shelves carelessly, and a lot of them looked like they have seen better times. He passed his finger over the spine of the books, skimming through the titles, on the background he could heard the muffled voices of Ciaran and the bookseller. Their searching appeared to take longer than needed, so Ornstein started to pick up random books and skim through the pages, and after a while, he was taken aback when one of the books turned out to be about Lordran’s history.

Now, with his curiosity picked, he flipped the pages until he reached where the Dragon War was mentioned, greeted by an ink drawing of the Lords. Unconsciously, he held his breath for a second, admiring how magnificent they were portrayed even on paper, including that treacherous dragon. He only stopped when a title caught his attention to briefly read the explanation written down, most of the time wrinkling his nose slightly annoyed because the book wasn’t telling what really had happened back there. 

Suddenly, a drawing of the Knights of Gwyn caught his attention, and Ornstein knitted his eyebrows, humming surprised, because he have been... drawed significantly shorter than Artorias. And that was completely inaccurate! He wasn’t that short, just a few centimeters shorter than him, but not a whole head!

“What are you reading?” Ciaran’s voice startled him, and Ornstein jumped, closing the book abruptly and returning it back on his place. 

“Nothing, just a stupid book…” She arched an eyebrow, humming appreciatively. “Did you find what you needed?”

“Yes!” She showed him a cooking book and he raised his eyebrows.

“So you didn’t give up.”

“Of course not! I found it quite funny actually. Gough’s recipes helped me a lot to learn, but I don’t want to ask him for recipes every time I want to do something new, so… Oh! I could cook you something tomorrow!”

“If it won’t poison me, I don’t mind to try it…”

Ornstein giggled when Ciaran playfully pushed him, and then, they left the shop. Once they started to walk down the street, Ciaran searched inside the bag she has brought with her.

“By the way,” pulling out a book, she continued, “I bought this for you, now you can have something to do and not spent all the day whining about being bored in my bedroom.”

Ornstein gave her a questioning glance, grabbing the book from her hands and scanning the cover, though the title said nothing about the content of the book.

“Oath? What is this about?”

Ciaran giggled, looking at him mischievously. “Oh, you know... It’s just a story about a secret passionate and torrid romance between a princess and her faithful knight,” she said, entonning every word with a fervil energy. “The bookseller told me that it’s a very popular book right now.”

Ornstein’s expression fell off, completely white, but then his lips parted with a nervous smile. “No, you are just teasing me. I don’t believe you, you have to be kidding.”

“Well, you can confirm it by yourself,” she said, giving him a signal with her hand to go on.

Ornstein knitted his eyebrows, insecure, and opened the book by half to start reading. 

With every passing word he read, his face blushed harder and harder, after he abruptly closed the book and looked bewildered at Ciaran, who let out a loud laugh.

“Why the fuck did you buy me this?! Have you opened and read it?! This… This is totally blasphemous and improper!” Ornstein was stumbling on his words, and looked like he needed to remember how to breath. He had spoken in a higher tone than expected, causing a couple of people to turn and look at him. 

Ciaran whipped some tears out of her eyes, and needed a couple of seconds to regain her breath before grabbing the book from his hands and read the page he was on. “Aw, you opened the book where they fuck, I’m sure you have ruined the story for yourself.” Then, she let out a whistle and murmured, “Damn, this is really explicit… Maybe I should borrow this in the future...”

Ornstein loudly grunted, wanting to throw that damn book away and kick Ciaran’s ass with all the force he had.

“Don’t take it too serious, Ornstein, it’s just fiction!” Ciaran said between giggles. “Is not like it could happen in reality, isn’t it?”

He let out a strangled suffering noise from the deepest of his throat, which only made Ciaran start to laugh again. 

“Oh, for the Lords, it’s so easy to mess with you!”

Ornstein narrowed his eyes to her, denying with his head and grimacing. “Your humour is the worst...”

“Aw, come on, but look at how cute you look, all red and flustered.” She reached her hand up to pinch his red cheek, but it was quickly pushed aside, though the shadow of a smile could be started to be seen on his lips.

“You are unbearable, do you know that? No wonder Artorias doesn’t want to be near you, with all that damn teasing of yours.”

“Excuse you?!” Ciaran made an exaggerated gesture, bringing her hand to her chest and gasping, to seem like she was really hurted.

Ornstein expression fell off after noticing what he had just said. “Oh my Lord, I’m so so sorry, Ciaran, I didn’t mean to-” He shut up when she puffed, pushing him by his arm. 

“I know Ornstein! I got it was a joke, don’t worry!” Ciaran reassured him with a soft laugh. “Let’s kept going, all right? I need to visit other shops.” 

He looked down at her and, for a moment, he felt really dumb, but Ciaran didn’t pay much attention to him, and kept walking with the book back in her bag.

They spent the next hours visiting clothing stores and an antique shop, just because Ciaran saw a figure that reminded one that her mother owned years ago at her first home. When they finished, it was starting to get dark, and they were very tired from the walk. Both, Ciaran and Ornstein, thought they wouldn’t be on time to attend the dinner and decided to stop by a tavern and order some food. 

Surprisingly, after they have eaten half of their food, Ciaran ordered a bottle of ale and Ornstein arched an questioning eyebrow at her. “Why? You don’t usually like to drink.”

Ciaran shrugged with a smile. “Why not? We’ve earned it.” 

She grabbed the bottle and poured the drink in their glasses and then, pointed the mouth of the bottle to Ornstein. “We’ve spent many days sad because of some damn idiots.” He opened his mouth to punctuate that, in fact, Prince Gwynsen was not an idiot, but Ciaran didn’t let him the time, “It’s time for us, my friend, that we have some fun for once.”

And they started drinking, and Ciaran forgot that Ornstein had no control over the alcohol, and when she should have stopped him from drinking most of the content of the several bottles they ordered, she was far way too tipsy to care about it.

They didn’t know how they got to the castle’s door and passed through the poor guards keeping everybody outside. Maybe Ciaran threatened them, or was it Ornstein? Either way, they stumbled over their feets multiple times through every corridor they went through, grabbing onto each other and laughing loudly with almost every word they let out. But until Ciaran didn’t abruptly stop, causing Ornstein to collide with her back, they didn’t shut up their mouths. 

Ornstein looked where Ciaran had her gaze fixated and suddenly felt like he was floating on a cloud just by looking at his beautiful Prince. He was standing right besides Artorias, who, for once, wasn’t covering his face with his helmet. They could see the quickly movement of their eyes, switching between them and Ornstein’s coat over Ciaran’s shoulders, and their weird expressions that Ornstein didn’t bother to decipher. 

Then, suddenly, the Prince moved quickly to Ornstein’s side with a frown on his face and placed a hand on his jaw to lift his face. The knight just gave him a goofy smile. 

“What the hell happened to you?” he snarled, and briefly looked angrily at Ciaran. “You have blood on your face.”

Ornstein reached a hand to touch it and when his fingers brushed against his nose, he took a sharp breath. “Ah… Probably I fell in some stairs?” He carried every word, and letting out a giggle he continued, “I don’t remember very well, my apologies, my highness.”

Gwynsen arched an eyebrow after hearing my . “Are you drunk?”

Once again, Ornstein giggled, tilting his head. “No... Well, just... A little.”

The prince sighed, letting him go, and before he could say anything else, Ciaran started to angrily speak behind them.

“You, asshole!” Ciaran was trying to hit him again square on the chest at the same time she tried to not be grabbed by a nervous Artorias. “You don’t speak with me for weeks and now you say you are worried about me?! What do you think I am? A fool?!”

Artorias finally grabbed her wrists but she started to shake them with all the force she could came up with on her drunkenly state. “Don’t touch me!”

“Ah… Ciaran, please don’t scream.” Artorias looked really overwhelmed.

Ornstein stepped away from the Prince’s reach and walked to Artorias with an angry face. After noticing that, the wolf knight raised his eyebrows in a plea to Ornstein. “Oh, please, don’t hit me you too...” 

But his friend only touched his chest with his index finder, making him flinch, though when nobody was punched, Artorias let out a relieved sigh.

“Yeah... She’s damn right, you are an asshole. Don’t you have a heart?” Ornstein was tapping his chest with his finger repeatedly. “Have you no consideration nor even thought about what she may be feeling? I’m very disappointed at you… I mean, you can ignore me as much as you like, but her?!”

Ornstein raised his voice when he said the last question, pointing with his other hand at Ciaran, who hardly kicked Artorias’ leg, full of angry, breaking her free. He grunted in pain and looked with a plea at the Prince, who finally stepped between the three knights and put Ornstein aside, grabbing him by his arm and shoulder.

“That was fantastic, Ornstein, I’m sure he has learnt his lesson and will stop his dumb behaviour and apologize with Ciaran, right, Artorias?” The Prince accentuated the question, giving him a sideway look. 

Artorias nooded rapidly, avoiding to look at Ornstein or Ciaran, but that was enough to  satisfy Ornstein, who hummed contently and returned to dreamily gaze up at the face of Gwynsen.

“Let’s get you to your room and leave them alone to clear up their problems,” continued the Prince, placing a hand on Ornstein’s upper back to guide him.

“As you like, my highness.”

“Wait, Ornstein,” called Ciaran, opening her bag and handling him the book. “Mmm… Don’t forget your things.”

“Thank you very much!” Ornstein lengthen the words with a smile, extending his arm to grab it from her.

In the time the book was passed from hand to hand, Artorias and Gwynsen had the chance to look at the cover and recognize the title. Artorias opened his mouth, repressing a gasp in his throat, and both of them looked at each other with their eyebrows raised with astonishment.

[tourmybookshelf]

Do you have a lot of unread books too?

Hello! Welcome! It’s a mystery to me as to how you may have found this blog, but you may possibly suffer from the same affliction that I do: buying books that you fully intend to read (but hardly ever do), or else preferring library books over a full bookshelf you have at home of unread books. I’ve always known I’ve had this problem, but I have never thought or wanted to do anything about it. Until, that is, two very differing personalities “sparked” something in me.

The first personality to notify me of my book situation, was the Youtuber Pewdiepie. Pewdiepie, if you are unaware, is a youtube personality who currently holds the largest number of subscribers on youtube (other than a channel called “Music” which in my opinion, doesn’t count), at 81,504,454 subscribers according to socialblade.com. At the end of the year in 2018, Pewdiepie made a video entitled “I read 721 books in 2018”. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNar3Dh9zDk In the video, Pewdiepie explains that one of his 2018 new year’s resolutions was to finish things he starts. He then goes on to say that by following this resolution, he was able to read 72 books, and he very much felt it was a rewarding experience for him. Pewdiepie also encouraged his viewers to read more as well. My initial thought was that if Pewdiepie can put out a new video every single day, live the life that he does, and read 72 books in a year, I can at least step up my reading game.

The next personality that helped me create my reading goal was Marie Kondo. I’m sure you’ve heard of her by now, if not from her bestselling book “The life changing magic of tidying up”, then from her new Netflix show that came out earlier this year. At the time of watching Pewdiepie’s video, I had not read her book, but as a bookseller at Barnes and Noble, I had seen it on the bestseller shelf for a long time, and wondered what all the fuss was about. Her Netflix show was not yet out in late December, but her method was beginning to sneak back into my life.

I therefore did what any experienced researcher does, and googled her. From that one google search, I took away two things: 1. (in my own words) Learn to say thank you and let go of things that don’t spark joy for you, and 2. (again in my own words) To decrease clutter, try to only keep 30 books in your bookshelf. I then looked at my own bookshelf, and saw all the books that I hadn’t read. I saw books that had been with me since I was little, books I had always been meaning to read but never had time, and books that I had no intention of reading, but liked the look they had in my bookshelf. There was no way I would be able to narrow it down to thirty if there were unread books staring back at me.

And possibly as an act of rebellion towards Marie Kondo, my goal was made: to read every book in my bookshelf I hadn’t yet read, and to do it in one year. I was determined to meet this goal, and if I happened to dislike every book, then at least I’d have given myself a better reason to say thank you and let go of these books.

Not to mention, this challenge would give me a chance to explore genres I had never even considered before. My genre is usually dystopian romance. I hardly read anything other than your generic cookie cutter young adult fiction. This might clue you in as to why I haven’t read many of the books in my bookshelf: most of them didn’t originally belong to me. And that raises the question again: why do I have them?

I will make a new post after every book is read, and in each post, I will explain:

1. How that particular book came to be in my bookshelf

2. Why possibly I haven’t read it until now

3. What I thought of the book

4. Whether or not I will say thank you and let go of the book

So am I crazy in trying to attempt this possibly time wasting feat? We’ll have to find out in December.

[thelabrinthicallhome]

How about a little #waybackwednesday? I think this is the first time my older sister posted about Watson as a service dog. The caption on the original post is worth going back and reading. It’s from so far back that Watson was still solely a Psychiatric service dog. I’ll put the original post in my story so y’all can check it out 😊. It’s crazy for me to think about how far we’ve come. I think it’s incredible to watch my journey with Watson as a team, but I also really enjoy looking back on the growth of my support system as well. My family are my number one in my support team. And to think that about four years ago, when I took on this journey, my family was skeptical and some of them had issues going out into public with Watson and I. Which is totally normal, it’s weird at first, they are going through this just as much as we are. Flash forward, I have a 6yo brother who goes around educating strangers about service dogs, other siblings who are willing to call people out for acting ridiculous around my service dog, a mother who talks to other people about Watson and I all the time, a sister who is willing to post things like this on social media, and a father who asks my help when his job is trying to navigate service dog laws and edict... We’ve all grown and changed on this journey together. And I’m so thankful for everyone in my support group who has taken this journey with me. My family at Ground Zero, my best friend who got herself thrown into this and never looked back, my other non service dog friends who stick up for us out in public, my service dog friends who help with training or research or just being someone I can vent to because they know exactly what I’m talking about. But a special thank you to all of you. This account isn’t about getting likes or followers but it’s been so incredible being able to share our journey and get your support. And even better, giving me a platform where I can support others in return. So thank you 💙 (at Joseph-Beth Booksellers) https://www.instagram.com/p/BqL5BKLFVIk/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1i3yb9by8yuzg

[metteivieharrison]

21 Things You Don’t Know About Publishing (And Should)

1.      It’s not about who you know. I mean, it is, but it isn’t. Knowing people helps, but not as much as most people imagine it does. The book is the most important part.

2.      Writing is a business like many other business. But it’s also an art. You have to negotiate both sides to be successful.

3.      Talent is a lot less important than most people assume. We’re not making widgets, but also, we don’t sit around naked, drinking alcohol and waiting for the muse to strike.

4.      Being an asshole hurts more than most people think. See #3. Talent isn’t enough to make up for it. Trust me on this.

5.      Writing a successful series (or having a “brand”) is important for success, but no one’s going to invest in other books until you get the first one perfect.

6.      Editing is a negotiation, not a declaration. That is, you shouldn’t assume that the editor has the last word. But you should also not assume that the editor is an idiot and your creative vision trumps all.

7.      Agents may be able to get you more money, but it doesn’t mean they’re useless if they don’t. Agents who are assholes may get things in the short term, but are not necessarily useful in the long term.

8.      Finding the right publisher/editor really matters. Success isn’t just throwing money at marketing, even if it looks like it is.

9.      Editors fall in love with books and this makes a huge difference in the way that those books are treated in-house.

10.  Earning out matters, but not as much as you might think.

11.  No one knows what books are going to be huge successes. No one. Of course, they make their best guesses and that’s why they’re in those jobs. But it’s also about good books. Editors don’t get paid enough to hate their jobs day I and day out.

12.  You’re not going to get rich writing books. Yeah, there are always stories about authors who made it rich, but even those stories are mostly promotion to sell more of those authors’ books.

13.  Being an author isn’t glamorous. Yes, there is some schmoozing at cocktail parties. There’s also plenty of writing in your pajamas.

14.  It’s great to read books about writing, but like in many things, you can’t learn everything you need to know from books.

15.  If you want to write a movie script, write a movie script. Don’t write a book because you want it to be turned into a movie. It’s extremely unlikely your book will ever be made into a movie. Also, don’t get too excited just because someone buys an option. Only one percent (or less) of options turn into a movie.

16.  You’re not a celebrity as an author. I know that the Castle TV show makes it look like you’re one, but you’re not. You won’t be friends with the mayor. You won’t have an open bar at your book launch. Trust me. You won’t. And if your book does get made into a movie, no one will care you are the author. At all.

17.  Wear a pair of comfortable shoes when you are doing conferences/book tour/BEA. This is the most important thing. Yes, you think you want to look good, but you’re not going to look very good when you fall down in exhaustion and agony.

18.  Don’t go to an agent’s office. Even if you’re in New York and you just want to drop by. Unless you are a client, then call ahead. Agents aren’t going to look more carefully at your manuscript because you personally dropped it off. I don’t know what your business is that makes you think so, but it’s not true in publishing. It just makes you seem crazy and more likely your manuscript gets thrown in the trash.

19.  The idea that you’re going to self-publish your book first and then get a big NY publishing deal is so rare it qualifies as a myth. If you want a publishing deal, get an agent first.

20.  Amazon is not your best friend as an author. Indies are your best friend. Always, always treat bookstore employees well if you have a chance to meet them.

21.  When you do book signings, most of the time there will be fewer than 10 people there to speak to you. Do not notice this. Do not even pretend to notice it. Never, ever remark on it to any publicist or bookseller. And most of all, do not act like it is their fault, even if it is.

[alanfromrochester]

Dear future college student

A cousin's high school graduation this year reminded me of some of my thoughts about college:

This shouldn't be a problem, but be aboveboard in how you get your work done. Don't be scared of higher education, but don't underestimate it either.

I sometimes found myself running out of energy towards the end of a class or towards the end of my four years. My grades were still fine but could have been even better. "Senioritis. It's a real disease", as one of the neighborhood guys told me (I think I graduated high school and he finished his undergrad around the same time)

Many of my most memorable classes were electives unrelated to my major; try and enjoy those.

I went to a college in my hometown, $o I had a pr€tt¥ ¢£€ar r€a$on to live off-campus. Thus I can't tell you too much about campus life. Many on-campus events were too late in the day, especially if I had early classes, and not having my own car. Try to make room in your schedule. I often got rides and found something to do by myself inbetween class and extracurriculars. There can be a lot of jobs available on campus, whether educational work or something else that happens to be for the college. This can make for easier work-school logistics. Notetaking for disability support was one of my major jobs, sometimes for a class I was taking anyway. The act of taking notes helped with attention and memory even if I didn't reference them much.

Do shop around for textbooks. This may require contacting the professor ahead of time for the list to be able to get less expensive copies in time. I focused on the usual online booksellers.

Early morning class was particularly difficult not living on campus. I started my freshman year with 8 AM's, and managed to avoid anything earlier than 10 after that. I arranged that once. I often had 4-day weeks and once managed to have classes every other day. That sounded good but made it harder to keep a consistent sleep schedule.

My school was somewhat sports crazy for one team. It was nice to have some of that experience without the place being obsessed with athletics. I'm not sure what it would be like to go to a big sports school. Like the comment about electives, I particularly remembered some extracurriculars. This is speaking as a fan; there seemed to be plenty of opportunities if you wanted to play.

Best of luck.

[meeedeee]

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

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

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

He begins:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh.

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

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

I will finish and they will not.

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

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

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

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

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

The most important thing is habit, not will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*pinches bridge of nose, breathes deeply*

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

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

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

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

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

from shattersnipe: malcontent & rainbows http://ift.tt/2qCbLxS via IFTTT

[mysteryshelf]

BLOG TOUR - Act of Betrayal

Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

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Act of Betrayal

by Matthew Dunn

on Tour October 23 – November 30, 2017

Synopsis:

In this riveting entry in the celebrated thriller series, former intelligence operative Will Cochrane—a “ruthless yet noble” (Ft. Worth Star-Telegram) man from whom “Bond and Bourne could learn a thing or two” (Madison County Herald)—comes out of hiding to expose a conspiracy involving a past assassination that reaches to the highest echelons of the U.S. government.

Three years ago, intelligence officer Will Cochrane was brought in by a Delta Force colonel to assassinate a terrorist financier in Berlin. After the job, the commander vanished, and hasn’t been heard from since. The details don’t quite add up, and one of the CIA agents who was involved has been investigating the mission. He reaches out to Will for help, but before they can connect, the CIA man is poisoned.

Will is determined to uncover the truth about Berlin, even if it means putting himself in the crosshairs. Framed for multiple murders, the skilled former spy has gone deep underground to evade his enemies and the feds. But honor and loyalty to his old colleague thrust him into danger once again.

When Marsha Gage at the FBI discovers that Cochrane—one of America’s Most Wanted—has resurfaced, she immediately launches a manhunt, and she won’t stop until she brings the former CIA/MI6 operative in.

With time running out, Cochrane will use all of his training and formidable skills to outmaneuver the FBI and uncover a shocking conspiracy that will rock the foundations of our nation . . . if he can stay alive.

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller Published by: William Morrow Publication Date: October 24th 2017 Number of Pages: 320 ISBN: 0062427229 (ISBN13: 9780062427229) Series: Spycatcher #7 Purchase Links: Amazon 🔗 | Barnes & Noble 🔗 | Goodreads 🔗

Read an excerpt:

IT WAS PAST midnight as wind and rain pounded the exterior of the tiny bookstore in Chicago. The store was closed and its owner was sitting at his desk checking the week’s receipts. The task wouldn’t take long—his store specialized in rare works that he sourced from around the world. He had some loyal customers, but they were few. This week seven people had made purchases.

The only light in the room came from his green desk lamp, old-fashioned in design to match the ambience of the shop. Aside from some electronic devices on his desk and recessed lights that cast a discreet yellow glow when turned on, the place looked like it could have been a purveyor of fine works established and un- changed since the eighteenth century. He’d constructed it that way: dark maple bookshelves; many of the books leather bound, all of them hardcover; two armchairs for customers to sit in when perusing potential acquisitions; an urn for his more discerning patrons who valued his loose-leaf tea collection; and a cage for his two lovebirds.

He was an old-fashioned guy at heart.

And though he could have done with more cash coming in, he’d deliberately established a business and identity that drew little attention. He playacted a shy man, his trimmed beard intended to put up barriers between him and others, his shoulders artificially stooped during the day as if he were ashamed of his six-foot-four physique, his cropped blond-and-gray hair functional because he had no woman in his life to impress, and his unneeded glasses covering one green eye, one blue. He was always in a smart three-piece suit because the attire was good at hiding his athletic frame and scars. Customers thought he was Edward Pope, a gentleman scholar from the South. They’d probably estimate his age was late forties. They’d be wrong about that and most other things. He’d led a hard life and was forty-five.

His name wasn’t Edward Pope.

It was Will Cochrane.

The assassin. The one Sapper and Kane were terrified of.

He wasn’t from the Deep South. He was raised in Virginia and earned a double first-class degree at England’s Cambridge University. And he’d been a bookseller for only under a year.

But he had to be Pope. In the eyes of the world, Will was a murderer. He’d killed people as a special forces French Foreign Legionnaire and assassinated targets in French intelligence black operations. He had been the West’s prime joint operative with the CIA and Britain’s MI6 for fourteen years, until he went crazy and killed a lot of cops and civilians in the States before throwing himself off the Brooklyn Bridge and dying.

His death was essential. He was America’s Most Wanted. He wasn’t what some thought of him—a psychopath. But he was a former special operative and killer. Had been all his adult life. It started when he was seventeen and walked in on four criminals suffocating his mother and about to kill his sister. His mother died; sister didn’t, because he grabbed his mother’s carving knife and ended the criminals’ lives before fleeing to the Legion. He wished he didn’t know how many people he’d killed since. It would be a lie. He knew every victim. Their souls lingered around him, taunting him, reminding him of who he was.

All 263 souls.

But the souls of the people they say he killed in the States didn’t hassle him.

Because he didn’t kill them. He never killed innocents, only those who needed to be killed.

But in the eyes of the law, that’s not the case and that’s why he had to fake his death and reinvent himself. A year ago, his situation was desperate, despite all of his training and covert operations experience in hostile countries. He’d received only one bit of help, but it was significant. Russia’s most formidable intelligence officer, code name Antaeus—now, thanks to Will, a defector living in the States—had cleverly managed to get $300,000 into Will’s pocket. Will didn’t know exactly why he’d done it. After all, Will had accidentally killed his family with a car bomb when in fact he’d intended only to kill the spy. But he suspected he knew why the Russian had become his benefactor: Antaeus wanted his generosity to plunge the knife that was Will’s guilt deeper.

Regardless of Antaeus’s motives, the cash helped set up Will’s new life.

Will’s family and close acquaintances were all dead. He’d be given the needle if cops found out who he was. The West he’d served with unflinching duty had hung him out to dry. He thought of himself as a scavenging dog, kicked out of its owner’s backyard and left to fend for itself. He was resigned to that, every day expecting the Feds to rush into his store and put a bullet in his skull. That’s what they’d do. No attempt to arrest. No negotiations. Execution only. Will wouldn’t blame them. They knew he’d cause carnage if given the slightest of chances.

He finished his accounts, took a swig of Assam tea, and frowned as he heard the female lovebird make an unusual sound. Like her male companion, she resembled a small parrot, her plumage green and yellow, face and beak red, large eyes pure white with black pupils. He’d taken the birds off the hands of an old lady who frequented his store. Her son, a merchant marine officer, had brought them back from exotic climes, though she couldn’t remember where because she was suffering from dementia. And she could no longer look after them, particularly now that the male had broken his wing. Will hated seeing animals in cages. But the female wouldn’t leave the male’s side. And for the time being, the male had to be kept in the cage until he was fully recuperated. Then Will would release them to a large aviary or the wild.

Their previous owner couldn’t remember their names, so Will called the male Ebb and the female Flo. Flo was now agitated, hopping about as opposed to what she usually did, which was nestling her face against that of her lover. Will opened the cage, knowing Flo wouldn’t go anywhere while Ebb was there. The former special operative bowed his head. Ebb was all wrong, flopping on the base of the cage, his good wing twitching, his broken one immobile. Will knew he was dying and there was nothing he could do about it. What goes through a bird’s brain? He didn’t know. And he didn’t know whether lovebirds were in fact lifelong lovers or if that was a myth. But Will knew how he felt. He had to give Flo closure, let her be free, not allow her to think there was hope that Ebb would return to her. Gently he lifted Ebb. His body was warm but now limp. He carried him to the store’s backyard. Flo followed him. Will had hoped she would.

Will looked at Flo, who was perched close by on the branch of a tree. She was watching. It seemed she and Will didn’t know what to do.

“I have to let you know this is the end,” Will said to her. Actually, he was saying it to himself.

He snapped Ebb’s neck and buried him.

Flo looked at him before flying into the darkness. As tears ran down his face, he wondered if she hated him. Or maybe she understood. Of course, he’d never know.

He returned to his desk and stared at the birdcage. After brushing soil off his fingers, he looked at his laptop and saw he had a new e-mail. Nobody sent him mail apart from spammers.

But this one was different. And shocking. It was from CIA officer Unwin Fox, the man who, alongside Will, had been one of those involved in the Berlin operation. Aside from Colonel Haden, Will didn’t know who the other people on the small team were.

His heart was beating fast as he read the mail. Its tone was desperate. There was no way Fox could know that Will was alive. Something was terribly wrong. Fox wanted to meet. Tomorrow. In Washington, D.C.

In all probability it was a trap. Lure Will out, then bam! Swooped on by cops. But then again, Will knew what happened in Berlin. The law didn’t. This would have been far too implausible a tactic to entrap him.

What to do?

He looked at the lovebirds’ empty cage. The door was open. He glanced at the entrance to his store.

What to fucking do?

He opened the drawer in his desk, pulled out his handgun, grabbed his bag containing all he needed if he ever had to run, and left.

He knew he’d never return.

***

Excerpt from Act of Betrayal by Matthew Dunn. Copyright © 2017 by Matthew Dunn. Reproduced with permission from William Morrow. All rights reserved.

  Author Bio:

As an MI6 field officer, Matthew Dunn recruited and ran agents, coordinated and participated in special operations, and acted in deep-cover roles throughout the world. He operated in environments where, if captured, he would have been executed. Dunn was trained in all aspects of intelligence collection, deep-cover deployments, small-arms, explosives, military unarmed combat, surveillance, and infiltration. Medals are never awarded to modern MI6 officers, but Dunn was the recipient of a rare personal commendation from the secretary of state for work he did on one mission, which was deemed so significant that it directly influenced the success of a major international incident. During his time in MI6, Matthew conducted approximately seventy missions. All of them were successful. He currently lives in England, where he is at work on his next novel.

Learn More About Matthew Dunn On harpercollins.com!

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  Giveaway:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Matthew Dunn and William Morrow. There will be 5 winners of one (1) print copy of ACT OF BETRAYAL by Matthew Dunn. This giveaway is open to US & Canada addresses only. The giveaway begins on October 23 and runs through November 30, 2017.

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BLOG TOUR – Act of Betrayal was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf with Shannon Muir

[maryseward666]

KING'S X Frontman On LGBTQ Acceptance In Hard Rock/Metal Community: 'We're Just Taught To Be Homophobic'

RARE BLACK METAL COLLECTIBLES

For Gay Pride Month, Billboard asked artists about the reality of being out musicians in hard rock/metal and the state of LGBTQAI acceptance in the genre. Doug Pinnick, bassist-singer for progressive veterans KING'S X and rock act KXM, has been publicly out since he declared his orientation in an interview with Christian publication Regeneration Quarterly in 1998. When asked for his take on people using the word "f—t" in lyrics, Pinnick said: "KORN, for instance, when that first record came out and the line says, 'I'm a f—t, I'm a motherfucking queer,' what [singer] Jonathan [Davis] did is, he didn't come out and ridicule gay people at all. He came out and owned it. He said things that made you own what you were saying. It was like it was so, so, so big and so strong. Because gay people, we don't stand up. We don't say, 'Hey, this is who I am. Screw you.' When he said that, and even though Jonathan's not gay … it kind of broke a lot of walls, especially [in light] of his childhood sexual abuse … It was helping kids to open up and realize they weren't alone, especially kids that have been abused sexually. Pinnick also offered his opinion on what contributes to homophobia in metal. He said: "One thing is 'cause it's such a guy genre. Guys get together, and they make jokes about gay people and talk about gay people and they call each other 'gay' and accuse each other of being gay if they do something feminine. Guys are just brutal. I mean, you go to the bathroom in a guy's bathroom, and you don't hear a word. No one looks at each other, no one says anything, and when everybody's lined up at a stall, everybody's eyes are straight ahead. No one looks at each other, because if anybody looks down or anything, they might get hit. "We're just taught to be homophobic," he continued. "I think it's something that's just been beat into us, and so as a result of it, guys especially are like, 'We're in our closet.' It's crazy. Go into a girl's bathroom, girls are in the same stall with each other, pissin'. And I'm goin', 'Oh my God, guys would never do that.'" Pinnick's sexual orientation, to some, contradicted his role in KING'S X, which had been tagged a "Christian band" due to the band's spiritual lyrics, a term the group disliked. After he came out publicly, Christian booksellers pulled KING'S X product from their shelves. "Because I'm gay, in the Christian world, that is a no-no," Pinnick said in a 2013 interview with Classic Rock Revisited. "There is a place in the Bible where God says that is an abomination. When a preacher gets up to preach, he says that an abomination is what God hates more than anything else. God hates a lot of things in the Bible, but when God says something is an abomination, then you're going to hell and God has nothing to do with you and there is no way you're going to change that. "I didn't know what to do anymore and I had no one to help me," he continued. "I just tried to find my way out of that hole. I started to look back and realize that it was just another religion and that they all have their own thing. I realized it was not the only way. People need something to believe in and they need to feel a part of something and they need spiritual awareness. I have nothing against it, but when they legislate and tell people what they have to do in order to get with God, I say, 'Not anymore. Your way didn't work and I have a new way.'" [Read More ...]

MY BLOG: http://www.rockoutwithyourcockout.com/

from Rock Out With Your Cock Out http://www.blabbermouth.net/news/kings-x-frontman-on-lgbtq-acceptance-in-hard-rockmetal-community-were-just-taught-to-be-homophobic/ via IFTTT