#tried to switch perspectives and show billy on the giving end of kindness and love and support which we know he's more than capable of

[thissortofsorcery]

Steve is woken up by his own sharp intake of breath, choked halfway down his throat. Something’s— wrong, he knows. Something’s wrong. He was just running. Isn’t he supposed to be running? He flails a hand to his left, looking for something. There’s something there, something safe, he remembers, and his hand closes around— Billy. Billy’s wrist.

He’s in bed. He was asleep.

A second passes and it’s like his body thaws, all muscles relaxing at once, oxygen finally flowing into his lungs. He’s in bed. He was asleep. Billy’s right there.

“‘tevie?” A mumbled groan comes from his left, and Steve realizes he’s still holding tightly to Billy’s wrist. Billy’s waking up.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” He whispers, and lets go, running careful fingers where he was squeezing before. Billy’s skin is sleep-warm and soft, delicate on the inside of the wrist. Steve presses a kiss there. “Didn’t mean to wake you up. Go back to sleep.”

Billy’s pushing himself up on his elbows from where he was lying on his belly, hair rumpled and curls thrown everywhere over his face, eyes squinting at Steve like a cat.

“Why’re you up?”

“It’s nothing.”

Billy squints harder. “You had a nightmare.”

Steve doesn’t answer, and Billy’s already turning over, sitting halfway up.

“I’m up. I’m up,” He runs a broad hand down his face, rubs his eyes. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing, seriously—” Steve tries to say, but Billy shoots him a look. “It’s the same shit as always,” he sighs.

“The running?” Billy asks. He doesn’t need to be more specific than that. Steve dreams about that often enough.

When Steve wakes up the feeling lingers. Twitching feet and bouncing knees, nervous energy directed nowhere in a comfortable bed with cozy blankets with a cozy boyfriend, when a blink ago he was being chased to exhaustion. He can’t go back to sleep when he’s supposed to be running.

“Yeah,” Steve says, not looking at Billy. He does hate that he woke him up. “I feel like I’m gonna vibrate out of my skin.”

Billy’s fingers find his on top of the blanket, threading them together. “C’mere,” he pulls on them gently, “c’mon.”

Billy tugs and pulls, rearranging both of them on the bed until Steve’s tucked into Billy’s chest, feeling his weight warm his back and anchor him down. Steve lets the air out of his lungs with a steady, deliberate breath, sinking into it with his eyes closed, like one sinks into a warm bath.

That’s one thing that Billy is, always. The ground under his feet. Steady. Present.

There’s a thick bicep under his head, an arm around his waist, kisses pressed into his shoulder over his shirt until they cross the barrier of the collar and reach the skin of his neck. A big toe strokes the outside of his calf, scratching at his leg hair, making his skin tingle.

“Feels good,” Steve mumbles, face mashed into Billy’s arm, and he presses his lips to the skin there. Billy smells clean, a little like the citrus soap he likes, a little like his deodorant, and like their bed, like their sheets.

With his eyes closed, Steve can hear every breath Billy puffs against his ear, ever smack of his lips against his skin, feels the tingle that travels up his neck and down his spine. Billy’s feet find Steve’s, and he rubs his soles along the top of them, toes making grabby motions at Steve’s toes that he playfully dodges from, until they’re caught and pleasantly cracked.

It gives Steve something else to focus on, something else to twitch towards, makes the shivers that feel like they come from inside his bones fade into the pleasant scratch of nails on his skin. It makes him huff a laugh at three in the morning where once he would’ve relocated to the couch and stared at the tv without seeing it.

And Billy just knows. Knows he’s awake, knows he had a nightmare, knows how to make it better. Knows Steve.

“I love you,” Steve’s voice is rough, both from being relaxed and from emotion, and he twists his head back, searching.

Billy’s right there, nose to nose, lips on his cheek then meeting his mouth. A simple press of lips that grows, languid and sweet, until Steve’s turned around in Billy’s arms and they’re lying face to face.

“I love you,” Steve says again, stroking Billy’s cheek with a thumb.

Billy’s looking at him with half-lidded eyes and a little smile, his private, sleepy one that’s a little smooshed on one cheek.

Steve can’t understand it sometimes, how he got here. How he got Billy.

“Love you too,” Billy says, and Steve’s heart skips a beat. Still. Always. “You feel any better?”

Steve sighs, stretches, wiggles in place. He feels more settled now, body heavy and sinking into the bed, into Billy’s chest.

“A lot,” Steve says, with a lazy smile. “You always make it better.”

Billy hides his face in the pillow, but his lips are twitching. He mumbles a half-hearted shut up that goes ignored.

“I always feel safe with you," Steve says, thumb traveling down Billy's cheek to his chin. Billy won't meet his eyes, and his cheeks are turning pink. "Feel grounded. Feel good."

Billy's hand finds its way under his tshirt, spreads over the width of his lower back, and he scratches his nails lightly over Steve's side. His eyes finally meet Steve's. "Don't get used to it," He grumbles, voice barely above a croak.

Steve huffs a laugh, kisses him on the nose, on the mouth, and settles his head beside Billy's on the pillow so they can stare at each other like two idiots.

"I'm already used to it, dumbass," He says. He makes sure Billy's eyes are still on his. He needs Billy to hear it, to understand. "You're an amazing boyfriend, you know. I'm lucky to have you."

And Billy's giving him that wide-eyed, mouth parted look, the one he gets when he's been knocked over the head with a good thing he didn't expect. Steve can only lean over and kiss it off his face, hope his lips can seal the sentiment in his brain and he'll take it in once and for all. Steve loves him. Has for a long time, now.

every time anti bullshit shows up on my dash, I write Steve loving on Billy | IV

[lovecanbesostrange]

#is it too late to write 2k words of how Ruby stays chained up and turns and she's in control yet scared but Belle stays with her NO!!! It is never too late for red beauty content

Is this a dare or are you just mocking me?

But, well, okay, let's go back to that night in the library then, shall we?

(under a read more, but also up on AO3 now)

Ruby frantically went through the rooms, making sure all the windows were shut, nobody else was here and she knew the layout of the place. But Belle was still here, that was not good. She needed to go, lock the main entrance from the outside.

"You need to leave. The moon's going to be up soon."

Belle didn't made any effort to go, instead she followed Ruby around. "But will the chains hold?"

"Hopefully." Like a familiar tune another conversation about chains played out in Ruby's head. Familiar and devastating. Those chains did hold. But only because they held a human back, leaving him defenseless.

"Then, I'm staying." Belle's determined tone stopped Ruby in her tracks. She was so upbeat and positive, as if this wasn't about a beast showing up any minute, who could tear her to shreds. Belle reached out, not just mentally, but physically now. Ruby felt the hands on her shoulders, a gesture to spark comfort. "Think of it as girls' night."

Ruby was at a loss for words. Belle was so cheery about all of this. So unfazed by the horror of the situation. Was this how Peter had seen her? When she convinced him he might be the wolf and he was ready to be tied up and send her away, but Red had stayed with him. Unintentionally dooming him to a grim death. Red had felt the same determination to stay with him that Belle showcased now. It was such a weird switch in perspectives. Except Ruby knew much, much better now.

Slowly Ruby backed away, breaking contact with Belle, who finally showed concern, but not in the way Ruby wanted. "What's wrong?"

How could Ruby explain all of this? The way her heart ached, because of a lost love, a life taken and now also because this thing might happen again. May have in fact happened again. Belle hadn't seen Billy's body. Belle didn't know how easily werewolf fangs tore human bodies in half. Belle didn't know that deep inside of Ruby a monster lurked. And that every bit of self-doubt made it stronger. That only self-acceptance could tame it and Ruby had run out of that this morning in front of the cannery. Why was she the only one that was afraid?

"I know David wants to believe the best, but I've killed before, and I'll do it again." Ruby picked up the chains, the rattling sound a faint promise of safety. "Everyone in this town is right to be afraid of me."

"Okay, well I'm not."

"You should be!" Ruby almost yelled back instantly. How did Belle not understand this? This was about her life! People outside gathered in a mob to hunt for a wolf and they were right. Because if Ruby had killed Billy, the sweet mechanic who always smiled and was up for a chat, then anybody could be next.

But Belle didn't budge. She didn't give in a single inch and Ruby stared at her. Trying to figure out what to do. "No matter what you might've done in your past, David sees the good in you and-" A slight pause, Belle's face was perfectly calm, her eyes warm and her lips twitched into a reassuring half-smile for a second. Just looking at her twisted Ruby's inside. "And that tells me one thing."

"What?" She was skeptical, because Belle didn't listen to reason, making up her own theories here. Ruby had on of the cuffs in her hand. Thinking back to Peter a thought formed. He would have been safe if Red had gone away. Maybe this was how she could keep Belle from getting hurt. Put this on her and leave. The building was secure. And the people outside took the risk serious enough to end the threat once and for all.

"That it's in there." Belle kept going, while taking a step forward. Stepping into Ruby's personal space again, closing this gap to show how serious she was about not being afraid. "So if we can all see it, why can't you?"

"You really think so?" All Ruby wanted was to believe Belle. Believe in her kind words, her trust that the wolf wasn't the problem.

"Trust me. I'm sort of an expert when it comes to rehabilitation."

Ruby looked at Belle. Her face. The utter and unfaltering support. The way her eyebrows moved, the corner of her mouth pulling up radiating optimism and just those gentle eyes.

"Maybe. Maybe you're right." Ruby played with the cuff. Now or never. She could leave Belle to safety and make a run for it. She deserved whatever the mob had in store for her.

But under Belle's gaze she faltered. For a split second she wanted to believe her so much, that she closed the cuff around her own wrist. She had only met this type of kindness once before and it overwrote her will towards self-destruction long enough to change her course of action.

"But you do need to leave." Ruby closed the second cuff and pulled at the chains a bit, the weight was noticeable, but she was worried if the pipe was sturdy enough.

Belle smiled. "I'm staying and now you can't throw me out anyway." She took Ruby's hands into her own. "I'll get you through this. And tomorrow you'll see that you worried for nothing. David will find out the truth."

Ruby ground her teeth. It was too late now. She could only hope history was not about to repeat itself. The literal hand-holding was maybe too much, but it had a calming effect. Ruby was not alone, even though she should be, while also not wanting to be. This whole day had taken a lot of energy from her and it was nice to surrender for a moment. But she needed to focus and let go of Belle.

When Ruby grabbed the other cuffs that were supposed to go around her ankles, Belle intervened.

"Wait, you need to straighten those out first, they're all twisted. You'll make it worse for yourself."

"That's kinda the point."

Again Belle gave her that sympathetic half-smile. "The point is to keep you locked up, not to strangle yourself. I have had my share of uncomfortable nights in chains."

Under any other circumstances Ruby would have a question about that, but she only stood there and let Belle straighten out the chains like christmas lights. She then knelt down to put the cuffs on. All Ruby did was raiser her feet one after the other a bit to help.

"All set?", Belle asked.

Ruby yanked at the chains, the pipes didn't give in. And the chain connecting her wrists and ankles now restrained her movement. The wolf would not be able to make huge leaps in those, even if it broke loose. She leaned against the wall and slowly glided down. "The last one around me, please?"

Now she had to look up at Belle and her stomach turned once more. Was this how Peter had felt? She remembered vividly helping him into the chains, securing him against the tree. Both believing it was the right thing to do. She remembered her love for him and the trust he wouldn't hurt her. Like Belle trusted her now contrary to all evidence.

A bit of shame rose up in Ruby, battling with her nervousness. She had given Belle a crash-course in everyday life in Storybrooke, but avoided any question about her pre-curse persona. And now here they were. Because of the wolf. If she had warned Belle from the start, she wouldn't be so insistent now on helping and staying. She wouldn't be crawling around on the floor of her library to fasten chains around Ruby.

"Done." Belle squatted in front of her.

Ruby had pulled her knees up to her chin and hugged her legs. "Please go?" It was more of a question than a request and Ruby knew the answer already anyway. Because Peter had said the same. And she had stayed. For him.

Belle cocked her head to the side, rubbing Ruby's leg for a moment. "I'm responsible for what happens in the library. And if my friend is chained up in here, I'm responsible for her, too." She brushed a strand of Ruby's hair behind her ear and locked eyes.

Ruby took a deep breath in. She could feel the beast creeping closer, the moon was rising. "But get back. Get to the door." She mustered every ounce of command she could. "You have to!"

Belle got up and stepped away. She made her way to the main entrance backwards, never taking her eyes off of Ruby. And Ruby felt exposed. It was time. The beast was near. The wolf wanted out. What was it that made her black out last night? She had been in the freezer and woken up in the woods. She remembered nervous pacing and endless worry. She had rejected the reality of what was happening. The thing Anita had warned her about.

The wolf was her, she was the wolf. Different, but the same. She was the beast, with fangs and claws and animal instincts. All of that monstrous potential. It was all her. All a part of her. Under her control.

Ruby turned. Her senses grew sharper, the noises and smells that already had been loud and clear, became more distinct. The strength that put her above normal humans was now fitted with all the right muscles. And there was an immediate need to move, to run, to use those muscles and to get outside. A want for fresh air and dirt under her paws.

Ruby threw herself against the chains and let out a howl. Belle had to press her hands against her ears, because the closed space wasn't the best place for such a noise. But the howl turned into a low whine, when Ruby kept struggling. The cuffs cut into the skin, not fitting her legs as well as a minute ago. And the chain around her body kept her from any decent movement. She was trapped. This was terrible. And Ruby panicked.

Deep down she knew this was what she had wanted. To be tied up in a way that would not allow her to escape. But the craving for freedom in her wolf form was far stronger than any human reason. This was the thing with being a wolf. Some things felt different.

"Ruby?"

Belle's voice reached her as she tried to get up on all four paws, but the chain yanking her back towards the wall.

"Ruby? Are you okay?"

Ruby barked. Once. A warning. She couldn't come closer! She growled, but also tried to retreat, she needed to make sure she was far away from Belle, right? This was her friend, she was in danger from something. Ruby needed to stay away.

When Belle stopped moving so did Ruby. She looked at her. If she stayed away all was right. Nothing bad would happen. If she stayed still herself Belle was safe. Ruby tried another approach and tried to lie down. The chains pressed against her body in various spots, but she managed. She pulled her ears back, flattened herself as best as she could and whined.

"Ruby?"

She only moved her ears in confirmation. Belle's face spelt surprise. But Ruby couldn't read if it was a good or a bad thing.

"I get it now, where the big part in big bad wolf comes from." Ruby growled and bared her teeth for a second. "No, no, you're not bad. Definitely not bad. But kinda big." Her furrowed brow smoothed out and she put a smile back on. "You are a big wolf. And I don't think that's the same as being a monster."

Ruby pointedly turned her head, not looking at Belle anymore. But she could hear her sitting down. And then a few moments of silence. Until a soft rustle piqued her interest. Belle was pulling out books from the shelf she leaned against.

"Sorry, I'm still reorganizing things. Some of these shelves don't make any sense to me." Her eyes darted over the back of a few books, skimming the contents. "The good thing is there is lots to discover I have never heard of." She held up a thick volume. "Here, an anthology with short stories and I don't even know any of these writers. Bradbury, Vonnegut, Ellison, Le Guin. Any of these names mean something to you?"

Ruby dared a quick tail wag, because buried in her false memories was reading Fahrenheit 451 as a school assignment. Belle put the book down and pulled out a much thinner one.

"The Last Unicorn." Ruby lifted her head. "Oh, someone we know? Maybe I should take that into consideration. Rearranging the fairy-tales and stories with people we've met."

She opened the book and started to read. "The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone. She was very old, though she did not know it, and she was no longer the careless color of sea foam but rather the color of snow falling on a moonlit night. But her eyes were still clear and unwearied, and she still moved like a shadow on the sea." Belle had a soothing tone that made Ruby forget the cuffs cutting into her skin, the chains hindering her from moving and biting into her body. She wasn't supposed to be comfortable. And Belle wasn't supposed to be here and definitely not reading to her.

There were people outside hunting for a bloodthirsty wolf and yet, Ruby was inside, hidden away, listening to the story of a lonely creature searching for her family. Belle looked up every so often, giving different voices to the characters and making facial impressions, but not disturbing the flow with comments on the plot. Ruby was too focused on her that she didn't even hear footsteps coming closer and she was startled when the door to the library was pushed open.

"We've got it!" David shouted, holding up Ruby's red signature cloak. "And you're cleared. It was all Spencer."

Granny followed, still some fury on her face. "He tried to frame you, so David would look bad. But we got him." Granny's grin gave away that she had used the crossbow in her hand.

"That's fantastic," Belle said as she got up. "See, no need to worry."

"Everything okay in here?", David asked when he slowed down as he approached Ruby.

"Nothing happened. I don't think she even needed the chains."

David threw the cloak over Ruby and the second she turned back, she hugged him. "Thank you, David."

"No, thank you for not doing something reckless. I've told you, I believe in you."

They both know the thing that wasn't said in this moment. That Snow had believed in her first and if she had been here, things would have been different. And with that Ruby noticed that David was holding back something else.

"What happened?"

"We can talk about that tomorrow." His smile wasn't completely genuine, but Ruby let it slide. She felt a weight lift off of her chest. Literally, because Belle had opened the lock on the chain keeping her down. David held out a hand to help her get up.

He stepped back. "I have to get back to Henry."

Ruby tried to pull the cloak tighter, but the chains prevented it and Belle took her hands. Again. "Let me." She held up the key. "This is the best part." And for what felt like the first time in years, but it had probably been only a day, Ruby smiled back at her.

When the chains fell down she immediately hugged Belle. All the worries about keeping a safe distance forgotten. The beast had been contained, in fact there was no beast to fear at all and her friend had stayed through it all. How lucky to have friends who believed in her more than she did herself.

Granny cleared her throat. "Are you coming home or are you going for a midnight run, now?"

Ruby looked at her over Belle's shoulder, still holding on and enjoying the way Belle hugged back firmly. "Run", was her simple answer.

And as sudden as they had come in, David and Granny vanished again, leaving the two alone.

"A midnight run?", Belle asked as she put the books back on the shelf, except for The Last Unicorn.

"Yes. That's all I could think about."

"And you remember everything that happened, while...", she gestured to where Ruby had been lying down so miserably.

The self-consciousness returned. "I hope I didn't scare you."

Belle laughed. "I was only scared for you, not of you. That looked unpleasant." She pouted.

"It was." Ruby picked up the book and thumbed through the pages, trying to find where they had left off and put a piece of paper in almost halfway through. "Will you read the rest to me?"

Belle took the book from her, lingering a bit when their fingers brushed. "I wanna know how this ends."

"This?"

"It. How it ends."

Ruby had seen a flashlight in the utility room earlier and quickly picked it up. "So, you want to join me?" She offered it to Belle. "A stroll through the woods?"

This night there was a wolf running around the woods surrounding Storybrooke. Circling around a woman wearing the well-knows red riding hood. When Belle sat down, Ruby put her head on her legs, enjoying a scratch between the ears and listening to the rest of the story. Maybe there was hope for finding companions when you thought you were the only one of your kind.

[ducktracy]

173. a sunbonnet blue (1937)

release date: august 21st, 1937

series: merrie melodies

director: tex avery

starring: berneice hansell (girl mouse), mel blanc (sheriff, george washington, various), billy bletcher (villain)

the second entry in his mice trilogy (that is, ain’t we got fun, this, and the mice will play), tex avery revisits the roots of earlier merrie melodies to give us this cutesy tale about mice running rampant in a hat shop at night.

akin to the countless of other “come to life at night” cartoons of both the past and future, we open to the facade of a hat shop -- snobby hatte shoppe, that is. the streamlined, art deco exterior feels straight out of a frank tashlin cartoon. truck inside with a multi-plane pan across the dark, empty, vast shop. very moody and eye-catching.

a mouse hole in the wall is now the focus of the camera, where a trepidatious mouse pokes his head out warily. he tiptoes furtively along--the foreshortening and perspective on the backgrounds is very nice, again quite tashlin-esque--the shop, pausing right out in the open. silence except for the music score... until, in an unmistakably avery move, the mouse bellows “HEY! ANYBODY HERE!?” without waiting for an answer, he darts back into his hole.

the coast is clear. delighted, the mouse hops into his conveniently placed elevator, leading right towards a light switch. this cartoon does take extra steps to make lighting a priority, but some cases are more successful than others: as the elevator doors open, revealing a pool of light, the mouse momentarily becomes transparent as he passes the open door, thanks to difficulty with the double-exposure. nevertheless, mr. mouse turns on the lights, prompting the black button above the on/off switch to ram right into his face, sending him falling to the ground and landing safely on top of a top hat.

mr. mouse asserts that he and his mice friends have no company: they’re free to party. after all of the mice have swarmed the place from their hole, the mouse proves himself to be a casanova as he chews the shape of a heart into the wood to impress his sweetie, voiced by the giggly berneice hansell. his efforts pay off as his girl croons “oh george, you’re so cute!” i’ll never get tired of hearing hansell’s squeaky voice for as long as i live. the love-birds run to join their friends, but have unexpected company: a nefarious, billy bletcher voiced mouse. yes, folks! it’s a kidnapping picture! the kind that dominated the first 5 years of warner bros cartoons all too prominently!

 in preparation for the song number, both mice coyly pose with the hats mentioned in the song, with villain mouse crawling under a nefarious looking cap of his own to keep a keen eye out on the missus. the pans from the lovebirds to the villain is well executed. it’s not as blindingly fast as frank tashlin’s transitions, but it doesn’t need to be, either. there’s definitely a level of control present, which works to the cartoon’s advantage and disadvantage. primarily the latter. 

a mouse turns off the light-switch, another turning on a headlamp to use as a spotlight, which segues us into our song number. the song number is cute, but that’s about all it is. it’s surprisingly prominent, calling back to the earlier days of the merrie melodies where the songs were full-on songs, not sharp, witty, tongue-in-cheek quips as was becoming the norm for 1937. another pan demonstrates that the sunbonnet blue and the yellow straw hat getting wedded. the song sequence is unremarkable, but there is a bit of that avery bite as we get a rather dismal view of married life: sunbonnet mama is doing all of the housework while straw hat dad reads the paper, paying no mind to their plethora of children running around.

we’re treated with more lighting effects as the mouse operating the headlamp now uses colored visors as a substitute for lighting gels. some of the colors certainly translate better than others (that last red color in the sequence muddies up the drawings an awful bit.) nevertheless, the happy couple are greeted with cheers and applause after their cutesy little number is complete. 

thankfully, irv spence swoops in to save the day from monotony, adding some much-needed zest and fervor with his animation of “the three ratz brothers”. the clumsy brothers perform a vaudeville routine after breaking out of a dunce cap, singing “i haven’t got a hat”, the merrie melody that marks the debut of porky, beans and co. just 2 years prior. the entire ratz bros. sequence is very well done and difficult to capture in photos and words: one of those scenes that you need to see for yourself. irv’s poses are strong, defined yet loose and rubbery, and his facial expressions are satisfyingly goofy. 

the rats burst into a medley of songs, the mood drastically changing as the engineer mouse from before switches out gels. green lighting sparks a mournful dirge of “i haven’t got a hat” (with one of the brothers even crying hysterically), yellow lighting prompts one of the brothers to recite ted lewis’ catchphrase of “is everybody happy?” lighting turns blue to reflect the unanimous outcry of “NO!” again, this is a great sequence--THIS is what tex avery is about. it’s strikingly noticeable that his heart wasn’t quite in this short, but for just a minute, he’s allowed to get a word in. song numbers change, as do moods, as do colors, the rapid pace transitions once again tashlin-esque in their execution. the three brothers end the number in a lively rendition of “the lady in red”, staring at the audience with crossed eyes and big grins. gone too soon!

with the festivities over and done with, the peace now serves as the perfect transition for some prime kidnapping. the villain mouse sneaks up to the girl using his hat as a cover, and, predictably, snatches her away. george does a bit of an avery take as his ears elongate in shock--he rushes to bang a spoon against a nearby military hat. they’d have plenty of military gags to work with in the coming years, as we’ll most definitely see once WWII breaks out. for now, george summons his army of mice to go after the villain and save the day.

memories of harman and ising past revisit us once again as we get a taste of a tried and true--well, mainly tried--gag: mouse blows trumpet, prompting his pants to fall down. more hat gags, such as a line of mice marching beneath band leader’s hats with merely their legs exposed, until irv spence breaks up the monotony by animating a rat sheriff resting beneath a sheriff's hat. george hurriedly alerts him to his dilemma, prompting the sheriff to exclaim “WHY DOESN’T SOMEBODY TELL ME THESE THINGS!?”, a catchphrase whose origin is a bit muddy--some attribute it to radio show personality fred allen, others to a listerine commercial, it’s even the name of a song. it bubbled up in a number of 1937 warner bros cartoons (porky’s badtime story being one example.) nevertheless, spence’s animation is lively like always, his zest not taken for granted.

after the sheriff blows on his whistle, summoning a police and fire brigade (all spawning from police hats and fireman hats respectively), a mouse hiding beneath a cowboy hat bellows “BUCK BENNY RIDES AGAIN!”, prompting a slack-jawed, hayseed mouse to respond “hello, buck!” both are a reference to jack benny’s radio show, particularly jack benny’s cowboy persona, (as you can guess) buck benny. elsewhere, we get some more gags of the mice and their “factions”, including football playing mice and their respective cheerleaders. finally, we get a distance shot of all of the hats running together. it’s a nice bit of animation, and the lively underscore of “i haven’t got a hat” does contribute an air of jolliness to the sequence.

elsewhere, george darts through rows of hats, the sounds coming out of his mouth being the unmistakable laugh of daffy duck’s. in the midst of his franting HOOHOO!ing, george stumbles upon another george: washington. once again, irv spence animates the exchange between both mice, the Regular George asking “which way did they go?”, prompting washington to arbitrarily tack on “i cannot tell a lie: they went that way.” the scene has potential to be funny--i would have loved to have seen the washington mouse act all uppity and snooty--but falls rather flat instead.

we’re treated with a blind mouse gag (because that’s a knee-slapper, huh?) who points george in the direction of the chase. kidnapper and victim dash over a staircase of meticulously placed hats, pursued by george. george jumps onto a top hat, flattening it, and then swings the hat around like a frisbee. the frisbee effectively slides beneath the villain, sending him sliding. again, another spence scene, with some rather intriguing animation, especially that of george winding up the hat to throw.

the villain loses the girl in the process, and now flies empty handed into a knight’s helmet after the top hat springs up and launches him across the room. george closes the helmet, placing the villain in “jail”, prompting him to grumble the ever popular fibber mcgee and molly catchphrase “t’ain’t funny, mcgee!” mel blanc voices the line instead of billy bletcher for reasons unbeknownst to me. meanwhile, the mouse sweethearts reunite. george excitedly whispers into his sweetie’s ear--she nods, prompting george to do a dance of excitement while the audience waits with bated breath.

their grand secret? a wedding. the happy couple march down the aisle lined with hats, complete to a rather jazzy rendition of “here comes the bride” (which makes me think of a similar scene in a gandy goose and sourpuss terrytoon, animated by the great carlo vinci.) the officiator reflects a burst of avery humor as he gives a hilariously abbreviated ceremony: “do you.... dododododdododododo... do you?” “i do!”

with weddings come wedding gifts, and our mice are no exception. the bride does the honors of opening the box, and husband soon follows. wife peers inside and grows rather bashful, a flurry of giggles. she encourages her husband to peer in--he does so, giving another daffy-esque “WOOHOO!” of shock as he stares at the camera in befuddlement. we iris out on the big reveal, which also has the honors of being tex avery’s first use of live action in a cartoon:

this is a rather frustrating entry. i don’t like to hold tex avery up as if he’s some monolith--his cartoons aren’t perfect, as we see here. he has weaknesses and faults like everybody else. but the fact that we’ve seen what he’s capable of, it’s hard not to compare it to works like these: the letdown is inevitable. it’s clear his heart was not at all in this one. it instead feels like a merrie melody from the 1934-1935 season--the art style is the only thing boosting it from comparisons to harman and ising. it’s just not a strong entry at all. there’s hardly any bite to it, it plays the game much too safe. irv spence’s scenes are the shining stars of the cartoon, especially that interlude with the ratz brothers. that is true avery, that is what he is capable of, but the rest of the cartoon just doesn’t follow through. painfully formulaic, unremarkable, forgettable. you’re better than this, tex! i will give it points for artistic experimentation: the lighting effects, while not executed perfectly, were certainly ambitious, and some of the backgrounds are very tasteful. but, as a whole, this is a very forgettable cartoon that you can easily skip. but, for you curious types such as myself, link!

[thunderheadfred]

Why I Love Spike But Also Hate Him A Lot: an unsolicited essay by me

OR: Why I personally relate to blood-sucking poseurs OR: dude what if I ever got high enough to rewrite season six?

(under a cut because this goes on for a while. also discourse frightens me)

Okay. I’m like twenty years late. But I’ve been rewatching BtVS s5 during my latest depression spiral and wandering against my better judgement into the Spuffy fic verse. Disclaimer that my grasp of the series’ larger canon is meh at best, and frankly I don’t care.

As usual, I have too many thoughts.

Spike is, hands-down, my favorite character on this show. Maybe one of my favorite characters, period. He’s just... good to watch. But listen. Secret poet or no, he was never an inherently good person. Meek and shy does not equal Buffy’s equal. I squirm at this apparently massively popular canon interpretation of his human character as some kind of adorable perfect cherub, as if William the Dipshit Poet is somehow preferable to Spike the Complicated Murderer or like, we should just automatically assume that cute shy white people who lived in 1880 London are default Lawful Good when in fact... ahahaa haaaa YIKES COLONIALISM?

I actually think the reason Spike is “more human” than other vampires (in the weird, contradictory Buffy soul-canon) is exactly because William was not Pure, he was a Pratt. Sweet? I guess. Loves his mum? He’s got that going for him. But that guy?? Is not Buffy’s long-lost true love, not a weepy ghost to be shoved into Spike’s Billy Idol cosplay bod at the last minute. In a show that, at its best, tries to give us a protagonist who fundamentally believes we must always make the choice to keep living mindfully, accountably, and with purpose... we get a love interest who is... Spike. A guy who, until the very end of his arc, acts as though he has zero fucking free will. Even though, through a combo of deliciously fun and inconsistent writing, Spike is apparently the only vampire in the Buffyverse who does.

I’ll get to that but first, let’s accept for a minute that Free Will + Buffy = good, and people who roll over and say “I had no choice” + Buffy = Mr. Pointy. This counts for her friends too, (*coughWILLOWcough*) and it’s one of the reasons I love the show despite its many textual problems. As a character piece, it’s great. People fail to take accountability for their behavior all the time. It’s an extraordinarily human flaw, one that rarely equals automatically evil, and I love that it can bite characters on the side of good, too. But that’s not the point of this, oh shit!

Okay. William, cute glasses aside, has no free will. He didn’t even sign up for the vampire thing, he just wanted to get felt up by a pretty girl who saw him cry and didn’t laugh at him. At every point, he was an immature, weak-willed, naive dreamer type who wanted nothing more than to be validated by his shitty friends. The vampirism made him a killer, yeah. But it also inadvertently gave a cowardly nobody a lot of good qualities. Now he’s a weirdly observant, relentlessly optimistic, fun-loving, sexually secure Cool Guy who gave up poetry for punk... but still tries too hard to impress his shitty friends. Basically, being a vampire made this guy a happier-but-still-undeniably-crappy version of himself, especially... considering all the murder. 

But now, let us transparently and metaphorically link cartoonish Vamp!Murder to addiction. Because wow, death in BtVS is either a manipulative authorial gut-punch or a dumb joke, and either way, it’s almost impossible to take seriously in this show, so let’s not.

How to make a remorseless bloodsucking fiend out of of “boo hoo I’m a bad writer and I wish some jerks thought I was cool?” Ha ha you can’t!  Turns out you basically recreate my early twenties but with more murder. Spike is a socially-dependent ADHD art school reject on a century-long avoidance bender. He’s a codependent, moon-eyed boyfriend who learns how to aggressively project not caring while caring Far Too Much, all while clinging to aesthetic as an identity. ALTHOUGH let us not deny that he 100% enjoyed all the killing - wtf so much killing - because for vampires, killing equals pleasure, and charming, “happy” addicts always justify the comforts of their vices. He talks the talk cuz fitting in is his whole deal, but he’s not actually in it for chaos and destruction or any high-falutin’ evil reason, or even really for eating delicious ladies but because, in the end, it feels good and the only girlfriend he’s ever had thinks eating people is cool. Even his whole (gorgeous, splendid to watch) episode-long speech about killing two slayers was written more for Buffy’s character arc than his; we don’t really know why he killed the slayers other than like, “Because they had a death wish I guess. Side note: it was fun.”

There wasn’t much legitimately vengeful or hateful stuff in sad little William for demon!Spike to work with, and apparently William’s soul-or-whatever moved about twelve inches over his left shoulder and stayed there, occasionally poking him for the next hundred years. So it should shock no one that he immediately switches sides when a) his girlfriend dumps him, b) his addiction suddenly hurts, and c) it’s time to impress a new friend group.

I get that Spike’s whole soul-getting between s6 and s7 has been interpreted in fanon as a grand romantic sacrifice (ehhhhhhhhhhhh) and I get why that’s tempting, but the show itself bungled that up way bad and I just can’t get behind it. R*pe idiocy aside, making it ultimately all about Buffy just kinda cheapens what could have been a really fucking powerful redemption arc, one that would have led to a far more satisfying love story. Especially from Buffy’s perspective. 

Okay listen.

We have a guy who has been playing the “duh, Vampire!” card for a century, pleasure-seeking and self-centered, pandering to various peer groups, murderous or otherwise, a happy addict, impervious to change. So when finally, after a HUNDRED SODDING YEARS of being a soulless, hilarious dick, Spike has consequences shoved into his gray matter by the government, he doesn’t change. At all. He just starts obsessing over another woman, doing what he thinks she wants. A woman he thinks will give him new pleasures, a new, perpetually fine status quo. But this woman is Buffy, whose identity is rock solid even though her life is constantly full of challenge and change and choices. She “rewards” Spike only when he makes willful, selfless decisions. And the rewards aren’t romantic, either. Not early on. Even in canon, she keeps rejecting him over and over again, for crystal clear reasons. Thank god. Because when he accepts that she’ll never have him, but still does the hard stuff anyway, he’s unwittingly starting to change. It’s not just Buffy. Buffy demands real personhood. Independence. Identity. Choice. 

Uh oh. She’s gotten to him, then. Though it starts out selfish, he still makes a CHOICE. Quite literally, he takes on the pain of self-improvement - first by embracing the consequences of his chip, later by going on his fancy sparkly soul quest. Buffy is the catalyst, no doubt, because once a poet always a poet and girls are pretty, but Spike’s path to improvement (if not redemption) was already there, laid out nice and neat. His narrative low point, the lightbulb moment that makes him want a soul again, should never have come out of a season of terrible backsliding, culminating in the shower scene we all regret.

It should have been The Gift. 

Death isn’t Buffy’s gift. It’s love. And not that simpering, easy kind of love that just says, “there there,” but the hard, truthful love that makes you want to keep getting that goddamn rock from the bottom of the hill. Yes, Spike’s arc should still be about Buffy, it’s Buffy’s show, but it should have been more about the hole she left behind. Not just in Spike but in the world. 

What’s left? This latest and greatest group of people who have so far RIGHTLY rejected a demon whose sole motivator seems to be comfort. And maybe when these particular people hit rock bottom, they have enough wisdom to see a monster down in the dark and recognize themselves. Maybe Dawn (whose humanizing effect on Spike has been nearly as important as his obsession with Buffy) shows him that rare, rare thing called Validation. And oh god, he realizes he’s never actually moved beyond trying to sell effulgence to Cecily Whatsherface, that he’s been sitting on his own grave for a hundred years, waiting for someone to coddle and fix him, and now the only woman who might have, the best woman, literally the one girl chosen one above all others... is gone. This would be a good time to die. 

Or...

...maybe there is no magic soul cave, maybe he tries to end it and makes the CHOICE not to. Chooses to stay and help, because what else is there? Then BAM! it just slams back into him in a way that hurts like you can’t even believe, because admitting how bad you’ve fucked up is the most painful moment of a lifetime and I’ve lived it and I wish I’d had a hellmouth to jump into, but the Scoobies pull him back, and he takes care of Dawn until life seems to have some meaning again, then Buffy comes out of the earth traumatized and broken and no one is better equipped to help her than a recovering Spike, not because he’s magically her rock but because he’s also learning how to roll his own rock and keep on climbing, because Camus ruined us all for metaphors...

THE END

Anyway. As a recovering addict and toxic person who has been struggling a lot recently... who wants to improve and be able to give more to the people I love, Spike has an arc that just like... cuts me deep, man. Especially because of what should have been.

[daddyconfessions]

daddy’s journal: 2/10/16

Last week was rough. Monday two of the big guys came in and informed me of an impending layoff then gave me the list. Long list.  One of them was my Cuban cigar hookup. Every time he visited our Middle East office he’d come back with a box of Cohibas. He charged me $600 but I knew half of that was a markup. Everybody’s got their hustle. Still it’s worth it.

All of the guys on the list I’m friends with too. So I had to laugh and talk with them throughout the day, pretending to be oblivious to their impending doom. Sometimes I hate corporate America. I did ask about my plug about the Cohibas. He said by month’s end…too late. By day’s end I got news that Friday would be the big day for kills. I felt like shit all day and as I went home, I felt even worse. A glass of red wine later that night didn’t help much.

The next day I met up with Firecracker.  I was looking forward to it. The week before she had been on her cycle. Poor thing...she caught hell too. When she got in the room she tried to catch up but I started taking her clothes off. I pushed her onto the bed and went down her. I ate the kitty like it was my first time. “Baby….baby….” she was saying. Couldn’t make out what it was really. My face was buried between her legs. Her thighs were covering my ears. I made her cum twice before I stopped. As I stood up to make my grand entrance I realized I hadn’t even gotten undressed. I laughed at myself.

I quickly pulled off my clothes while she looked on with glazed eyes. I put on the hat, then parted the pink sea like I was Moses. I could feel her squirming under me and realized I might be going too hard. So I let up a bit. She got into then. Her body moved in sync with mine, each time I went deep inside. Before I knew it I came and collapsed on her. A lot quicker then I usually do. I kissed her on her jaw and neck and then she said, “Kiss me.” That was odd for her. So our lips locked for a moment before I stopped and rolled off next to her. We lay there quiet for a good minute when she asked, “What if I want more?” I was like

She’s NEVER asked for a second round. Ever. The next 10 minutes are a disaster though. I got back hard, managed to give her a good show, but I went limp half way through. So we gave up. I apologized and she was ok with it. She’s never wanted it more than once s it caught me off guard. Next time I’ll be ready. Then I realized while we had been at it, she was about to cum but I had beat her to the finish line. Still it was all odd to me.

Wednesday was no better. Lots of pretending going on. 2 of the guys on the kill list came into my office. We laughed and joked all day. Went to lunch with one.  God I felt like shit. By the end of the day they started letting half of them go. I thought it was going to be Friday. But someone in upper mgmt. wanted to get it over with.

My assistant is a college student and works part time. I decided to give her the week off, hide her from the big boys. Out of sight out of mind. I’m sure if they saw her they would have told me to get rid of her.

A couple of days later I was in the room with Firecracker. I was determined to exact my retribution for the limp fiasco. But I forgot to pace myself. Half way through I had to stop. All out of breath. She asked me if I was tired and needed to rest but I told her I wanted her to cum. “I’ve already came 5 times baby,” she said, with a half chuckle. Like fool get up. “I can’t do any more ,” she said. Tapped out. I took it to the finish line and called it a day.

I’m good now with Firecracker. Not quite the love sick puppy as before. I put things in perspective and got back in touch with why I do this and what I want to experience. I can confidently say, “I’m good.”

The weekend hit and the fam was gone to some kid functions. I’m alone Saturday so I decided to check out a 40th birthday party for a good friend. Nothing fantastical happened there. By midnight I was on my way home. I haven’t been out on a Saturday in almost a year. So I couldn’t just go home. Who knows when I would be out again?

I decided to hit the strip club. I forgot what its like to be out on a Saturday night. I must have had 4 street races on the way there. Young punks. Shit to prove. I make a mental note to run the ride by Billy Ray’s shop tho. Time for some upgrades.

The clubs packed. Titties and ass everywhere. “I’ve got to get out more often on Saturday,” I mumble to myself. Most of the girls are in the back of the club given all kinds of table dances. I grab a beer from the bar and then flop down at a nearby table. I resigned to leave once the  beer was gone since none of these chicks were looking particularly good to me tonight.

I had a couple of sips of beer left when my favorite song comes on. Erotic city by Prince. “Kimberly” gets on stage. OMG. Good looking girl dancing to my favorite song? Must be a sign from the sugar gods. I patiently wait through her set, stretching those last two sips out for 15 minutes. It took her another 5 min to come out the back after her 3 songs. I watched as she went from guy to guy. Flopping down in their laps, talking to them for a few minutes before getting up and going to the next. Either these guys want something for free or she’s all about that champagne love. I watch this cycle go on for about 15 minutes. Damn if I didn’t stretch out the last remnants of beer in the bottle. Finally she walks past my chair and I grab her arm. She immediately flops down on me and lays her head back on my shoulder.

“Hey baby,” she says. I can smell the mix of perfume and her natural scent. Kind of sweet like. Musk. We chit for a second before she says, “You want to spend some time with me or you want to get a dance?” Not sure what that means in stripper lingo. So I say, “I want both.” So she starts chatting me up, little bs conversation about nothing. She’s kissed me several times and by the time the next song comes on I was hard. “I think I’m ready for a table dance,” I tell her.

She took me by the hand and led me to the table dance area. As I walked in I realized why I hadn’t seen that many girls. All the pretty ones were in this section doing all kinds of acrobatic feats and what not. We find a table and I sit down. Kimberly puts her drink down and other belongings and ask if I want to wait until the next song. I told her yes. She took another sip of the drink and starts dancing anyway. Ass and titties in my face. Even stood up on the couch with my head between her legs and her pussy less than an inch from my mouth and nose. I could smell her natural smell again. That kitty was sweaty too. Gotta love strippers. Hard workers.

As the song drew to an end I told her she was making me want some champagne love. She stopped suddenly and straddled me. She put her mouth to my ear and we discussed a price. After the negotiations were done she stood up and put back on her top. She told me I owed her for one dance and then we could go. I pulled out a $20 and handed it over. I could have sworn it was 2 songs, but fuck it. She grabbed my hand again and led me towards the bar. She tells this middle age chick I want the champagne room. “Great I’ll take care of it,” mama said. I cough up the champagne room fee and hand it to her. Then Kimberly leads me to the champagne room.

The room is well lit. I’m nervous. We grab a seat in the far corner. I sit down as Kimberly rearranges the chairs and tables to barricade us in. Then she sits next to me. “I need $20 to tip my manager to not let anyone back her. I need another $20 to tip the waitress.” Damn. Tip drill.  I pull out the cash, hand it over, and she disappears. She comes back and pulls off her shoes and flop down beside me. All comfy cozy now. Then the waitress comes with two glasses and champagne. She pops the bottle and pours us both a glass. “You guys need anything else?” the old chick asked. “No,” I say.

We pick up the glass and click’em. “Cheers.”  We talk a bit longer and then Kimberly kills her drink. “Pull your pants down babe,” she tells me. I look around in fear by the lights. No sooner had I thought about it they went dim. I drop my pants down to my knees. Kimberly goes in her purse and pulls out a condom. She tears it out the pack, puts it in her mouth and goes down on me. She gets it half on and then tries to use her fingers to get it further down. “Ouch,” I yell. Her nails are too long and the rubbers too tight. “Damn you got a big dick,” she tells me. She tries to pull it down and ends up breaking the rubber. We pull it off and she gets another, she gets it on again and I finish putting it on at this time. While I’m getting it on she pours more champagne and takes one more to the head. “You ready baby?” she asks. “Yes!”

She’s got some pretty good knowledge despite the condom. Had me rock hard despite the plastic. Or was it because I was just hot? Before I knew it she had climbed on top and was trying to ride. She was doing ok, but needed some help. I grabbed her by her waist and guided her up and down. When she had opened up for me, I got rough pounding her up and down on me. “Fuck,” she was saying. “Damn…..You’re big babe.” She put her hands on my chest and stops me. I looked over the back of the couch. Had someone come in? “You want to do doggie?” she asked.

We switch. She’ got down on the couch. She grabs me and guides me into the kitty. Now I’m standing up behind her in full site of the door. Fuck it. YOLO. I go to work. No time to waste. I’m turned up now. I wasn’t my usual sensitive lover self. I was just trying to bust so I went hard on her. “God….Oh shit,” she said. Suddenly she looked back at me as if she were possessed, her eyes locked with mine and narrowed.  “You’re fucking me…” she growled.  Why Yes. Yes I am. And I went on fucking her, wearing that little kitty out.

“Baby,” she panted. “You gotta hurry up.” I can’t come quick often and I was in rare form. I went for another minute before I came. Hard. When I was done, I collapsed in the chair beside her. She got off her knees and sat beside me and let out a long breath. We both reached for our glasses simultaneously and laughed at ourselves. We clicked them one more time and took a sip.

God I hope the local boys weren’t in the building. If so they had me on all kinds evidence. Sitting there with my pants around my knees, her naked. Kim pulled off the condom and disposed of it. Then handed me some napkins to clean up. We both got dressed and then sat back down to enjoy another glass.

“I gotta go babe,” she told me. I knew the game. It was another hour left before the club closed. Lots of $$$ to be made.

Before we walked out we exchanged numbers. She was cool meeting outside the club. Apparently I had “proven” myself. We walked out and Kim left me on the floor as she disappeared in the back. I sat down and finished off my glass of wine. As I got up to leave the old waitress was back. She had been coming to check on me I guess. We were so close we could have kissed. Had to have been intentional.

“How are you,” she asked. I told her I was fine. “Were you needing anything else sugar?” Ironic name. I told her yes and pulled out my wad and giving her a tip. “That’s for you.” She smiled and gave me the biggest hug ever. She needed to be careful though. Just because it was a bunch of 20 somethings walking around didn’t’ mean I wouldn’t show her what I was all about. I grinned and left.

Not a bad end to a rough week I’d say. (excuse any typos)

[limejuicer1862]

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

  James Carter

is an award-winning children’s poet. He travels all over the cosmos (well, Britain), with his guitar (that’s Keith) to give lively poetry performances and workshops.  James once had hair, extremely long hair (honestly), and he played in a really nasty ultra-loud heavy rock band. And, as a lifelong space cadet, James has discovered that poems are the best place to gather all his daydreamy thoughts.  What’s more, he believes that daydreaming for ten minutes every day should be compulsory in all schools.  His poetry titles include Cars Stars Electric Guitars and Orange Silver Sausage (Walker Books) and Time-Travelling Underpants and Greetings, Earthlings! (Macmillan). James was the major contributor to the recent Cbeebies TV series Poetry Pie. He lives with his wife and two daughters in Wallingford, Oxfordshire.

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

It’s a number of things. I’ve always really loved words – reading everything from comics/non-fiction as a child to novels as a teen/young adult, and now mainly non-fiction/poetry/plays. I’ve always been a bit imaginative I guess, and as soon as I bought my first electric guitar at 15, I just started writing lyrics to songs. Actually, I wrote my first lyric/poem thing, The Electrified Spiders, aged 8 or 9. I played in bands all through my 20s, writing and recording music. But as soon as I went to uni aged 29 I knew I wanted to write, to be a writer. I tried fiction at first, but it was the poetry/non-fiction that took off.

I’m a bit of an outsider (I’ve often been called ‘contrary’, and I certainly do question everything), always have been, and poetry fits in well with this sensibility, as poetry should show you the world from a different/fresh perspective. In a poem I have to be as original as possible – I feel that I’m implicitly saying ‘Hey look at that – but look at it like this…’. Also a poem has to say something, communicate something, even simply present you with a thought, an idea or a single image.

I like writing for children as it disciplines me. I can’t indulge myself too much, I have to ideally keep my young invisible reader interested. For me, children for me are the best age group to write for. I have no interest in writing for adults per se, but if adults ever like a poem I’ve written with children in mind, then that’s nice! This happened with a kind of eco poem I wrote for a school for World Book Day last year – Who Cares? – it went on the National Poetry Day website (I’m one of their ambassadors), and it was picked up by Radio 3 for their prose and poetry series. I never saw that coming! As a writer, you never know who will read your work, or how it will be received. I even had an email this morning from a woman asking if her 9 year old child could read my poem Love You More (it’s at my website – www.jamescarterpoet.co.uk) at her wedding. How lovely is that? As a poet I couldn’t ask for more.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

School – Macbeth / Canterbury Tales at O level, Philip Larkin at A level, then much later as a mature student, the lecturers at Reading Uni (on the B.Ed degree) were very passionate about poetry. It was the Craft of Writing course in particular that got me writing. In my twenties I went to a fair few John Hegley gigs. Great poet, great comic, and a wonderful person. He showed me you can write about literally a n y t h i n g…

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

Weird question! Actually, I’m now an older poet myself. And still I’d say the children’s poetry world is led by older poets – but thankfully we have lots of younger voices coming through. And crucially, I very much believe the poetry world is far more welcoming to new poets than it ever was. But I think that writing for children is not something that most people consider anyway until they have children / grandchildren or worked as a teacher or have been on the planet for a while…

4. What is your daily writing routine?

Don’t have one! I write anywhere, anytime. In a sense, I’m always writing. On trains, in cafés, on hilltops, in car parks. Depends what I’m writing though. If I’m writing a poem, I can even write/re-write aspects of it in my head, and then I’ll have to make a note of it on my phone or the envelope I keep in my pocket. (Worked for Paul McCartney when writing Hey Jude!) I often get obsessed with a poem as I’m writing it, and will run lines/phrases over and over in my head, chanting them, mouthing the words until they really flow – and every single syllable/word etc is just right. But if I’m writing a non-fiction verse book, say like Once Upon A Star / Once Upon An Atom, I need to either work on my laptop, or better still, on paper. I will take the manuscript with me wherever I go, making a great many tweaks/edits/changes.

5. What motivates you to write?

Two things – a) a love if not obession with words and the music of language, b) a fascination with the world – and a need to make sense of it, and I find writing a poem on a topic will help me to explore and express something on that subject / idea / memory. I’m always thinking about something or other, so a poem is a great place to put or distil my thoughts.

6. What is your work ethic?

I’m a workaholic. I’m always writing, at least always thinking about writing. Perhaps tweaking a line, refining a title, developing an image, or mulling over an idea for a new non-fiction book.

7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

As Morris Gleitzman so nicely expressed it, everything you read / think / observe / experience goes into the ‘mulch’ from which your writing grows. Specifically, I know that many rhyming things I write are to the rhythm of lines from Macbeth, or my favourite picture book Where The Wild Things Are (a massive influence on me) or even Tom Waits’ spoken word piece ‘What’s He Building In There?’ But I’m sure I’m influenced by lots of things I’ve read without even realising it.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

As poets go, I really admire the Americans Billy Collins, Mary Oliver and Lilian Moore. As children’s writers go, I like Shaun Tan and Oliver Jeffers – and a great many others. But in the main, I try and read more widely, away from poetry so I can be inspired by other things – so it’s often plays and non-fiction.

9. Why do you write, as opposed to doing anything else?

I have done other things from teaching to lecturing to office work, but writing / working in schools as a work shopper and performer is by far the most rewarding thing I have ever done. I so enjoy working with children and teachers and librarians. Performing – all that showing off is fine, it’s great fun, but for me it’s all about switching children on as writers. I love the finales we have at the end of a visit, where the children read their poems. I was actually very close to tears yesterday when we had a Year 6 finale in one of my very favourite schools, in Newbury. The poems were quite brilliant. I feel that what I do now – my writing / workshopping and performing – is a culmination of all I’ve ever experienced, plus my two degrees – my teaching degree and my Masters in Children’s Literature.

10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

Write. Write. Write. Write. Read. Read. Read. Read. DON’T expect to get the first/second/third thing you write to be published as chances are it won’t be. Only JK Rowling was published immediately, everyone else pretty much has to serve an apprenticeship of years of writing in the wildnerness. Don’t be too inspired by what you read as a child, look to see what is published right now. If you are writing for children, make it modern. Don’t trust your own children as readers/listeners – of course they’ll love it as they will want to please you. Even more writing, even more reading… Find out through trial and error, not only what you want to write, but what you are best at. I thought I’d be a novelist, but I’m actually a poet/non-fiction writer – and I’m more than happy with that!

11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

A kind of best-of poetry book for 7-11s – Weird, Wild & Wonderful – to be published Jan 2021 by Otter-Barry Books and illustrated by the fantastic Neal Layton. I literally just finished the final new poem to go in the book. The book is a round up really of all the most popular poems I have written, published and performed over the last twenty years. But there’s a selection of brand new ones too. As with all my books I’m aiming for a real range of poems in terms of forms / tone / topics. What I want from one of my poetry collections is a book in which a child reader will not know what they are getting next. I want my collections to read more like anthologies, as if they were written by many different poets. WW&W is divided into three loosely-themed sections Weird (more upbeat humorous and daft poems) / Wild (nature/animal poems) / Wonderful (memory poems/quiet, reflective pieces) – but even within those there is a range.

When I began writing in the late 90s (1990s, not 189s, obvs..) there was too much emphasis on humorous poetry I thought, and I’ve tried to resist that in my books. I want a real range. And actually I find it’s often the quieter poems that really stick with children, and mean more to them. When I perform for 7-11s I’ll mainly do the more serious poems, but I’ll also do some improvised comic stuff in between, even some music – piano, melodica and guitar. I still write instrumental music to this day.

Apart from Once Upon An Atom (Caterpillar Books/Little Tiger Press) – a book on science in verse for 5-8s, I have another book in that same series (as yet untitled!) which is being illustrated right now and that is on the subject of palaeontology – going back in time, exploring various extinct creatures from the past – from woolly mammoths to trilobites to T.Rexes. I really love writing non-fiction. Researching a topic for months, and then finding an interesting angle to tell the story of that subject. I don’t want too many facts. Other books do facts, so instead I try and establish a narrative thread of some kind that takes a reader into or through a subject. Once Upon An Atom is slightly different in that it has three sections – Chemistry / Physics / Biology, and in very simple poetic language explains/explores each of these. It was probably the toughest book I’ve ever done – explaining science to an infant isn’t easy! The illustrations by the Brazilian artist Willian Santiago are just brilliant – very vivid, slightly retro sci-fi at times.

12. Why did you write Once Upon An Atom?

I’ve always been fascinated by science. Biology was my favourite subject at school – until I did a week of it at A level and decided it had effectively turned into chemistry and physics, which I wasn’t happy about it, so I dropped it! Instead, I got into English big time – Shakespeare, Larkin etc. And later at uni I studied English with education – but I’ve always had an interest in science, particularly natural history and anything space-related.

I’d already written six or so books in this series for Caterpillar Books, and each one, though non-fiction – and in verse – told a linear story – eg Once Upon A Star (the Big Bang/formation of our sun) / Once Upon A Raindrop (the story of water on this planet, including water cycles) / Once Upon A Rhythm (the story of music). This time I wanted to write about Science, but however I thought about it, there was no actual simple and direct story, just a very complex/interconnected  sequence of inventions/discoveries etc from the last 10,000 years, and that wouldn’t do for a younger children’s picture book. I’d read – rather tried to read – Bill Bryson’s (and I’m a massive fan of his usually) impenetrable The History Of Nearly Everything. I couldn’t read it. It was too dense. Too clogged with facts. I don’t gravitate (ho ho) to facts, as essential they are – for as a reader, I like some kind of coherent narrative. And I had that book at that back of my mind for the many months I was writing this one.

So for a structure for Once Upon An Atom I ended up with three basic parts, which were effectively chemistry, physics and biology. Initially I explained what they were without actually explicitly naming those disciplines as I thought it would be way over the heads/comprehension of 5-8s, the target audience of this series. It took ages to get it right – to find simple enough concepts for each scientific area without losing the real essence of what each is. I finally handed the manuscript in and the wonderful editors at Caterpillar said that they liked it, but that I HAD to include the terms physics, chemistry and biology. I tried to fight my case, but lost! I’ve learnt to trust editors 99% of the time, as they have the objectivity that I don’t, and crucially, they know the market. So a massive re-write followed and unfortunately, Pat and Isabel at Caterpillar were totally right – once again! – and I think/hope it became a better text for it. For the illustrator, they chose Willian Santiago from Brazil. (All the illustrators for the series are from around the world – Spain, Japan, Italy, Northern Ireland…) I was thrilled. His bold, bright exuberant style brought so much to the book.

I’ve since written a related book on inventions for the series, which I didn’t have space to cover in Once Upon An Atom. My editor Pat gave me the challenge of writing a book on materials (wood / glass / metals .. etc.) as her daughter, an Infant teacher, had told her that that is what she’d need for her class. And actually, that was an easier book to write as I simply wrote about the sequence of materials that homo sapiens have used over the millennia – and how each of these have helped us to build the modern world. I would never have thought to have written a book on inventions in that way –  ie through the prism of materials – but it gave it a fresh perspective.

When you write for younger children, you can never lose sight of your reader. I simply now try and write books that I would have wanted to read at that age. I had a few nature books – typical 60s fare – The Observers Book Of British Birds/Mammals etc.. – but nothing on generic science. The two things I try and consider when writing this series are – is the language inviting enough? Am I enthusing / entertaining my reader somehow? And is this interesting / relevant enough? How can I make it more enticing/fascinating? To this end, I often find I spend more time on the first few pages than any other in a book – to get the tone / feel / voice / music of the language just right. You have to grab your reader literally from the first syllable… and that’s a challenge I really enjoy!

I visit a lot of schools, and I see a lot of non-fiction books in school libraries and in topic displays in classrooms. Apart from books like the Horrible Science/Histories series, I do wonder to myself how many of these books are actually read. I know that many non-fiction books we dip in and out of anyway and wouldn’t dream of reading chronologically, but with every non-fiction book I do I love the idea that the reader might experience the book from beginning to end, and follow a linear thread. The books in this series are short, snappy and meant as a taster books for a subject. (If a reader wants to know more, there will be many other books that go into greater detail.) And this certainly affects the way I structure and shape what I am writing. It’s all about the story for me – though I do always have a factual acrostic at the back to include a few dates, a few figures and background information. Facts can get in the way of a good story, so where better to place them than at the back of a book?

And oddly, I’m probably one of the least knowledgeable people I know. In theory, I shouldn’t be writing non-fiction! As a person, I have my own limited interests, but as a writer I’m into E V E R Y T H I N G. It’s not WHAT you write about, but HOW you write about it. And what I do have in abundance is enthusiasm! I’m absolutely hopeless at retaining facts, and because of this I have to do a lot of research. But I guess it does mean I come to every subject as a non-fiction writer reasonably fresh, and I’m literally learning as I’m researching and then writing – and I try to then distil that initial fascination/passion for learning into the text of whatever book I am working on.

13. How did you collaborate with Willian Santiago?

Apart from my forthcoming poetry best of collection Weird Wild & Wonderful (Otter-Barry Books, Jan 2021) – for which I cheekily requested – and got! – the utterly fabulous Neal Layton – I never get to choose illustrators. Caterpillar books are brilliant at trawling the world for new talent and matching my text with an illustrator’s images. With every book they have found e x a c t l y the right person. And this must be the case as the second book in the series, Once Upon A Raindrop – the story of water – illustrated by the incredible Nomoco – is longlisted for the Kate Greenaway award! And I’m absolutely over the moon for Nomoco, Myrto (the book’s designer) and all the wonderful humans at Caterpillar Books. They really deserve it as their books are so fresh, vital and innovative. It’s a real honour to work with such a creative/dynamic team.

And I never have contact with an illustrator during the process. I may have a few very occasional responses, but in general, I trust the editors/designer/illustrator. Visuals are not my area. I’m primarily and solely concerned with the words inside. Plus, too many cooks…

14. Page or Stage?

Although I do strongly believe – as a white, 60 yr old middle class male – in the craft – I’m very much into page rather than stage poetry, but I equally love the fact that there are younger poets coming through, a variety of ages, a wide mix of races.

15. Accessibility?

I also enjoy stage – but that comes much, much later in the process. I’ll often write a poem and not actually ever read it for months/years. I write primarily for readers. Also, I try and make my work so simple and uncluttered and direct that it is as if it has just flowed out…craft is trying to make it look easy. Which it certainly is NOT!!!!

16. How do you think being a musician helps your poetry?

Great question, Paul! Apologies if my answer comes over a bit pretentious.. it can get a bit la-di-dah when you’re talking about such things!

In a sense, a poet IS a musician. A poet orchestrates the music of a poem – using consonants, vowels, syllables, alliteration, assonances, rhyme/half-rhyme – line breaks/lengths – all this is linguistic music. And I do think to be a music-musician (guitarist/terrible keyboard player) for me is both a curse and a blessing. A blessing in that it helps me to feel my way along each line of a poem, to instinctively know what works/doesn’t work as I weave words/sounds, syllable by syllable. But it does mean that I sometimes procrastinate over even a phrase for many months. It means I tweak/edit/re-write obsessively. It means I find it very hard to read or even finish a rhythmical rhyming poem by another

Poet that doesn’t scan. A rhyming poem that doesn’t scan is akin to driving down a bumpy road. You keep trying to

Avoid the bumps, and you don’t quite know when/where they are coming. If a poem doesn’t scan, it isn’t finished.

If a poet ever says ‘Oh, it depends how you read it’, I don’t follow that. (But if it’s just performance stuff, spoken word that is not published on the page, just done in a live context, that’s very different). As a poet on the page you are giving your reader a poem that has implicit instructions on how it is to be read, and if they have to keep stopping to adapt/adjust because it doesn’t flow, then the poem isn’t fully doing its job. With my non-fiction verse series, I often imagine my readers as either busy parents/teachers/librarians reading aloud to a young child. If the text doesn’t scan, they have to work harder at delivering it to the child. And I don’t want that. I want it to be an easy, positive experience, so the words just readily sing and flow off the page. Also, if I have a 7-11 yr old reading one of my poems themselves, I don’t want them to struggle with a poem,I want them to enjoy it, to get it, to know what it’s about, and be moved/inspired/enlightened or whatever. Bumpy lines will not help this experience. Children more readily read fiction/novels, so I don’t want anything to deter them from reading one of my books. Instant readability is ESSENTIAL! But that doesn’t mean I want my poems to necessarily be superficial or lightweight all the time – which some indeed are, but I do want a great many poems to be re-read, and stimulate a bit of thought or reflection.

And overall, for this very reason I generally avoid reading rhyming verse nowadays and mainly read free verse, which I absolutely love. I try to start many of my poems as free verse, but invariably a rhyme, metrical pattern slips in. Some poems just demand to rhyme. Others will let me be more loosey-goosey and play with a free verse form, but even then I may play around – do free verse and make it into a midline acrostic as well. Depends on the subject/age group I’m writing for. With younger children, 98% of my stuff rhymes, for older readers, I’d say it’s about 60%. And in a sense, rhyming stuff is easier for me as I know how it should flow/sound, but free verse is not so obvious, is prose’s half-sibling, and has a quieter, subtler music. Writing rhyming verse is akin to a pop song in 4/4 in a major key. Free verse can be more like a very slow piano piece in waltz time in a minor key!

Whenever I read a poem (ie one by another poet) for the first time, I’ll be listening solely to the music, the soundscape.

I’ll trace the rhythm however blatant or subtle. I’ll listen to the vowels, the consonants, rhymes, alliterations, all of the tricks the poet is using. On second and third readings I’ll be processing the meaning, the message, the narrative or idea that the poem is expressing.

And that’s the same for writing for me. I’m initially concerned with the soundscape – but ultimately and clearly both are equally important. Above all poetry as far as I can see is language at its most musical and memorable – therefore the soundscape has to be well constructed. A poem built with craft is a poem built to last!

As daft as it sounds, when I’m working on a poem I will often carry it around in my head and I’ll be sounding the words out loud, all the while listening for opportunities to tighten the rhythm and the flow – but equally looking to see where I can include extra assonance alliteration and rhymes or half rhymes. All the while I’ll be ensuring that the poem says what it needs to say and I don’t care if it takes months because I want it to be the best it can be. I love words, so working with them like this is a real joy. I scrap far more poems than I keep. In one of my poetry collections I might write many hundreds of poems but keep only 40-50 or so. I want to minimise filler! In theory, I’d rather write just one single poem that I’m really happy with than thousands I have dashed off. This is why I won’t ever read a poem to an audience for many months even years as I want to ensure it’s totally finished. And even when I do eventually read it, I may well find extra tweaks I need to do!

And I’ve observed that children write in a very different way to adults. They’re far less self-critical and therefore they can write more quickly and freely. A child’s first draft will invariably be much better (relatively speaking) than an adult’s. Adults often write very slowly and cautiously knowing they can tidy it up later on. Not so children. Children I have discovered (having worked in over 1300 Primary schools!) write with verve and freshness and also very swiftly and will have no interest (unless without adult encouragement) in writing for any more than the 40 mins or however long that first version takes. Picasso said he wanted to paint like a child. I know what he meant. I certainly try to write is as openly as I possibly can in the first version. I tell teachers in INSET that you have an angel on one shoulder telling you ‘hey, you’re the best writer in world, go for it!’ but then later the devil on your other shoulder pipes up and says ‘Dream on, matey! What were you thinking of? What you’ve just written needs A LOT of work!’ And that analogy works for me!

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: James Carter Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.