#you will also love James Joyce

[crumblinggothicarchitecture]

Taylor Swift Can't Write- She is not a serious or important writer. She is blatantly normalizing cheating in her music.

Let’s talk about Taylor Swift’s honest attempt at coherent narrative -  

Just to be clear, the songs in question: Betty (2020), August (2020), and Cardigan (2020). 

In these songs, Swift, of her own insistence, makes a clear attempt at drafting together a coherent storyline. I, however, found her work lacking while considering it against the many thousands of other short stories I have read. It lacks any sincerity in giving the moment in which the characters experience self-reflection, or "Epiphany" moment, and growth.

An Epiphany is defined as a sudden spiritual manifestation- and it is this I would posit as something that Swift clearly lacks in her writing. She lacks the spiritual, or emotional, depth to accurately tell a so-called "coming-of-age" type story in which the main requirement is that the character has an "Epiphany" about the nature of life to signify them growing up.

I will explain:  

A short story- which I am analogizing to the multi-song arch from Swift- is typically meant to have an epiphany moment in which the main character finally calcifies the main point or the moral of the story. Without the impact of this moment within a short narrative- there is no arc, no moral, and therefore no real story.

Afterall, what is a story, but a coherent subsistence of writing aimed at identifying some universality of human existence (eg.) a moral, a point, or the main message? If I want to get philosophical about it (and I always do), narrative is the act of creation through which the particulars become implicit to a universal experience. Thus, it is a necessity of storytelling- to include the thematic message- or moral backbone of the work.  

Swift’s three song arc is intrinsically incoherent, so it becomes difficult to pinpoint exactly what each character is thinking or feeling. I would, however, suggest that through lines like “slept next to her, but / I dreamt of you all summer long” (“Betty” 2020), and lines like “I never needed anything more/ whispers of ‘Are you sure?’ / ‘Never have I ever before’” (“August” 2020). Therein builds an internal tension between the three characters, James seems to be lamenting his choices to sleep with August and ditch Betty for the summer; whereas August is honestly expressing the fact that this is her first time, so it becomes obvious this means a lot to her. First, we see James's apologizing to Betty saying that the other girl, essentially means nothing by saying he was dreaming of Betty all summer even while with August. We also get the other perspective of the other girl losing her virginity to James during the same summer in which he is thinking about Betty every night.

Already, all the characters are set up to be dislikable- which is not always to the detriment of storytelling. However, it is to the detriment of her storytelling that at no point Swift makes use of external POV, or internal POV, to show any form of personal growth or condemnation of the intuitively morally corrupt actions of James here. Thus, there is no real story- according to the theory of “short-story” telling I laid out above.  

It is her lack of condemnation towards cheating- and the immature irreverence James treats August with- that solidifies this arc as being a rather poor attempt at coherent narrative. Simply, Swift is either an inept storyteller- or she is blatantly normalizing cheating while also treating “the other woman” like a placeholder. (Clearly, Anti-Feminist rhetoric, btw). It’s especially bad that this storyline reaches no “moral of the story” since it is so obviously August’s first time. 

The closest we get to any kind of meta-narrative commentary on thematic point, from Swift as the external 3rd person POV, is with this line “A friend to all is a friend to none/ Chase two girls, lose the one/ When you are young, they assume you know nothing” (“Cardigan” 2020). Again, her use of POV is rather amateurish- because she returns to internal 1st person POV with use of the word “you” in the latter half of the line- which leads me to believe she really doesn’t know how to inculcate the different POV’s into her writing. She’s an amateur- and there's is nothing inherently wrong with that, however, if we could all stop lauding her as literary genius when she is so clearly not that would be “awesome.” Thanks.  

She continues the rest of the song back into Betty’s 1st person POV. The poignant nature of this line about "losing one girl" doesn’t land because the rest of the song is about how James is returning to Betty. Swift writes, “I knew you’d miss me once the thrill expired/ and you’d be standing in my front porch light/ And I knew you’d come back to me” (“Cardigan” 2020). Beside the fact that this line is internally incoherent held up against the setting of “Betty” which is broad daylight, so James would not actually be in the porch light if the sunlight suffices, it is also quite obviously the culmination in which Betty is taking James's back. If there is any thematic message here- and I can only loosely believe this is an actual message here- Swift is saying that cheating is Okay as long as the girl, you actually respect and want, is willing to forgive you.  

And I’m supposed to enjoy this arc? People are supposed to be impressed with Swift because she came up with this garbage?  

She clearly has no grasp on Narrative coherence, no grasp of utilizing POV switching to make narrative more emotionally impactful, and no grasp on how to embed a good moral of the story into her work. So, she has none of the markings of actual great writer.  

The effect of all this is a subterfuge of lackluster emotional appeals- and a toxic love triangle that never resolves into personal self-reflection or growth. The story devolves into blameless banality with no personality or literary value whatsoever- just a reiteration of self-centered egoism that enables James to act without thought to the feelings of others. This is what Swift propagates as good storytelling? Is this morally sound story telling?  

Let me further drive my point home by dichotomizing this pitiful attempt at narrative coherence with the work of a literary genius, James Joyce.  

Has anyone here ever read “Araby” (1914) by James Joyce? (Sidenote: If you love when Hozier talks about issues of British colonialism in Ireland- you will most likely enjoy James Joyce as well- if you love critique of both organize religion and its sociohistorical ties to colonialism- you'll love Joyce).  

My critique too- ties into Joyce, where he showcases the blissful ignorance, or naivety, of youth in pursuit of love, Swift showcases no such thing. She is often praised for her juvenile writing schema- yet in her most overt attempt at writing a youthful romance she fails to interject the most important aspect of youth- Naivety versus painful realizations. In adulthood, when we all reprise the past, and trace back into our memories, we often speak fondly of the naivety of youth- with a little knowing twinkle in our eyes as young people around us make the same mistakes we did. It’s so beautifully human to reflect like this- and Swift manages to add nothing of this universal human experience into her work, even though it is often said that her only saving grace is the ability to capture “teenage petulance” and the proclivities of youth. In other words, I’m saying she’s not even doing the thing she’s known for well enough. She writes this love story like they’re all a bunch of bitter adults, not kids stepping into thoughts of love for the first time. There’s no simple wonder at love- instead, she writes about cheating and feeling jaded. Ditching people for the summer only to come back to the first girl with an "I'm sorry" and "she meant nothing."  Where is the personal growth in a story like that? In which James gets away with saying "she meant nothing," and August is not shown having any agency or reclamation of self after James essentially uses her. Then, to top it all off, Betty most likely gets back together with James. There is no growth to speak of in any of this- it does not qualify as a "coming of age" story- nor does it particularly qualify as a story at all.

This is like English Creative Writing 101 class- btw. It's strange that Swift does not grasp concepts I've taught to college freshmen before. If the freshmen can handle learning it- surely Swift could also be able to learn and improve the thing she does as a job? Right? No?

 “Araby” is a story of a similar predicate to Swift attempt at narrative. So, I thought it most apt to include here as an example which also employs use of Epiphany in short story telling.  

In quick summation, “Araby” is the story of a young boy who has a rather intense crush on a neighbor girl. He promises this girl that he will go buy her something at the market, and in doing so sets off a sequence of events which leads to his ultimate disillusionment with the ideals of youth and love.

Early on in his character development, we see a boy who has an overly romantic view on life, with lines like “All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: ‘O love! O love!’ many times” (“Araby” Joyce). He is so clearly caught up in the longing for this girl- that he truly forgets reality for a moment. His senses slip from him, and he is fully immersed into the lost revery of his little crush on the neighbor girl. Then, like magic, she speaks to him for the first time the next day. She asks him if he will go to the market, and he responds eagerly- Yes. He promises to buy her something.  

The conflict of the story happens at this point- the young boy meets every obstacle in life preventing him from getting to the market on time. He struggles to find money and then he struggles to find the time in the midst of his other obligations to his family. Joyce is clearly showcasing how our romantic visions of life, of everything going perfectly and romance being easy, can so easily be disrupted by the realities of poverty and the responsibility we all bear for family or others.  

The end of the short story outlines the “moral of the story” in which the young man, now nearly too late for the market and without enough money to actually buy anything, with the last refrain that “Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger” (“Araby” Joyce). Thus, Joyce drives home the "epiphany" moment, or the self-reflective moment of character growth, as it pertains to the fruitless endeavors of youthful vanity in romance. Stating, essentially, that people only dream of overly romantic scenes to bolster their own perception of reality as something that should go perfect for them. Life is not perfect, nor is it ever fair, and nothing happens as fantasy suggests it should- this is the hardest, and often the first, life lesson young people ever face. Anguish and Anger. What a beautiful phrase to remark upon- as this poor young man realizes life is comprised mostly of being “a day late and a buck short.”

This intensity- this moral backbone is what brings the story to life. The way this story enumerates the youthful hope- to the burgeoning adult reality- as something full of anguish -allows readers to bridge empathy towards others as WE all grow up in a difficult world. This is the "Epiphany." This appeal universal human experience, through particular circumstances like that of a young man in early 1900’s Dublin, is what is missing in Swift’s work. She gives us nothing but her own selfish refraction of immoral behavior without any appeal to greater human impulse or discovery.  Her work rings hollow in the face of actually talented writers like Joyce. She lacks the same depth, sophistication, and ability to actually make the story into a narrative arc.

She claims to write about teenage, coming of age-esque, discovery yet lacks any ability to actually showcase, with empathy, the ways in which anguish at their own naïveté presupposes teenage petulance.  

She writes out the most shallow- surface level depiction of some b-plot from a bad fanfiction and wants to pretend that she is a literary genius. Yawn. 

Addendum- I am aware that “Araby” is also a story predicated on ideas of Freedom vs Colonialism. To those of you who know the story well, I hope you don’t mind I choose to focus in on the “coming-of-age" part of the story in order to more clearly connect it to Swift’s work. I am not, however, ignoring the real sociohistorical implications of poverty, colonialist attitudes, and human rights thematic points in the story. I know.  

“Araby” by James Joyce is free at The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dubliners, by James Joyce  

[alchemylive]

high on literary analysis

[atrologynuances]

Astrology observations pt2 || Planets in their detriment

NOTE: the interpretation of these are solely on the planets. harmonious/inharmonious aspects can change the translation of these planets.

these are based on personal observations as well as acquired knowledge from books, websites, and other observation posts.

𓋼𓍊 Aries/Scorpio Venus- may struggle maintaining a harmonious relationship which can lead to them changing their relationships quite often. aries venuses might posses an either fiery or more grounded energy thanks to the cardinal energy. scorpios on the other hand might be emotionally reserved, and only truly love very few people around them if any, the rest they keep around depending on what they can access from them (very manipulative). Given their possible relationship insecurities these two venus signs will seek for someone going at the same pace and someone with the same mindset, which realistically is hard to find. when they do think they’ve found it, they might later find out they were in fact wrong. When they do get in a relationship they might become possessive as a result of possible insecurities.

𓋼𓍊 Taurus/Libra Mars- these natives might need extreme motivation to get things going, like a 9-5 they don’t like, but the security and responsibility of it keeps them on their toes. these mars signs could also lack sense of security in their actions, which could leave them wondering whether they were right or wrong and as a result they might not fight for themselves as hard as they should. it is important for them to have a big support system that reassures and validates their actions when conflicts arise.

𓋼𓍊 Gemini/Virgo Jupiter- these natives have a hard time seeing beyond logic explanation, they could experience something and until they don’t find logic behind it they won’t be satisfied. get fixated on many things but never seems to finish or find a final answer to any of them. is not that they’re unable to finish them, they’re just no longer interested to. closed minded towards otherworldly subjects, or tries very hard to understand it.

𓋼𓍊 Cancer/Leo Saturn- these natives lack discipline but want it. they might vent to you that they do not like their current monetary situation and are looking to make some changes in that aspect of their life, but the next day you see them spending all their money on clothes. they know this is wrong but will still do it. they may be prone to control people and situations because they think they know what’s best for everyone. however, they do not like people telling them what to do lol. they might be prone to burnouts easily and immune system problems.

𓋼𓍊 Sagittarius/Pisces Mercury- struggles to find something that feels “right” for them, when they do find it they mostly have to work harder than everybody else to catch up. problems with communication; either started talking late or have problems expressing themselves as they get older. prone to saying things that don’t make sense upfront which will make them have to explain themselves often. this might create insecurities that will lead them to express themselves less. this is the reason why I think so many great writers have these placements, they can just erase and reword their writing without being judged for it.

- fyodor dostoevsky, jane austen, james joyce, victor hugo, emily dickinson

𓋼𓍊 Capricorn Moon- find it difficult to be vulnerable, this translates to needing or wanting material security to make sure they won’t need anyone. do not like to rely on anyone for emotional/financial support even if they really need it. despite all this, they are very emotional. the difference between them and their sister sign cancer is that they are not expressive with their emotions or act on them. something I have noticed is that they are not as workaholics as people might expect them to be, however when they work, they splurge on the money they make or might be stingy with it, as either one of these actions brings security to them. most of the times they don’t feel loved by either one of their parents even if they’ve both always been present in their lives.

𓋼𓍊 Aquarius Sun- natives are hard to describe for me because I have not met many of them, I feel like most hideaway at home lol. one thing i’ve noticed is that they cry a lot and are unapologetic about it. these people shine bright like their sister sign leo, the difference is they don’t want to so they avoid situations where they have to or when they are put in these situations they have to make sure their presentation is flawless. however in day to day life they do not really care how they’re perceived. they’re the ones that go to school in pijama pants. they also oftentimes seek some form of validation with other people, which is why they change partners often. very physically beautiful, but doesn’t seem to know or act on it.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope y’all have a wonderful day.

guide

[sheisjoeschateau]

"Oh, so we DO love Steve..." | PART II

ALRIGHT, SECOND PART IS OUT. NOT WAITING. hope u like :)

⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ SERIES MASTERLIST ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader || enemies to lovers trope.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED AND/OR REPOSTED ON HERE OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR PUT INTO ANY AI PROGRAMS. THIS IS AN 18+ BLOG, MDNI.

An original fanfiction series, written by Misha St. James.

This isn't your first time meeting Steve Harrington.

You know him. And he knows you. Well, maybe. Who knows. You both run in completely different circles in high school.

While there's some very obvious tension amongst the love triangle (Nancy-Steve-Jonathan) you take a second to look over at the group of kids behind King Steve. There's a curly-haired kid wearing a cap, another kid sporting a bandana, and a redheaded girl. They give you sort of awkward waves, which you return with a tight-lipped grin.

"Sorry," Jonathan's suddenly saying. "Uh, you guys, this is umm -"

"Bauman," you interject. "Just...call me Bauman."

Steve is now looking at you, realizing. Recognizing. "Hey," he says. "Wait, aren't you in Click's class?"

You press your lips into a thin line, trying not to be totally off-put by him. And in truth, you weren't really. Steve had seemed less... douchey, since he started dating Nancy. You were grateful for that. No matter how doomed their relationship was, it seemed to help him get rid of his trash friends. God, Tommy H. and Carol and that Nicole girl were just toxic.

"Yeah," you said, reaching out a hand. "Nice to officially meet you."

Steve shook your hand, a bit sheepish. And still distracted with the fact that his girlfriend had shown up with Byers. Why was she with Byers? You felt yourself internally cringing, seeing how oblivious yet aware he was. It actually made you feel bad.

"I'm Dustin!"

You suddenly looked in the direction of a toothy-grinned kid smiling at you, and you couldn't help but grin back. "Hey, Dustin."

Lucas and Max introduced themselves, too. But then, you all heard sound coming from off in the distance. The lab.

So yeah, things took a pretty sharp turn from there. It's all kind of a blur, if you're being honest. Everyone began talking over each other, eventually gathering info as to exactly who you are and why you were here (at least the general just of it). They learned about Murray Bauman, and Steve's face just became more perplexed, the more that Nancy and Jonathan revealed what they had learned...together.

...yikes.

But the kids were also asking you a million questions, very curious about you. Max found you funny, finding you to have more cool-girl energy than Nancy, who just seemed too polished for her to know how to communicate with her.

Eventually, Nancy noticed the power back on at the lab and you all took off in that direction. Steve was arguing a lot with the kid named Dustin. Very brotherly. Low-key motherly. The toll gate wouldn't open, then suddenly it did open, and then next thing you know a car is racing towards you from the lab and it's got Jim Hopper at the steering wheel? He's throwing the door open, demanding all of you to get in.

As you all drive, you end up near the front of the car, squished between Steve and Dustin.

"Bauman."

You look over at Jim, surprised. But he's looking at you in the rearview with all-knowing eyes. "You're Murray's niece."

You nod. "Yeah. Jim Hopper, right?"

Jim reaches back to pat your knee, eyes on the road and still shaken up from whatever the hell they just escaped. "M'sorry, kid. Your uncle's been getting shit from me. I know he sent you. M'really sorry. I'll make it right with him after all this, alright? Promise."

You just nod, knowing there's really no time for any of that right now. Since you got in the car, you haven't even had time to notice how there is a woman (clearly Joyce Byers) in pure distress, along with another kid in tow and the limp body of another child that she's holding. Jonathan is reaching for him, riddled with worry. Is that Will?

Once you all make it back to the Byers residence, it's tense. Really fucking tense. Jonathan is knelt in front of the couch, voicing his regrets out loud as he stares at his brother's limp form. Nancy stands behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. You're on the opposite side of the room, leaned against the wall.

Which is why you notice that behind Hopper, who's yelling into the wall phone, Steve. He looks...devastated. Hurt. Heartbroken.

...fuck, he looks heartbroken.

He walks past you, pinching his nose and sniffing once. He looks like he's really fighting off some emotion, escaping to another room. It makes you think about everything that went down at your uncle's bunker, and how maybe it was funny there...but it isn't here. Not now, seeing that this guy actually has some intense feeling for Nancy Wheeler. Intense love for her. Real love.

...but Nancy doesn't feel that same intense love for him.

...oh god, that's messy.

But all hell is breaking loose before you can linger on that for much longer. Suddenly, you're all devising a plan. It has something to do with dungeons and dragons, and Will being possessed, and getting him in a room that whatever monster is inside of him won't recognize. The you're all deciphering Morse Code, and it's a whirlwind from there.

And then you're all holding weapons, bracing fore an attack...when some young girl walks in. Who you come to learn is the infamous Eleven. Her hair grew back, and she looks ready to join a punk band.

Pretty bitchin' look, you gotta admit.

The kids introduce her to you, and she gives you a shy smile. Then you're all splitting up into groups, and you catch a brief exchange between Nancy and Steve. He's saying something to her about going with Jonathan, and it makes you tense for Nancy. You can't even imagine how she must feel, knowing that he sees it.

And honestly, the way that Steve talks is...so not King Steve. It's uncharacteristically mature. Secure, and assuring. Not that of the teen heartthrob and bad boy you've been going to school with. And when Nancy does go off with Jonathan, you see Harrington's heart shatter into a million pieces with just the look in his eyes.

You feel bad. You suddenly feel really bad.

But also, he had to have seen this coming. Right? Jonathan Byers was a good, decent guy, who'd been there for Nancy all throughout the hell of last year. Steve had come around, finally. But by then, the trauma bond between Byers and Wheeler was irreversible. There's no changing that.

But damn, unrequited love sucks.

You knew was rejection felt like, and you wouldn't wish it on anyone. Not even your worst enemy.

Out of guilt, you make some conversation with Steve. Given it's just the two of you with the kids left at the house, needing to wait things out, you both easily make conversation. It's a bit awkward at first, but oddly it finds flow pretty easily. Steve's still got his charm, although it's a little more grounded than before. It isn't forced, or laced with popular-kid attitude. That's refreshing.

As you both end up listening to the kids like the only two parental figures around, then end up having to fight off that psycho new kid at school named Billy Hargrove (who's actually Max's stepbrother?!) and patch up Steve's very beaten and battered face which somehow still looks pretty, annnnd wind up in a tunnel full of creatures (demo dogs? is that what Dustin called them?), then somehow survive all of that shit... you and Steve become pretty bonded, pretty quickly.

And when the worst of it is seemingly over, you end up helping Eleven get ready for the Snowball -- dropping her off with Hopper. He's grateful for your help, and after making amends with your uncle you two have gotten to know each other well, too. He likes you, appreciating your mature sense of self.

Joyce adores you already, being the kind-natured and loving mama-bear that she is.

And El? Well, she loves you. You're like a cool older sister figure of sorts.

You and Steve run into each other when dropping off the kiddos at the Snowball, making conversation about how crazy everything was. You talk about other things, too. Just mundane things, bouncing off each other well. But when Steve notices Nancy inside, he gets that sad puppy-dog look in his eyes again. Then, Jonathan's coming out of the dance with a camera. He clearly was the designated photographer for the night.

And he clearly has captured Nancy Wheeler's heart.

One night, after Jonathan and Nancy have started going steady and you're all on summer break, you're all over at the Henderson's house watching the kids. The adults are there, too, since Mrs. Henderson is out working overnight. Murray is pouring up drinks for the adults and teens, much to Joyce's disapproval. But he just goes about his business, clinking glasses. Hopper honestly looks like he could really use a fucking drink. Or 5.

You, Steve, Nancy and Jonathan all toast, happily. Chatting. Laughing. Making light of things.

...but that ends up being pretty short-lived.

Before you know it, you're in the kitchen helping clean up while Joyce gets the kids in bed and Hopper is on the couch slurring with your uncle. Steve had offered to help you, but Dustin insisted that he come see something in his room before they all went to bed. Nancy has left with Mike and Max, while Lucas is staying the night.

Welp. Jonathan walks in, drunk, telling you thank you.

It's sloppy, and it would be funny except for the fact that he is talking so fucking loud. He's just thanking you, and then Murray, over and over -- "...for meddling with'm love life because now, I'm dating th'most beautifurrrl girl in Hawkins. N'if'it weren't for y'two...I'd still'b pining o'r h-her."

...annnnd then he’s blabbering on about how you let him and Nancy take the bed. “Well’lmost… ha, w-we ended urp…takin’th…couch. Whischhh…you tol’us you’w’d…toHaLLy tAkE’stead.” Then he’s snickering, drunkenly. “Cuz’you toooootally wanted us to doooo itttt. Schhhhhhayin that — m’not the safe one. That’m — I’m the one’th Nannnncy l-loves. Not…S-Steve…”

You just chuckle nervously, giving him a pat on the shoulder. And you just keep washing the dishes when he gives you a tight hug from behind, stumbling a bit and making you almost drop and break one of Mrs. Henderson's very cute plates.

Right on cue, Steve rounds the corner, having heard it.

All of it.

And now that Steve has gotten wind of the fact you played a huge role — along with Murray — on why Nancy left him, he is totally pissed.

In fact, he’s livid. 

"Steve," you try, but he just holds up a hand, staring daggers at you.

"Save it, Bauman," he grits. "Save. It."

It causes him to have the utmost disdain towards you, border lining hate. It just festers over time, getting worse.

Something about that makes your stomach flip inside out with a horrible, upset feeling. Your guts feel knotted up, and if the reality of things weren't so bleak, you would laugh at the fact that losing Steve Harrington's friendship (let alone trust) would upset you one day, let alone even happen. You feel bad. You really do. But God, as time goes on... his entire attitude about it is insufferable. He isn't letting up any time soon. Not when you both meet up with the kids (because regardless of the strain between you two, you're both the parents now). It feels like two divorced parents, meeting up to share custody of the chitlins.

The only relationship to which Steve is committed, is the one that he shares with Miss Hatred. And you're her bitch.

...guess there's still some King Steve in him after all.

You knew King Steve. He was an ass. So you know what? Suck it, Harrington. Karma’s a bitch.

As time passes, you begin firing back at him - tired of trying to explain yourself, apologize or play nice. Steve wants to fucking play? Alright then. Game on, Harrington.

There's a whole upside down universe threatening to take over still? All good. Let's still brawl, Harrington.

The kids keep bringing you both around each other, and you're also working at a place inside of the same damn mall as Steve is for the summer? AWESOME.

LET'S GET READY TO FUCKIN RUMBLE.

So yeah, you’re totally involved in the whole mall ordeal with the Russians, bonding you to Steve and Robin, along with Dustin and Erica.

But despite that, Steve still resents you. So there is still rivalry between the two of you.  Hot and bothered. 

That said, despite his pure disdain towards you...it doesn't change the fact that you actually do begin to see him for the much better human that he is becoming. King Steve has fallen. No doubt. You see that. The way that he loves and cares the kids, especially Dustin. And the way that Steve reacts whenever Robin comes out to you both? He's an angel. Hell, he even fought the soldiers off of you whenever they decided to make you their torture-chamber play-thing. He definitely got mad at them for that one, but he also got mad at you for not going with Dustin and Erica before all of that went down. You both nearly strangled each other when attempting to hold the door shut, yelling at each other to run. Robin had finally joined you both, but still - neither of you budged.

Steve was a good guy. A nice guy, even. Just not to you, unless the moment called for him to be. Which was fine.

…but he’s still annoying. And apparently, he can hold a fucking grudge like no other. He’s a world class champ at that, come to find out. Gold star.

You're onboarded to help Hopper, Murray and Joyce with shutting the gate. It's a no-brainer. Steve looks a little miffed, seeing how the adults trust you like one of them rather than him. Even the way that Jonathan is so cool around you, and Nancy seems shy around you, it just...irks him.

When you manage to help Joyce close the gate, you witness the death of Hopper. And it kills you, along with your uncle. You ache for Joyce, unable to fathom how you'll have to bring it up to El.

But hey, you all manage to destroy the Mind Flayer. And when Billy is killed in the process, you tend to Max like a true older sister. She and Eleven have both come to look up to you as such, and Steve won't deny the fact that you're a saint with these kids. A real fucking saint. And if he's being honest...he's relieved to have a co-parenting partner.

But that is the extent of his gratitude towards you, which is strictly circumstantial. You make things convenient sometimes.

Hopper dying hits all of you hard. And you do everything that you can to help your uncle not drink himself to death. It's the only reason that you don't regularly visit the Wheelers in California. Your uncle is a wreck. Hopper was the only man who truly felt like a friend to your very lonely (by choice) Uncle Murray.

Steve does single you out to ask how you're doing, knowing that witnessing Hopper's death was tragic. But you just tell him that the real concern is your uncle and Joyce, insisting that you will get by. Steve seems hesitant at first, knowing that you're not fine. He might hate you, but he still cares about a party member who got put through hell.

"I'm alive, Steve. So I need to carry on. For everyone's sakes. I'll be alright."

As time goes on...

You and Steve give Robin very conflicting love advice, when it comes to her crush on Vikki.

"VIKKI LIKES BOOBIES."

"Christ, Steve," you're groaning in the backseat. "Stop being such a damn teenage boy."

"I'm almost 20, Bauman," he scowls at you in the rearview mirror.

You make a face, exaggerating feigned apology. "'Scuuuuuse me."

Man, he could not hate you more. Steve is sure of that. You are the worst. Why are you here. You are just the worst. Every time he looks at you, all he sees is Murray Bauman but as a much hotter 19-year-old girl with way more better comebacks and select timing.

AND NO, THAT IS NOT A COMPLIMENT.

!!!!!!!!

Next thing you know, Chrissy Cunningham has been found dead in a trailer that belongs to Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson. Who, according to Dustin, is not only still in high school — he’s also friends with them? Yikes. But Dustin swears that he’s not a murderer.

You choose to believe Dustin. Much to Steve’s chagrin. In his mind, any chance that you get to disagree with him, you will gladly fucking take it. He is really committed to you being his enemy.

And you know what? Fine. You can play. You've been playing.

Eventually, Nancy comes back into the picture.

And honestly? Watching her be all into Steve again? As if she isn't in a relationship with Jonathan still? That pisses you off.

Not because you’re jealous. No, no. Not that.

…yeah no, it’s not that.

Nah, it’s the way this girl just cannot for the life of her figure out what she is feeling. Dear lord, woman. Pick.

Eventually, you comment on this. But not until Eddie Munson is suddenly roped into y’all’s crew and you both strangely hit it off. You share the same taste in music. You both compare concert history, listing off you're favorites and randomly bursting into song. Very scream-o, metal music. Eddie thinks you're the shit, and you make him laugh a lot. He also makes you laugh a lot.

Steve hates that.  He really, really hates that.

But not because he is jealous. No, no. It’s not that.

…yeah, it’s definitely not that.

Nah, it’s the way you make friends with someone he isn't a fan of just to spite him. You know he doesn’t like Eddie. You know he feels replaced by Dustin for him. You’re doing this shit on purpose. He knows it. He just knows it.

Regardless, you both stand by each other throughout the whole Vecna ordeal. And Max?  She loves you. Trusts you. A lot. You also tell her not to give Steve so much shit. So he’ll give you that.

But that’s all he’s gonna give you. And even that has its limits.

Whenever you all find out that Max is cursed, the first person that Steve finds himself looking at is you. Because you're the co-parent. You've gotta help him know what to do. You feel the exact same way.

You both witness her possession in he graveyard. You both help calm the kids down, and each other. Whenever Max writes letters to each of you, she looks at both you and Steve for a long time. A really long time. It's very uncomfortable.

...then she's finally handing you both a letter, and the look she shoots you both afterwards in really unsettling. Like she knows something.

But what the hell is there to know? That you both can't stand each other? NEWSFLASH: EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT. So joke's on them.

...not Max though. She's in trouble. So she's allowed to know whatever the hell...that she...knows...?

You and Steve both profusely disagree with everyone about the idea of Max becoming the bait. In fact, it's the first time that you both are defending each other to everyone else. Whenever Max argues Steve, you tell her to listen.

"Steve has every right to be worried right now. We all do, Max."

She sighs, knowing that you're right.

And whenever Dustin tries to get quippy with you about stuff, Steve shuts him down real fast.

"Hey. Not cool. Bauman's in the right, check yourself."

Dustin also sighs, knowing that he's right.

Because you both know these kids better than anyone. You helped Mike ease up on Hopper, becoming that one older-sister figure he can actually go to and be normal around. Hell, he even hugs you. Mike never hugs anyone, except El. And Lucas? You and Steve are at every single one of his games, like proud parents. Will calls you whenever he wants to paint, knowing that you enjoy art. You've spent many nights painting with him, and even Steve will join with the other kids. They mostly just finger paint and bicker, but it's still lovely in its own sort of way. And then there's Dustin. The golden child, who both of you wanna hug and strangle at the same time. He is forever putting the two of you in close proximity, secretly loving the tension between the two of you. He figures that it's just because you both wanna be the favorite parent, and Dustin is too fixated on why Steve hasn't started dating Robin to even remotely suspect that you two could be an item.

There's a plan in motion now. It's in full swing, all groups peeling off. There's a new species added to the fucked up realm (the newly coined named for them is demo-bats) and you've somehow saved Steve's ass for the 3rd time. This guy seriously cannot catch a break.

But now, Eddie’s suddenly encouraging Steve to go after Nancy again. And damn, that bugs you.  It really motherfuckin’ gets under your skin. Because Eddie doesn’t know the full story about what went down between them. Not even close.

You can't help yourself. You tell Steve this, once Eddie walks up ahead. But of course, Steve is rebuking everything that you are saying.

And then he's telling you that Nancy is different, and -- “actually, things are better.” 

But you scoff at that, incredulously. And you're telling him to "wake up and realize that 1) she’s still with lover-boy Byers, and 2) you shouldn’t pine after someone who chose someone else over you."

You mean to say it kindly. Honestly, you try to.

But Steve doesn’t think so.  And he’s faster. He’s also cruel.

“Maybe that’s why you broke us up, huh?" Steve is firing back at you with all that he's got now. "Because you’re used to that. Being the second choice. Weren’t you Clark’s best friend? Didn’t he drag you along until he ended up picking Becky? Yeah. Thought I didn’t know that, right? Or how you hung out with some of the basketball guys and never once got asked out by any of them? God, it’s so obvious. Also, it’s pathetic. You clearly hate seeing anyone happy. So hey, guess what? You got your wish: successfully ruining someone else’s happiness. Bingo! Congratulations, you won.”

It hurts. It really does. It fucking hurts.

Still, you do try to reason with him. It’s a little harsh, you’ll admit it. You’re not exactly speaking to him sweetly. But you try.

“All my personal love life issues aside —" you start, bringing your voice down and speaking as level as possible. "...which honestly, I’ve never even had something worth labeling as love — Steve, YOU still deserve to —”

“To suffer,” he cuts you off. “Yeah. I know. And the fact you’ve not had love? That just further proves my point. You admit it and yet you’re still out to get me. Because you’re fucking miserable.”

Alright, you’ve had it.

“I’m miserable?” you ask, ready to fire back. “Steve. You’re the one letting your ex-girlfriend — who didn’t even properly dump you — toy with your brain again into actually thinking she’s gonna pick you this time. She doesn’t deserve that. And you certainly don’t deserve —”

“You deserve nothing.” Steve is seething. Then hissing at you, “You’re bullshit, Bauman. You and your whack job Uncle. You’re both bullshit.”

So you stop. You let it go.

You let Steve Harrington hate you and suffer his own misfortunes. And you pretend that what he said didn’t just shatter your soul into a million tiny pieces.  You nod at him, swallowing hard.

“My uncle is twice the man you’ll ever be. King Steve.”  

It’s a pathetic last attempt. And your voice feels small, tight. But standing up for your uncle is better than yourself at this point. You walk off, away from him.

And Steve doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t tell you not to walk away. He lets you.

So he doesn’t see you cry alone inside of the upside down version of the Wheelers’ bathroom.  He doesn’t see your heart break in two, and he doesn��t see you bite back the sobs sinking your teeth into your palms.

[ashmouthbooks]

2023 in books

better late than never, right?

2023 was a relatively slow year for me in bookbinding, but I still made 30+ books. (ask me how much time I spent on my other hobbies and it becomes clear why books were fewer.)

A5 books

the first A5 of the year was an entry for a bookbinding competition (which I didn't win), where the theme was climate change. I had a lot of fun putting it together and it was the first time I made an A5 tête-bêche book - I usually do these A6 or A7 size.

this was also the year I decided to start a collection of menocchio fics, which also led to experiments with printing directly onto bookcloth to get titles on the spine

what's fun about bookbinding is that you can Just Make A Book, but you can also Get Ideas And Run With Them with it. which is how I wound up with this black on black book. destiel necromancy fic, because of course it is

going back to something more colourful...Ulysses. not the James Joyce one, the slowburn 00Q one. named for a Tennyson poem.

final A5 book of the year is my Renegade Exchange book, which I bound for Silent Sun Press - a Crowley-centric genfic with outsider POV, so naturally I went for TV!Gomens colour schemes

A6 and A7 books

I started the year ambitiously - in addition to entering a competition, I started my urchin specials project. thus far I've still only bound these first three books for the project, but I plan to do more. first dustjackets as well!

I continued with the no-glue pamphlets and did three

I joined the Tiny Books Exchange, and as a proof of concept - before I typeset an A7 sized tête-bêche - I did a little tête-bêche of the two Temeraire fics I wrote for yuletide once upon a time

then followed of course the Tiny Book I bound for the exchange - my copy (test & proof of concept, bottom), the giftee copy (green, top right), and the author copy (blue, top left)

I typeset a lot more than I bind - I have plans to bind so and so, so I typeset it, but don't always have the time to bind it right away. so I have folders full of typesets ready to go at a moment's notice. this one was typeset a whole year before I bound it

are these paperbacks or just very slim hardbacks? I call them paperbacks as I used 0.5mm boards and they have no spine, but ymmv

this one definitely is a hardback - with slightly thicker boards, a spine, and two fics in one book. I do love those tête-bêches

at my work we have a lot of deliveries wrapped in this nice recycled brown paper that was just going into the recycling bin, and I thought: why not make books out of it? so I played around with it (and my printer) and came up with a neat aesthetic for paperbacks with breakaway spines (using 0.5mm boards)

will I ever stop with the tête-bêches? no. also this one has endpapers made from SEAWEED. how cool is that?

the last A6 of the year is this little collection of my own stories for a tiny Danish fandom. detectives and trauma, but make it about food? yes. food and cooking themed endpapers and cover papers, and the dustjacket has fake coffee stains on it. perfect

and that is all, folks. I did a lot of different styles and types of binding this year, I had fun with it, I learned a lot, and I'm happy with what I've created.

[bamboozledbird]

his eyes, his mouth // stiles stilinski imagine

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Void!Stiles, fem!reader (she/her pronouns) Pairing: not actually unrequited Stiles x fem!reader Word Count: 2.5k Warnings: canon typical gore/violence, choking, non-con touching/kissing (nothing worse than the show), emetophobia (mentions, no details)  Tags: author is horny for classic lit and bad at titles and it shows Summary: Reader accepts Void's invitation to play even though she knows she's already lost. A/N: I'm on my teen wolf bullshit again icb. This is a rewrite of an old work of mine from 2014, and I did it for entirely selfish purposes. I need Void now, and my other work is in s1 smh.

The first time she saw brown eyes it was in her mother’s face, skin glistening with the sweat of labor and the adoration of motherhood. For a long time, she thought she’d never see eyes that full of feeling again—like a never-ending tree ring, like reeds taking root—and then, in the second grade, she met a boy with the round, brown eyes of a fawn. She helped him read without skipping over lines, he helped her make sense of fractions, and she stared at his eyes until it was time to go home. Over the years, she memorized every crack of amber and drizzle of honey until the sky was just a cloak of him, him, him. 

It was the eyes that gave Void away. He could replicate Stiles’s smile, the curl of his smirk, the pucker of his confusion—but the eyes. He couldn’t quite hide the hollowness, even when her own were shut tight.

She kept them closed now. Under the starless sky, she could only make out the vague shapes of deadening trees; it was easier to follow the ink-dipped path with her hands. Her fingers brushed against damp moss and sticky bark until she stumbled over a loose rock. The stone rolled into something solid, and the resounding thud sent her heart into her throat. Everything seemed to be a little more than it was out here in the dark—the shapes bigger, the sounds louder, the fear thicker—everything except for her. Like this, she was a scared little girl. Frantic. Small. Alone. 

She didn’t realize quite how small she was until she was enveloped with darkness, how small and how pathetically human—but here she was anyway: alone in the woods, blinded by the darkness of early morning, on her merry way to meet an immortal psychopath with an entire Japanese spirit army at his disposal. All this, simply because he told her to.

She’d known the text was from Stiles’s number before she even pulled her phone out from under her sleep-rumpled pillow. She knew because it was three in the morning. It seemed like he only ever needed her at three or five in the morning, and yet she always, always answered. She’d realized quickly, however, that this time it was Stiles’s number but it wasn’t his message. 

< Stiles 🤓☝️: > 

I know you always found Stiles so easily, but why don’t we see who’s the better hider? I’ll play fair this time, cross Stiles’s heart. I’ll even give you a hint:  The cock crew, The sky was blue: The bells in heaven Were striking eleven. ‘Tis time for this poor soul To go to heaven. In case you’re thinking about not showing up, you should probably know the consequences. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, if you don’t come out and play with me, I’ll have to take out one of your pieces, and your family is just so deliciously human. I’m afraid it would be permanent. 

The riddle wasn’t actually a riddle, and that was the entire point: both the author’s and Void’s. The only reason she knew the answer was because she loved James Joyce. Stiles knew that, so, of course, Void did too. He also knew that she’d know exactly which holly bush to stumble towards in the dark.

She reached the perimeter of a small clearing; the smell of pine and earth layered over the trickle of a shallow rivulet was achingly familiar. Tilting her head, she inched into the open area, wary of its uncanny resemblance to a stage, and came to a stop in front of a large stump nestled between thickets of holly. Even in the dark, her fingers found the clumsy letters chipped into wood by small, marshmallow-sticky hands. 

He had Stiles’s phone, but he hadn’t bothered with the usual needlessly complex charade. She could only assume that meant that this was the trick and she was the punchline.

“The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush,” she broke the disquieting silence when the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled like a rabbit that knew it was about to die. She’d heard a rabbit scream once; nothing ever sounded quite so terrible until she heard Stiles wake up from one of his nightmares. “Clever, but I’m a little young to be your grandma. Aren’t you, like, a zillion years old?” 

The Nogitsune exhaled against the knobs of her spine, his breath revoltingly warm and wet, “You could’ve let me have my dramatic entrance. I ask for so little.”

She pretended that her stomach was not churning and that she was not dying from this, “Sorry, next time a psycho killer asks me out, I’ll know better.” 

He clicked his tongue and slipped his hand over her shoulder, twisting a strand of her hair around his finger in slow, methodical twirls. “You really need to learn to mind your manners, baby; someday that lip of yours is going to get you into trouble,” he chided, mouth resting against the shell of her ear. 

She repressed a shudder and pulled his hand away from her by his wrist. He went surprisingly easy, delicate bones limp in her fingers. For a moment, she just gripped his clammy skin, digging her nails into pale flesh, waiting for him to do something. He didn’t. Void just sighed in her ear and hummed, “I know, baby. It’s just the moon, right? And the stars, and your favorite author in your favorite place with your favorite person—and they say romance is dead.”

It was the audible intake of breath as he smelled the jasmine and honeysuckle in her hair that finally cut through the heady haze swathed around her. She turned around and let go of his arm with a sharp push that sent her stumbling back a few steps. Void narrowed his eyes at her, and his slow smile made her sick, “Did I ruin it? C’mon, I gave you a hint; you tell me what he’d say if he were here.”

 "Is this really why you made me get out of bed at 3:00 am? To roleplay?” she sounded much braver than she felt. 

Void grinned again, all teeth and bad intentions, and she thought of the way Stiles’s eyes looked with his smirk wrapped around her straw as he stole a sip from her cup. It was more vanilla creamer than coffee, and his cheeks had hollowed from the sickening sweetness. She’d wanted to kiss him then for the same reason she wanted to climb on every sculpture that read, ‘look, but do not touch.’ Had that really only been a month ago?

Void slunk forward, agile and lithe like a big cat, and the flash of his smile in the dim light was a scalpel against her throat, “Maybe. Isn’t that why you came to find me in the middle of the night?” He stopped a few inches in front of her and canted his head, “All alone, no wolves or hunters to interrupt us, even though I didn’t tell you to keep it to yourself. You did that all on your own, baby. Such a good girl.” 

His jaw softened slightly, and he rounded his eyes into a twisted mask of pity. He must’ve been able to hear her heart bruising against her ribs; she could feel the echo vibrating her stapes. Her lips parted, but her mouth went cottony when his hand trailed over her collarbone and came to a stop along the slender slope of her throat. “It’s just us now; you can tell me,” his voice was gentle, almost a coo, as his fingers squeezed slightly, thumb pressing into her carotid. “You can pretend it’s him. I won’t mind.” 

“You’d get off on that, huh,” she was horrified to realize that her voice was wet and thick, completely wrecked, like she’d been crying for hours. Void’s eyes, dark and endless, flickered over her face as he sucked in a breath through his teeth—savoring her misery. “Knowing how much I want him—how much I hate you.”

His grip around her neck tightened briefly, but he relaxed his joints after a shallow exhale, struggling to pace himself. Overindulgence, she mused, that was probably his only weakness. “Don’t be like that, baby,” he smoothed his thumb over her pulse and grinned manically when it rabbited under his touch, “you’d get something too, and we both know this is the only way you’re gonna get it.” His wistful sigh stirred the soft hairs framing her face. “The boy doesn’t have much taste, I’m afraid, but I have to admit in this case,” Void’s gaze darted from her panting mouth to her heaving chest as she struggled for meager mouthfuls of air, “it’s worked out splendidly for me.” 

If she could just stop seeing blurry splotches for a moment, maybe she could think of something to do other than gape at him like a fucking fish. At least, she couldn’t quite make out the lines and curves of Stiles’s stolen face like this. He would be so disappointed; the thought struck her in the stomach, and she might have gagged if her trachea had the space for it. He would be so disappointed that she’d been stupid enough to traipse into the forest to play house with a demonic spirit without backup. How? How could you be so fucking stupid? She could hear Stiles screaming at her in her head, almost felt his long fingers pinching her biceps as he tried to shake the stupid out of her. Not how, Stiles. Why. But she could never tell him the why; the why was possibly even more foolish than following the devil in the dark. At the very least, it was infinitely more cliché and endlessly more pathetic.

“I knew you were going to be my favorite.” She felt the words more than she heard them. Void’s dry lips brushed over her cheek, and then he dragged his mouth towards her jaw, more like a taste than a kiss, “I knew you’d be fucking exquisite.” 

Her vision narrowed into pinpricks as his mouth crowded over hers, and with her last grasp of consciousness, she bit down on his lip. Hard. She fell to the ground with the coppery tang of blood on her tongue. Like pennies, she thought faintly as she watched honied amber eyes swim in the night sky, tastes like pennies. 

**************************

When she finally woke up, she immediately wished she hadn’t. Her throat was rubbed raw with pain, and the left side of her body was sore to the bone. She hissed as she accidentally pressed into a blooming bruise just over her hip. It took her a moment to hone in on the ratty velvet couch and concrete floor: Derek’s loft, then. That was good. If she were dead, she would’ve picked just about anywhere else as the backdrop for her afterlife. 

“You’re awake.” Stiles’s voice was flat, but his eyes were his and only his. 

Her fingers skittered away from her skin to grab at the thin blanket draped over her legs, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Knock much?”

He didn’t look amused; he didn’t even roll his eyes. She had only seen Stiles well and truly angry a few times in her life and never at her. Heat sparked along her spinal column, and no matter how many times she swallowed her throat stayed dry. 

“Look…” she cleared her throat and bit down on her bottom lip, wincing as pain sliced through the flesh—it was split open. When the hell had that happened? Frowning, she licked away the small trickle of blood from the reopened cut and slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re probably, like, five seconds away from laying into me with a hyperbole-heavy lecture, but can you just save it until I’ve taken a few painkillers and iced my fuckin’ knee. Much appresh.” 

“You have no fucking idea what I’m thinking,” his tone was even, almost numb, but his eyes—his eyes gave him away. The amber was molten, and her head swam with the desire to burn in it. 

Her leg jittered. “So,” the heel of her foot tapped against the stone floor, shooting aching jolts up her leg to her slightly swollen kneecap, “you aren’t thinking that I’m at least three levels above Jar Jar on the dumbassery scale? Like, it’s Jar Jar, Nedry, Condiment King, Goku, then me.” Her calf throbbed as she rolled her ankle and then pushed her foot up onto the toe of her muddy sneaker, trying to bounce silently. Stiles clocked it immediately. Of course, he did. It was his move.

Sighing, Stiles knelt down so that he wasn’t looming over her anymore and squeezed her unbruised knee until her foot slowed to a stop. “You know it goes: Nedry, Condiment King, you, Goku, and then Jar Jar," he ended his sentence with his hand hovering a few centimeters above your nose.

“Thank god.” The corner of her mouth wobbled as she tried to smile, “I think I hit my head on the way down, though. Possibly lost a few brain cells.”

Stiles winced, and the couch dipped with his weight as he sat down. His thigh was warm against hers. “Let me see,” he gently parted her hair, long fingers gently searching for any blood or bumps. She couldn't help but notice his mouth when he was this close; it was puffy and pink, most likely from using it as a chew toy while pacing a hole in the floor. She was frozen, paralyzed with wanting.

Her chest stuttered as her breath hitched. “You’re supposed to say somethin’ like, ‘Oh no, you didn’t have that many to begin with,’ or, ‘What will your other one have to fight with now,’” her voice was high and breathy, but she hoped he’d just write it off as pain or being slightly-concussed. 

Stiles managed a weak smile until he accidentally pressed into a tender spot on the side of her head. She sucked in sharply, air whooshing between her teeth, and he immediately reached for her with his other hand. Like it was instinct. Like it was the only thing he knew. Stiles threaded their fingers together and squeezed as he carefully brushed the pad of his thumb over the same spot on her scalp, “There?”

“Mhm,” she was breathless, grateful he was intensely focused on the shallow cut just above her ear so that he couldn't see the wild look in her eyes.

“What did he…” Stiles licked over his teeth, grimacing, and stared at the pronounced veins in his pale wrist, “what did he say when he…had you…like that?” The words sounded painful, like barbed wire raking over his tongue. He couldn’t look at her; she wasn’t sure she wanted him to.

“Oh you know,” she hoped he couldn’t feel her heartbeat where his fingers were pressed against her skull, “the usual maniacal, narcissistic rambling.” She lowered her voice to a gravelly pitch even though it tugged at her bruised windpipe, “‘I’m what killed the dinosaurs. I’m inevitable.’ All the final boss monologuing clichés.” 

Stiles searched her face for something. She smiled a little, and his responding smile was just as small, just as tired, but he seemed satisfied with her expression. He sat back and withdrew his hand from her hair, but he kept his thigh needlessly close to feel the warmth, the blood flow, the undeniable proof that she was here. “He Thanosed you?” Stiles arched a brow and dropped his arm over the back of the couch behind her head—close, but never close enough. Always a few inches away from where she wanted him.

“He did live in your head for a while there,” she sighed softly and drooped a bit into his side, chasing his body heat like a cat, curling in on him like a comma. 

Stiles hummed a little in recognition, drumming his fingers in a soft pitter-patter just behind her shoulder. “And that’s everything? He didn’t…that’s it?” 

She looked over at him. His jaw was tight and so were the tendons in his neck as he bit at his raw cuticles, on the verge of shaking or puking. His cheek fit perfectly in her palm, and she wanted him so badly she might split in two, “That’s it.”

[soracities]

oooh please tell us what writing rules are garbage I would love to hear more

it's not that they're garbage, which isn't what i said, just that they annoy me and even then what annoys me is not the "rules" themselves (because i do believe they can be useful depending on what you're writing) but when some of them are put out as the only way to write something as if storytelling is a one-size fits all approach, as if you can reduce the millenia-long history of literature into a fail-proof formula that will work for all writing across all cultures with no room for experimentation.

i think there are as many ways to tell a story as there are stories and how you tell something and the kind of language you use will vary depending on what language actually means to you as a writer. hemingway and faulkner both famously took digs at each other for their styles (even though i think there was a lot of admiration between them) but they are also two very different writers with two completely different approaches to language and how they use that language to say the things they want to say: neither is inherently better, or more right, than the other--their approaches were just right for them; if faulkner wanted to write using the "older, simpler, better" words hemingway loved, he would have. if james joyce wanted to depict dublin the way dickens depicted london, he would have done so. but they didn't.

someone once posted an excellent breakdown by jeff vandermeer of the different writing styles employed by different authors which i was silly enough not to save at the time, but in it he gives an overview of the structure of their sentences, and how complicated or "rich" the language is, without pitting one style against the other. and to be honest, i think writing advice that encourages you to examine and look at that relationship with language, and what it holds for you (and others) and why, is probably more helpful than blanket statements like "stay away from ambiguity" or "avoid long sentences" because neither of those actually mean anything--a sentence is a vessel but it's also a tool, like a hoghair brush or a palette knife; the value of its impact is not an essence that exists in and of itself, but entirely dependent on how you use it, otherwise all literature would just read the same way.

strict adherence to a particular form or structure within a language does not automatically make for better writing, especially not when so much literature actually consists of, and is built from, works and authors actively rebelling against those same traditional forms and structures (but which is also not to say that those forms and structures are inherently useless, either). you can say that long sentences "risk distraction" or are "ineffective" but then where does that leave someone like laszlo krasznahorkai, whose prose runs on like some kind of breathless, hypnotic incantantion for 20, 30 pages without a single full stop in sight? or a book like solar bones by mike mccormack which is made up of a single sentence going on for 200 pages? i'm not saying long sentences can't be boring or tedious, but in all honesty so can short sentences--so can any writing that follows the "rules" to the letter. if something is poorly written, the "rules" matter very little; if it's well written, they matter even less.

all that said, telling people to "avoid long sentences" is not inherently a bad thing because i think the core of it is wanting to ensure your writing remains clear, which is a fair point--but it's an issue, to me at least, when it turns into one of those dictums or pronouncements that actively narrows the potential range language can actually have. clarity is not always about length, or whether or not you cull all of your run-on lines--mihail sebastian drew a very nice distinction in one of his novels when he said "[is] there’s a single way of being clear? A notary can be clear, or a poet, but they don’t seem to me the same thing". a long sentence can be clear, but its clarity exists on different terms to a sentence that is five words long, because its relationship to its content is different. and at the end of the day, that relationship is really what it's about for me and it's distinct to each work and its author.

writers use the language and form they use that best allows them to say what they want to say. no one in their right mind is going to dismiss zadie smith for not writing like angela carter or angela carter for not writing like hemingway or hemingway for not writing like beckett or beckett for not writing like mallarmé. robert frost and sara teasdale were no more correct than the beatniks were. i love pared down, beautifully concise prose, but i also adore books that relish in language and all the various, multi-coloured layers of it, books that eschew (traditional) plot and books that question their own form and the reality of that form, and books that tell a story as straightforwardly as possible.

to be honest i think one of the most formative things i came across, years ago now, was this piece by gary provost, which really sums up the whole notion of "writing rules" for me:

this is not about do's or dont's. it even breaks the first writing rule i learnt in school ("never begin a sentence with 'And'"). but what it does is center an intimate understanding of language, where it can go and how it can get there, and what you want that to do. that's where it's at for me!

[spidervee]

a little blurb in which tangerine nearly kills you…on accident! tangerine x fem!reader; cursing, tan being a bit of an ass, but also liking when reader is mean to him; some lewd dialogue and dark humour, almost car accident

When you’d left your flat to go for a jog that morning, the last thing you expected was to nearly be flattened by a sleek black Ferrari driven by a man who clearly spent too much time caring for the pornographic moustache over perpetually smirking lips.

Expected or not, however, it’s exactly where you find yourself as you turn a sharp corner and move into the intersection.

It’s early, and the streets are near-empty, so perhaps you’d let your guard down a bit. Or perhaps that barmy fucker behind the wheel was on some six a.m. joyride. Either way, the car skids to a halt, all screeching brakes and blaring horn and you’re frozen for a moment in the fluorescent glow of headlights before you realize just how close you were to being a fucking statistic.

And then, from through the windshield, you meet the driver’s eye and he has the gall to look annoyed rather than apologetic.

“You fuckin’ wanker! Watch where you’re going!”

Inside the car, Tangerine is gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. But the shock of the moment passes and he’s pleased as pudding he was able to stop on time. Civilian casualties are one thing while he and Lemon are working, but there’s no clean-up crew, no protections, no payoff should he accidentally off a cute jogger.

Your fists coming down on the hood of the car jolt Tangerine from his stupor and though he wants to rage at you, he can hardly find it in himself to be angry—a shocking realization that he’ll have to keep quiet from Lemon, lest his brother try to psychoanalyze him with some Thomas the Tank Engine bullshit.

Tangerine doesn’t think as he swings open the car door and slips out to indirect the hood. Your fists are comparatively small and he doubts someone of your stature could do any real damage. And, of course, the Monza is stolen so who the fuck actually cares what happens to it?

He registers that the jogger is cussing him out and he can’t help the patronizing look that etches itself onto his face, the arched eyebrow and smirking curve of his lip. With an air of impatience he tuts at you, interrupting the flow of curses you’re levelling in his direction, a stream of consciousness enough to rival James fucking Joyce, rat paddy bastard and his fucking make-no-sense shitehead Leopold Bloom.

“Best be careful, love,” Tangerine chastises, “Didn’t mummy and daddy teach you to look both fuckin’ ways? And don’t fuckin’ touch my fuckin’ car. Y’know how many pricks you’d have to suck off to pay for what those little hands might fuckin’ do?”

You blink at him, shocked into silence, and for a moment Tangerine savours the sweet sensation of victory. But then, he watches as you pull a wad of bright pink bubblegum from between your clenched teeth and stick it right on the hood ornament of the Monza. Tangerine is certain his eyes bug out of his fucking skull because where the fuck do you get off?

“You little bitch,” he hisses, forgetting the few manners he has for a moment. He takes a lurching step forward, anger finally surging through him at the sheer gall of your action because you’re either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid or incredibly reckless and it doesn’t matter which one because, whatever character flaw it is, it’s going to get you into deep shite one day and Tangerine decides in that moment he wants to be there to get you out of said shit.

And, when he sees the self-satisfied smirk on your face, the perverse glee you’re getting from witnessing his reaction, the deal is sealed. He laughs, a genuine laugh from deep in his belly. He almost slaps his fucking knee like some nob but the sound of your laughter now mixing with his distracts him enough from that embarrassing almost-action.

“You’re a fuckin’ psycho.” Tangerine catches his breath and fixes you with an amused glare. You cross your arms over your chest and he knows, instantly, that you’re trying to distract him with your fabulous chest. It’s almost working, so he quirks an eyebrow and refocuses on your face which is somehow even more distracting.

Well, fuck him sideways, right?

[foursaints]

as your book recs are absolutely exquisite, what kinda books are the gang reading, mainly remus, reg, james barts even all them guys ( if they even read at all)

this is an elaborate excuse to get book recommendations from user foursaints everyone shut up

i imagine the slytherins as all very literary (pureblood tutoring will do this to you) which is a popular hc! but i think people tend to lump “the classics” together & assume the slytherins are all reading the same handful of Big Name canonized authors, which can be so reductive…. what about literary infighting.

respectfully you could not find regulus black within a MILE of camus or sartre or kafka! he finds them childish & cheap & sensationalist because he prefers the grandeur of stuffier armchair classics and he has a self-serious bent. he has a secret tendency towards sweeping romance and also enjoys the florid. regulus black is reading PROUST and PUSHKIN and he nurses a deep, uncharacteristic love for RIMBAUD. his most enduring favorites are rilke’s letters and moliere’s plays and goethe’s Faust. and he will call dostoyevsky juvenile if you bring him up!

evan likes his literature bleak and straightforward and sharp as a knife. he is open to experimentation with form. he likes short stories and playwrights. flannery o’conner is a MAJOR one for him, also thomas hardy, also august strindberg, also ibsen’s later works. he fucks with russian formalism a la viktor shklovsky. he probably has a gigantic boner for ezra pound and yukio mishima that everyone mocks him for and he has a warmth towards brecht & stein.

barty is my modernism #understander and #darling… he straddles evan and regulus’s tastes in that he enjoys both the stuffy & the deconstructed, but he has a taste for vulgarity and more of an openness to the playful. joyce. pirandello. eco. maeterlinck. borges. lorca. out of everyone i see him enjoying chekhov the most, and having a secret but very powerful attachment to him….

yes they are all reading the same hyper-canonical eurocentric aristocratic drawing room picks but they are NOT just reading Crime And Punishment or whatever. it’s like the english department on sabbatical in there. they are on the verge of coming to blows about it the whole time……..

[ernmark]

I just stumbled across somebody saying how editing their own novel was too exhausting, and next time they'll run it through Grammerly instead.

For the love of writing, please do not trust AI to edit your work.

Listen. I get it. I am a writer, and I have worked as a professional editor. Writing is hard and editing is harder. There's a reason I did it for pay. Consequently, I also get that professional editors can be dearly expensive, and things like dyslexia can make it difficult to edit your own stuff.

Algorithms are not the solution to that.

Pay a newbie human editor. Trade favors with a friend. Beg an early birthday present from a sibling. I cannot stress enough how important it is that one of the editors be yourself, and at least one be somebody else.

Yourself, because you know what you intended to put on the page, and what is obviously counter to your intention.

The other person, because they're going to see the things that you can't notice. When you're reading your own writing, it's colored by what you expect to be on the page, and so your brain will frequently fill in missing words or make sense of things that don't actually parse well. They're also more likely to point out things that are outside your scope of knowledge.

Trust me, human editors are absolutely necessary for publishing.

If you convince yourself that you positively must run your work through an algorithm before submitting to an agent/publisher/self-pub site, do yourself and your readers a massive favor: get at least two sets of human eyeballs on your writing after the algorithm has done its work.

Because here's the thing:

AI draws from whatever data sets it's trained on, and those data sets famously aren't curated.

You cannot trust it to know whether that's an actual word or just a really common misspelling.

People break conventions of grammar to create a certain effect in the reader all the time. AI cannot be relied upon to know the difference between James Joyce and a bredlik and an actual coherent sentence, or which one is appropriate at any given part of the book.

AI picks up on patterns in its training data sets and imitates and magnifies those patterns-- especially bigotry, and particularly racism.

AI has also been known to lift entire passages wholesale. Listen to me: Plagiarism will end your career. And here's the awful thing-- if it's plagiarizing a source you aren't familiar with, there's a very good chance you wouldn't even know it's been done. This is another reason for other humans than yourself-- more people means a broader pool of knowledge and experience to draw from.

I know a writer who used this kind of software to help them find spelling mistakes, didn't realize that a setting had been turned on during an update, and had their entire work be turned into word salad-- and only found out when the editor at their publishing house called them on the phone and asked what the hell had happened to their latest book. And when I say 'their entire work', I'm not talking about their novel-- I'm talking about every single draft and document that the software had access to.

[april-is]

April 9, 2024: Physical Therapy, Franny Choi

Physical Therapy Franny Choi   Ask, first, what your smallest body parts require to sing again: coconut oil for your hair’s dry ends, camphor for the earlobes, rosehip kneaded into fingertips with fingertips. Grapeseed will feed most hungers of the skin. But if even your bones cry January, dip your sharpest knife in a jar of raw honey. Lather it on your thighs, making circles, making certain not to confuse this ache for that other, the one that keeps pulling you to the earth, the one question you still can’t say out loud. Recite instead the names of trees: sumac, sweet birch, slippery elm. Take your palm to the wild place under your chin and count: vein, artery, chokecherry, weeping willow, until your xacto knife pulse slows, holds. Let your mouth fill with gold, almonds, zinneas. Then: soften.

--

In an abecedarian poem, each line begins with successive letters of the alphabet.

Also: + VI. Wisdom: The Voice of God, Mary Karr + Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell, Marty McConnell + Heartbeats, Melvin Dixon

More by Franny Choi: + Catastrophe Is Next to Godliness + The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On

Today in:

2023: Come Quickly, Izumi Shikibu 2022: Heretic That I Am, Tomás Q. Morín 2021: The World Has Need of You, Ellen Bass 2020: Annus Mirabilis, R. A. Villanueva 2019: This Page Ripped Out and Rolled into a Ball, Brendan Constantine 2018: Winter Stars, Larry Levis 2017: In That Other Fantasy Where We Live Forever, Wanda Coleman 2016: The cat’s song, Marge Piercy 2015: The Embrace, Mark Doty 2014: No. 6, Charles Bukowski 2013: A Schoolroom in Haiti, Kenneth Koch 2012: Track 5: Summertime, Jericho Brown 2011: Death, Is All, Ana Božičević 2010: Heaven, William Heyen 2009: April in Maine, May Sarton 2008: Making Love to Myself, James L. White 2007: Publication Date, Franz Wright 2006: Living in the Body, Joyce Sutphen 2005: Aberration (The Hubble Space Telescope before repair), Rebecca Elson

[philaet0s]

So I decided to start posting my social media AU here, in parts, and without the few bits that happen off social media that will be on the ao3 version <3

As an introduction, here’s a little bit of context:

Baz is an world-famous singer. At the beginning of the story, he’s about to go on tour for his 5th album

He and Simon are in a relationship but it’s not public. Simon asks Baz if he can make a twitter account where he claims to be Baz’s boyfriend because he thinks it’d be fun to see how people react

Baz’s albums, because I’ve thought about them a lot —except for the first one— lol:

Ergo, - 2019

→ he just wanted to be pretentious with a latin word honestly + the word “ergo” has this intrinsic meaning of consequence. for something to have a consequence, there *has* to be a something, but there’s nothing that comes before the album. it’s his first. it’s a sort of oxymoron with just one word, something contradictory at its core, Baz likes that

I don’t really know what Baz’s first album is like. the themes would probably be rather dark, but I don’t have a clear idea of what the album would represent like i do for the others. and yet i know there’s an album before those others. something that started it all

Flowers in the Water - 2020

→ a reference to Ophelia from Hamlet, who drowned surrounded by flowers. in this album baz explores his feelings after his break up. he was the one to leave his boyfriend who he was in a pretty toxic relationship with though he still had love for him. so he never had much agency during the relationship (as Ophelia doesn’t have agency during most of the play and her life) and the one time he acted on his own, he ‘ruined his life’ -the feeling of despair after a break up, when you think you’ll never find love like that again, even if it was bad (as Ophelia did when she killed herself). Cliché image of the break up as a sort of death, but you can be cliché when you’re heartbroken

baz’s ex used to buy him flowers, so there was this vase in their flat that for a long time always had flowers in it. after a while, towards the end of the relationship, baz noticed that it had been a moment since there had been flowers in the vase, and that was one of the things that made it hit that his bf didn’t care about him anymore

BUT the ‘vase’ is replaced by ‘water’ in the title of the album – a nice metonymy – to better fit the Ophelia reference.

Portrait of the Artist as a Madman - Feb. 2021

obvious reference to james joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Baz reread the book during lockdown so he had that title in mind. he used Madman instead of Young Man because we all went a little crazy during lockdown so that was his state of mind when he wrote the album

his most reflexive album, in which he writes very personal things about who he was and is, but also his persona as a singer and the way the music industry impacts him and his life

The Prophecy - Sept. 2021

baz really wanted to use the word prophecy in a title. it’s his favourite word in the english language. it’s a very meaningful word, prophecies were a huge deal for ancient civilisations, prophets are important figures in the abrahamic religions + he likes the idea of a prophecy, something being foretold, an inevitable end, no matter what one does. it’s very tragic, he likes that

this album is about his new relationship with simon, a romantic piece about how when they met, he felt like their story had already been written and all they had to do was play it out, he felt this inevitability that he associates with prophecies. simon is the love that was foretold for him

Metamorphoses - 2022

in reference to Ovid’s metamorphoses. Baz reuses some of the stories in the Metamorphoses while also applying them to his life, creating songs that are a blend of mythology and personal. (his fans love trying to guess what is merely his interpretation of Ovid’s stories and what is personal elements he added to the songs). the songs are ordered in a way that shows how baz was transformed throughout his life to become the version of himself he is at the time of writing the album. a sort of memoir told through a dozen songs

Paroxysm - 2023

paroxysm: a sudden sharp attack (of pain, rage, laughter, etc)

the meaning of the word is why baz chose it as a title. he thought it fit the album, which he wrote very differently from his previous ones –in bursts. his creativity was renewed after Metamorphoses, which was a project that felt to him more like writing a book than songs, and it expressed itself differently. in this album, the topics he writes about are all different, with nothing to give a coherent theme to the album… which is the theme in itself. all the songs are little paroxysms

[connorsnothereeither]

I dont know if youve talked about this before, but if not, how did you come up with some of your characters' names?

I’ve talked about it before for Ulysses here in this post but not some of the others!! But I would love to I shake their names about!!

Virgil Coronis (Sky Bound SMP)

So Virgil went through a lot of potential names. He was built up vibes-first in development, so I had my gothic, conspiracy librarian, and no names. I wanted something that sounded more sharp, and angular. Crow-like.

I went for some classic gothic literature names to start. Jonathan (for Jonathan Harker from Dracula), Percival/Percy (for Percy Shelly), and Auguste (from Poe’s The Murders in the Rue Morgue), along with some others were all potential candidates. By then, however, @jamphibiann had already chosen Pietro, and so I looked for some other Italian names to match since we were playing brothers. Romeo, and Salvatore were somewhat higher contenders then!

Landing on Virgil was actually sort of stolen from @venear-tmblr . When throwing around potential names, one of the ones that didn’t make the cut for him was Dante. And while Dante didn’t quite fit the character I had in my mind, Virgil definitely did! It had Latin/Italian roots, and felt angular and distinctly raven-like to me! :D

“Coronis” as a last name is actually an ancient Greek word, which is both referring to the curved flourish in old handwriting, and is same root word (corone) for the Greek for crows or ravens, referring the curvature of their beaks! So it felt very fitting too.

Leopold Haust (Terramortis)

Leopold was honestly… kind of a silly one. He never had any alternate names. I knew he was going to be from the 1920s, so I wanted a vaguely old-timey name, which fit the vibe, but could still be shortened into something more modern and easy to quickly say. And, at the time, I was reading Ulysses by James Joyce as a joke… and “Leopold” is the name of the Odysseus/Ulysses counterpart in that novel. So it just sort of… ticked all the boxes lol. It wasn’t supposed to be connected to Ulysses at all, but it jumped out at me as a perfect name for the character I had created. Haust was just a made up name that sounded like it matched well when spoken allowed!

D’Hakth’rkael “Daniel Thorns” Thoricht (Cantripped)

So Dan was… interesting name wise. I had the “bit” in mind long before I came up with the name. I was somewhat inspired by a lot of people I know or grew up knowing, who would have long, intricate names, and would shorten it to just like,,, “Mike”. But mostly I was inspired from the “folk hero” angle of how through Christianisation and colonisation, Celtic mythology names were super worn down into common, short Anglican names. Things like “Cú Cuhlainn”/“Conochubar” or “Fionn mac Cumhail” being worn down to names like Connor or Finn. I also just love when folklore figures have what feel like really mundane names, with a descriptor or trait. “Robin Hood”, “Jack Frost”, etc. it’s very English folktale to me.

For a while I wanted to play with “Tom” of “Jack” but for whatever reason “Dan” just stood out to me as a very mundane feeling name (and to be fair, Dan does go by Jack sometimes… in some places… just nowhere we’ve been yet…). So Dan Thorns came first, and I worked backwards from there.

From “Daniel Thorns” it was basically just a process of mashing fantasy sounds together until they sounded like a name. Thoricht felt like a believable evolution of “Thorns”, and could still pass as a human name. “D’Hakth” came next; I liked the juxtaposition of sounds, and the ways you could linguistically interpret it, taking it in a D, H, Y, or even J direction. The final part, “rkael” was mostly just for flavour. I started looking into vengeance Paladin, “avenging angel” imagery for Dan for a while, felt biblical, and I really liked the vaguely biblical feel it brought to the name, while adding another layer of “oh that’s why he just goes by Dan” akgakag

[dearabby1990]

Chapter 39: Girls/Guys night out

Upon arriving back in Hawkins you both made sure to call ahead & make plans with your friends. You’ll be meeting Robin Nancy & your cousin Rachel at the wheelers to go out to brunch & pan out last minute wedding details & then have to meet back up at the house to go pick up Karen & Joyce to go finally pick out your dress & the night is for fun you ladies are going to a club out in Illinois & spending two nights there to pick out your flowers & have them delivered back home brings the only florist in Hawkins didn’t have a lily in sight. Eddie has band practice this afternoon & is going for a night out with the boys to have a few beers and play some pool. You made sure to let him know to take the boys to get fitted for tuxes & what color ties and vests they need to match their bridesmaid partner. Steve being the good friend he is already has his tux at home & hanging in the closet. He’s gonna meet the boys at the hideout later but asked to tag along for dress shopping which you thought was odd at first but also have to keep in mind although he’s a male he’s so the mother hen of the group plus you’re sure Robin talked him into coming for extra support beings your mother passed away & you need all the support you can get. “Bing” the chime of the store bell as the last of your group makes its way inside the bridal boutique as your fingers skim the many fabrics of the dresses hanging all over the place. Karen,Joyce & Steve look more excited then you do but Robin looks like her head is gonna explode she’s so red in the face so you decided to pull her aside before you all get the day started. “Hey Robs you okay you look flushed I thought I’m supposed to be the nervous wreck hahah” you squeeze her shoulder for support she takes a deep breath before turning to you “dresses jame you know I hate looking frilly this place makes me feel like I’m already suffocating & I didn’t even try a damn thing on yet &…” you stop her mid ramble “robs nobody said you had to wear a dress as a matter of fact I called ahead & spoke with them & they have a pantsuit in the same color as the dresses I’m having pulled for today so please breathe it’s gonna be fine & you know I got my best friend” you kiss her cheeks & pull her along to the dressing area where all of the workers have pulled a bunch of things for you & your bridal party you turn you your group “okay bridesmaids first then finding Joyce & Karen something because you’re both being given mother roles for us both beings we both lost ours if that’s okay with you ladies?..” they both get up hugging you squealing in excitement & gladly except your offer “okay so most of these bridesmaids gowns are in lavender & we can find silver belts or something to add maybe robs there’s these for you to the black slacks with the lavender silk button up and tie Rachel Nancy I have these gowns for you two to try out & moms they’re on the way with stuff for you guys in the color scheme now excuse me while I go have a conversation with the owner & I’ll be back to see how everything looks” they all nod & you’re off to discuss colors and details for your dress wanting to keep your ideas a surprise for everyone. You head back to the group as robin steps out of the dressing area in her pantsuit “oh my robs! That’s perfect I love it!!” She beams looking more herself “i really like the way these pants fit & this shirt is so comfortable I thought silk would give me the willies but I actually really like it you did awesome” next Nancy & Rachel head out in two different gowns so you could decide which on you liked more Rachel in a dark purple tea dress with puffy sleeves & Nancy in a lavender gown with sheer sleeves & floral patterns you look at Joyce & Karen for a moment before looking back at the girls “the one Nancy is wearing just seems so perfect for everything I think I’m gonna have to go with that one it matches robs pantsuit too I really love it” the workers start measuring the ladies as you go off to try your dresses next.

Trying on different gowns alone you just weren’t feeling that spark trying them on & you were about to give up completely & call it a day until the owner knocks on your dressing room door you open up & let her inside & she has two more dresses in her arms “now these I just pulled from the back this color doesn’t sell much but I have a feeling one of these would find a home with you” you can see the colors & fabrics draped over her arm & you bubble with excitement as they’re absolutely perfect & what you’ve been looking for all this time she helps you into the first one “hmmpf yeah I feel like a big puff ball in this one & it’s kind of itchy so let’s try that last one i really like the skirt on that one” she helps you out of the first one & into the second & you feel as if electric currents were coursing through your veins & give her a smile & a nod “I’m gonna show them this one this just feels like it’s the one I know it” she escorts you to your group they’re all fussing over god knows what because they’re all talking at once not noticing you approach them until Robin catches you out of the corner of her eye “well hot damn if that doesn’t scream mrs Munson I don’t know what will” & with that they all turn to see you & gush over how beautiful they think you look. Wrapping up measurements & payments Steve comes up & gives you the biggest hug on the planet “you looked absolutely amazing he’s gonna love it I just know it I’m so happy for you jame & by the way thanks for helping with.. you know with Rachel & stuff.. we’ve really been getting along great & im hoping I can convince her to stay” this excited you knowing both Steve & your cousin have had their fair share of heartbreak “im really happy for you guys too & she’s great Steve don’t hurt her or I’ll cut your damn balls off got it” you wink he knows you wouldn’t hurt him nor would he hurt Rachel. You all exit the boutique & head for your cars & off to your homes to get ready for tonight. Instead of bachelorette & bachelor parties you both agreed on girls & guys night out. You ladies are heading to a club just outside of town & the guys are going to have beers & play pool at the hideout. You got your best jeans on a guns & roses shirt cut into a crop top your knee high boots & Eddie’s belt. The girls came over Nancy promised to do yours & robins hair & you’re all off to hop in Paula & decided tonight that Nancy be driving beings you & Robin tend to get completely wasted & act like 2 middle school children on the way home. Pulling up to the club you all get your id’s ready pass the bouncer & head straight for the bar “three bay breezes & 3 shots of tequila!” You all take a shot & take your drinks to find a table when you spot in the back near the jukebox perfect all three of you slide in & you pop a few dimes into the slot skimming through songs deciding on playing “let the music” play by Shannon as you ladies finish up your drinks to head over & dance with each other having the time of your lives. Different colored lights lighting up the dimly lit area. Thinking of all you went through to get to this very moment in life & what amazing things still await for the future ahead. Knowing Eddie’s out having just as much of a good time as you with the people who matter the most. There’s not a thing in this world that could get you to change your mind or trade in what you have now. These are your people, your family in Hawkins it may not be as large as the busyness of the inner cities around the globe but as small as this town is it’s big enough to be your entire world & then some. At the hideout all the guys have just finished up multiple rounds of pool & ordered more drinks for the table & Steve comes back with a tray of shots “alright Munson I sure as shit didn’t think you’d be the first of us to get married but here we are & I couldn’t be happier for the both of you take care of our little sister or me & gareth will beat your ass! Haha anyways to brothers to family to the future Mr & Mrs Munson” “here here” they all cheers & take their shot.

[dearorpheus]

hello, your blog's vibes are absolutely impeccable! I was wondering if you could recommend me some nonfiction reading on eroticism, religion or fear? I'd love to read about any of these topics, but I never really know where to start looking for good theory books or essays, so I usually end up reading fiction instead. any nonfiction recs would be deeply appreciated (and on other topics too if you have particular favorites). have a nice day!

hello! thank you for the kind words♡

hm! some reading might be: - Erotism: Death and Sensuality + Visions of Excess, Bataille - Masochism: Coldness and Cruelty & Venus in Furs, Deleuze - The Sadeian Woman: And the Ideology of Pornography, Angela Carter - Hurts So Good: The Science and Culture of Pain on Purpose, Leigh Cowart - Eros the Bittersweet, Anne Carson - A Lover's Discourse, Roland Barthes - Uses of the Erotic, Audre Lorde - A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller, 1932-1953 - Foucault's Histor[ies] of Sexuality - Being and Nothingness, Sartre - The Argonauts, Maggie Nelson - Aesthetic Sexuality: A Literary History of Sadomasochism, Romana Byrne - Pleasure Principles: An Interview with Carmen Maria Machado - "The Aesthetics of Fear", Joyce Carol Oates - Recreational Terror: Women and the Pleasures of Horror Film Viewing, Isabel Cristina Pinedo - "On Fear", Mary Ruefle - "In Search of Fear", Philippe Petit - Female Masochism in Film: Sexuality, Ethics and Aesthetics, Ruth Mcphee - Powers of Horror, Julia Kristeva - Hélène Cixous' Stigmata (i am thinking esp of "Love of the Wolf") - Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis - anything from Caroline Walker Bynum.... Wonderful Blood, Fragmentation and Redemption, Holy Feast and Holy Fast - excerpts of Letter From a Region in my Mind, James Baldwin - Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Nietzsche (re: Christian morality, death of God) - Waiting for God, Simone Weil - The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus - Modern Man in Search of a Soul, Carl Jung - "The Genesis of Blame", Anne Enright

do know as well that Lapham's Quarterly has issues dedicated entirely to these subjects you've mentioned: eros, religion, fear ! there's also this wonderful ask from @rotgospels on biblical horror theory

other non-fic i will always rec: - "On Self-Respect", Joan Didion - Illness as Metaphor + Regarding the Pain of Others, Susan Sontag - The Art of Cruelty: A Reckoning, Maggie Nelson - "The Laugh of the Medusa", Hélène Cixous - Ways of Seeing, John Berger - The Faraway Nearby, Rebecca Solnit - The Body in Pain, Elaine Scarry some non-fic things i've read lately: - "Mary Shelley's Obsession with the Cemetery", Bess Lovejoy - "Horror Lives in the Body", Megan Pillow - "The Cruel Myth of the Suffering Artist", Patrick Nathan - "The Rub of Rough Sex", Chelsea G. Summers - "The Lost Art of Memorizing Poetry", Nina Kang - "The problem with English", Mario Saraceni

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.

- W.B. Yeats

This is the quote from W.B. Yeats as a painted sign on the wall as you enter the famous bookstore Shakespeare and Company in Paris.

Strangers always found a welcome at Shakespeare and Company, where they could browse untroubled for hours, especially if they were aspiring writers themselves; and a few – well, a very few – of them may indeed have turned out to be angels, or at least angelic.

The original Shakespeare and Company shop was started in 1921 in the Rue de l’Odéon by Sylvia Beach, the daughter of a US Presbyterian minister. The first writer to patronise the shop was Gertrude Stein, but she fell out with Beach when she took up with James Joyce, whom Stein hated.

Beach published Joyce’s Ulysses when no established publisher would touch it, performing the arduous labour of love of proofreading it. Ernest Hemingway discovered the shop soon after his arrival in Paris, and wrote about it lovingly decades later in A Moveable Feast. When the Germans occupied Paris, Beach refused to sell a signed copy of Finnegans Wake to an invading officer. He said he would return for it the next day. So she moved all the books out and closed the shop. It was “liberated” by Hemingway himself in 1944. However, Beach didn’t have the heart to start again.

In 1948, after a wandering youth and war service, George Whitman came to Paris on the GI Bill, and in 1951 opened an English-language bookshop which he called Le Mistral. A few years later, he moved to the Rue de la Bûcherie, but didn’t rename the shop until after Beach’s death in 1961. He had been too shy to ask her if he could use the name, although they were friends and she used to come to readings at Le Mistral.

Whitman ran his shop as a species of anarchic democracy, even though in some respects he was a benevolent dictator. Anyone who called himself a writer could find a bed there, if there was one free, and stay as long as he liked or until Whitman got tired of him. The only rule for residents was that they must read a book a day and serve in the shop for an hour. One poet, or self-styled poet, who broke the second rule and lay in bed all day reading detective novels was ejected; but his chief offence was his choice of literature rather than his idleness.

The bookshop has its regulars, residents in Paris, not all of them English-speakers by any means, who use it as a sort of club and drop in for conversation and coffee.

Stock control has always been on the casual side. It’s not unknown for someone to lift a book from the shelves, slip it into his pocket, read it and return to sell it for the secondhand shelves the following day.

Inevitably, Shakespeare and Company has long been on the tourist trail, recommended in all the guides. This is just as well, because without their custom it’s hard to see how the shop could have survived. Many are in search of a copy of A Moveable Feast. This is not always on offer because, for some reason which I can’t remember, Whitman took a scunner to Hemingway. The tourists also toss coins into the well in the shop, and it’s not unusual to see an indigent young person lying on the floor and fishing for euros.

On occasion I drop in because the lure of its history is too much even if there are other good independent book stores nearby. Visitors to Paris always want me to take them there and I oblige them even if I feel its lost some of its past glory. Still, I always buy a few books because it’s the best way to support independent book stores in this age of Amazon, as every independent book store needs all the help it can get.