nightlyteaandpaper

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Please stop calling them Morally Grey, they are just dickheads

No one from the Night Court is morally grey. Their actions are horrible, the narrative justifies them.

Feyre destroys The Spring Court, leading to the destruction of the Summer Court, and the only two people who say something against this are the HLs of those courts, but even then, they don't put up much of a fight. Tarquin, after being disrespected in his home, goes to the HL's Meeting and says "Well, the Night Court were the only people who came to help," as if the High Court wasn't the reason his people were attacked. The narrative does not allow Tamlin any breathing room to make his point, right or wrong, instead, the rest of the people on page opening disregard his opinions (which is insane to me because they were his friends longer than Feyre had been alive, and they just take what Feyre says at face value.) Instead, no one speaks when Rhysand magically violates Tamlin's autonomy and shuts him up. No one spoke when Feyre and Azreal were whooping people's asses, despite the NC saying they wouldn't do it before the meeting, and the literal HL of Dawn putting wards on the room for no magic use (which, again, how were they able to use magic to attack people).

Feyre scrambled the minds and implanted thoughts in the heads of the guards in the Spring Court to destroy it and she never looked back on it for more than three seconds and went "huh, that was weird. It wasn't smart to do that because the wall is literally pressed against the Spring Court's ass..." No, everyone pats her on the back for her work. Lucien brings up briefly his discomfort being used as a pawn in Feyre's game and that she single-handedly destroyed his friendship with Tamlin, that older than Feyre had been alive, and the narrative doesn't even have her linger on that thought for more than one second. The narrative is quick to call out people who treat Feyre and the rest of the IC poorly, but never calls out them treating everyone else poorly. The narrative justifies the pimping of Feyre and her physical abuse by Rhysand (twisting her arm to make her agree to the bargain) as a necessary evil but does not extend the same grace to Tamlin, who did what he did as a necessary evil.

Trauma is understood when the person traumatized is the Night Court but never with anyone else. They constantly go back to dogpile on Tamlin, and the narrative doesn't have a single person stop and say, "Yeah, we should leave him alone." In fact, during FAS, after Rhysand tears into Tamlin, he goes back to Feyre, and she says, "You are always a bigger man" I refuse to say male. This is after Feyre writes to him and says, "Thank you for your help, I hope you find happiness too" and it is known that this man is so depressed that he is in his beast form. He does not have a kingdom anymore. Also, no one told Rhys to go to the Spring Court and harass him. One could say that the things the IC did could be from the perspective of Feyre and thus justified, but when we move to Nesta and Cassian's perspective again, nothing is challenged.

Nesta says that the only reason she hates Rhysand is because he is smug, not because of how he treats her. Nesta was threatened because she, albeit not in the kindest way, told Feyre that she was going to die in childbirth, and while Feyre said it wasn't right, there is nothing longer than a paragraph about the whole situation. It was just over as soon as it started. Nesta gets locked in the house for God knows how long (which, again, doesn't make sense because if she could get down the steps, get tired, and come back up, she should be able to make it all the way down the steps. Walking down the steps isn't what tries people out, it the coming back up because you are going against gravity) and no one thinks, "Hmm, that is exactly what Tamlin did to Feyre." They both locked someone in under the guise of protection. Cassian sees how the IC is treating Nesta, and while he tries to say something, he is always shut down.

And I will close on this. In an interview a few years ago, SJM said that Rhysand was a gift to her and that he could basically do no wrong. She also mentioned that the reason why Nesta was mad at Feyre and Rhysand was because she was jealous of their perfect life. This, my friends, is not how you write a story. This is an example of Authorial Fiat. You may say, "it's just a fantasy story" and I will say "Shut up, we know. I don't know how told tell you this, but: stories have to make sense."

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The young man glanced at Lo’ak and his people again. He quirked his mouth to the side. “My name is Vrrtep,” he said finally. “I am a hunter and explorer and guard. When you go home and tell your caretakers about this adventure, tell them my name. And when you see your father, tell him I saved his litter of children.” He looked at all of them, and Lo’ak realized that Vrrtep thought all seven of them were siblings. “He has no enemies with our people.”                 “You met our dad?” Tuk asked; she swam closer. “And our mom?”                 “If that was the woman he was with, then yes,” Vrrtep nodded. “I met her too.” He then cast a wide glance over the group. “Go home, wait for your parents. These waters aren’t safe for you.”                 And with that, Vrrtep twirled his finger, and the group paddled away. Lo’ak watched as they disappeared into the darkening sky. Once they were gone, he swam forward.                 “Where are you going?” Tsireya asked. “Let’s just go home, Lo’ak!”                 “Nah,” Lo’ak said.                 “Why?” Kiri snapped.                 Lo’ak turned to face them. “Because those were the Lefpom People.”

[nightlyteaandpaper]

My whoos in Writers' Land

Writing political intrigue when you are a biology graduate who has no experience in law other than Law and Order: Life on the Street makes for a very interesting adventure.

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"Shes the High Lady of the Night Court, she can do what she wishes." "You have always liked to spit on traditions, Rhysand." How the conversation should have gone: "Shes the High Lady of the Night Court, she can do what she wish--" "I don't give a damn about any of that Rhysand. Get out of my house, and your war criminal with you."

He could also add: "And if I ever see you in this bitch again; it's on sight."

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"Shes the High Lady of the Night Court, she can do what she wishes." "You have always liked to spit on traditions, Rhysand." How the conversation should have gone: "Shes the High Lady of the Night Court, she can do what she wish--" "I don't give a damn about any of that Rhysand. Get out of my house, and your war criminal with you."

He could also add: "And if I ever see you in this bitch again; it's on sight."

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TW: Abuse

I can't be the only one who finds the amount of a*use in these books a little disgusting? I mean, every single character, especially all the women, has had some trauma against them. They have been SA'd or almost SA'd, and I know this happens in real life, but there is something almost insidious when one actively makes all the good guys in the book victims of trauma and the bad guys be the one ones causing the trauma.

It is almost like SJM uses trauma to draw a line. If you have had trauma, you are good, if you have not had trauma, you are bad. I don't know what Im saying, Im just saying things.

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"Shes the High Lady of the Night Court, she can do what she wishes." "You have always liked to spit on traditions, Rhysand." How the conversation should have gone: "Shes the High Lady of the Night Court, she can do what she wish--" "I don't give a damn about any of that Rhysand. Get out of my house, and your war criminal with you."

He could also add: "And if I ever see you in this bitch again; it's on sight."

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"Shes the High Lady of the Night Court, she can do what she wishes." "You have always liked to spit on traditions, Rhysand." How the conversation should have gone: "Shes the High Lady of the Night Court, she can do what she wish--" "I don't give a damn about any of that Rhysand. Get out of my house, and your war criminal with you."

He could also add: "And if I ever see you in this bitch again; it's on sight."

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THE BATTLE WITHIN: MILES

Miles crouched behind a dense bush; the bolas clutched in his hands so tight he was sure the wooden chain would leave an indent in his palm. Across the way, Peyral also hid behind a dense sea of bushes, her club thrown over her shoulder. She glanced at him and placed a finger to her lips. They were slowly starting to get along, Miles thought that she could tell that he cared about S'rrona very much, and anyone who cared about S'rrona seemed to be alright in her book. Although, he did still catch the occasional side eye and how she also seemed a little standoffish around him, but they did have a conversation, they did seem to be at least cordial.

Miles focused back on the clearing before him. Afternoon was coming to an end, and he hadn't caught a single thing since…forever. He was starting to believe he was not cut out for this kind of work. He could a be guard or one of those explorers still out at sea, but waiting in the bushes in hopes a stupid animal would stroll by was crazy to him. He took a deep breath and the sound made Peyral snapping her head in his direction, giving him a biting stare. Miles put his hand up in an apology and Peyral slowly looked away from him.

Silence danced around them and even though it felt like summer was coming to an end, the bugs didn't seem to get that message. Miles was annoyed when he found out that Pandora had mosquitoes and when he complained about it to S'rrona, she gave him a small jar filled with white paste. He lathered himself with it after a bath and the itchiness would go away.

Peyral glanced around, even she was getting annoyed again. When she made eye contact with Miles, she nodded once, beginning to stand. Miles followed her lead and stood. Deep in the trees on the other side of the clearing, he heard soft movements. Peyral motioned for Miles to get back down and when they looked around the bushes, Miles was surprised to see two deer-like creatures come out. A mother and her fawn.

"Peyral," Miles mouthed. "Peyral!"

But she didn't pay attention to him, her eyes were still focused on the creatures in the clearing. Miles didn't know what to do, did he get up and throw the bolas and hope for the best? Did he wait?

"Peyral!" Miles finally whispered and she looked at him. The deer didn't seem to notice his voice above the soft breeze in the trees, but Miles wasn't going to risk it any further; he went back to mouthing. "What do I do?" Peyral's eyes glanced at the bolas then back at Miles' face. "No," Miles shook his head. "I can't do that; I don't know what Im doing!" In defiance, Peyral put her club on the ground and put her hands up. "Really?" She closed her eyes and looked away.

Asshole. Fine, Miles could do it. He had shot guns before, fought Na'vi in the forest, in the water, on a ship, in the air—he wasn't new to this, he was true to this. What is throwing a bola at two damn deer in comparison to going fisticuffs with Jake Sully? Nothing. And he got out of that situation unscathed, for the most part.

Granted, Spider was there to help him, but he was still alive and that was what mattered.

Miles took a breath, remembering what Peyral taught him: Always aim for the knees or below, that way it would tangle around the target. Miles quietly crept out of the bushes, keeping low to the ground, and aiming for tall vegetation. He would stick out like a sore thumb in this environment.

Getting the baby deer-thing would have been an easy target; it was small, it was fragile, it was new to the world, but it wouldn't feed a whole tribe and knowing how S'rrona felt about children...Miles couldn't do it. As Miles crept further and further out into the view, neither one of those creatures looked at him, instead, they grazed on the dying green grass, their tails swishing in the gentle breeze.

Miles glanced at Peyral who nodded to him again, and while her face was stoic and blank, he could have sworn there was a hint of pride behind those green eyes.

Read the whole thing using this link.

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"I am Joyous."

Life is sometimes worth living,

Watching the flowers bloom, nourished by the wet dirt.

The dark night barely alit by the distant stars.

If you live in a city,

You may hear the busy hubbub of the everyday and every night worker,

those who dream to be elsewhere or doing other things,

Or those who dream of being where they are, doing what they are doing.

As I sit in at this cramp desk, surrounded by many things,

in a spacious room decorated with little things,

I remember that right now someone is kissing their father goodbye for the last time.

while a mother is kissing their baby hello for the first time,

still draped in amniotic fluid and blood.

A child is climbing the tallest tree in their life, which is probably not that tall, but for both he and the parent down below, completely and utterly gigantic because they are so small,

Yes, I am joyous to be alive.

-Me

I haven't done a poem in a long time. Im so rusty.

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"She's the High Lady of the Night Court; she can do what she wishes." "You have always liked to spit on traditions, Rhysand." How the conversation should have gone: "She's the High Lady of the Night Court; she can do what she wish--" "I don't give a damn about any of that Rhysand. Get out of my house, and take your war criminal with you."

He could also add: "And if I ever see you in this bitch again; it's on sight."

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One of the best things I love about writing is the slow progression of watching your universe come to life. It's like a painting: first blank canvas, an outline, light coloring, then the picture.

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Excerpt from my book

I am always looking for comments.

To Lenora,

                My ocean breeze that wakes me up in the morning, my salty sweat on my brow from a hard day’s work, my blue grace that sparkles when the sun touches it, just like how your skin sparkles when the sun touches ours. When I saw this purse, I thought of you and how you embody something as powerful and mysterious as the ocean, how you beat against the rocky cliffs of your challenges but become calm enough to rock me wherever you want me to go in your rushing currents.

                Please, enjoy,

                Nolan

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Book Recommendation

As I take a break from moaning about my fanfictions, my WIP, Avatar, and Acotar, I want to recommend a book that has had me in a chokehold for a year and some change.

"The Immoralists" by Chloe Benjamin

(My own) Tagline: Was it a prophecy or self-fulfilling?

Synopsis:

If you knew the date of your death, how would you live your life?

It's 1969 in New York City's Lower East Side, and word has spread of the arrival of a mystical woman, a traveling psychic who claims to be able to tell anyone the day they will die. The Gold children—four adolescents on the cusp of self-awareness—sneak out to hear their fortunes.

The prophecies inform their next five decades. Golden-boy Simon escapes to the West Coast, searching for love in '80s San Francisco; dreamy Klara becomes a Las Vegas magician, obsessed with blurring reality and fantasy; eldest son Daniel seeks security as an army doctor post-9/11; and bookish Varya throws herself into longevity research, where she tests the boundary between science and immortality.

A sweeping novel of remarkable ambition and depth, The Immortalists probes the line between destiny and choice, reality and illusion, this world and the next. It is a deeply moving testament to the power of story, the nature of belief, and the unrelenting pull of familial bonds.

Rating on Goodreads: 3.71/5

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Unseen Labor: Exploring the Undervalued Contributions in Feyre's Cabin

Feyre did not do all the work in that cabin, and I think it is dishonest to say she did. She did the physical labor, but that is not all there is to keep a household functioning. Feyre has told us she does not know how to cook, so who was cooking in that cabin? I know it wasn't her damn daddy.

Feyre has never mentioned cleaning ANYTHING in any of these books, so who cleaned the cabin? Who decorated the cabin? Who washed the clothes? Who mended the clothes? Who provided healthcare to the sick members of the family? Who taught basic life skills to the best of their ability?

No, Feyre doesn't see any of this stuff mentionable (therefore, the audience doesn't think about it) because SJM has some weird mid-late aughts hang-ups about what tasks are "traditionally feminine." She sees no value in these tasks, and she places no value on these tasks; thus, she never mentions them happening. But if the audience learned that while Feyre was hunting all day, Elain was cleaning the cabin, Feyre's sacrifice would not be seen as so great because our response would be, "Well, that is what a family does. The youngest just happens to be the best at hunting."

If the audience found out that while Feyre was hunting all day, Nesta was planning meals, cooking, mending clothes, and providing half-ass health assistance to their father, we would say, "well, it seems like everyone carried their weight." We will not see it as a huge sacrifice.

But no, SJM does not mention these things, despite them being very real objectives and responsibilities that come with taking care of a household.

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“So that was what you said,” he smirked, placing arm around her waist. “That day at the stream.”

                She smiled. “Beautiful.”

                “Beautiful.”

                And with that, Miles made the close. Their lips touched, and it was like lightning ran through his veins. It was like drinking the oldest and most expensive wine, but only having a drop. He was an alcoholic now, needing to be drunk on her. They breathed heavy, and Miles tried to keep his hands to himself, he tried to be good, but it was too much. Something was…different. He pulled away, almost stumbling to the ground.

                “What?” S’rrona asked, scared. “What happened?”

                He gaped at her, eyes wide. “Did you feel that?”

[It's a working scene, but I love it so much. I love being a writer, regardless of the WIP. It is not posted yet, but it will be soon.]

Anyway, go support my fanfiction:

Shadows of Pandora: A Heart's Dilemma - Chapter 1 - EtherealProse - Avatar (Cameron Movies) [Archive of Our Own]

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I said this once and I will say this a million times over: I HATE that all of SJM's BIg Bads are sexual predators, and ALL the good people are victims of SA.

It feels like a "gotcha" card. Like, "Whoop, you want trauma, we got the worst kind. You can have the worst kind, you can have the worst kind, and you can have the worst kind of trauma." I know, in reality, this happens to women all the time, but there was no reason why Hyburn has to be creepy in a sexual way. Just making that guy a sadistic murderer would have been fine enough.

"Oh, but it makes it so much more interesting," I don't believe you because everyone has the same backstory. None of these people came from decent families. ALL the males in their lives are horrible abusers, and everyone, including random men, wants to touch them (in regard to the women.) There was no reason why Ianthe had to be a sexual predator.

Make her a cheater. Make her be the one who would sleep her way to the top IF you wanted to go there. Make her a Pick Me.

Why are all SJM's men in her novels horrible except the main male love interest? Why are the women jealous? All of them can't be that way. They just...they just can't. If I wanted to see reality in his book, I would have just stepped outside. Why did Taquin's sister have to be jealous of Feyre?

Feyre literally had NOTHING for her to be jealous of. Tarquin's sister was a literal princess. Pretty as all get-out. And Feyre...probably a wet poodle, lost and afraid. Tarquin's sister comes off as vain, so why does she think Feyre is a threat?