#I would say this is like when my honours kid writes a novel instead of an essay and I give up on reading it and give an A

[kleptonancydrew]

I’m currently vibing with Corine’s “the English Department just went gaga over it” as my professor called the paper I wrote half at 6AM after waking up from an accidental benadryl sleep and half while actually teaching a class (admittedly poorly) and submitted two months after it was due “thoughtful, probing, and reflexive” and gave it full marks. 

[pidgebeifong]

atla artist au

Aang is a painter. He’s loved painting ever since he was a child and first experimented with finger paints on the walls- which was, in hindsight, maybe not the best idea. He loves the way it detaches him from his worldly concerns. It’s almost like a form of meditation for him- the rest of the universe just falls away whenever he picks up his paintbrush, and all he can see is his canvas and the worlds he will create with a swirl of lemon yellow sun here, a wave of cerulean blue ocean there, a blur of sunset orange clouds at the edges. Everything he owns has been stained with paint in at least three places, which makes dressing for formal events a real pain. Sometimes he’ll deliberately paint his jeans with sunflowers or bees or anything that’s a sunny, bright yellow- his favourite colour- and wear them proudly for days. Katara jokes that she doesn’t even remember what the real colours of his hands look like, because they’re forever stained with paint that’s sunken so deeply into the folds of his skin that it makes it nearly impossible to rub off. People always ask him what his favourite thing to paint is, expecting it to be something like sunsets or mountains, but the truth is his favourite thing to study and paint is his Labrador, Appa, the first thing he ever drew. He started drawing at around five, the same age he adopted Appa, and to this day he can never get the way Appa’s golden fur shines just right under the blinding sunlight. He loves going to nature reserves and parks to study how light affects the leaves and flowers. Sometimes everything will just be too much, and he’ll jam as many paints into his pockets as he can, take a sketchbook, a water bottle and a paintbrush, and get on the bus to a park. He’ll sit quietly for hours, trying to capture moonlight on water or the flapping wings of a hummingbird.

Katara is a writer. She literally can’t remember a time she hasn’t loved to write. She has stacks and stacks of unfinished manuscripts lying around on the floor, tacked up to the walls in her room, and crumpled on the bedsheets. She has easily over a thousand different scenes written for her future novels on the Notes app in her phone, and she has a bad habit of scribbling ideas down on her hands on the rare occasions she doesn’t have her phone on her and there’s no paper in sight. She’s practically nocturnal at this point, because all her best ideas come to her at 3am, when she’s sleep-deprived and half-hallucinating. She always carries at least three pens on her at all times, and gets panicky when she’s forced to remove them whenever she has to dress up for anything formal. She’s really hypocritical whenever she gets on Aang’s case about his hands always being paint-stained, because all her hands are covered in ink, too- half-finished notes and ideas that got left on the cutting board. Katara hates cutting out characters that simply aren’t necessary to the scene and don’t add anything of value to the plot, because they’re her babies damnit and she worked hard on them. One would think that this would make her more sympathetic to her characters, but Aang and Sokka are appalled the first time they’re allowed to read one of her (mostly) finished manuscripts (who is she kidding, she doesn’t have a manuscript that’s even remotely finished for the life of her) and see how much torture and anguish and heartbreak she’s put her characters through. Katara is a huge advocate of making all her characters hit the lowest point they could possibly go, and then instead of making them get back up again, she gives them a shovel and instructions to dig lower. However, she’s a huge sucker for happy endings, and she practically dominates the tag #angst with a happy ending on AO3. She gets around three hours of sleep every night, none of them consecutive, and survives on black coffee and willpower alone. Everyone knows her as an avid reader, but she hasn’t really read an actual book since two years ago, and spends most of her time scrolling through 250k fanfictions at 2am.

Sokka is a photographer. He doesn’t have the skills that Aang has with his paintbrush, or the way Katara can make entire universes come to life with a few words, so for a long time he used to think that he was just going to be the ordinary guy in the group who’d only be known for loving meat to what is frankly an unhealthy degree, and that his only contribution to the team would be a slew of bad jokes and sarcastic remarks. He finds his calling very late in life, but the moment he picks up his first camera at age fourteen, everything just seems to fall perfectly into place. Sokka’s world always moves too fast and changes too quickly, but he can capture moments that will last forever with the click of a button, and he guesses that that’s what he loves about photography- that he can freeze moments in time and always be able to come back to them. Well, as long as he doesn’t lose his camera, but he’s got the photos all backed up on iCloud anyway, so that’s not really an issue. Sometimes, he’ll accompany Aang to nature parks, and Aang will paint the twisting vines of a plant while Sokka captures Aang’s relaxed, happy expression. His favourite photos are the ones he takes of his friends when they’re caught unaware- candid portraits of Suki laughing or Katara ruffling Aang’s hair or Toph trying and failing to hide a grudging smile. He loves old photos, too- loves the aesthetic of black-and-white photos, how they capture a scene that he knows full well happened decades ago but somehow make him feel like he’s living in the same moment. Experimenting with light is one of his favourite things to do- he loves playing with golden hour sunlight or early morning rays, loves hearing the satisfying click of his camera and knowing that he’s got another picture for the album (and his hugely successful Instagram account that has well over 50k followers).

Toph is a sculptor. She was born blind and never really got to experience art the same way the others did, so for a long time she buried her disappointment deep within her and never let jealousy rear its ugly head whenever she heard Katara singing praises about the latest painting Aang had just finished, or the beautiful photograph Sokka had captured of all of them laughing as a group, but then she discovered sculpture. An art she could appreciate from beneath her fingers, an art she could see by running her hands over it and feeling the crevices and curves and edges breathe themselves into life beneath her touch. Despite discovering the term for it late in life, Toph found that she’d actually been sculpting at a very young age. She’d been experimenting with PlayDoh and clay since before she could walk, but she’d never known that there was actually an art form in it that people did professionally until Aang had taken her to a museum and put her hands on a beautiful sculpture of an ancient Greek god. It was one of the only times she’d ever cried in her life, but those had been tears of pure joy- she didn’t want to sound like a sap, but she hadn’t realized that something so beautiful in the world existed until that life-changing moment at the museum. Sure, they’d been chased out by one particularly angry security guard who kept waving his baton around threateningly (‘can’t you two juveniles see that the sign clearly says no touching?!’ ‘actually sir, I’m blind so that would be a hard no’) but it had been worth it. Ever since then, Toph has been addicted to sculpting, feeling things take shape under her capable hands. She’s been told she can replicate faces with an accuracy that’s both astonishing and unnerving, despite not even being able to see (it only took a lot of years and  lot of hours spent tracing the lines of Aang’s face) and her work has been proudly displayed on Katara’s bedside table, Sokka’s desks and Aang’s shelves.

Suki is a martial arts instructor who has a degree in badassery. She started her own school at just fifteen years old, and named it the Kyoshi Warrior Academy, in honour of Kyoshi, her late martial arts instructor whom she had a deep respect for. She had black belt status in five different martial arts by the time she turned thirteen, and was a legend for her skill, hard work and talent in the martial arts community. She’s lost quite a few matches, but she’s more than made up for it with every win she’s achieved. The first time she met Sokka, she thought he was trying to steal from her, so she judo-flipped him, pinned him down and tied his wrists together, all of which took a maximum of three seconds. (‘wow, that’s kinky. so are you into that kind of thing?’ ‘shut up, asshole. what do you want from me? my wallet?’ ‘actually, I was going to ask you out on a date, but I mean sure, if you’re offering. I could use a little cash right about now, actually, because I think you just broke all the cards I have in my wallet when you body-slammed me to the ground, along with at least ten of my bones.’) Sokka had severely underestimated Suki’s skill at first, despite their rather unfortunate encounter (during which she actually had broken the bone in his arm, but he’d tried to wave it off and say that he didn’t mind, then subsequently screamed in pain because he’d tried to wave his broken arm), but he knew that he’d have to change his mindset in order to win her over. Eventually, he ended up changing his misogynistic mindset not only to go out with Suki, but because he realized that it was the right thing to do- something Katara was over the moon about. She and Suki have been joined at the hip ever since, and Sokka often jokes whether Suki is only dating him for his sister (‘damn, suki, it’s like you only come over for katara’ ... ‘wait. why aren’t any of you saying anything. katara did you just wink? sUKI DID YOU JUST KISS MY SISTER’S CHEEK-?! oh my god this is the worst betrayal I’ve experienced since toph said that she didn’t need to see my photographs in order to tell that they were ugly’). Jokes aside, Suki adores her boyfriend and his sister, and often teaches them self-defense in her free time. One of her best students is a girl named Ty Lee, who all her friends except Zuko seem to really hate for some reason. However, Ty Lee is a natural at self-defense and she and Suki get along like a house on fire. Katara still refuses point-blank to go to classes whenever Ty Lee is in attendance, but Suki has given up trying to understand why. In conclusion, Suki is one of those movie heroines who can munch a sandwich while apprehending twenty supervillains all twice her size, and still come out victorious.

Zuko is a theatre kid and aspiring actor. (Was anyone surprised by this, really?) His natural melodramatic emo kid personality makes him the perfect role for starring roles in school plays (at least, that’s what Azula always likes to say) and acting to him comes as naturally as breathing. He’s not-so-secretly a Shakespeare nerd and can literally recite Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet, two of his favourite plays, word for word. He also loves Hamilton and Dear Evan Hansen- and alright, maybe he also harbours a love for High School Musical (he’s never told anyone that, but everyone knows anyway because he made Azula suffer through all five movies with him which eventually led to her becoming so fed-up constantly belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs that she recorded the audio and sent it to everyone at school, including Mai, whom he couldn’t look in the eyes for a straight two weeks). Before his mother left them, she used to say that Zuko got his acting genes from her, because she used to play the lead role in Love Amongst The Dragons every year in her old high school. Zuko asked Ursa if that meant Azula got her dancing genes from Ozai, and they’d both have a quiet little laugh as they imagined Ozai trying to dance ballet. Although Zuko adores the drama and the poignant atmosphere that comes with performing Shakespeare’s plays, Love Amongst The Dragons holds the top spot for his favourite play by far. He goes to see it every time the ache for his mother is too painful to ignore- even though the new actors, a group called the Ember Island Players, all but butcher it every year- and sometimes, he’ll deceive himself into thinking that his mother’s somewhere in the audience too, watching the play right there with him like they used to do all the time. He once took Azula to see it with him, just like they used to do when their mother was with them, and Azula cried when he told her that the reason he liked it was because it reminded him of their mother. The sight of her crying was so unnerving that Zuko went alone after that. Azula never protested, though, or teased him for liking the play again.

Azula is a dancing prodigy. She specializes in ballet, but she also does contemporary and modern. She tried her hand at tap and jazz, and although she naturally excelled in it, as usual, she decided that it just wasn’t for her. At the age of fourteen, Azula is already a world-renowned dancer and has broken records and made history with how skilled she is at dancing. She moves her body so fluidly that it’s hard to believe she’s even a person and not just a wisp or smoke, delicately floating and twirling and twisting through the air. Azula has a lot of pent-up anger and frustration about having to constantly seem perfect all the time in order to make up for the failure that Zuko is, and she’s found that physical exercise- namely, dance- is the best way to relieve her stress. She also knows a fair bit of martial arts- out of everyone, she and Ty Lee are the only ones who have managed to defeat Suki at hand-to-hand combat. If asked about it, Suki will vehemently deny that such an incident ever happened, which only serves to amuse Azula further. Azula started ballet at age three and advanced much further and quicker than any of her peers, which incited a lot of jealousy and basically ensured that she had virtually no friends in the ballet community, but it wasn’t like she was particularly desperate for companionship in the first place. She’s so famous that she’s a verified account on Instagram with over a million followers- she does some spare modelling work on the side when she can, and her stunning looks combined with her raw talent have made her into one of the most unattainably perfect girls to ever rule Instagram. Somehow, her dancing doesn’t distract her from her grades, because she also has a stellar report card that’s displayed on the wall of her numerous trophies and awards she’s achieved over the years. (Zuko has a half-broken shelf that sports exactly two awards, and one is a certificate of participation.) Azula was born for the spotlight. Whenever she steps onto a stage, the room goes completely, eerily still, as if holding on to her every move. She’s one of the most beautiful dancers to ever perform, and audiences sing praises about her every twirl, her every arch, as if a single pirouette she’s executed is already perfect enough to win her ten awards. She’s mesmerizing on stage, and kind of terrifying in the way that one would find someone too perfect to be terrifying. Her every move is effortless, graceful, as if she’s a weightless feather drifting through the breeze. She’s incredibly captivating and is set to be one of history’s stars.

Mai is a musician/singer. Her parents were extremely traditional and gave her piano and violin lessons for her fifth birthday, but she actually ended up enjoying them a lot. She has a great voice, too, so she started a YouTube channel a while back that features her doing covers and singing her own original songs sometimes. It’s now amassed a few thousand followers. Zuko has an admittedly great voice, too, and sometimes she invites him to her channel and they do these amazing duets. All of their followers ship them together, but Mai always denies that she likes him, despite her cheeks always blushing a bright pink whenever he’s brought up on live-streams. Her parents don’t approve of her channel, which they only found out about because they were being overbearing and went through her phone yet again, and they want her to go to school to study business instead. Mai doesn’t plan on giving up on her YouTube channel anytime soon, though. Before she discovered singing, she was clearly passionless about most everything, but now that she has, it feels like a fire slowly consuming her from the inside out. And she kind of likes it, to be honest. It feels good to be so passionate about something, especially since Zuko likes it just as much as she does. She’ll never admit it, but she knows how to play quite a few My Chemical Romance and Panic! At The Disco songs on the piano (which Zuko absolutely loves her for, because he’s the picture perfect stereotype of an emo boy). Writing and singing songs provides her with some sort of cathartic relief that she can’t really obtain from anywhere else. She’s incredibly musically talented, and was playing grade eight piano material at just eleven years old. She taught herself the guitar and the harp after her parents refused to give her any more lessons for fear that she would become too invested in music (Asian parents, y’all- they provide you with piano lessons but expect you to become a doctor or a lawyer because God forbid you pursue a career in music despite having studied it since you were five) and refuse to pursue a career in business.

Ty Lee is a gymnast. She tried ballet along with Azula, but didn’t like the discipline it took and ran out of patience with all the tedious instructions necessary to follow along with the class, finding that gymnastics was more to her liking. However, she and Azula make an awesome duo whenever they showcase their talents together. Ty Lee’s actually so good that trainees are already speculating that she could achieve a spot on her country’s national gymnastics team. She can do backflips, handstands, cartwheels and splits on a beam one after the other without even needing to catch her breath, and she’s impossibly fit. She loves crop tops- she thinks they show off her figure, which is nearly unattainable for most people. She’s also naturally talented at martial arts, and Suki frequently tells her that she learns faster than Suki can teach. She’s done every form of gymnastics imaginable- rhythmic, acrobatic, artistic- you name it, she’s done it. Originally she only took an interest in it because Azula begged her to join ballet with her, and Ty Lee found that she did like the strenuous physical exertion that ballet entailed, but everything just moved too slowly for her. Ty Lee likes fast-paced action, so gymnastics is the perfect fit for her. Sometimes, Azula will teach her some new ballet moves she learnt in class, and in return, Ty Lee will teach Azula a few gymnastics moves she invented by herself after following the standard textbook forms grew too boring. They once entered a talent show together and blew the crowd away with Azula’s captivating dancing and Ty Lee’s breathtaking gymnastics.

[lovehoperomance]

Confessions Of A Fic Writer

Hey guys, I’m taking a break from editing my latest Larry fic (MrsStylinson on ao3) and I need a distraction so I decided to conduct my own interview...of myself. But it’s basically a quiz and anyone can reblog and use :) Tag your fave authors if you wish.

1. Fandom(s)/Main ships(s). 1D. Larry. I have others but this is the only one I feel compelled to write about.

2. Favourite trope. It’s probably a tie between enemies to lovers and friends to lovers. So I guess that probably means my true favourite is slow burn!

3. Favourite fic idea that you’re yet to write. Mongrels to Men. Sort of like ladette to lady or ladettes to ladies or whatever it's called. So like Louis would be a promiscuous party boy type with like substandard manners. And for whatever reason his mum signs him up and Harry is like his mentor and has to teach him to be all posh and stately and Louis just makes fun of him and ends up teaching Harry to loosen up. And it involves some kind of makeover scene/bit

4. Favourite one of your fics. This is also tough because I’m so critical and I hate everything I write hahah. But maybe my Bridget Jones’ Diary AU? You Drive Me Crazy (But It Feels Alright). I feel like that one had a more fleshed out voice. The characters were well formed (possibly because of all the help I had from the original). My drunk in love fic comes close and I have a lot of love for two of my WIP’s when I don’t think about the lack of attention they’ve garnered but yeah, basically I hate everything.

4. Favourite fic by someone else/Fave author. I am making this so tough on myself because I have so many favourites. @cherrystreet’s bachelor fic (This Wicked Game) is a huge one. I never get sick of it. I love @all-these-larrythings (reaverview dreamer on ao3) and the medium fics by deathchamber on ao3. There’s so many more: (whoknows on ao3 whose tumblr I found but can’t manage to link or @louiswolves: grapenight on ao3 whose fic featuring a cat is an absolute must.) But I digress.

5. The first fic I ever read: I don’t remember this. I think it was a supernatural one and I wasn’t too keen but after being introduced to a YouTube compilation of Larry, I read a fic where Louis played soccer and Harry was a popstar and Louis proposes at a game at the end (I cannot find the name of it. I don’t know if it’s been deleted or if I’m an idiot because I’m pretty sure it’s a hugely popular fic.) I remember bawling my eyes out and after that, I never really went back to het romance. Not long after I started writing myself.

6. If someone could write YOU your dream fic, what would it be? I think it would definitely be a slow burn (surprise) with plenty of angst, plenty of fluff and plenty of smut towards the end. I would LOVE to read another bachelor fic but I just love really specific ones, maybe cause it’s something I struggle to write. I love fics based on movies or a really particular area of knowledge.

7. If you had to sum up your writing style in three words, what would they be? Descriptive. Emotional. Angsty. Is that the same as emotional? Okay. Descriptive, emotional and....poetic. It was really hard to come up with positive ones tbh.

8. What is your favourite thing about being a fic writer? The appreciation from my readers. When someone lets me know that something I wrote connected with them or made them smile, I feel like I have a very special power that not everyone has.

9. What is your least favourite thing about being a fic writer? The pressure. The insecurity. The hours spent working without pay hahah. Just kidding. I do enjoy it and I’m not skilled enough to get paid for it anyway.

10. If you could give any advice to your past self or to people thinking of trying out fic writing, what would it be? Well I’m not really qualified but i’m interviewing myself as if I were a success so, to my past self, I would say...stop trying to find a million different ways to say blue or green eyes. (I’m still guilty of this but I’m getting better.) Edit more and use flowery language less. Find active verbs and metaphors instead of more adjectives and adverbs. Remember to show not tell!! To other future writers, I’d say remember to write what you love, not what you think other people will love. This is how the best stuff comes out. If other people don’t like it, remember that writing, like art, thrives on your sole purpose/happiness and wastes away when you’re dissastisfied. Also, inspiration is endless! I often get writer’s block but I’m slowly learning to look for cues in new places.

11. What inspires you to write? And what other forms or genres do you write in? I’m inspired to write by the complexity of human emotion and human struggle. Having suffered from some illness or another, be it physical or mental, since I was a young teen, I am always conscious of our ability to survive and for me, there is no greater way to honour my own survival than to follow my passion and write romance. I mostly write romance but I have dabbled in thrillers and dirty realism. I also write in the form of poetry and short opinion pieces aka rants.

12. Why do you think fanfiction has become such a phenomenon?

think it’s because we live in an age of information overload where we’re always able to get our hands on more of the things we love. However, when it comes to characters, those die with the final line in a novel or the final line in a television series. Fanfiction resurrects them. As for fics based on real people, I think it’s just a form of escapsim. Sometimes you see two people who seem like they’d be absolutely perfect together and the fantasy is more enjoyable than the reality.

[kukuandkookie]

So, I'm making a story which may or may not be a remake of a old story I made, but with a new setting, new characters, a different tone, and a new storyline. Any writing tips?

Ahhh first off, I just wanted to say how honoured I am that you’d feel like asking me for writing tips! And I must also apologize if this is at all late, since Tumblr has this bad habit of not really notifying me when someone sends me an ask. PS: This might get long ahaha. I tend to ramble a lot. 😅

My first piece of advice is to read and study what you read! I often get inspired by a good book after I’ve finished reading and begin itching to write, but I actually learned how to write stories by imitating the Warriors series when I was a kid. 

I’d also highly recommend studying grammar. Not so much so that it becomes boring and no fun, but enough that it doesn’t hinder your story. Bad grammar or spelling doesn’t usually ruin a story unless it’s really bad, but it can pull someone out of your story. When reading over my classmates’ works, I usually found they worked quite well when read out loud, but reading it over myself caused me to spot those sort of grammatical errors and it would draw me out of the atmosphere they were creating for their story.

And on the topic of atmosphere, it is important to set the scene and also describe things, but definitely don’t go overboard. It often comes off as pretentious or cumbersome, breaking the flow of writing. I do describe certain things while writing, but I usually focus more on dialogue.

When it comes to dialogue, every character has their own voice, so they won’t all sound the same! Make sure to tag their dialogue with variety as well (like, don’t constantly use “he said, she said”). Try looking at other novels. Sometimes authors use “cried, scolded, screeched, begged,” etc). Sometimes they don’t use any dialogue tags at all so as not to break the flow of dialogue.

For example, this is a piece from the chapter I’m currently writing:

Or for something more casual:

The second one had four voices going on, but hopefully the voices flowed naturally enough and it wasn’t too confusing who’s who. If flow is hard to tell, you can try reading it out loud; it’ll also help you pick up on repetition.

Repeating something can be really good for dramatic effect, but too much repetition can also be bad. This is something I’ve had drilled into me by my English teachers since high school. Seeing the same few words a thousand times isn’t very interesting, so try to vary your vocabulary! There’s a whole internet out there to help you find the right words (for example, instead of always writing “angry,” you can look up “angry synonyms”).

Fictional writing, or creative nonfiction, is also where you can break a few rules of English for more dramatic flair. For example, there’s no need to always have full sentences. An incomplete sentence will stand out. 

Definitely be sure to vary sentence length so not everything looks the same. And every time a new action/piece of dialogue happens, it’s a general rule to start a new line.

I like keeping certain things about my characters and world vague and versatile so that I can play around with it more, although I know worldbuilding and detailed characters are important to many writers. It’s okay if your characters start off a little flat—the more you write for them, the more their personality will come alive and have proper depth. 

Sometimes I make a character because I feel like it and I give them a name I just feel like fits. I once made a character with curly brown hair and green eyes and randomly named him Ross, but I eventually incorporated the meaning of his name into his backstory (promontory or headland). He evolved while writing from a more cocky character to someone who is kind and quiet, but stubborn, distant, and has trouble getting over the past.

Of course writing characters also depends on your style. I have a friend who enjoys picking meaningful names for their characters, and there are authors who like to write down all the personality traits, flaws, and strengths right away. I prefer going with the flow, which I find isn’t a bad place to start, but the other way isn’t bad at all!

I usually like fleshing out the backstories for all of my characters, probably more than things like height or birthday. And that’s mostly because every person has their own story and their own scars, so it can affect them in different ways. Even flat characters I first develop just to be a villain often end up becoming more sympathetic later because I decided to focus on their backstories.

And of course we know everyone says “don’t write a Mary Sue!” but characters that seem pretty perfect can still come off as flawed and likeable. Not writing a Mary Sue doesn’t mean writing someone who is boring or terrible at everything or horrible to everyone—there is often a reason the hero is the one with some form of hidden skill or talent.

I’m going to pull on the character of my current obsessions as an example: Wei Wuxian from the novel Mo Dao Zu Shi. He’s intelligent, heroic, kind, and powerful, but such good things can also be translated into bad ones. Flaws are often exaggerations of positives. So for example, even though Wei Wuxian is intelligent, he’s still brash and reckless. He’s heroic, but this translates into a hero complex with impulsiveness, a lack of foresight, and can drive other people away. His kindness can turn into rage or self-sacrifice, and his power makes him arrogant.

Like with the thing on Mary Sues, try not to always worry about avoiding clichés or tropes. It’s good to avoid them, but they’re also staples of writing for a reason, and people do like what’s familiar (in my Film Studies classes, we describe movie tastes as “people want to see what they’re familiar with, but with something unfamiliar sprinkled in”). So it’s okay to use clichés/tropes sometimes, but don’t rely too much on them or your story will feel generic. Add your own twist!

But speaking of twists, don’t try and shock your readers with plot twists out of nowhere. Don’t panic if a reader picks up on your clues and then change the twist to something that doesn’t make sense just to shock the reader. This often cheats people of their experience. If they guess your plot twist, it can mean you laid down the right clues! But if you really want to shock them, try to drop enough hints for the new twist so it makes sense. For example, I find Coco’s plot twist much more sensible than Frozen’s.

Oh, and try not to worry too much about things like Chekhov’s gun. I had a Writing prof ask us to keep it in mind, but I find it more applicable to short stories, and that’s because it started as a rule for theatre. If you show a gun in your play, it should be used later by a character as a sort of payoff. In a longer story, this is less relevant as not every prop has to be important. Still, if you focus a lot on a particular thing, you should probably go back and explain it later. 

I have a bad habit of sometimes mentioning things that seem important to characters at the time and totally forgetting it later until I reread old chapters. For example, I had one character who doesn’t have his mom with him anymore be interested in a ring box in one chapter, but I forgot about it for awhile. I later explained that it was his mom’s wedding ring, which is why he cared about it so much.

I do often get lucky, as my two long-term stories (one that’s close to being wrapped up and one that’s already finished) have both filled most plot points sometimes by chance. I usually just start writing without a real idea of where I’m going—sometimes the stuff I write just establishes characters or their backstories—but they usually start forming into a proper plot later on when I’ve established more characters and backstories and figure out where I want the climax to go.

I’m not saying that my way is the right or only way though! It helps a lot of authors to map everything out from the very beginning. I just find certain plot points change as my writing improves, so I start off with less plan but usually end up coming up with a proper story bible for me to follow as I write. Research and planning, at the end of the day, are still really helpful!

The hardest problem with writing is that we need our readers to care. If they don’t care, then the thing you work painstakingly on won’t feel as rewarding. And it’s easier to have people care when your characters/plot/world are interesting, feel real, and are likeable (or at least have a “love to hate” thing going on for them). Not every character needs to be tragic and edgy—most people recommend against this—but they can still be sympathetic. Sometimes though, characters are just villains or just background characters, and that’s fine too! 

Plus everyone has different tastes, so it’s never guaranteed everyone will like your story—but then again, it’s no guarantee everyone won’t like it either!

I hope all of that helps, and that I haven’t scared you off with my ranting! Writing is a world of infinite possibilities, and I find it easier to test more of those possibilities than with drawing. At the end of the day, don’t forget to write for yourself and write what you also like. Improvement comes with practice, after all!

[homespork-review]

Spork Introduction

CHEL: Hi! I go by Chel, they or she pronouns, and I’m the one spearheading this project. I still like at least a fair percentage of Homestuck, but after the ending disappointed me a great deal, I got bitter, and when Hussie pissed me off further by Godwinning himself, I decided to do something about it. I’m no longer angry about it, but I felt I’d benefit from picking out what I hate from what I love so I can focus on the latter without annoyance getting in the way, and also to benefit my own writing efforts.

BRIGHT: Howdy! I’m Bright, and I got into Homestuck fairly recently. After ploughing through the archive and digesting for a while, I realised that I was thoroughly annoyed by how something enjoyable had fallen apart so comprehensively. I am looking forward to the time-honoured practice of ripping the story apart to identify its weak points and shout at them.

FAILURE ARTIST: Hello, I’m Failure Artist (call me FA for short), she/her/herself pronouns, and I’m so old-school they burned the school down. I was introduced to Homestuck via Something Awful’s Webcomic thread. I checked the old mspadventures.com site and the latest update was [S] John: Bite Apple. After watching that bizarre piece of animation, I had to know what the hell happened before then. I found I enjoyed the wit of the comic though I didn’t really care much about the plot. It was only when Act 5 came around that I became a serious fan. I currently have 122 Homestuck works on Archive of Our Own. I have a lot of free time, you see. I am very disappointed in how Homestuck ended. Possibly there was no completely satisfactory way it could end but it still could have been better. I feel like Hussie was a juggler who threw a lot of balls into the air and ignored them as they fell to the ground and some fans think not catching them was a master move since you’d expect he’d try to catch at least one. Sadly, lots of the problems with the ending are embedded deep within the canon.

TIER: Hi hi. I am Tier, a very late newcomer to the wonderful world of Homestuck (2018 reader!) and average fan overall. I love this webcomic to bits, but the low points are deep and I enjoy seeking out what the heck went wrong. Not particularly analytical myself, hope that's cool!

CHEL: Cool by us! We’ve already done plenty of analysing before we started, as you may realise from my Tumblr’s “homestuck ending hate” tag (at @chelonianmobile).

FAILURE ARTIST: But let’s put that aside for a moment and talk about the good stuff. 

Homestuck is incredibly innovative. It is the first true webcomic. It’s not just a print comic posted online. It uses not just still images and words but also animation, music, and interactive games.

Homestuck is the latest adventure in the series MS Paint Adventures. MS Paint Adventures started as a forum adventure. In forum adventures, the OP acts as a sort of Dungeon Master and other forum members give them prompts. Andrew Hussie’s previous works under MS Paint Adventures were Jailbreak (which is little more than Hussie dicking with the prompters in scatological ways), Bard’s Quest (Choose-your-own-adventure), and the actually-completed Problem Sleuth. Problem Sleuth lacks the music and animation and despite the weird physics shenanigans is a simpler story than Homestuck. The characters aren’t even two dimensional.

Homestuck (and the previous MS Paint Adventures minus Bard’s Quest) are set up like adventure games. Adventure games are where the player is a protagonist in a story and are usually focused on puzzle-solving though sometimes there’s combat. In the beginning, these games were purely text. The player would type what they wanted to do and the game would spout back text describing it - assuming the computer parser understood you.

CHEL: Oh god, I HATED that. I wasn’t around for the heyday but I’ve played a couple and

Pale Luna

was barely an exaggeration (horror warning).

FAILURE ARTIST: As graphics improved, adventure games started using them, but the commands were still in text. Only later was the point-and-click interface created and players didn’t have to guess what exact sentence the computer wanted them to type. Homestuck and the other MS Paint Adventures play with that frustration while paying tribute to the genre. The game within the comic uses RPG elements but the comic itself is set up like those good ol’ adventure games. In the beginning, Homestuck was guided by commands from forum members. Even after he closed the suggestion box, he used memes and fanon created by readers.

CHEL: How good an idea this was varies, as we’ll be showing.

We probably don’t need to describe Homestuck much more. Everyone here who hasn’t read it will doubtless have heard of it. Almost everyone with a Tumblr will have seen fanart, almost anyone at a convention will have seen cosplay. Shoutouts have been made to it in professional works such as the cartoon Steven Universe, and the Avengers fandom latched onto “caw caw motherfuckers” as a catchphrase for Hawkeye to the point that it’s now often forgotten it didn’t originate from there.

FAILURE ARTIST: The Homestuck fandom term “sadstuck” for depressing stories/headcanons somehow leaked into other fandoms. Using second-person is actually cool now and not just for awkward reader fics. Astrology will never be the same again.

CHEL: Now, in the interests of fairness, we will say that when Homestuck is good, it’s amazing, and it’s good often. The characters at least start out appealing and are all immediately distinguishable; even with the typing quirks stripped, it’s easy to tell who said what. The magic system is one of the coolest I’ve ever seen, who doesn’t love classpecting themselves and their faves? Hussie also shows a lot of talent for the complex meta and time travel weirdness, and it is fascinating to watch a timeline thread unfurl. And whatever else one says, it’s a fascinating story that’s captivated millions. I think it is deserving of its title as a modern classic.

However, as the years have passed, we have ended up noticing problems, big and small, and they nagged at us until we decided it had to be dissected. Our intention here isn’t to tear apart something we loathe entirely. It’s to take a complex work and pick out what works from what doesn’t. As I said, when Homestuck is good, it’s very very good. But when it’s bad, we get problems of every scale from various offensive comments to dragging pace to characters ignoring problems and solutions right under their noses to an absolute collapse of every theme and statement the comic stood for before.

The comic is ludicrously long; eight thousand pages, or thereabouts, to be specific. Officially one of the longest works of fiction in the English language, in fact. Naturally, we can’t riff that word by word in any timeframe short of decades, and we can’t include every picture, even if that was permitted under copyright law. Instead, as comics have been done here before, we’ll recap most of the time, and include sections of dialogue and pictures when particularly relevant to a point.

Here are the counts we’ll be using, possibly to be added to later if we find we forgot anything. Most of these counts will only start to climb post-Act 5, but we’ll be keeping track of them from the beginning. Most of them could have been fixed with a decent editor, which is sadly a hazard of webcomics, but still frustrating to read.

TIER: Note: we started this endeavor months before the thought of a "technically not but still we'll count it" set of canon epilogues were a twinkle in the eyes of the fandom. That is, by the way, a whole 'nother can of worms that will be dealt with at a later date if that ever comes around. We're judging Homestuck the Webcomic as a whole, so no after the credits stuff is to be noted for whatever reason.

ALL THE LUCK - Vriska Serket constantly gets a pass or gets favored over every other character. This count is added to every time she pulls some shenanigans with which others wouldn’t get away. ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY? - Sometimes it’s not entirely clear whether a thing is supposed to be taken seriously or not. We don’t require hand-holding through every joke, but when, for example, we’re supposed to take one instance of violence seriously while a similar case is supposed to be funny, this count goes up. CALL CPA PLEASE - Instances of creepy sexual behaviour (and perhaps particularly gratuitous acts of violence) from the thirteen-year-old cast. Now, mileage may vary on this one. We won’t pretend that thirteen-year-olds are perfect pure angels, especially thirteen-year-olds growing up in what is openly supposed to be a nightmarish dystopia. However, when full pages focus on said behaviour, there comes a point of it being very uncomfortable to read. Clarification: does not refer to cases where the adults do something heinous, this is strictly when the kids do. CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS - When an offensive joke or comment is made, particularly when not justified by the personality of the character involved, or presented in the narration as being okay. GET ON WITH IT! - When the pace drags. ‘Nuff said. Hazard of the format, but it makes archive bingeing very annoying. GORE GALORE - For unnecessary and/or excessive torture porn which is treated less seriously because it features troll characters, and therefore less “realistic” blood colours. HOW NOT TO WRITE A WEBCOMIC - When the comic does something mentioned in How Not To Write A Novel, and it isn’t justified by the webcomic format. HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING - Characters repeatedly neglect to do something about or even react to terrible happenings, either because they don’t care even if they should or they forget they have the capacity. Not necessarily anything to do with their magical powers, either - characters ignore personal problems that are right under their noses, too. IN HATE WITH MY CREATION - For reasons that are unclear, Hussie chose to create characters he apparently hated writing, or at least ignored in favour of others. Every time he’s clearly disrespecting one of his own characters, this goes up, whether it’s by nerfing their powers or changing their personalities. RELATIONSHIP GOALS? - Romantic relationships in particular get fumbled quite often. Ship Teasing is used with skill, but that skill tends to be lost when the characters actually hook up. Fumbled friendships and family relations can also come under this heading. SEND THEM TO THE SLAMMER - When characters other than Vriska get away with something morally questionable. Covers everything from sexual harassment to not trying to save people from the apocalypse. SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS - Later on in Homestuck’s run, Hussie tried to make up for the offensive humour and casual -isms counted by Clockwork Problematykks above. How successful he was at this varied. This count goes up whenever an attempt at progressivism is waved in front of the reader but doesn’t stand up under scrutiny. WHAT IS HAPPENING?? - When the already confusing plot kicks it up a notch. Admittedly this is as much a selling point of the comic as it is an issue, but either way, we’re going to keep track. Points will be added to when it gets confusing, and taken away when a previous confusing thing is explained adequately. WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM - What is shown about Alternia repeatedly contradicts what we’re told about how different it is from Earth. For example, trolls still use heteronormative terms even after it’s established they reproduce bisexually, and the demonstration of the class structure doesn’t always add up. This count goes up every time that happens. It also goes up every time something happens which strongly implies Hussie was envisioning the human kids as white, despite his later claims that they were always supposed to be “aracial”, and every time their economic statuses don’t add up either.

[ughgclden]

it happens, bee, that i might talk too much for my own good, however, if i had a novel to give you, i would, and i’d do my best to make every line make you feel seen and important, as you make me feel.

however, i will say that drowsy ramblings from you sound like nothing short of lovely, and nothing close to torture, but then again, as your love language is tea, mine is half coherent conversations until the time of night when it’s technically morning, early if you’re waking up, late if you’re staying up, until your voices start to give way to sleep and overuse. for some reason, i feel there’s no better time to know a person than then.

also, incidentally, how do you take your coffee? and i hope you know this isn’t how i write when i’m anything short of six (maybe more…) cups in for the day. i’ve got a lovely (codependent) relationship with caffeine

i think if that honour were to be bestowed upon me, i’d accept it, and do my best to be worthy of it, and be the kind of teacher i would want, with open dialogue, etc. someone who encourages creative thought instead of stifling it. you know by now just how much i can write about nothing, give me a topic, give me creative freedom, i’ll write you a 13 page paper (true story, happened once, my teacher had to enforce page limits after that) but then take it away, you’ll get two and a half at best. and it’s never writing i’m proud of. which is why i think creative freedom is important to me. some minds just can’t be restricted and you aren’t letting them work properly in rigidity. (general you, not you, i’m nothing short of certain you’d be a keating in your own right)

as for falling closer to remus, that’s lovely, honestly, and i find it amusing (although i can be something like remus in my own way) that we’ve found another way to complement each other. and yes absolutely, maybe the hot villain could kill me, but that’s part of the appeal. hold a knife against my throat while pushing me against a wall and i’m yours /j

speaking just to speak is one of my favourite things about the human condition, truthfully, that we don’t always need to make ourselves important, that we let ourselves be human every so often.

i appreciate the offer/sentiment of fighting anyone who has hurt me, but i don’t know where half of them are anymore, and the day i move to wales or new york, they’ll all be behind me.

i’m glad i can make the mundane feel for you as you do for me, less mundane, more like something that is beautiful and somehow unearthly, even being naturally earthen. and bee, always, you are welcome to tell me about the little things, anything you like, i’m always here to listen.

regarding such, your post from last night, please know that even though you feel as if your blog has gone downhill, i still get so happy seeing your user across my dash, even if it’s something for a fandom i’m not in yet (six of crows) or it’s a charlie dalton headcanon post, because if i’m being honest, i followed you for what i gathered to be your character (i now know i was right) and not for your content, not to say i don’t love it, i do, but i would like you to know that at least i have no expectations from you to perform or put out certain things here.

i hope you have a wonderful day, bee, a day filled with at least one genuine smile, and a mug of something warm that makes you happy, a day with little miracles and as few trials as the world can grant.

all my love,

star✨

it seems we're one and the same, i'm constantly talking faster than my brain moves, which probably explains why i'm not so good at talking at all. you are the absolute sweetest, star.

im internally melting over the fact you remembered my love language is tea??? imdhjhgknf okay heart malfunctioning- i couldn't agree more though. i think my favourite moments with people have been when we were talking late in the night, slightly delirious from lack of sleep. it's always when people are at their softest, yet most honest.

i have one sugar, a shit ton of coffee, and lil dash of milk - as long as it's strong and sweet, i'll drink it. how do you take yours love? i'm with you, i run off of caffeine. six cups however is impressive. fun fact! i actually cannot function without a cup of tea or coffee as soon as i wake up - it makes me drowsy and confused for the whole day. saying that, i've just downed an entire cup of coffee and am now incredibly tired - not sure how that works.

i know for a fact you'd be an amazing teacher and would encourage your students to do great things - stifling kids imaginations is possibly the worst, most backwards thing to come out of education. getting a teacher to enforce a page limit is actually impressive, i'm proud of you for that.

we really do, don't we? not only do i have the neil to my todd, but the sirius to my remus. what's next? /hj. if a villain wants to hold their blade to my throat, i may just propose right there. as a person who desperately craves a sword, villains are my everything. although the sword thing also links in with my intense love of narnia (yes i'm still a child at heart)

i'm so so glad you understand - as someone who avidly romanticises everything just to get through the day, getting to tell others about my small endeavours makes my heart happy. sadly i can't really think of what i've done today, apart from drinking numerous cups of tea and coffee. what about you, how has today been treating you love?

that means. so so much. honestly star, i can't even begin to explain. i won't burden you with all of my worries and insecurities about this blog/my followers perceptions of me, but hearing you followed for my character is one of the nicest things i could have ever been told.

i'm sending you all of my love, star. keep being you <3

[bennettmarko]

Fiction and Identity Politics

I hate to disappoint you folks, but unless we stretch the topic to breaking point this address will not be about “community and belonging.” In fact, you have to hand it to this festival’s organisers: inviting a renowned iconoclast to speak about “community and belonging” is like expecting a great white shark to balance a beach ball on its nose. The topic I had submitted instead was “fiction and identity politics,” which may sound on its face equally dreary.

But I’m afraid the bramble of thorny issues that cluster around “identity politics” has got all too interesting, particularly for people pursuing the occupation I share with many gathered in this hall: fiction writing. Taken to their logical conclusion, ideologies recently come into vogue challenge our right to write fiction at all. Meanwhile, the kind of fiction we are “allowed” to write is in danger of becoming so hedged, so circumscribed, so tippy-toe, that we’d indeed be better off not writing the anodyne drivel to begin with.

Let’s start with a tempest-in-a-teacup at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. Earlier this year, two students, both members of student government, threw a tequila-themed birthday party for a friend. The hosts provided attendees with miniature sombreros, which—the horror— numerous partygoers wore. When photos of the party circulated on social media, campus-wide outrage ensued. Administrators sent multiple emails to the “culprits” threatening an investigation into an “act of ethnic stereotyping.” Partygoers were placed on “social probation,” while the two hosts were ejected from their dorm and later impeached. Bowdoin’s student newspaper decried the attendees’ lack of “basic empathy.”

The student government issued a “statement of solidarity” with “all the students who were injured and affected by the incident,” and demanded that administrators “create a safe space for those students who have been or feel specifically targeted.” The tequila party, the statement specified, was just the sort of occasion that “creates an environment where students of colour, particularly Latino, and especially Mexican, feel unsafe.” In sum, the party-favour hats constituted �� wait for it – “cultural appropriation.”

Curiously, across my country Mexican restaurants, often owned and run by Mexicans, are festooned with sombreros – if perhaps not for long. At the UK’s University of East Anglia, the student union has banned a Mexican restaurant from giving out sombreros, deemed once more an act of “cultural appropriation” that was also racist.

Now, I am a little at a loss to explain what’s so insulting about a sombrero – a practical piece of headgear for a hot climate that keeps out the sun with a wide brim. My parents went to Mexico when I was small, and brought a sombrero back from their travels, the better for my brothers and I to unashamedly appropriate the souvenir to play dress-up. For my part, as a German-American on both sides, I’m more than happy for anyone who doesn’t share my genetic pedigree to don a Tyrolean hat, pull on some leiderhosen, pour themselves a weisbier, and belt out the Hoffbrauhaus Song.

But what does this have to do with writing fiction? The moral of the sombrero scandals is clear: you’re not supposed to try on other people’s hats. Yet that’s what we’re paid to do, isn’t it? Step into other people’s shoes, and try on their hats.

In the latest ethos, which has spun well beyond college campuses in short order, any tradition, any experience, any costume, any way of doing and saying things, that is associated with a minority or disadvantaged group is ring-fenced: look-but-don’t-touch. Those who embrace a vast range of “identities” – ethnicities, nationalities, races, sexual and gender categories, classes of economic under-privilege and disability – are now encouraged to be possessive of their experience and to regard other peoples’ attempts to participate in their lives and traditions, either actively or imaginatively, as a form of theft.

Yet were their authors honouring the new rules against helping yourself to what doesn’t belong to you, we would not have Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano. We wouldn’t have most of Graham Greene’s novels, many of which are set in what for the author were foreign countries, and which therefore have Real Foreigners in them, who speak and act like foreigners, too.

In his masterwork English Passengers, Matthew Kneale would have restrained himself from including chapters written in an Aboriginal’s voice – though these are some of the richest, most compelling passages in that novel. If Dalton Trumbo had been scared off of describing being trapped in a body with no arms, legs, or face because he was not personally disabled �� because he had not been through a World War I maiming himself and therefore had no right to “appropriate” the isolation of a paraplegic – we wouldn’t have the haunting 1938 classic, Johnny Got His Gun.

We wouldn’t have Maria McCann’s erotic masterpiece, As Meat Loves Salt – in which a straight woman writes about gay men in the English Civil War. Though the book is nonfiction, it’s worth noting that we also wouldn’t have 1961’s Black Like Me, for which John Howard Griffin committed the now unpardonable sin of “blackface.” Having his skin darkened – Michael Jackson in reverse – Griffin found out what it was like to live as a black man in the segregated American South. He’d be excoriated today, yet that book made a powerful social impact at the time.

The author of Who Owns Culture? Appropriation and Authenticity in American Law, Susan Scafidi, a law professor at Fordham University who for the record is white, defines cultural appropriation as “taking intellectual property, traditional knowledge, cultural expressions, or artifacts from someone else’s culture without permission. This can include unauthorised use of another culture’s dance, dress, music, language, folklore, cuisine, traditional medicine, religious symbols, etc.”

What strikes me about that definition is that “without permission” bit. However are we fiction writers to seek “permission” to use a character from another race or culture, or to employ the vernacular of a group to which we don’t belong? Do we set up a stand on the corner and approach passers-by with a clipboard, getting signatures that grant limited rights to employ an Indonesian character in Chapter Twelve, the way political volunteers get a candidate on the ballot? I am hopeful that the concept of “cultural appropriation” is a passing fad: people with different backgrounds rubbing up against each other and exchanging ideas and practices is self-evidently one of the most productive, fascinating aspects of modern urban life.

But this latest and little absurd no-no is part of a larger climate of super-sensitivity, giving rise to proliferating prohibitions supposedly in the interest of social justice that constrain fiction writers and prospectively makes our work impossible.

So far, the majority of these farcical cases of “appropriation” have concentrated on fashion, dance, and music: At the American Music Awards 2013, Katy Perry got it in the neck for dressing like a geisha. According to the Arab-American writer Randa Jarrar, for someone like me to practice belly dancing is “white appropriation of Eastern dance,” while according to the Daily Beast Iggy Azalea committed “cultural crimes” by imitating African rap and speaking in a “blaccent.”

The felony of cultural sticky fingers even extends to exercise: at the University of Ottawa in Canada, a yoga teacher was shamed into suspending her class, “because yoga originally comes from India.” She offered to re-title the course, “Mindful Stretching.” And get this: the purism has also reached the world of food. Supported by no less than Lena Dunham, students at Oberlin College in Ohio have protested “culturally appropriated food” like sushi in their dining hall (lucky cusses— in my day, we never had sushi in our dining hall), whose inauthenticity is “insensitive” to the Japanese.

Seriously, we have people questioning whether it’s appropriate for white people to eat pad Thai. Turnabout, then: I guess that means that as a native of North Carolina, I can ban the Thais from eating barbecue. (I bet they’d swap.) This same sensibility is coming to a bookstore near you. Because who is the appropriator par excellence, really? Who assumes other people’s voices, accents, patois, and distinctive idioms? Who literally puts words into the mouths of people different from themselves? Who dares to get inside the very heads of strangers, who has the chutzpah to project thoughts and feelings into the minds of others, who steals their very souls? Who is a professional kidnapper? Who swipes every sight, smell, sensation, or overheard conversation like a kid in a candy store, and sometimes take notes the better to purloin whole worlds? Who is the premier pickpocket of the arts? The fiction writer, that’s who.

This is a disrespectful vocation by its nature – prying, voyeuristic, kleptomaniacal, and presumptuous. And that is fiction writing at its best. When Truman Capote wrote from the perspective of condemned murderers from a lower economic class than his own, he had some gall. But writing fiction takes gall.

As for the culture police’s obsession with “authenticity,” fiction is inherently inauthentic. It’s fake. It’s self-confessedly fake; that is the nature of the form, which is about people who don’t exist and events that didn’t happen. The name of the game is not whether your novel honours reality; it’s all about what you can get away with.

In his 2009 novel Little Bee, Chris Cleave, who as it happens is participating in this festival, dared to write from the point of view of a 14-year-old Nigerian girl, though he is male, white, and British. I’ll remain neutral on whether he “got away with it” in literary terms, because I haven’t read the book yet.

But in principle, I admire his courage – if only because he invited this kind of ethical forensics in a review out of San Francisco: “When a white male author writes as a young Nigerian girl, is it an act of empathy, or identity theft?” the reviewer asked. “When an author pretends to be someone he is not, he does it to tell a story outside of his own experiential range. But he has to in turn be careful that he is representing his characters, not using them for his plot.” Hold it. OK, he’s necessarily “representing” his characters, by portraying them on the page. But of course he’s using them for his plot! How could he not? They are his characters, to be manipulated at his whim, to fulfill whatever purpose he cares to put them to.

This same reviewer recapitulated Cleave’s obligation “to show that he’s representing [the girl], rather than exploiting her.” Again, a false dichotomy. Of course he’s exploiting her. It’s his book, and he made her up. The character is his creature, to be exploited up a storm. Yet the reviewer chides that “special care should be taken with a story that’s not implicitly yours to tell” and worries that “Cleave pushes his own boundaries maybe further than they were meant to go.”

What stories are “implicitly ours to tell,” and what boundaries around our own lives are we mandated to remain within? I would argue that any story you can make yours is yours to tell, and trying to push the boundaries of the author’s personal experience is part of a fiction writer’s job.

I’m hoping that crime writers, for example, don’t all have personal experience of committing murder. Me, I’ve depicted a high school killing spree, and I hate to break it to you: I’ve never shot fatal arrows through seven kids, a teacher, and a cafeteria worker, either. We make things up, we chance our arms, sometimes we do a little research, but in the end it’s still about what we can get away with – what we can put over on our readers.

Because the ultimate endpoint of keeping out mitts off experience that doesn’t belong to us is that there is no fiction. Someone like me only permits herself to write from the perspective of a straight white female born in North Carolina, closing on sixty, able-bodied but with bad knees, skint for years but finally able to buy the odd new shirt. All that’s left is memoir.

And here’s the bugbear, here’s where we really can’t win. At the same time that we’re to write about only the few toys that landed in our playpen, we’re also upbraided for failing to portray in our fiction a population that is sufficiently various.

My most recent novel The Mandibles was taken to task by one reviewer for addressing an America that is “straight and white”. It happens that this is a multigenerational family saga – about a white family. I wasn’t instinctively inclined to insert a transvestite or bisexual, with issues that might distract from my central subject matter of apocalyptic economics. Yet the implication of this criticism is that we novelists need to plug in representatives of a variety of groups in our cast of characters, as if filling out the entering class of freshmen at a university with strict diversity requirements.

You do indeed see just this brand of tokenism in television. There was a point in the latter 1990s at which suddenly every sitcom and drama in sight had to have a gay or lesbian character or couple. That was good news as a voucher of the success of the gay rights movement, but it still grew a bit tiresome: look at us, our show is so hip, one of the characters is homosexual!

We’re now going through the same fashionable exercise in relation to the transgender characters in series like Transparent and Orange is the New Black. Fine. But I still would like to reserve the right as a novelist to use only the characters that pertain to my story.

Besides: which is it to be? We have to tend our own gardens, and only write about ourselves or people just like us because we mustn’t pilfer others’ experience, or we have to people our cast like an I’d like to teach the world to sing Coca-Cola advert?

For it can be dangerous these days to go the diversity route. Especially since there seems to be a consensus on the notion that San Francisco reviewer put forward that “special care should be taken with a story that’s not implicitly yours to tell.”

In The Mandibles, I have one secondary character, Luella, who’s black. She’s married to a more central character, Douglas, the Mandible family’s 97-year-old patriarch. I reasoned that Douglas, a liberal New Yorker, would credibly have left his wife for a beautiful, stately African American because arm candy of color would reflect well on him in his circle, and keep his progressive kids’ objections to a minimum. But in the end the joke is on Douglas, because Luella suffers from early onset dementia, while his ex-wife, staunchly of sound mind, ends up running a charity for dementia research. As the novel reaches its climax and the family is reduced to the street, they’re obliged to put the addled, disoriented Luella on a leash, to keep her from wandering off.

Behold, the reviewer in the Washington Post, who groundlessly accused this book of being “racist” because it doesn’t toe a strict Democratic Party line in its political outlook, described the scene thus: “The Mandibles are white. Luella, the single African American in the family, arrives in Brooklyn incontinent and demented. She needs to be physically restrained. As their fortunes become ever more dire and the family assembles for a perilous trek through the streets of lawless New York, she’s held at the end of a leash. If The Mandibles is ever made into a film, my suggestion is that this image not be employed for the movie poster.”

Your author, by implication, yearns to bring back slavery.

Thus in the world of identity politics, fiction writers better be careful. If we do choose to import representatives of protected groups, special rules apply. If a character happens to be black, they have to be treated with kid gloves, and never be placed in scenes that, taken out of context, might seem disrespectful. But that’s no way to write. The burden is too great, the self-examination paralysing. The natural result of that kind of criticism in the Post is that next time I don’t use any black characters, lest they do or say anything that is short of perfectly admirable and lovely.

In fact, I’m reminded of a letter I received in relation to my seventh novel from an Armenian-American who objected – why did I have to make the narrator of We Need to Talk About Kevin Armenian? He didn’t like my narrator, and felt that her ethnicity disparaged his community. I took pains to explain that I knew something about Armenian heritage, because my best friend in the States was Armenian, and I also thought there was something dark and aggrieved in the culture of the Armenian diaspora that was atmospherically germane to that book. Besides, I despaired, everyone in the US has an ethnic background of some sort, and she had to be something!

Especially for writers from traditionally privileged demographics, the message seems to be that it’s a whole lot safer just to make all your characters from that same demographic, so you can be as hard on them as you care to be, and do with them what you like. Availing yourself of a diverse cast, you are not free; you have inadvertently invited a host of regulations upon your head, as if just having joined the EU. Use different races, ethnicities, and minority gender identities, and you are being watched.

I confess that this climate of scrutiny has got under my skin. When I was first starting out as a novelist, I didn’t hesitate to write black characters, for example, or to avail myself of black dialects, for which, having grown up in the American South, I had a pretty good ear. I am now much more anxious about depicting characters of different races, and accents make me nervous.

In describing a second-generation Mexican American who’s married to one of my main characters in The Mandibles, I took care to write his dialogue in standard American English, to specify that he spoke without an accent, and to explain that he only dropped Spanish expressions tongue-in-cheek. I would certainly think twice – more than twice – about ever writing a whole novel, or even a goodly chunk of one, from the perspective of a character whose race is different from my own – because I may sell myself as an iconoclast, but I’m as anxious as the next person about attracting vitriol. But I think that’s a loss. I think that indicates a contraction of my fictional universe that is not good for the books, and not good for my soul.

Writing under the pseudonym Edward Schlosser on Vox, the author of the essay “I’m a Liberal Professor, and My Liberal Students Scare Me” describes higher education’s “current climate of fear” and its “heavily policed discourse of semantic sensitivity” – and I am concerned that this touchy ethos, in which offendedness is used as a weapon, has spread far beyond academia, in part thanks to social media.

Why, it’s largely in order to keep from losing my fictional mojo that I stay off Facebook and Twitter, which could surely install an instinctive self-censorship out of fear of attack. Ten years ago, I gave the opening address of this same festival, in which I maintained that fiction writers have a vested interest in protecting everyone’s right to offend others – because if hurting someone else’s feelings even inadvertently is sufficient justification for muzzling, there will always be someone out there who is miffed by what you say, and freedom of speech is dead. With the rise of identity politics, which privileges a subjective sense of injury as actionable basis for prosecution, that is a battle that in the decade since I last spoke in Brisbane we’ve been losing.

Worse: the left’s embrace of gotcha hypersensitivity inevitably invites backlash. Donald Trump appeals to people who have had it up to their eyeballs with being told what they can and cannot say. Pushing back against a mainstream culture of speak-no-evil suppression, they lash out in defiance, and then what they say is pretty appalling.

Regarding identity politics, what’s especially saddened me in my recent career is a trend toward rejecting the advocacy of anyone who does not belong to the group. In 2013, I published Big Brother, a novel that grew out of my loss of my own older brother, who in 2009 died from the complications of morbid obesity. I was moved to write the book not only from grief, but also sympathy: in the years before his death, as my brother grew heavier, I saw how dreadfully other people treated him – how he would be seated off in a corner of a restaurant, how the staff would roll their eyes at each other after he’d ordered, though he hadn’t requested more food than anyone else.

I was wildly impatient with the way we assess people’s characters these days in accordance with their weight, and tried to get on the page my dismay at how much energy people waste on this matter, sometimes anguishing for years over a few excess pounds. Both author and book were on the side of the angels, or so you would think.

But in my events to promote Big Brother, I started to notice a pattern. Most of the people buying the book in the signing queue were thin. Especially in the US, fat is now one of those issues where you either have to be one of us, or you’re the enemy. I verified this when I had a long email correspondence with a “Healthy at Any Size” activist, who was incensed by the novel, which she hadn’t even read. Which she refused to read. No amount of explaining that the novel was on her side, that it was a book that was terribly pained by the way heavy people are treated and how unfairly they are judged, could overcome the scrawny author’s photo on the flap.

She and her colleagues in the fat rights movement did not want my advocacy. I could not weigh in on this material because I did not belong to the club. I found this an artistic, political, and even commercial disappointment – because in the US and the UK, if only skinny-minnies will buy your book, you’ve evaporated the pool of prospective consumers to a puddle.

I worry that the clamorous world of identity politics is also undermining the very causes its activists claim to back. As a fiction writer, yeah, I do sometimes deem my narrator an Armenian. But that’s only by way of a start. Merely being Armenian is not to have a character as I understand the word.

Membership of a larger group is not an identity. Being Asian is not an identity. Being gay is not an identity. Being deaf, blind, or wheelchair-bound is not an identity, nor is being economically deprived. I reviewed a novel recently that I had regretfully to give a thumbs-down, though it was terribly well intended; its heart was in the right place. But in relating the Chinese immigrant experience in America, the author put forward characters that were mostly Chinese. That is, that’s sort of all they were: Chinese. Which isn’t enough.

I made this same point in relation to gender in Melbourne last week: both as writers and as people, we should be seeking to push beyond the constraining categories into which we have been arbitrarily dropped by birth. If we embrace narrow group-based identities too fiercely, we cling to the very cages in which others would seek to trap us. We pigeonhole ourselves. We limit our own notion of who we are, and in presenting ourselves as one of a membership, a representative of our type, an ambassador of an amalgam, we ask not to be seen.

The reading and writing of fiction is obviously driven in part by a desire to look inward, to be self-examining, reflective. But the form is also born of a desperation to break free of the claustrophobia of our own experience. The spirit of good fiction is one of exploration, generosity, curiosity, audacity, and compassion. Writing during the day and reading when I go to bed at night, I find it an enormous relief to escape the confines of my own head. Even if novels and short stories only do so by creating an illusion, fiction helps to fell the exasperating barriers between us, and for a short while allows us to behold the astonishing reality of other people.

The last thing we fiction writers need is restrictions on what belongs to us. In a recent interview, our colleague Chris Cleave conceded, “Do I as an Englishman have any right to write a story of a Nigerian woman? … I completely sympathise with the people who say I have no right to do this. My only excuse is that I do it well.”

Which brings us to my final point. We do not all do it well. So it’s more than possible that we write from the perspective of a one-legged lesbian from Afghanistan and fall flat on our arses. We don’t get the dialogue right, and for insertions of expressions in Pashto we depend on Google Translate. Halfway through the novel, suddenly the protagonist has lost the right leg instead of the left one. Our idea of lesbian sex is drawn from wooden internet porn. Efforts to persuasively enter the lives of others very different from us may fail: that’s a given. But maybe rather than having our heads taken off, we should get a few points for trying. After all, most fiction sucks. Most writing sucks. Most things that people make of any sort suck. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make anything.

The answer is that modern cliché: to keep trying to fail better. Anything but be obliged to designate my every character an ageing five-foot-two smartass, and having to set every novel in North Carolina.

We fiction writers have to preserve the right to wear many hats – including sombreros.

This is the full transcript of the keynote speech, Fiction and Identity Politics, Lionel Shriver gave at the Brisbane Writers Festival on 8 September.

[slaymefilia]

The 100 Year Quest (NaLu Day)

Summary: Two months into their 100 year quest, one question had always clogged Lucy's mind. A question that could only be resolved by one person. Finally having a time left alone with her thoughts, Lucy can't help but allow her heart to take control of her mind. (Happy NaLu Day!)

Pairing: NaLu (Natsu & Lucy)

Word Count: 3002

A/N: Happy NaLu Day everyone! I wanted to write something special to commemorate the day, hope you enjoy! <3

The orange glow of the sun was just beginning to descend over the hilltops as Team Natsu settled down for the evening. It had been around two months since the team ventured out on their one hundred year quest, and they were enjoying every minute of it. In the mornings, Team Natsu would arise just as the sun did, much to the dismay of Natsu and Happy, and set off just after eating. Along the way they'd most likely find their way to a new town where Erza would stock up on supplies and weapons, Gray, Wendy and Carla went to get food, and Lucy would make sure Natsu and Happy stayed out of trouble. As evening struck, the seven of them would either stay at a local inn, or camp out in a forest.

It had been such a painfully long time since Team Natsu had gone on a proper job. Everything was so manic as the war ended. Months were spent rebuilding the guild hall after almost wrecking it even more during their end of war party. Jobs picked up on the request board, but incredibly slowly since most of Fiore were busy rebuilding towns and houses; no one really had time to work or send work out. Once the guild had been rebuilt, Lucy spent a lot of time working on her novel, something she'd been trying to do for years. Natsu and Happy were... fairly helpful. There were times where Lucy would have gladly thrown a brick at them for intruding during her "in the zone" sessions therefore causing her to lose her focus, but even she couldn't deny their crazy antics occasionally gave her ideas for the story.

It was around eight months ago that she actually finished her novel and showed it to Jason. Miraculously, he got in touch with a publishing company without Lucy knowing and they offered to get her novel published! Of course she accepted and the whole guild threw a party that night in her honour. That was the one night Lucy had only positive thoughts, and absolutely nothing concerning the war snaked its way into her mind. Even her nightmares had stopped that night.

Around three months later, Lucy received a letter saying she'd been nominated for the Kemzareon Literature Award. It took her a while to explain to Natsu what that meant, but she was absolutely thrilled she'd even been nominated. The award ceremony was in a few weeks, and the letter claimed she could bring guests. So of course the entire guild tagged along on the terms, set by Lucy, that they were to behave. She should have known better. It was a rowdy night, Natsu didn't even turn up in a suit, Gray and Juvia were stripping, but Lucy won the award! No matter how embarrassed she was, Lucy couldn't be angry at her guild that night.

So now we arrive back to the present. Team Natsu set out on their hundred year quest the day after the awards ceremony, and had travelled to many new places all around Fiore. Granted, most of those places involved going on a train, but Natsu was far too excited about the quest to let his motion sickness bother him.

Natsu had set up the campfire just as the sun was setting, and the team shared dinner together, laughing about the day's antics as the sun descended and was replaced with the bright glowing orb of the moon and millions of twinkling stars dancing in the sky. Everyone was sound asleep, ready for the next day to be as good as the last; all except Lucy.

Lucy's brain was wiring out of control. A million thoughts were spinning through her head each second. The more she thought, the more the cogs in her brain span faster and faster and faster until her head hurt so bad it felt like her brain had been crushed to jelly. She'd been thinking about it ever since they left, but the beginning of the quest was so hectic she hardly had any time alone with just her and her thoughts.

All Lucy could think about, no matter how hard she tried, was the morning they left for the hundred year quest. All she could think about was what Natsu had said to her; "Because we'll be together forever from now on!"

What did that mean? One would have just assumed that he just meant they'd always be with each other because they're going on a one hundred year quest. But Lucy wasn't satisfied with that answer. There was something else. There was something more to the situation that no one but Lucy would be able to understand; because no one knew Natsu like Lucy did. He had been so serious that day, which was very unusual for the dragon slayer, and the way he leaned in, it was almost as if-

"Which one is that?" Lucy's heart sprang out of her chest at the sound of Natsu's voice. She clutched her chest, breathing heavily as Natsu took a seat next to her, crossing his legs.

"Don't do that, Natsu!" Lucy yelled, quiet enough so she wouldn't wake the others. "Which one is what?" she asked, calming her breathing.

Natsu pointed up to the sky. "Which constellation is that?"

Lucy blinked in surprise. "Since when have you been interested in stars and constellations?"

"Since now." Natsu answered simply, his arm still dangling in the air as he turned to face her.

The campfire was starting to go out, so Natsu's features were dimly lit. However Lucy was able to make out his dark onyx eyes as he gave her a questioning look. Lucy followed Natsu's finger, and she instantly recognised what he was pointing at.

"That's Canis Major." Natsu blinked twice, remaining silent as he waited for an explanation. Lucy sighed. "It means the greater dog."

"Isn't Plue the dog spirit?" Natsu lowered his arm.

"Plue's the little dog; Canis Minor."

Natsu's eyes grew wide, earning a concerned look from Lucy. "Wait. Are you trying to tell me that there's a giant Plue in the Celestial World?"

Lucy couldn't help but let a small laugh escape her lips. "Well, not-"

"Because that is amazing!" Natsu exclaimed, eyes glittering like a child on Christmas morning.

Natsu wasn't the brightest of the bunch, bless him, but sometimes Lucy didn't know whether to laugh or be concerned at his dense nature.

In this situation, Lucy decided to humour the dragon slayer and let out a laugh. "Sure, Natsu. There's a giant Plue somewhere in the Celestial World. If I ever find it's key I'll let you know."

"Awesome." Natsu said excitedly.

After that, the pair remained silent for a few minutes, just staring up at the stars. A silence was never awkward for Natsu and Lucy, they were too comfortable around each other for it to ever seem awkward, and that's one of the many things Lucy loved about her friendship with Natsu.

It was a peaceful evening. The sky had been clear during the day, meaning all the stars and constellations were visible, and the moon shone brightly beneath them, not a hint of cloud at risk of making it dimmer. The summer season had passed a while ago, and despite Fiore being known for its warm climate, a small breeze picked up, causing Lucy to emit a shiver.

"You cold?" Natsu immediately noticed.

Lucy shook her head. "Only a little."

Before Lucy could question it, she glanced over to see Natsu unwinding his famous scaly scarf from around his neck. Instead of just handing her the scarf though, Natsu took the liberty of wrapping it around Lucy's neck, though doing a fairly poor job of it and ended up covering half her face.

"What're you-"

"You're shivering, Lucy." Natsu pointed out. "That should warm you up."

"T-Thank you." Lucy held the scarf between both her hands, pulling it down so her mouth was visible.

Lucy took in a breath, inhaling the scent of Natsu's scarf. Of course it smelt just like him; it smelt warm, and that alone made Lucy feel content. Natsu's warmth was always a reassurance to Lucy, and it was almost like a symbol to show he'd always be there to metaphorically or physcially "warm her up". It was a comforting feeling, and therefore a comforting scent to inhale.

As she exhaled, Lucy pondered aloud. "How come you're up this late?" she turned to face Natsu, still holding his scarf.

"I could ask you the same question." Natsu retorted.

Lucy puffed her cheeks out. "I couldn't sleep, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I've just got loads of stuff whirling around in my head."

Natsu pivoted so he was facing Lucy more. "What kind of stuff?"

"Jeez, all these questions," Lucy sighed and hesitated before continuing. "I-I was thinking back to the day we started this quest. I was thinking about when you were at my apartment before we left."

The fire was growing dimmer by the minute, so by the time Lucy turned her head to face Natsu, she could hardly recognise any of his features, although she could have sworn she saw a bead of sweat running down his face. Lucy could hardly believe she was even bringing up the topic with Natsu. It happened two months ago, and she thought she was over it and would just let it be. She couldn't tell whether it was her head or her heart arguing against her. Was it a smart decision to bring this up? How would Natsu react? The deafening silence was her only answer, so Lucy decided to continue.

"I still can't believe I got so emotional about going on a job," Lucy laughed slightly, trying to humour the situation. "But I meant every word of what I said, y'know." Lucy's voice was shaky towards the end. "I am truly grateful for everything you and Happy have done for me."

"We didn't do that much..." Natsu finally spoke, though he sounded unsure of his own claims.

"Are you kidding?" Lucy was stunned. "I would never have lived the life I'd only dreamed of if I never met you guys."

Natsu wasn't too sure how to respond. The idea of Lucy potentially getting emotional like she did that morning did not please the dragon slayer. He hated seeing Lucy upset, especially considering he had no idea how to comfort and be there for her when she needed him. Natsu had been worried enough the day they left. With Lucy crying and hugging him, all he could think of was to take her on the mission. Well, he almost made a completely different decision.

"You really don't need to thank me, Lucy." Natsu said. "You told me all this two months ago."

"I know. But it's all been winding around in my head again and..."

"And..?"

Lucy hesitated. She'd been wanting to ask Natsu the same question for two months, but there was never a good time. The rest of the team were always within ear shot, so the two could never really have a private moment that lasted longer than a few minutes. But now, with everyone asleep and Natsu and Lucy being alone for the first time in two months... Lucy knew she had to ask or she'd never get the chance again, but it scared her. She was scared for an answer, and was scared she wouldn't be satisfied. Neither Natsu nor Lucy were good at dealing with confrontation, so would Natsu deliver a sincere answer or try to pass it off as nothing like he did two months ago?

"What did you mean when you told me we'd be "together forever"?" Lucy finally asked, trying her hardest to keep eye contact.

Natsu waited a moment before answering. "I said we'd always be together because we're on this hundred year mission, Luce. It'd be pretty tough not to be together when we're on the same team."

Lucy had feared that exact answer. "Oh. I-"

"And," Natsu continued, surprising the celestial wizard. "Even after this mission I want us to stay together. You're my best friend, Lucy. Why would I want anything else?"

Lucy's cheeks tinted pink at Natsu's words. He sounded so sincere. She'd heard nothing so serious from him since that morning and it completely threw Lucy off guard. So much so that she'd barely realised what she said until it had all escaped her lips.

"I want us to stay together too."

Realising what she had said, Lucy span her head away, tucking her face away into Natsu's scarf to hide her blushing features.

"What're you hiding your face for?" Natsu pondered, leaning over.

"You're embarrassing me."

"How? We're the only two people here, Lucy."

"It's what you're saying! Everything you say is sending memories back to two months ago in my apartment. From saying we'd always be together, and then leaning in and me thinking that-"

Lucy froze, mentally cursing herself for conjuring those words. Knowing the damage had already been done, whether her dense friend realised it or not, Lucy continued speaking, though her voice was muffled ever so slightly.

"...And me thinking that you were going to kiss me." Lucy buried herself further into the scarf, her face heating up.

Natsu blinked, parting his lips slightly in surprise. Lucy's words were so sudden and full of emotion, once again the dragon slayer was left sitting in shock, not knowing how to handle his best friend.

"You thought I was going to kiss you?" Were the only words Natsu could speak.

Lucy inhaled a deep breath before nodding slowly, refusing to meet Natsu's gaze.

"Did you want me to kiss you?" Natsu asked, even surprising himself. His eyes grew wider, pursing his lips shut before he asked anymore uncontrollable questions.

Lucy's eyes grew wide, although Natsu couldn't see her face properly. She debated what to answer with for a moment; she had to say something. She couldn't simply just leave him waiting, but what would he do and how would he react if she gave him a truthful answer? No matter what answer she gave Lucy could never predict the outcome.

Ultimately, Lucy swallowed her fear and nodded her head slowly.

Now it was Natsu's turn to be shocked. His eyes grew even wider as he sucked in a breath. He'd expected an answer from Lucy, of course, but hadn't actually considered how he would react to said answer. Lucy had wanted Natsu to kiss her. Natsu tried to allow that to process for a moment. For the first time in a long time, Natsu blushed.

"I would have." Natsu spoke, his mouth growing dry.

Lucy looked up unintentionally, her red face and wide eyes now visible.

"I would have kissed you." Natsu repeated.

Brown eyes gazed into onyx intensely. Lucy was too stunned at Natsu's words to look away, and Natsu was searching for some sort of reaction, whether it be good or bad, from Lucy. It soon came to Lucy's attention that there was nothing she could do to make the situation worse, so took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, breaking eye contact for a moment.

"So why didn't you? Why didn't you kiss me?" she spoke in a soft voice, nothing that made the situation sound like an interrogation.

"I didn't want you to feel like you were being pressurised into anything." Natsu's eyes never left Lucy's. "You were so emotional that day, and the last thing I wanted was for you to get more upset because of me. Truth be told, I really like you, Lucy, and back at your apartment, I knew that I liked you. I thought I could finally let you know how I felt, but I still wasn't certain as to whether you returned those feelings. I was going to kiss you, but I didn't want to upset or confuse you more than you already were. Your feelings were all haywire, and letting you know how I felt would have only made you feel worse."

Lucy sat in silence, her lips parted as she refused to leave Natsu's gaze. This was all she had wanted for two months, but now she'd received the closure she so desperately desired, she'd never taken the time to consider how to actually take it all in. Natsu had just confessed he liked her.

"You like me?" Lucy barely whispered.

Natsu nodded. "And whether we're friends or more than friends, I want to be with you forever, Lucy."

Lucy's heart ached at Natsu's words. Never had she heard something so beautiful yet so simple come from Natsu's lips. She'd come to realise a long time ago that her young fantasies that a knight in shining armour would come to her rescue was delusional, but Lucy hadn't even noticed that her knight in shining armour had been standing in front of her all these years, even if he didn't really portray the image of a heroic knight.

The celestial wizard's blush had faded slightly, but her cheeks still tinted a subtle pink as her lips curved upwards into a small smile. Lucy shuffled closer to Natsu, pulling his scarf back down to her neck as her head fell gently onto his shoulder.

"I want to stay with you forever, too." Lucy whispered, staring into the distance.

Natsu looked down at Lucy, smiling to himself contently as his head rested on top of hers. Without realising, Lucy's hand had rested on top of Natsu's when she shuffled over, and Natsu took the liberty to clasp Lucy's hand in his own, intertwining their fingers together.

--------------------

"Wonder what they were doin' last night." Gray stood to the side of Natsu and Lucy, who were fast asleep on the grass. Their hands were still entangled together, and Natsu's scarf still resided around Lucy's neck, covering her mouth.

"Whatever it was," Erza smiled, "they'll have quite a story to tell us later, I'm sure." she nodded towards their entwined hands.

[halewynslady]

WE’RE TAKING THE DUCHESS TO DISNEYLAND…

​Tremontaine S3 Challenge #7

Getting there: By train is easiest from where I live or I can enlist the aid and company of a friend of family member and we can go by car. I don’t know how far Disneyland would be from the City. I am talking Disneyland Paris for the simple reason that is the one Disneyland I know. I trust we won’t need a ship or private plane to get her there and if so, I am certain she has one. I suppose we can travel by carriage if she wants to, this should be novel for me, also useful for when we are in the park and need transport along the main roads, I guess we are taking servants with us then. That will take some getting used to.

We are of course notifying the park of our arrival. I expect to be greeted by… not the mouse… Maleficent would be nice. She is in charge of the park during the Halloween period. I would prefer to go then. I love that atmosphere best and the Tremontaine version of Halloween (see S3E4 Night of the Flames) completely enchanted me so I hope we can nicely blend the two. Oh and we expect, hope for, that is, a gorgeous swan sculpture in the Duchess’ honour. For the introductions, well, I am not very talented at French. We would look pretty foolish both sporting such French names and … I bet she is fluent!

Now, some improvements will have to be made to the park.

Item 1: the FOOD

Tackling the big one first. It is the first thing that comes to mind. I tend to survive on apples when I go to Disneyland. Then I am immensely grateful to the outside world when I ‘escape’ to where food has taste again. My food standards are high, so are Diane’s and the entire Tremontaine world’s, Disneyland will have to up their game. We want the finest chocolate and a much better version of their mouse-eared tomato pies! I also want a sugar coated apple, those I do like there. I also hope the Fantasia ice cream shop is open.

The Duchess can naturally take her pick of the restaurants in and around the park. I don’t know them that well, a side effect of not having found great food there yet. The places usually do look very pretty. I guess we can pick whichever one refers to a Disney film she likes. Which brings me to another topic my brother enjoyed addressing… what if we have a different taste in Disney films? This could test our friendship. I like to think we are adults and can handle that. Has she seen Disney films before? Will this be a culture shock for her? In what kind of a reality are we anyway *insert existential crisis here*.

We will be staying at the fanciest hotel of course, The Pink Place, it is lovely if a bit… very pink but so is almost everything at Disneyland, look at their castle, too pink yet beautiful. I am certain this should trouble her far less than it bothers me, Miss Pastel Fashion Launcher. Oh, and I love the Snow White mirrors in those rooms. I hope she is patient with me when I skip about and ramble on about mirrors, apples and fairytales (film versions, book versions and fangirl theories). I get very skippy and twirly when happy. I like to think we are friends.

Entering the park: I want to dress up! :D We are taking lacy fans along, a lady can’t survive without her fan. :p I am sometimes worried they will send me away for not dressing “normally” at the entrance. Of course with Diane there this shouldn’t be a problem and we can wear whatever we like in the park. If the staff has to tell us to “keep our frilly dresses inside the vehicle” then so be it and I will thank them for it.

We can explore. I will show her my favourite places. The dragon, the castle, the stained glass windows, … In the Halloween period I could watch that gigantic thorn dragon endlessly lay siege to the castle and change colours in its thorns. It is so perfectly beautiful. I could stay in the fairytale land for whole days, I hope she won’t mind. What I like best about theme parks is the walking around, sitting and taking in the surroundings while drinking tea or chocolate (we bring our own if it is not up to standard). I am very dull. She’ll love it. Let us often sit down and talk about … bad puns?, … anything silly, serious or otherwise that crosses our minds. At other times maybe take her hand and run around being happy and avoid the too crowded places. There are some very pretty crows hopping around for food scraps, you know what, let’s forget about the crows… What a privilege that she will be there. I imagine her presence will draw crowds too, people will want pictures of her, well, she is better at social graces than I am.

The characters, I can’t know who we will run into. I can’t predict everything.  I will want to take pictures with characters. I could sweetly suggest things like “shall we take a picture with the giant penguin, yes or no?” It would be a shame not to get to ask her that. I would enjoy talking about dresses and feminism with the characters. Disney character players are brilliant and I admire them immensely.

As for the rides, she can go on anything she wants of course. I won’t always join her. I die on rollercoasters, I would go on one for her, but nothing too extreme. If I stop breathing or if I start screaming my final will, please pay close attention. If I decide I will chance going to the Haunted  Mansion or scary Pirates then I trust her to help me hold my ears and eyes shut.

I hope we get to see some Stormtrooper march by and Darth Vader. I dearly want to get us lightsabers. ^^ So we can duel all over the park. Live out her fantasies. :p And we can talk of her swordsmen. –Vincent, waer bestu bleven … arm losing is popular in Star Wars too, you can still be the greatest jedi. - We can look for Kaab on the pirate ship.

We will check the program for shows, parades, lightshows, characters dancing, fireworks, stunt shows and what else they may have. :D We can admire and discuss it all, perhaps these will inspire her for her own events.

Oh and then there is… souvenirs. ^^

I will probably buy some notebooks, I can never resist those, and some silly fluffy creature or an elegant glittery princess or Tinkerbell music box or something like that. I am going to be very curious to what she would pick. I should get us these t-shirts: :p  https://www.large.be/p/i%27m-a-lady/344893.html https://www.large.be/p/marie—ladies-don%27t-start-fights/356951.html

We can find gifts for friends and family (this includes Micah and my cat), lovers, rivals, allies, frenemies, enemies, the list is endless…

The Ball: I kid you not, I looked this up, there is traditionally a masquerade Halloween ball on October 31st in Disneyland, in the castle itself if I am not mistaken. This time this ball will be specially dedicated to our beloved guest Diane Duchess Tremontaine. This also means more dressing up! I love excitedly preparing for a party, outfits, make-up,… probably more than I like parties themselves. Asking her if I may do her hair is definitely present on my list of things I won’t possibly dare do. I hope there will be fancy Alice in Wonderland porcelain, that would be appreciated. No creepy living plates, please, that would go several steps too far. I will love hanging out with the characters and dressed up interesting people. I will be admiring it all. This will be a perfect night.

Affair, you say? As in kiss the Duchess? (Dear challenge giving people…  don’t tease …) I love her very much. I won’t be counting on it. I very rarely risk kissing. We’ll see. It is completely up to her. This is a wonderful vacation anyway.

Feel free to add your own Duchess Disney ideas and theories.

Madness ahead:  wait… Tremontaine as a Disney film? Lord Davenant gets his own Gaston-like song? Where it is emphasized what the hunt does for his physical allure and how he would love that forest getaway. And all the ladies who slept with him are just not interested?

[emedhelp]

Toni Morrison, author and Pulitzer winner, dies aged 88 | Books | The Guardian

Toni Morrison, who chronicled the African American experience in fiction over five decades, has died aged 88.

In a statement on Tuesday, her family and publisher Knopf confirmed that the author died in Montefiore Medical Center in New York on Monday night after a short illness.

Describing her as “our adored mother and grandmother”, Morrison’s family said: “Although her passing represents a tremendous loss, we are grateful she had a long, well lived life. While we would like to thank everyone who knew and loved her, personally or through her work, for their support at this difficult time, we ask for privacy as we mourn this loss to our family.”

Born in an Ohio steel town in the depths of the Great Depression, Morrison carved out a literary home for the voices of African Americans, first as an acclaimed editor and then with novels such as The Bluest Eye, The Song of Solomon and Beloved. Over the course of a career that garnered honours including the Pulitzer prize, the Nobel prize, the Légion d’Honneur and a Presidential Medal of Freedom presented to her in 2012 by her friend Barack Obama, her work became part of the fabric of American life as it was woven into high school syllabuses up and down the country.

The house where Morrison was born in 1931 stands about a mile from the gates of the Lorain steel factory in Ohio – the first of a series of apartments the family lived in while her father added odd jobs to his shifts at the plant to make the rent. He defied his supervisor and took a second unionised job so he could send his daughter to college. After studying English at Howard University and Cornell, she returned to Washington DC to teach, marrying the architect Howard Morrison and giving birth to two sons.

Toni Morrison: 'I want to feel what I feel. Even if it's not happiness'

Read more

In 1965, her marriage over after six years, she moved to upstate New York and began working as an editor. It was in Syracuse that she realised the novel she wanted to read didn’t exist, and started writing it herself.

“I had two small children in a small place,” she told the New York Times in 1979, “and I was very lonely. Writing was something for me to do in the evenings, after the children were asleep.”

The book she was missing took Morrison back to Lorain and a conversation she had had at elementary school. Writing in 1993, she remembered how she “got mad” when her friend told her she wanted blue eyes.

“Implicit in her desire was racial self-loathing,” Morrison wrote. “And 20 years later I was still wondering how one learns that. Who told her? Who made her feel that it was better to be a freak than what she was? Who had looked at her and found her so wanting, so small a weight on the beauty scale? The novel pecks away at the gaze that condemned her.”

During the five years it took her to write The Bluest Eye she moved to New York City and started publishing books by Angela Davis, Henry Dumas and Muhammad Ali, but she didn’t tell her colleagues about her own fiction. Speaking to the Paris Review in 1993, Morrison explained that writing was a “private thing”.

“I wanted to own it myself,” she said. “Because once you say it, then other people become involved.”

Published in 1970 with an initial run of 2,000 copies, The Bluest Eye made no bones about its difficult material, wrapping the novel’s hard-hitting opening around the cover: “Quiet as it’s kept, there were no marigolds in the fall of 1941. We thought, at the time, that it was because Pecola was having her father’s baby that the marigolds did not grow.”

The New York Times hailed how Morrison charted the workings of “a cultural engine that seems to have been designed specifically to murder possibilities” in prose “so precise, so faithful to speech and so charged with pain and wonder that the novel becomes poetry” – a description that dogged the writer for the rest of her career.

Speaking to the New Republic in 1981 , she explained she wanted to write books that were “not … only, even merely, literary” or she would “defeat [her] purposes, defeat [her] audience”.

“That’s why I don’t like to have someone call my books ‘poetic’,” she said, “because it has the connotation of luxuriating richness. I wanted to restore the language that black people spoke to its original power. That calls for a language that is rich but not ornate.”

Morrison’s reputation gradually built as she forged the language of her family and neighbours into three more novels, resigning from Random House in 1983 to devote herself to writing full-time. The publication in 1987 of Beloved, a powerful story set in the middle of the 19th century of a slave who kills her own baby, cemented her status as a national figure. When the novel failed to improve on its shortlisting for the National Book Award, 48 writers signed a letter of protest accusing the publishing industry of “oversight and harmful whimsy”.

“Despite the international stature of Toni Morrison, she has yet to receive the national recognition that her five major works of fiction entirely deserve,” they wrote. “She has yet to receive the keystone honors of the National Book Award or the Pulitzer prize.”

Five months later Beloved won the Pulitzer, unleashing a tide of awards including the Nobel prize for literature in 1993, a National Book Foundation medal in 1996 and a National Humanities medal four years later.

Morrison continued exploring the African American experience – a project she described to the New York Times in 2015 as “writing without the white gaze” – in novels stretching from the 17th century to the present day. She was never afraid to speak up on issues confronting the US, defending president Bill Clinton from criticism in 1998 by calling him the nation’s “first black president”, or reacting to the shooting of Travyon Martin by outlining the “two things I want to see in life. One is a white kid shot in the back by a cop. Never happened. The second thing I want to see: a record of any white man in the entire history of the world who has been convicted of raping a black woman. Just one.”

Speaking after winning her Nobel prize in 1993, Morrison spelled out the dangers of “oppressive language [that] does more than represent violence; it is violence; does more than represent the limits of knowledge; it limits knowledge” and offered instead a positive vision of “word-work” which “makes meaning that secures our difference, our human difference – the way in which we are like no other life”.

“We die,” she said. “That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.”

[wait-for-the-snitch]

we are still kids (but we're so in love)

A/N: Thank you so much to @lizzyc807shipscaptainswan for including me in this writing challenge! I had so much fun doing it.

read on ff.net a03

Fairy tales were not Emma Nolan’s cup of tea. And with the things that had happened to her in her twenty six years of life, which were almost straight out of a storybook, who could blame her? She had all the makings of a heroine from a tragic novel.

She had been found on the side of the road when she was less than a day old and had been thrown into the foster system before her eyes were even open for more than a few moments at a time. Her birth parents hadn’t wanted her; that much was for sure. And from what she had heard about the foster system where the foster parents cared more about the cheque than the wellbeing of the child, Emma shuddered to think about what her life could have been like if she had grown up in the system.

Thankfully for her, she had been adopted when she was a year old, by Ruth Nolan, and couldn’t even remember her time in the system. She knew she was lucky in that aspect, for so many children were lost in the system.

Ruth had adopted her as she wanted her son, David, to have a sibling and not to grow up alone. She wished she could say she knew David’s father, but the man had passed a six months before Emma was adopted. And David, who was only a few years ago, had been in every one of her memories as early as she could remember. He had been there for her when she was learning to tie her shoe laces, ride a bicycle, and when she had her first boyfriend.

Robert had been the love of her mother’s life. And when he had passed, she couldn’t imagine living a life loving anyone else. She had told Emma that some loves were like that, where you so wholly loved someone to the point where they were your entire heart. That your love for that person was filled so fully of compassion, dedication, and raw emotion. They were your entire universe, and without them, it was hard to even breathe. And Robert was that person for Ruth.

It was like that for David as well, with her best friend Mary Margaret. She had met the girl on her first day of first grade, when she had been so nervous about meeting new people who weren’t her older brother. But Mary Margaret had been so kind and taken Emma right under her wing. Later, when David picked her up from school, as he was in third grade after all, she had been so excited to introduce her big brother to her new best friend. And Emma swore in the moment the two of them met, the world stopped spinning for a moment. She knew the look of love at first sight anywhere. Except the two of them danced around their feelings for years, only sharing their first date when David finally asked Mary Margaret to his senior prom. Despite that, anyone else would claim that the two had been dating for years, even if they hadn’t realized it yet.

It was probably why when Emma met Neal Cassidy when in college, she believed he could be the same for her. He was a few years older than her, and she had been enamoured with his smoothness immediately. And she swore that things were going great between the two of them.

Until they weren’t. When Emma found out she was pregnant, she had been devastated. She was only in her sophomore year, and she had no idea what to do. And when she told Neal, he had broken up with her on the spot, claiming to have been wanting to do that months. He had been seeing someone else, Tamara, for nearly six months, and had just been waiting to end things with her.

She had cried to her mother that night, unsure of what to do. Ruth had insisted in that moment that she wouldn’t allow this to ruin her life. That a child could be a blessing, despite how grim the future seemed. She promised to help Emma raise the child while she finished school. David, on the other hand, was not as calm. He had gone to visit Neal, returning home with bruised knuckles and the paperwork signing away all his paternal rights.

She should have been furious that he had discarded her and their child so quickly, but she was relieved that she wouldn’t have to deal with him any longer. And when Henry David Nolan was born months later, she couldn’t take her eyes of her beautiful son. Neal did get what he deserved, when he was arrested for grand larceny in regards to some watches he had stolen years before they had met.

And when she graduated, she joined her brother at the Sherriff’s office, as his deputy. She was happy, she had her mother, her brother, her sister-in-law, who was far more like a sister to her, and her son. She didn’t really need anyone else.

Apparently her family didn’t agree.

It was how she found herself at the bar, set up on a blind date with her sister-in-law’s step-sister’s boyfriend’s friend. In a town such as Storybrooke, she would have expected to have known who she was going on a date with, but in all honesty she had no idea.

And the moment she stepped into the restaurant, she felt her heart begin to race. Instead of joining her date, she retreated to the bar, chickening out.

She stared down at her rum and coke, sighing to herself.

“Alright there, Love?” she heard a deep voice ask beside her. She looked up in shock at the man beside her, who seemed to be drinking away his sorrows as well, as she recognized him. Killian Jones, model student, who had been vice president to her brother’s presidency in school. He had been in her brother’s year, and had been one of the brightest students in their year. And then he had graduated, and moved out of the town. But the man in front of her was aged; dressed in dark leather, he seemed as if he had a few hard years.

“Killian?” she asked, stunned still. “I haven’t seen you in years.”

“Emma Nolan,” he grinned.

The two of them had started chatting. It had been a few drinks in when he told her how he had been seeing a woman, Milah, who had been older and married. She had made promises to her of how she would leave her husband for him, but never did. And upon confrontation, she admitted she never would leave the life of luxury she had with her husband. In turn, Emma told him all about her asshole ex.

Later that night, on their way out of the bar, he admitted to her that his mate, Robin had tried to set him up on a date that night, and he had totally blown it off. She had been stunned at that, as she admitted to him that she was supposed to go on a blind date as well, with Regina’s boyfriend’s friend. And somehow, despite them both attempting to bail on their date, they had ended up together.

She had fallen for him that night, even if she couldn’t immediately admit it to herself. That had been two years ago. Six months into their relationship, she had told him she loved him, and he had swept her off her feet, claiming she was everything he thought he never would have. Henry adored the man, who was all but father in name to him. A year ago, the two bought a house on Main Street, with a yard large enough for a pool, and for them to be a family in. He had proposed a year and a half into their relationship, and she had cried in that moment, as she knew how much he meant to her. And in exactly a week from now, she would be his wife, and when all the paperwork was completed after their wedding, he would be a father to Henry as well.

But tonight was another story. Tonight, Ruby insisted on dressing her in a red dress that clung so tightly to her curves that she swore she couldn’t move without popping a steam, for her bachelorette party.

“I look ridiculous,” Emma complained, as Mary Margaret sprayed her with some perfume. Henry had been staying with her mother for the night, and Emma was thankful for that.

“You look hot,” Ruby commented with a grin as she picked up her bag. “Now come on, we’re going to be late.”

She sighed to herself, as she allowed Regina and Belle to push her out the door and into the car. She hadn’t been allowed to ask too many questions about where they were going or what her night even held for her. She only hoped that Killian had fun doing who knows what on his own bachelor party.

She shouldn’t have been surprised when the car stopped in front of the Rabbit Hole. It wasn’t as if their town had all that much night life to it. Still, the bar had all the makings of a club, as it had music playing loudly when she entered.

“I got us a room in the back,” Ruby said loudly as she led them through the club. And while Mary Margaret was her Maid of Honour, she had decided to split the responsibilities of the night with Ruby, as bachelorette parties tended to be entirely her thing.

They entered a room with low lights with a few bottles of champagne in the centre.

Regina popped the bottle loudly, and the girls around her giggled as they each took a glass from her.

“So! Party games!” Ruby cheered.

“Anything in particular?” she asked, raising a brow, remembering the nights in college spent doing the same thing.

“Never have I ever!” Ruby said proudly. “Never have I ever fooled around in a sibling’s room.”

“Does it count when you don’t have any siblings?” Belle asked, grinning.

“Who cares,” Ruby smirked. “I haven’t done it.”

Emma lifted her glass, sipping, as did Regina. What she hadn’t been expecting was for Mary Margaret to do the same thing.

“You and David did it in my room?” Emma asked, grimacing.

“It could have been mine as well,” Regina pointed out, looking equally concerned.

“Honestly!” Mary Margaret blushed. “You both drank for the question as well! You think I don’t know that means both of you did at my place?”

She grinned, not wanting to tell her sister-in-law how she and Killian had snuck off during one of her parties and fooled around.

“Never have I ever done it outside,” Belle said, looking at them all pointedly to see who drank at that.

She tilted the drink to her lips once more, and to her surprise, as did the others.

“Never have I ever had sex with more than one person at the same time,” Emma said.

Ruby drank to that, with a coy smile on her face.

“Never have I ever done the walk of shame,” Regina said, causing Emma to snort.

“No, you just force Robin to do that,” Emma laughed, earning a smirk from the woman.

She drank to that however, as did Belle and Mary Margaret. Ruby surprisingly did not.

“It doesn’t really count as a walk of shame if I make a point to let everyone know where I just was,” she said with a grin. “I’m not ashamed.”

The women laughed and raised their glasses to that.

“Never have I ever done it in a car,” Mary Margaret said, looking around curiously at who had.

Emma refilled her glass as she drank, knowing it wouldn’t take much longer to get her drunk.

The game continued on, as she poured glass after glass, and only when they started to run out of things to ask, Ruby shifted the game to truth or dare, where Emma was her unfortunate first victim.

“I dare you to kiss the first guy you see,” Ruby said, helping her to her feet.

She frowned at that, unwilling to make out with another guy, bachelorette party or not. But before she could protest, Ruby shoved her out the door and into someone’s arms.

“Hello Love,” she heard a deep voice say, causing her heart to melt. She looked up to see Killian steading her as she reached up and kissed him deeply. His hands slid around her waist as he pulled her in tightly.

“Perfect timing,” Ruby grinned as she leaned in to kiss Liam softly.

“I tried,” he laughed

“What are you doing here?” she asked him, still in his arms.

“I am at my bachelor party, Love,” Killian grinned, “As I assume you are as well.”

“Aye,” she grinned back.

“We figured the two of you would eventually want to meet up at some point in the night. Plus Storybrooke doesn’t have all that many options so it worked out for the best,” Ruby grinned, as David slipped his hand through Mary Margaret’s.

“Would you care to dance with me, Emma?” he asked her softly. She nodded with a smile and he led her onto the dance floor. The two of them swayed against each other and she felt her heart race as she felt him move against her.

“What do you say you and I get out of here?” she asked him a low voice as she leaned close. “Take this back to my place.”

She grinned at him coyly as he grinned at the pickup line.

He slipped his hand through hers, and the two of them left the club together.

She couldn’t understand the definition of True Love Ruth had given her when she was with Neal, no matter how hard she tried. But with Killian it seemed so effortless. She could look at him and see her entire world in the man.

There was only a week left of her being Emma Nolan, and Emma couldn’t wait until she officially because his wife.

[dontbeallupinmyfriesdawg]

Ooh I've got a cute idea. What about a little reunion between Caroline, Bonnie, Elena, Tyler and Matt, a few years after TVD and they're all alive and happy and talk about their relationships (KC, KB, Stelena back together, Liz is revived and Matt can either be with Bekah or a human OC). Elena could be a writer and someone could be engaged... I just want all my babies to be safe and happy and for my ships to live.

A/N: A thousand apologies to the person who sent me this prompt ages ago. This is pure and beautiful and I’m honoured you sent it to me. I’ve just had so many exams and I only got around to writing this. I hope I’ve done your vision justice.

*For argument’s sake were gonna say that Klaus didn’t kill Tyler’s mom. Just the hybrids.

Thank you @purestheartslove for being my beta.

“I’m so glad you guys could make it!” Caroline exclaimed happily, nearly over-pouring Tyler’s glass of champagne in her excitement.

“Well your invitation was both heartwarming and semi-threatening so it wasn’t like we could say no,” Tyler teased, earning him a half glare from Caroline.

“All that matters is that you’re here,” she chided him. Raising her voice over the buzz of chatter in the living room. “Not my methods,”

“‘Car’s parked,” Both of them turned at the sound of Liv’s voice behind them. “What did I miss?”

“Caroline has alcohol as promised on the fancy invites,” Tyler smirked, looping his arm around Liv’s waist as she drew closer.

Caroline smiled softly at the couple. Thinking back to years ago, nearly a decade now. After she and Tyler had ended things and they were still raw and uncomfortable between them, he’d broken her heart and she’d shattered his in return. Never in a million years did Caroline think she’d be able to talk and joke amiably with him in her living room - the in the house she shared with Klaus no less.

They had both moved on and were living happy lives with other people, whom they respectively adored. Caroline had always inwardly taken pride in the fact, that she’d had a hand in bringing Tyler and Liv back together.

Despite what Tyler claimed.

Okay so, maybe it had had something to do with the fact that Liv’s brother had risen from the dead, hell bent on making Jo’s big day the wedding from hell and threatened everyone’s lives but somewhere along the lines, Caroline was certain Tyler had caught her memo about being adults and talking through his problems. So she afforded herself a pat on the back all the same.

After both reapplying to Whitmore and graduating, Tyler and Liv had decided to New York. They’d also decided to elope. Liv detested any sort of large scale function that involved her whole family - especially after the last time - and Tyler equally hated any kind of fuss and frills so, of course, it had seemed like the obvious solution.

Caroline had been thrilled for them, despite the party planner inside of her mourning the missed opportunity of arranging a spectacular ceremony.

At the mention of alcohol, Liv’s face perked up with interest.

“Good, I hope it’s something strong. That plane ride was hellish,”

“Just champagne,” Caroline replied, holding up the bottle and shaking her head. “How bad are we talking?”

“Try the fact that we were trapped between this sweaty-ass guy, who weighed about 300 pounds and a newborn that spent the entire flight screaming its ass off,”

“I got the screaming baby,” Tyler interjected, smiling humorlessly.

“If that wasn’t enough, our pilot decided to fly us through a tornado,” Liv deadpanned.

“The turbulence wasn’t that bad,” said Tyler, taking a swig of champagne. “She’s being dramatic,”

“Psssh, that’s easy for you to say. You, we’re snoring like crazy through the entire flight,”

“I didn’t snore!” Tyler protested.

Liv snorted.

“Why do you think the baby was crying?”

“Okay, well, drinks will help! Strong ones.” Caroline said, cutting into the couple’s playful bickering. “I think I have something better than this in the kitchen, I’ll be right back,”

“Oh by the way!” she added turning back around. “Is Luke coming?”

Liv chuckled and rolled her eyes.

“Luke is with his new fitness instructor boyfriend in The Cayman Islands- But he sends his best.”

Caroline nodded and headed out of the room, leaving Liv and Tyler to continue their spirited debate about who had the worse experience on the plane.

She wagered that antisocial hybrid of hers would be in their kitchen somewhere; lurking about, attempting to hide from what he described as a deplorable mixture of his relatives and Caroline’s friends. No doubt, he’d gotten through half their supply of bourbon already, Caroline mentally decided to stake him if he’d ignored her instructions and opened the good scotch she had been saving for the toast.

A smile formed on her face, as Caroline drew closer to the kitchen and she could distinctly hear the deep undertones of Stefan’s voice mingled with Klaus’ raucous laughter.

“You’d better not be up to no good in here,” Caroline called out, rounding the corner and coming face to face with a smirking Klaus and a slightly guilty looking Stefan.

“Are we ever, sweetheart?” Klaus grinned, knocking back the glass of brown liquid in his hands.

Seeing Caroline’s intent stare Klaus grabbed the near empty bottle of 1978 brandy from behind and showed it to her.

“Worry not love, it isn’t the good stuff I promise,” He strolled over to where she stood and placed an affectionate kiss on her forehead.

“I was just making sure our old friend had something substantial to drink while the two of us caught up.”

At the mention of Stefan, Caroline turned and flashed him an apologetic look.

“I am so sorry I haven’t had time to catch up with you and Elena since you arrived, I’ve just been so busy trying to get everybody comfortable that I just completely spaced. You guys must think I’m so rude-”

“Care, Care, slow down okay?” Stefan interjected. “Nobody thinks you’re rude, I’m sure it’s not easy playing hostess, especially to a bunch of vampires.”

“Ugh, you have no idea,” Caroline said, slumping down into one of the stools by the counter. “Where is Elena, anyway?”

“Uh, the last time I saw her she took off to go find Matt. Probably to grill him about his new sweetheart,” Stefan answered, taking a sip of his drink.

“Ooh, have you met her yet?”

“No, but considering we’ll only be able to see her two, maybe three more times before she gets suspicious that none of us are ageing, I’d better do it while I can.”

Caroline shrugged. “So we’ll compel her not to notice,” Noticing the pointed look Stefan was giving her she added. “With Matt’s permission… obviously.”

Klaus, who was rummaging around in the fridge for another bottle, laughed at that, prompting Caroline to glare at his muscular back.

“So how are you and Elena doing?” Caroline asked, changing the subject swiftly. “I hear her books doing well.”

“Number 1 New York times best seller,” Stefan replied, beaming proudly.

As Caroline had predicted, Elena saw sense and gave up on her ‘dream of becoming a new-age Meredith Grey, instead reverting back to her first love; writing. Under the pseudonym L.J Smith, Elena had released the summer’s hottest teen novel ‘The Vampire Diaries’. The story of Helen, a teenage girl struggling with the knowledge that vampires exist, while attempting to juggle school, family and love.

Was it predictable? Yes. But Caroline had to admit, Elena was a good novelist. In fact, she’d purchased a copy out of pure curiosity and found herself completely hooked and anticipating the next instalment, which Elena (or L.J) had promised would be released in the Fall. Caroline’s favourite character in so far had to be Carrie, Helen’s blonde, tenacious, fearless, best friend who reminded her of a certain someone. Although Klaus was less than impressed when informed of one of the story’s main villains, Nikolaj. A fearsome vampire hybrid, who could turn into a fire breathing dragon at will.

Caroline, needless to say had found that particular part hilarious.

“I haven’t had a chance to congratulate Elena in person,” Caroline mused, pouring the remaining bit of champagne in her hands into a glass.

“Hmm, yes nor have I,” Klaus interjected closing fridge. “Especially considering all the suggestions I have for Elena’s next book.”

Caroline turned and shot Klaus a warning glare as Stefan snorted in amusement.

“Well I’d love to sit here all afternoon and chat but I have a party to host,” Caroline said, swinging her legs off the stool and sweeping her hair out of her shoulders, exposing the diamond earrings Klaus had purchased for her birthday to the fluorescent light of the kitchen.

“And also the hostess with the mostess needs to tinkle so-”

“Okay, well we’re glad you invited us Care,” Stefan said coming towards her for a hug. “Hopefully you and Elena see each other at some point she’s been dying to catch up with you,” he hummed placing a kiss on her cheek.

“Hmm I hope so too,” Caroline smiled pulling back. “Hey, keep him in line the rest of the evening for me okay?” she asked pointing over to Klaus.

Stefan glanced at him over his shoulder and laughed.

“I’ll do my best.”

_____________________________________________________________________________

As Caroline headed up the stairs, she idly wondered if it was time to change the wallpaper in the foyer. Coming to a stop at the top, she frowned, hearing voices from the bathroom.

“Hello?” Caroline called out in confusion.

The voices stopped abruptly and then to Caroline’s surprise Bonnie emerged from the bathroom.

“Bonnie! Oh my gosh. When did you get here? Where have you been? I’ve been texting you, Bonnie!-” Caroline half chastised, half squealed pulling Bonnie into a tight hug.

“Oh!- Wow, hey Care. Yeah, I know I’m so sorry. I got here and I needed to freshen up so I just went straight to the bathroom,” Bonnie said, hurriedly attempting to answer all of Caroline’s questions.

“I’m so glad you came!” Caroline exclaimed, proceeding to hug the life out of her best friend.

“Are you kidding, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.” Bonnie beamed, easing herself out of the hug.

“So where is he?” Caroline asked, a knowing glint in her eyes.

“Where is who?” Bonnie asked, shifting slightly on the spot, a faint blush on her cheeks.

“Kol, obviously,” Caroline said. “I know he’s here, he told Klaus on the phone last night he would be, he also said something about us preparing to have our entire liquor supply drained.”

“Mmm, well… you know Kol,” Bonnie chuckled, nervously rubbing the back of her neck.

“Bonnie are you okay?” Caroline asked, eyeing her, the tone of her voice shifting into one of concern. “You look weird.”

“Jetlag,” she replied quickly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, definitely- uh, do you wanna go downstairs and get a drink?”

Before Caroline could answer a voice sounded from the other side of the bathroom door.

“Does that mean I can come out of here now?”

“Kol!?” Caroline said incredulously. Bonnie winced as she turned to look at her.

“What is he doing in there wh- what were you doing in there Kol?” Caroline demanded as Kol pushed open the door. Inexplicably, Caroline’s eyes were immediately drawn to the zipper on Kol’s jeans he was frantically attempting to do up as he emerged from the bathroom.

Only then did Caroline take notice of Bonnie’s rather dishevelled appearance; Caroline’s eyes darted between them and the widened in shock at the realisation.

“Were the two of you in there…. doing it, in my bathroom?!”

Judging by the smug look on Kol’s face and how embarrassed Bonnie looked in comparison, Caroline knew she had her answer.

“Seriously!?”

“I’m sorry, we got carried away, we’re sorry aren’t we Kol?” Bonnie insisted, elbowing a very un-sorry looking Kol in the chest.

“Ow! Bloody hell, fine I’m sorry. I promise Bonnie and I will replace everything we broke during our rampant love-making.”

“You’ll do what!?”

“Kol!” Bonnie shouted, scandalized.

“What’s all the screaming about up there?” A shrill voice demanded from the bottom of the steps.

Rebekah’s long legs, encased in a pair of ten-inch heels came into view. Looking up at the three of them with an unimpressed look she held up an empty bottle.

“You’re out of champagne Caroline. If I can’t drink I’ll be forced to socialise which if I remember correctly you insisted I didn’t do.”

“And I still am.” Caroline deadpanned, throwing Kol and Bonnie one last disparaging look before heading down the stairs, pointing her index finger at them threateningly. “I’ll deal with you two later.”

“Really?” Bonnie hissed at Kol, “You couldn’t have stayed in there three more seconds!?”

“What can I say,” he shrugged mischievously. “I like to make an entrance. Besides you weren’t complaining while we were in there.”

“Where’s your useless boyfriend,” Caroline asked Rebekah. “I sent him to get more drinks ages ago.”

“Honestly Caroline, if the responsibility of hosting is too much for you, perhaps you ought to leave this sort of thing up to the professionals.” Rebekah sang-song patronisingly.

“Oh, and that would be you I suppose.” she said dryly, eyebrows raised slightly.

“All I’m saying is, at my parties the guests are never dying of thirst.”

“At your parties, you compel a bunch of people to do all the work for you,” Caroline fired back.

Before Rebekah could fire a response the door was flung open and Enzo walked in holding ice and a large crate in his hands.

“Champagne on ice, just as her majesty ordered.” he quipped.

“Yeah, well, ‘her majesty’ ordered it about an hour ago so good job,” Caroline answered sarcastically.

“Lorenzo I could murder you,” Rebekah grumbled.

“Wonderful,” Enzo said. “Between the time I left and now, I’ve somehow managed to anger both of you.”

“You left me here, for God knows how long, with Caroline’s insipid guests-”

“-Don’t insult my guests!” Caroline gritted out.

“Women eh?” Kol interjected, strolling nonchalantly down the stairs. “There’s no pleasing them.”

“For my own safety, I’m not answering that,” Enzo replied as the two men shared a conspiratorial grin.

“I have other guests,” Caroline said, exasperated. “Enzo put that in the kitchen, Bonnie keep Kol away from people and Rebekah-”

Caroline angled her head towards the blonde original, her voice on edge and demanding. “-A smile wouldn’t kill you.”

______________________________________________________________________________

“Oh my goodness it’s beautiful!” Caroline squealed admiring the sparkling engagement ring, encased in a red velvet box in Matt’s hand.

“D’you think she’ll like it?” Matt asked, referring to a petite, honey blonde women in the middle of the room, making small talk with some of the other guests.

“I think she’ll love it.” she confirmed with a smile. “You know I’m really happy for you Matt and really proud.”

“Thanks, Care, I just hope this goes well,” he paused and flashed Caroline a bashful smile. “I really love her.”

“I can tell.”

“So does she know about us?”

Matt face contorted in confusion. “Caroline that was nearly fifteen years ago?” he whispered.

She nearly choked on her drink attempting to hold back her laughter. “No, Matt. I don’t mean us us. All of us.” Caroline said, gesturing to the scattered figures of their friends.

“Oh. No. No way.”

“Matt-” she began.

“It’s safer this way Caroline.” he insisted, stuffing his hands defensively in the pockets of his jeans.

“That’s a pretty big part of your life to withhold from someone,” Caroline gave him an imploring look. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Matt nodded. “I love you guys but I don’t really want her involved in all of this. I just wanna live a normal life, y’know?”

“Sure,” Caroline nodded “I understand,”

Although it was a lie, really. If Caroline was honest, she hadn’t thought about the prospect of living a life anywhere near normal in a very long time. Honestly, there wasn’t much about being human that she missed. Certainly not ageing. At that thought and seeing the laugh lines beginning to form in the corner of Matt’s eyes now that he was entering his thirties was a particularly surreal wake-up call. Eventually, Matt would settle down, lead his perfectly normal life and have kids.

And age.

And eventually, die.

Like all humans did.

One day, so would Bonnie and even Tyler. Even her immortal friends like Stefan and Elena may be living such different lives in 50 maybe 100 years from now. Who knows the next time they’d all be in the same place together.

______________________________________________________________________________

“Excuse me,” Caroline called out, tapping her spoon daintily against her glass. “Hello, can I get everyone’s attention please?”

“Here we go,” Rebekah muttered, downing her 3rd glass of champagne in the last hour.

“Vampire hearing, Rebekah,” Caroline whispered under her breath, invoking an eye roll from the Original.

“I would like to thank all of you for coming.” The attention of nearly all occupants of the room turned to Caroline.” Some us in this room have been through so much together and although a lot has changed and our lives have definitely panned out differently than we imagined I’m really proud of the people we’ve become and what we’ve managed to accomplish. I love all of you so much and hope that whatever happens next, I hope we’ll always remain a part of each other’s lives. So… here’s to us. Cheers.”

As a chorus of the same sentiment echoed around the room Caroline looked up and noticed Klaus smiling at her from across the room. She returned it and tilted her flute of champagne towards him, smiling at the irony.

Review Here.x

[limejuicer1862]

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

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

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

Gary Barwin

is a writer, composer, and multidisciplinary artist and the author of twenty-one books of poetry, fiction and books for children. His latest book is the poetry collection No TV for Woodpeckers (Wolsak & Wynn). His recent national bestselling novel Yiddish for Pirates (Random House Canada) won the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour as well as the Canadian Jewish Literary Award (FIction) and the Hamilton Literary Award (Fiction). It was also a finalist for both the Governor General’s Award for Fiction and the Scotiabank Giller Prize. His interactive writing installation using old typewriters and guitar processors was featured during 2016-2017 at the Art Gallery of Hamilton. Forthcoming books include, A Cemetery for Holes, a poetry collaboration with Tom Prime (Gordon Hill Press, 2019) and For It is a Pleasure and a Surprise to Breathe: New and Selected Poems, ed. Alessandro Porco (Wolsak and Wynn, 2019.)

A finalist for the National Magazine Awards (Poetry), he is a three-time recipient of Hamilton Poetry Book of the Year, has also received the Hamilton Arts Award for Literature and has co-won the bpNichol Chapbook Award and the K.M. Hunter Arts Award. He was one of the judges for the 2017 CBC Poetry Prize.

 A PhD in music composition, Barwin has been Writer-in-Residence at Western University, McMaster University and the Hamilton Public Library, Hillfield Strathallan College, and Young Voices E-Writer-in-Residence at the Toronto Public Library. He will be Edna Staebler writer-in-residence at Wilfrid Laurier University in Winter 2019. He has taught creative writing at a number of colleges and universities and currently teaches writing to at-risk youth in Hamilton through the ArtForms program. His writing has been published in hundreds of magazine and journals internationally—from Readers Digest to Granta and Poetry to the Walrus—and his writing, music, media works and visuals have been presented and broadcast internationally. Though born in Northern Ireland to South African parents of Ashenazi descent, Barwin lives in Hamilton, Ontario. He is married with three adult children and lives in Hamilton, Ontario and has never been Governor of Louisiana. garybarwin.com

Nothing the Same, Everything Haunted (novel, Random House Canada, forthcoming Spring 2021)

New and Selected Poems (poetry; Wolsak & Wynn, forthcoming 2019)

A Cemetery for Holes (poetry with Tom Prime; Gordon Hill Press, forthcoming 2019)

Muttertongue (poetry recording/book with Gregory Betts & Lillian Allen, forthcoming 2019)No TV for Woodpeckers (poetry; Wolsak & Wynn, 2017)

Yiddish for Pirates (novel; Random House Canada, 2016)

The Interview

1. When and why did you start writing poetry?

The first poem I remember writing was written on filing cards. I was smitten by the way the cards seemed to belong in the world and how they fit in their little filing card box. I had heard of “rosewood.” My parents had furniture made of rosewood. I assumed, however, that rosewood meant the wood from a rose plant and so I found a small stub of dried rose vine and brought it to my bedroom. I was perhaps 8. I wrote an incantation for the rose wood. The wood seems druidical. Magic. Elemental. And so what I wrote was not English, but numinous, potent sounds. I remember writing it in Roman script but highly stylized and with diacritics. This idea of the immanence of things, of language as an invocation, as an object in itself, made of the elements of the world but rearranged into something different, something that allowed a deep engagement with thought, a sense of things, tactility, pataphysics and a sense of being a particular time and place while being highly conceptual was formative to me.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

I was introduced to poetry in waves. When I was young, I recall going to synagogue and hearing the chanted prayers in Hebrew which I didn’t understand but being captivated by its allusive and inscrutable beautiful. I remember Mr. Calvert, my P.5 teacher in Inch Marlo school in Northern Ireland reading us Robert Service. There were the often cosy and mythic words of hymns and Christmas carols. “Without a city wall.” Not not having a wall around the city, but outside. Then my parents had copies of Seamus Heaney in the house. And various poetry anthologies. And once I stole a complete Shakespeare from someone who kids I was babysitting when I was 13. And then I went to an arts boarding school where my roommate, Jay Frost, would recite The Waste Land—from memory. And we had poetry workshops with guest writers, such as Robert Bly, Mark Strand and Etheridge Knight. I was surrounded by this poetry. And finally, I attended York University where my little Seamus Heaney-limited poetic world, my “eye clear as the bleb of icicle” was blown open by studying with bpNichol. Poetry as curiosity, as investigation, as an appreciation and exploration of the materials of language and their possibilities.

3. How aware are and were you of the dominating presence of older poets traditional and contemporary?

“Dominating” is interesting. Just like a word doesn’t function as a word without other words, without past and current uses of words, I don’t think poems (or poets) can either. We write and read in the context of other work. So, I don’t think of being dominated, rather as existing in a poetic ecosystem. I came to writing and I have stayed here by experiencing other writing and also language. So reading and listening comes before writing. And in fact, writing is a form of reading and listening. In one eye or ear and out the fingers as writing. Some processing may be involved. Other writers have made me aware of what is possible, what ways language can be explored, how it can be taken apart and put together differently, how I can follow the myriad forces that it embodies, how it can be used as a tool to explore, a vehicle to ride. All of which helps me spelunk the human, the non-human, the world, the linguistic and the non-linguistic both.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

This changes depending on what I’m working on, however, distraction and diversion is a standard part of my routine. I often start by avoiding a project and instead creating a visual piece—lately, works exploring the ampersand—or a poem based perhaps on a whim or something I tumble onto on social media. I’ve been working on a novel for the last year and a half and so my goal for my daily minimum is 500 words. I write until I’ve written 500 words. Often this includes figuring out what is going to happen in those 500 words as I don’t write from a premeditated plan, except in a very general sense. In order to keep motivated, I keep a chart of words written compared to words projected (i.e. if I actually wrote 500 words five days a week vs. what I actually managed to write.) Sometimes I write more than the 500, sometimes less, or, more likely, I have something else to do that day and so don’t manage to work on the novel at all, except in my head. Some days, I schedule time to work on collaboration. These days, I’m writing a poem or two once a week with Tom Prime. We Skype each other and open up a Google doc. Then we write. I like the idea of writing as dialogue and so work often emerges from interactions on social media, riffing off an image, a phrase, a discussion, or some other writing that I encounter.

I like the energy of the impulse or the distraction. Sometimes it’s fuelled by nervousness or uncertainty about the project that I’m “supposed” to be working on. But I’m ok with channelling that into something else, knowing that I’m getting work out of it. Of course, at some point, I have to confront the procrastination, and buckle down and actually work on the main project, otherwise it won’t get done. The other good thing about distraction is that one can be surprised by a sudden confluence of ideas or inputs and connect things or write in a way that enables something unexpected to occur.

5. What motivates you to write?

This seems like a very simple question, however, it isn’t so easy to answer. Certainly, my writing comes from curiosity. I am intrigued to explore what is possible—what is possible in language, in writing. What it is possible to say. Where the language might guide me, what it might draw out of me, what it might draw out of itself through my engagement. There is something about communication. About connection or engaging with people (readers) — the impulse for interaction. There is something elemental, something fundamental, somatic, about the act of making. Writing is about exploring writing, but also about exploring the world and the act of writing. About exploring the writing self and the self writing. And also, I want to be so rich I can buy all the letters of the alphabet, bronze them in solid gold and then, when the sun is bright, signal to it with its own light.

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

I am young. At least when compared to English. Or a rock. Or that obscure jarred thing in the back of my fridge. But I am always reminded of the elemental and preternatural power of language—and of poetry specifically—of its ability to be a trickster, a Rorschach test, a finger in a socket, a consoler, debunker, debater, songster, and seducer, and how, even though my knowledge was limited, I immediately got the sense of what might be possible. And so with the writers that I read in the past. From Spike Milligan and Ogden Nash to Wordsworth, Heaney, Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Trakl and so on, to religious texts (the Jewish translations direct from Hebrew as well as King James and the others.) I have the sense, as I did with reading poets when I was young, that there was more just around the.corner: more confusion, more understanding, more meaning, less meaning, more technique, more chances.

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

The way your question is phrased is interesting. You ask about which “writers” I most admire rather what “writing” and so it leads me to think about what are qualities that I value in a writer. Passing over the issue of what happens when the work is good, but the writer is perhaps ethically or morally compromised in some way, I do think about what it is to be a writer in society, what it is to be a writer in community and (to paraphrase Sheila Heti) “How should a writer be?” and what does creativity look like.

I admire writers who mentor, support and build community. But I also admire those who are able to forge their own paths and remain true to their values both aesthetically and politically even if that leads them to pursue an individual path, perhaps one not comfortable with the prevailing fashion. (Of course, this only makes sense to me if they are sensitive, thoughtful listeners who consider how large-scale historical, political and systemic issues shape aesthetics and the writer’s life and opinions and continually check in to ensure that they haven’t gone astray or been seduced by their own solipsism into thinking that their view is the only authentic one. And here I’m making a distinction between “fashion” and “developed contemporary understanding.”  A writer and their writing can’t exist outside of the systemic influences on them and the culture, whether legible to them or not, but they can write outside of the prevailing fashion or taste.

I also consider the kind of writer who is curious about everything and explores many creative avenues—perhaps different forms, media, aesthetics and so on. I tend to be like this, creating music, art, poetry and fiction, using digital and analogue means, exploring both more lyric as well as more experimental approaches, creating, performing, exhibiting, publishing in a wide variety of ways. The other type of writer is one who hones their craft to an almost laser-like concentration, working within one approach or aesthetic. Samuel Beckett was like this. He spent his life focussing his work more and more acutely, stripping away everything extraneous to the essential vision.

I’m hesitant to begin naming who I “most” admire. I resist hierarchies and ranking as too fraught. But since I had a conversation yesterday about her yesterday, I will say that I follow Kai Cheng Thom’s online presence with great respect. She is thoughtful, articulate, earnest, compassionate and willing to consider positions with great insight, even if they reevaluate what may appear to be the consensus opinion or approach.

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

For me, a writer is someone who writes. So, regardless of who you are, if you write, you are a writer. I believe everyone can be a writer. Everyone can have a particular and personal relationship to language, whether spoken or written. Becoming a good writer involves reading a lot, trying many things, really thinking through what you’ve written and what it is doing. Considering what assumptions you’ve made about what the writing should be, or things you haven’t considered? So, becoming a writer involves reading and thinking intently. Others’ work. One’s own.

One of the hardest things is to write what you actually want to write rather than what you think you should write. Well, that and seeing what is actually going on in the writing one is doing. And keeping going. Because becoming a writer involves keeping doing it. I feel that it is important to keep writing. That’s how one becomes a better writer. But it is important to keep pushing, to try to see more of what is possible, to try to learn to make one’s writing more resonant, or to contain more, if not multitudes then multivalences or multiverses. Tumult or mulch. Unless you’re a born genius like Rimbaud, I feel the difference between the path of someone who writes and someone who learns to make really good writing is that for the good writer it isn’t about being a writer, but about really trying to make the writing the best it can be, to learn to really read the work in front of you and edit or develop it so that it truly is the best it can be. For me, becoming a writer is about learning to really be attuned to your creative process, and also about really trusting the writing and, like a dowser, learning to see how it pulls you, learning to sense the subterranean before you, learning to be attuned to the language and where it wants to take you. And to keep learning to follow it more places, to be more keenly attuned to it. It is a kind of dance—the language leads you, sometimes without you even realizing it, and you follow it, waltzing or polkaing around the dance floor. I know this sounds like I’m Yoda, and I’m saying, “Follow the Force.” But I guess I am. Though I have more restrained ears and a better barber. And I’m (usually) less green.

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

I have many specific projects that I am working on, but I also relish the opportunity to explore a whim or particular inspiration and create something on the spur of the moment. Sometimes these get folded into a larger project and sometime they exist as confounding outliers. I am an advocate of allowing  the moment to suggest something to you. Often this results in creating something fresh and surprising, something which subverts your usual expectations of what it is that you do.

The main project that I’m working on is a novel, Nothing the Same, Everything Haunted. It is a Wild West Holocaust novel set in 1941 Lithuania. My protagonist is a Don Quixote-type middle-aged Litvak who imagines himself a cowboy. It makes connections between the Holocaust and North American Indigenous genocide via the Western novels of Karl May. Also, my protagonist is looking for his testicles which became frozen in a Swiss glacier after being shot off 20 years before. It’s scheduled to come out in 2021. I’m also writing a new book of collaborations with Tom Prime (we’ve just published our first one,  A Cemetery for Holes). A chapbook of prose poems with Kathryn Mockler will appear next year as will a collection of ekphrastic works I created with the artist Donna Szoke. I’m also working on a big public art piece about persecution and refugees with Tor Lukasik-Foss and Simon Frank for a park in Hamilton. (I’ve never worked in bronze before!) I’m working on a collection of my ampersand-based visual poems and finishing a book and recording with Gregory Betts and Lillian Allen. Greg and I are also part of the band TZT and will be releasing a recording of sound poetry and sound works we did with a variety of sound poets.(We’re hoping for vinyl!)  I’m also doing a collaboration with Shane Neilson involving hurricanes, naming and class photographs. I’m also working on a continuing poetic project of my own based on experimental translations of a variety of poems, from William Bronk and Rilke to Medieval poetry. It combines a kind of oblique lyricism with a variety of conceptual and experimental transformational practices. (Maybe that’s our life. Oblique lyricism and conceptual and experimental transformations.) Also, any minute now, my “New and Selected Poems” will come out with Wolsak & Wynn. And while writing this, I just got an email inviting me to create some visual poems out of scientific papers, something I’ve done before. It’s really intriguing to explore technical language and a very specific textual form (the scientific paper) about which I know nothing and is just on the border of intelligibility for me.

This kind of disorganized multidirectional chaos—this whole mess of projects—seems to work for me. Because, as they say, if it’s not one thing, it’s another.

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

[theopenbookwigtown]

Books we like at The Open Book. Part 1

It’s Christmas Day, and it has been raining more or less non-stop since Christmas Eve. We opened around two in the afternoon and haven’t had any customers, amazingly enough. So, instead of pretending to be selling books, we have been moving them around (Megan has a whole new vision for where things ought to be), and I’ve been looking for titles that I’ve actually read and liked enough to recommend.

Here they are. Well, most of them. I couldn’t remember if I liked Robinson Crusoe when I read it in an abridged Russian translation nearly 30 years ago. Also, much as I love reading biblical scholarship, I’m not sure how I feel about recommending the Bible as a book.

This isn’t much, I know. Turns out (OK, I did know this before, but one needs narrative development) that I’ve hardly read any Anglophone classics besides Great Expectations, The Forsyte Saga, some Shakespeare and lots of Mark Twain and Jack London - all of which I read in Russian in my early to mid teens, and none of which are currently in stock at The Open Book. Oh, and later on I did work my way through The Great Gatsby and a lot of W. Somerset Maugham, two time-honoured staples of English studies at Russian universities (I was an English/German major) - in addition to having to memorize an abridged audio version of Alice in Wonderland for my pronunciation class. However, none of that is in stock either. Instead, there are plenty of other great Anglophone classics at the Open Book, and you, Dear Reader, are most welcome to stop by and buy them, for I hear that they are everything they are cracked up to be.

Speaking of things living up to their reputation, the first volume on the left is a beautiful Folio Society edition of War and Peace, translated by Rosemary Edmonds and illustrated by Feliks Topolski. Like any other Russian teenager who didn’t leave school after year 9, I had to read War and Peace for my literature class. To be sure, I didn’t love it as much as I loved some of the other classics we got to read (e.g. The Master and Margarita or And Quiet Flows the Don), but it was, well, a cracking good read for all the reasons that thousands of other people have expounded at great length using fancy vocabulary and different theoretical frameworks.

I can’t tell you how Edmonds’s translation compares to other English translations of War and Peace, but I’m sure it’s fine. One thing I can see right away is that Edmonds decided to translate almost all of the French, which, on the one hand, is entirely justifiable (Tolstoy himself was in two minds about keeping the French dialogue in the Russian text). On the other hand though, modern Russian editions do usually keep the French passages (with Russian translations in footnotes), as I think they should. After all, there is hardly a better way to show the cultural divide between the early 19th century Russian elite and the people that they lived off (and literally owned).

The other Tolstoy that The Open Book proudly boasts is Anna Karenina, translated by Louise and Aylmer Maude. I first listened to an Anna Karenina audiobook about ten years ago, and it was pretty engaging and full of suspense even though I knew the story from beginning to end (thanks especially to this classic Soviet adaptation: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0061359/). Robin, a retired bookseller who stopped by for a cup of tea yesterday, asked me if English translations of Tolstoy were much worse than the original. I fetched our Anna Karenina from its shelf and read the first two sentences, which have long since become catchphrases in Russia: 

“All happy families resemble one another, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

Everything was upset in the Oblonskys’ house.”

“That’s more or less what it says in the original”, I said to Robin. And that’s all that matters. Tolstoy’s greatness wasn’t in the precision or cleverness of his prose. (Nabokov, for one, believed that Tolstoy’s Russian sucked. But then again, Nabokov believed that pretty much everyone’s Russian sucked - except his own.)

The red book in the middle of the first picture above is Arch of Triumph by Erich Maria Remarque, who was huge in the Soviet Union during the Thaw (ca. 1956-1968), and might still be better remembered in Russia than he is in his native Germany.

In the Anglophone world, Remarque is the one-hit wonder who wrote All Quiet on the Western Front, but in Russia his best-known novel is probably Three Comrades, with All Quiet on the Western Front and Arch of Triumph as close seconds. I first read most of Remarque’s oeuvre as a teenager, and a major reason why I was excited about studying German at university was because I would get to read Remarque in the original. Admittedly, my enthusiasm for Remarque has cooled down a little since then. He is very much a young man’s writer, a sensitive macho’s version of Hemingway; his male characters are strong, calvados-guzzling action men haunted by demons of the past, and his female characters are invariably doomed graceful beauties dying of consumption. That said, Remarque’s descriptions of life on the brink/in the midst of a human-made apocalypse (almost all of his major novels are set between 1914 and 1945) are still as powerful as ever.

The Girl with the Dragoon Tattoo, then. The first book in Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy, sold in millions and millions of copies in dozens of languages. The Swedish title is Män som hatar kvinnor, i.e. Men who hate women. I could, of course, say that The Girl with the Dragoon Tattoo is not great literature and blah blah blah, but I’d much rather say that it’s a great story that keeps you hooked until the very end.

The fifth book is a Penguin Classics edition of The Golden Ass by Roman author Apuleius (2d century AD). In case you don’t know what it’s about, it’s about a guy who turns into a donkey and has all sorts of adventures. I first read it when I was 11 or 12, and it blew my little mind. Modern translations of ancient literature tend to use excessively bookish language, and Russian translations are certainly no exception, but the great thing about The Golden Ass is that no amount of fancy language can hide the fact that it is unabashedly bawdy, low-brow entertainment of the highest quality. Apart from being a joy to read, it makes you feel that all those ghostly people who lived 2000 years ago were just people, like you and me.

Finally, there’s this wonderful 1920s edition of Treasure Island

with this dedication:

Treasure Island is the only book on this list that was originally written in English, so it’s perhaps especially ironic, given my daytime job (English teacher), that I still haven’t read it in English. I read and loved it in Russian, as a kid, though I must confess that I never loved the book as much as I loved this brilliant Soviet cartoon based on it:

The wonderful copy of Treasure Island at The Open Book only costs £12, and if no one buys it before the end of the week, I’m definitely buying it for myself. 

OK, it’s half past nine in the evening, and we’ve only had two people come in on this rainy Christmas Day, but one of them was a local woman named Kate Barclay, who we hadn’t met before. She brought a bottle of wine and invited us for some sweets and drinks at Cobwebs a couple of houses down the street, so in the middle of my writing this post we actually got to spend two amazing hours eating all sorts of delicious things and talking to Kate and her family and friends. Thank you, Kate!

- Konstantin  

[thesnootyushers]

The British public loves a good police show. Here are some of the best!

The TV police procedural has been a stalwart of British television since Dixon of Dock Green first walked the beat in 1955.  The genre has evolved and developed over the years, but the British TV bobby has never been too far from our hearts as we have tuned in en mass to watch their adventures.

With the recent death of Inspector Morse author Colin Dexter, and the highly anticipated 4th series of the amazing Line of Duty starting later today, Snooty Ushers Dave and James have put their heads together to make a list of our favourite British TV cop shows.  The only rule was that it had to be about actual British police (so no Sherlock, Cracker, or any of those amateur sleuth shows). So, in no particular order, let us begin

Just missing out: New Tricks, The Fall, Ripper Street, Between The Lines, Rebus (with Ken Stott, not John Hannah),  Maigret (because it is French!), A Touch of Cloth

Line of Duty (BBC, 2012-)

Dave: What better place to start than with the original inspiration for this list, the brilliant Line of Duty.  The show focuses on AC-12, a special team of elite officers who investigate the police. While this echoes the similarly themed Between The Lines from the 90s, it stands on its own as one of the best British police procedural dramas.  About to enter its 4th season, each series focuses on a different, but interconnected case, fronted by a high profile British actor.  The AC-12 team recur throughout.  It is grounded firmly in reality and it so brilliantly written, intricately plotted and tightly directed that something as simple as 3 people sitting in a room having a conversation can deliver such incredible tension.  The cast to deserve so much credit, the AC-12 officers led by Irish stalwart Adrian Dunbar’s damaged every-man Superintendent, Martin Compston is instantly relatable as the terrier like DS Steve Arnott (although I do take issue with him not using his Scottish accent), but it is Vicky McClure as DC Kate Flemming who is the real star.  The 3 series so far have weaved such a tight web of intrigue and tension that I wouldn’t dare revel any plot points here, I would just implore you all to catch up before the new series starts.  If you need another reason, Keeley Hawes, in Series 2, gives one of the most devastating, intense and down right brilliant performances in recent memory.

James: This is a show that proves that British TV can match anything from around the world. It’s also my favourite ongoing British show of any genre. One mistake seemingly ruins a promising young police officer’s career, and he is shunted to the AC-12 (“Internal Affairs” if we were in America), in an attempt to push him out of the force. But instead, DS Arnott truly finds his niche, as does the show itself. There are loads of police shows with conflicted and morally ambiguous lead characters, but Line Of Duty focuses almost entirely on their feet of clay, yet never falls into witch-hunt territory. Lennie James, Keeley Hawes, and Daniel Mays have given three different performances as heroic cops who come under AC-12’s gaze, and the three series so far have all taken different paths, never covering the same ground. And the interrogation room scenes are the high point of the show as weeks, sometimes years worth of story lines are brought together. A truly great show.

Life on Mars (BBC, 2006-07)

Dave:  If Line of Duty is grounded in reality, this is something different all together.  Sam Tyler (John Simm) is a DCI working in Manchester.  When he is involved in a car accident, he wakes up in 1975.  He is still a cop, but a rank lower and finds himself working for the oafish DCI Gene Hunt (Philip Glenister).  This just worked on every level.  The ambiguity surrounding Sam’s predicament kept us guessing.  Is he dead? crazy? In a coma? Or has he actually traveled back in time?  The world of modern policing contrast with the good old days of the 70s made for some thrilling moments and some genuinely funny moments too, with the chemistry between Simm’s straight laced, lateral thinking, by the book cooper and Glenister’s blunt instrument works a treat.  The ambiguity continued after the conclusion of the series, with the story continuing on the 80s set sequel series Ashes To Ashes, which saw Gene Hunt move to London and paired with a female detective (Keeley Hawes).  While never hitting the heights of Life On Mars, it ran for 3 seasons and gave us a satisfyingly heart-breaking conclusion.  This will be forever remembered for giving us immortal and unforgettable DCI Gene Hunt.

James: Whether it was their intention from the very beginning or not, the makers of Life On Mars got to cherry pick all of the best bits out of 70s cop shows. We got a modern piece of television – Sam Tyler struggling with the nature of his reality and Gene Hunt getting into car chases and punching criminals. And as someone who lived in Manchester it was great to see how they shot around the city to get that Seventies feel.

Also, the third series of Ashes To Ashes also deserves a mention, as Daniel Mays (who featured in Line Of Duty as well) gave a fantastic performance that shepherded the whole saga to a great conclusion.

Snooty Usher TV Trivia Fact #711 – The American version of Life On Mars (with Harvey Keitel as Gene Hunt) ended after one season, and being years away from wrapping their own version, the original writers gave their US counterparts free reign, and they came up with a doozy. Both the “modern day” and 1970’s realities were both just a simulation to keep astronauts minds active on a mission to Mars, and a glitch had causes Sam’s program to jump from one simulation to another.

Snooty Usher TV Trivia Fact #712 – There are currently Czech and Russian versions running in those countries that take their Sam Tyler character back to Soviet-era police, giving another level to the show.

Inspector Morse/Lewis (ITV, 1987-2015)

Dave: Based on the novels of Colin Dexter, Inspector Morse ran for 33 episodes across 13 years, becoming one of the nations favourite detectives.  He was the epitome of the gentleman detective, a middle class bachelor with middle class interests, he drove a classic Jaguar, listens to opera and has a fondness for real ale, this was contrast in his relationship with his partner DS Lewis, a working class family man from the North East.  Set in the beautiful city of Oxford, with the various colleges and classic architecture used as a stunning back drop.  Now, the term national treasure is banded about a little too often for my tastes, but is there a better way to describe John Thaw?  His gruff nature embodies Morse with an every-man quality that masks his vast intellect.  Kevin Whately’s Lewis is perfect foil as his put upon Sergeant.  Their relationship is central to the show’s success and longevity.  The series ended in 2000, when Morse collapse and died of a heart attack, his legacy would live on however when in 2006, when Kevin Whatley’s Lewis would return.

Robbie Lewis is now a Detective Inspector, he is widowed and his kids are grown. Paired with a new DS, James Hathaway played by Lawrence Fox.  Hathaway is a chain-smoking, emotionally detached intellectual. Lewis is Colombo like, in as much as his scruffy appearance and the fact that is not an Oxford man, means he is constantly under estimated by the high brow university community.  While he relies of Hathaway’s classic education at times, he is more than a match for Oxfords criminal element.  Lewis and Hathaway’s chemistry would rival but not quite eclipse that of Morse and Lewis, but was the driving force behind this shows success, it was baffling when after 7 series and a natural conclusion, they brought the show back for 2 more years, changing the dynamic of the leads and for the first time in nearly 30 years, the show began oustay its welcome.

The conclusion of Lewis was not the end for the franchise.  In 2011, ITV turned back the clock with the prequel series Endeavour.  Set in 1965, it focuses on Morse’s early years as a DC.  Shaun Evans does a great job of honouring Thaw and giving us a believable young Morse and Roger Allam adds a touch of class as Morse’s noble DI, Fred Thursday.

James: Morse is a national treasure. It really is the gold standard that all detective shows are aiming for. The character work between Morse and Lewis was brilliant, and they knew when to inject some levity and humour into what was a serious drama. Decades before Sherlock, theses were basically films that were shown on ITV, and we got thirty three of them. Although Lewis is slightly in its predecessors shadow, it featured a nice change of dynamic with the two leads, and in a nice touch of symmetry, there were also thirty three episodes of Lewis.

I would echo Dave to say that Endeavour really does uphold the quality of the shows that came before it. There’s the same sheen of quality, and Shaun Evans portrays Morse’s traits without simply mimicking John Thaw.

Snooty Usher TV Trivia Fact #713 – Inspector Morse author Colin Dexter made a cameo in all but three of the Morse episodes.

Snooty Usher TV Trivia Fact #714 – In the pilot episode of Endeavour, Morse questions a newspaper editor.  The editor asks if they have met, as he seems familiar to her.  The editor is played by John Thaw’s daughter Abigail. She recurs throughout the series

Luther (BBC, 2010-16)

James: Neil Cross wrote for Spooks and Doctor Who before being Luther, and his writing deserves a lot of credit. He has created a conflicted detective haunted by his past, and set him in a harsh, yet real-feeling London. However, in this could be the set up for almost any detective show – Idris Elba makes Luther into a great piece of work. His performance really nails the complex character, making him sympathetic but still hard as nails. He will make a great next Bond… or Doctor Who!

The show also stands out by giving Luther a full-on nemesis. Ruth Wilson play Alice Morgan, a character who comes in and out of the show. Cross has always said Luther is inspired by Sherlock Holmes and Columbo, and by giving the detective his own Moriaty, Luther raises the bar again.

I truly hope that we get more episodes of Luther. The most recent series was only two episodes, and surely it would be possible to squeeze another couple into Elba’s (and Cross’) increasingly busy schedule. Perhaps just even a one-off to finally wrap up the series, although the end of the third series seemed to do that quite well – coat and all – before it was brought back. Maybe Netflx or Amazon Prime could throw enough money at it to get another go around.

Taggart (STV 1983-2010)

Dave:  Now, I am a Scotsman who has lived in England for the better part of 10 years and this show has a lot to answer for.  The amount of times I have been asked to utter the phrase “Thurs bin a murder”, well let’s just say it is more than once.

Set in the Maryhill area of Glasgow, Taggart was and remains the UK’s longest running TV police series.  The show survived the death of its title character, when the great Mark McManus died in 1994.

Jim Taggart, was a gruff no nonsense Glaswegian, with little time for sensitivity.  The show was just so brilliantly Glaswegian, the best part of watching this growing up was trying to spot the locations where it was filmed.  The show declined in quality following McManus’s death, relying on the more gruesome elements to attract viewers, (I recall one episode where 6 people were murdered, too much!!).  Those early years though gave us something so intrinsically Scottish that DCI Jim Taggart will forever be one of my all time favourite TV cops.

Heartbeat (ITV, 1992-2010)

James: Trips to Aidenfield were a staple of Sunday nights when I was growing up. It started out with Nick Berry was Nick Rowan, a London police officer who moves to North Yorkshire with his wife , Dr Kate Rowan (Niamh Cusack). The two of them have to deal with small town life, as well as some pretty hard hitting storylines. Bill Maynard’s turn as lovable rogue Greengrass provided the  light relief, and the policing team of Ventress, Bradley, and Blakeston were always welcome.

Later series broadened the focus from a single lead character when Rowan transferred to the Mounties in Canada after Berry decided to leave. Jason Durr came in as Mike Bradley, and it became more of an ensemble show, with the storylines moving into the more usual Sunday night territory that. But those early shows left and indelible mark on this Snooty Usher.

Messiah (BBC, 2001-2008)

Dave:  The first series of Messiah was one of those shows that just blew me away.  It was dark, it was scary, it was gruesome.  Ken Stott is DCI Red Metcalfe, he and his team are faced with series of brutal killings.  As they delve deeper, they find that someone is killing people, mimicking how Jesus’s apostles died. Now, I am a sucker for serial killers with a religious motive and this is one of the finest examples of it.

Red and his team returned for 3 more series and new cast taking over in 2008 for a further 1 series, with Marc Warren taking over from Stott in the lead.  While they were suitably gruesome, it never quite hit the heights of this ground breaking first case.

James: My sister and I used to buy cheap books from charity shops when we went on holiday. One of these books was about a series of gruesome murders that wove religious themes into plot. We talked about how it would make a great film or TV show – and when we got home we found out that it did! Ken Stott was just perfect as the detective trying to get to the bottom of these horrific crimes. He played the role like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, like he constantly had a splitting headache. The supporting characters were excellently cast as well.

A Touch of Frost (ITV, 1992-2010)

Dave: I love Del Boy Trotter as much as anyone, but for me at least, this is David Jason’s finest hour.  The gruff, empathetic Detective Edward ‘Jack’ Frost.  Based on the novels of R.D Wingfield, A Touch of Frost was a firm favourite in the McKee household.  This is set in the fictional town of Denton, in the south midlands and while they are completely different, it is difficult not to compare Frost with ITV other long running Detective series Inspector Morse.

Frost never had an established DS like Lewis, working with a series of different sidekicks which really worked.  The humour in the show came from Frost’s interactions with his boss Superintendent Norman “Horn Rimmed Harry” Mullett.

James: A Touch of Frost was great. David Jason knew just how much comedy business to put into his performance. I think everyone was surprised just how good he was in the more serious role, and I remember trying to find out if Denton FC was a real football team.

Prime Suspect (ITV, 1991-2006)

Dave: While I enjoyed the early episodes of Prime Suspect, I was never a massive fan of it, mainly down to the fact that I don’t really like writer Lynda La Plante’s work.

Having said that, the quality of this show and the performance of Helen Mirren demands attention.  Ground breaking and harrowing at times, this gave us a really believable, flawed female lead. Tennison has been oft imitated and never, to date, bettered.

The Bill (ITV, 1984-2010)

Dave: And finally, no list of police shows would be complete without this long running series.  Set in the fictional Sun Hill Police station, this gave us a load of memorable characters. Remember PC Reg Hollis? WPC June Ackland? DCI Frank Burnside? The list goes on.  It lost something for me when it changed from the 30 minute episode format, but I still hold many fond memories of this show

James: I love shows that are truly episodic. Whether it is the monster of the week episodes of shows like Buffy or The X-Files, or the half an hour episodes of The Bill that were on every Tuesday and Thursday. The ongoing tales from Sun Hill lost something when it went to an hour long, but those early episodes will last a long time in my memory.

Until next time, thanks for reading. Stay gold Ponyboy, stay gold, and catch ya later on down the trail.

10 Of The Best British Cop Shows The British public loves a good police show. Here are some of the best!

[limejuicer1862]

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

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

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

  Rachael Ikins

Rachael Ikins has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize & CNY Book Award multiple times and won the 2018 Independent Book Award for Just Two Girls. She featured at the Tyler Gallery 2016, Rivers End Bookstore 2017, ArtRage gallery 2018, Caffe Lena, Saratoga Springs, Aaduna fundraiser 2017 Auburn, NY, Syracuse Poster Project 2015, and Palace Poetry, Syracuse. Her work is included in the 2019 anthologies Gone Dogs and We Will Not Be Silenced the latter Book Authority’s #2 pick for the top 100 Best New Poetry Books for 2019. She has 7 chapbooks, a full length poetry collection and a novel. She is a graduate of Syracuse University and Associate Editor of Clare Songbirds Publishing House. She lives in a small house with her animal family surrounded by nature and is never without a book in hand.

Associate Editor Clare Songbirds Publishing House, Auburn NY

https://www.claresongbirdspub.com/shop/featured-authors/rachael-ikins/

2018 Independent Book Award winner (poetry)

2013, 2018, 2019 CNY Book Award nominee

2016, 2018 Pushcart nominee

Www.writerraebeth.wordpress.com

https://m.facebook.com/RachaelIkinsPoetryandBooks/

@poetreeinmoshun on Instagram

@writerraebeth on Tumblr

@nestl493 on Twitter

Above all, practice kindness

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

I started writing poetry in second grade when I was 7. I still know that silly poem by heart that I’d written for Halloween. And it was about cats. Some things never change, although I write about more than cats now. As far as inspiration I suppose it was hearing it—I speak several languages— poetry is its own language. My first grade teacher had us copy poems to learn penmanship from the chalk board. My father used to have me read psalms from the Bible at bed time as I learned to read more. I think I was just born a poet. Only one period of my life was I unable to write and that was caused by serious adverse reaction to medications. It was a bleak time.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

I have already mentioned my dad and my first grade teacher. The most significant person was my 8th grade English teacher. A poet and author herself, she presented the unit on poetry ( met with groans esp. from the boys) by having us go out into the community to find poems in magazines and periodicals and cut them out. To create a notebook of poems. She had us each get a copy of two seminal poetry books, Poetry USA and Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle and we were assigned poems and practiced. We performed for a small crowd one afternoon in the school library. It made a huge difference to be taught by someone who was passionate about poetry. No English teacher for the rest of my school years ever came close. We are still friends. She is in her 80s now and still writing in multiple genres, attending workshops and publishing.

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

I’m not sure what this question refers to. Older in history poets or older people I knew who liked or wrote  poetry. My father was given, as were all soldiers, The Pocket Book of Poetry.  Soldiers would carry it under their helmets. My dad still had his copy, and we used to read from that little book. So I was aware of the masters as a kid, but had not known an actual adult poet until I was 14.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I tend to work in the mornings. I browse markets using social media a lot, too. If I find something interesting I will match up the pieces I want to submit and then revise and polish. As far as new work, again, it tends to be written mornings. I was riding my bike yesterday morning, and a poem started up in my head. This has always been a way I write. Other days something will happen, something that has been subconsciously simmering will say “It’s time!” Whatever else I had planned that day will take back seat to the need to write, and I may write for 5 hours straight.

Walking or riding and letting my mind roam. Once the body is craving relief, all extraneous clutter- thought goes away and clears space for something new to appear. I just listen for it.

5. What motivates you to write?

A feeling of not having achieved some mysterious rubicon yet. I have won a lot of prizes and as well published quite a lot of books with three publishers in multiple genres, and yet I  am just driven. I also have to say, I think I can’t help it. Writing is like breathing to me. “Write or die.” I would also like to make a significant amount of money at my craft/passion to make a dent in my monthly budget. Would I like to support myself at it? For sure, but I don’t know if that will ever happen. I have intense focus and ability to pursue something no matter who detracts from it. That has done well for me, too. Because in spite of teacher support, my family never took my writing seriously until the past decade.

6. What is your work ethic?

My work ethic has always been work hard and  help one another. We are all in this together. Contests aside, we are not competitors though some act that way. Help someone else. Don’t trample someone with your ambition. Pay it forward. Honesty. Write honestly.

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

Oh, that is an easy one. I first tried to read Tolkien to myself as an 8 year old. Was a tad daunting. Instead I read all of Milne’s Winnie the Pooh books. The classics. Read Tolkien again in my 20s and was hooked. Both these authors made a mark on me somehow, scarred my heart and brain because decades later after writing nothing but poetry since age 14, in my 40s I wrote a series of children’s stories and the initial chapters of what became the first book in the Tales from the Edge of the Woods series, Totems. My understanding of fantasy and my choice of magical characters and so on was sparked by those great authors. My children’s stories stayed in a box until about a year ago, through 7 moves. I showed them to a publisher last year and we worked on edits. A Piglet for David will be coming from Clare Songbirds Publishing House later this year, the first in a series of young reader chapter books.

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

I admire J. K. Rowling though I am not a Harry Potter fan. Like her, I have known horrible poverty. You just do the work, period. And if you become successful, you do good with it. I also have always admired poet Marge Piercy. Since her book The Moon is Always Female in the ‘80s with its erotic poems connected to the natural world and also cat poetry Marge has seemed to appear along the journey just when I  needed an example to follow. I have also been at work on straight fiction, a lesbian adventure/ romance for awhile. I have never been fond of reading explicit sexual descriptions. It bores me. Do it, don’t discuss it lol.

I had to write a love scene and had no idea how to do so. One thing about love scenes is it is easy for them to be unimaginative.

I was in a bookstore and found an anthology Best Lesbian Erotica, not sure of the year. Looking through the table of contents I saw Marge Piercy had a short story in it. So I bought it, read her story and the rest of them, then faced off one night, sweating, in front of my computer and wrote the scene. A few years later my story “The Horse Rescuer” was accepted for publication, and I was paid probably the most for one piece I’ve been so far.

In 2014 I noticed Marge on FaceBook so I private-messaged her, one of those “You don’t know me but…” expressions of gratitude for her presence in my literary life. She responded and suggested I submit to her June Poetry Intensive. She chooses 12 students for a week long workshop every year. I finally got to meet my hero.

I like Mary Oliver’s poetry, too, but Marge is the one who has always been there in some sort of magical way. There are really too many authors for me to list.

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

I can’t not write. And when a poem in particular or a scene if we’re talking prose, starts coming together in my mind, I have to stop whatever else I’m doing. It’s like going into labor I guess. You can’t tell the baby you’ve changed your mind, stay in there.

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

You write. The best way to become a writer is to read everything you can get your hands on. Then you write. Maybe you start out emulating a style of someone you like to read. Keep writing and eventually your own voice will be heard. Writing is the most labor-intensive, long-term gamble of a profession going. You can theoretically spend, for example, 5 years writing a novel, another several seeking an agent and publisher if you want to go the path of the big 5 publishers, and yet you can spend a whole decade of your life on that one project and it may never be accepted. Or sell. Know that up front. Study. Go to workshops. Find a writing group. Read at open mics. And if/ when you reach a point where you have something to submit, read the specs the publisher lists as to how to submit to their publication. It shows respect. Many a writer has been summarily rejected for not submitting the way the publisher requested. Be tough. Opinions are completely subjective. Being rejected by a publication is meaningless. Editors are human beings. We all have different tastes. Don’t take it to heart. If you are lucky enough to get a note of feedback along with the rejection, learn from that. Read books about writing.

It’s hard. Be aware. Being a writer is not for the faint of heart. If you are serious about it you will pursue it no matter what. We only pass this way one time. So if you really want to do this, do it.

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

Right now I am in the midst of launching my mixed-genre memoir, Eating the Sun. It is the love story of my husband and me. Organized by seasons of the year, the garden is the vehicle that takes the reader on the journey. Each section starts with narrative and then has poetry related to it, and finally recipes created by us from garden ingredients we grew. I use my artwork often in my books when publishers allow it.

This book has pen and inks, photography and cover art by me. I have a second manuscript submitted to a publisher. It is all poetry titled Confessions of a Poetry Whore. Another poetry  manuscript  to be sent this fall is titled Riding in Cars with Dogs.  It will be the companion book to my previously published For Kate: a Love Story in Four Parts written after the death of my beloved cat, Katie.  Since grief is a universal experience and so is love, no matter what shape the beloveds, this book is accessible to anyone who has lost someone. The second fantasy book of the Tales of the Woodland series,  Beach Wrack has been written and edited professionally and is in the queue with a mid-level publisher. Book 3, Through the Hedgerow  is half written.

All four or five of the young reader chapter books are written as well. A Piglet for David will be Book 1. These also have my artwork as illustrations.  My work is contained in 5 upcoming anthologies, and I am eagerly awaiting copies. All releasing this summer and fall. Both writing and artwork.

Last but not least, I am at work on a thriller/horror genre novel. Haven.

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