#also sorry i published the submission by accident at first

[therealvinelle]

Doylist analysis of For the Love of a Woman

(Link to the fic in question.)

The anon who requested a Doylist analysis from @bellaslilpapercut submitted their thoughts:

doyle anon here, keep this anonymous (also canon-narrative sorta just means What-Smeyer-Thinks, to clarify) -

I think the reason FtLoaW is so intringiung to me is even within the inaccurate and inconsistent  perception Stephenie Meyers has of her characters (viewing edward and jacob as they are in canon as ‘good’, etc) The basic premise is comically plausible, literally only a hair off from canon, and the further you go usually the inaccuracies are for humour but are still plausible to a point.

Like, Jacob and Edward both would do literally anything to get the ending they think is right even within Meyers mind, she straight up has Edward be willing to have an open relationship in BD, Jacob deadass was about to launch himself off a cliff that one time, they are insistent, they regularly have no dignity what so ever, the request Edward makes is only slightly off from canon in timing and desperation, and they both agreed to it somewhat in canon.

Like, Meyers might obviously have them come up with better ideas to make it palatable to Bella, (i say better but like i mean more efficient) but, would Ed and Jacob make out if it meant Bella wouldn’t die by Vamp pp? Yeah, she wouldn’t like to think about that, she’d probably just have Ed and Jacob back off for once or something, but they WOULD. Even the inaccurate perceptions of Ed and Jake WOULD DO THIS, just probably less awkwardly.

And that’s INTERESTING because it’s like, how WOULD the original canon grapple with this? How would Smeyer’s idea of these characters react to this? How would what Smeyer thinks Bella is react to this? If Smeyer pushed herself into this corner, and couldnt just drag herself out of it, what does she think would happen? How would she move forward? Likely the anwser is just 'this becomes one of those moments where Smeyer heads up to something then drops it’ like shes prone to doing but, Bella’s reaction in that fic isn’t that off even from Smeyers perception of her to me.

Especially because like… canon-narrative! Jacob and Edward work!! Even within the confusing hellscape that is the Twilight Narrative and its perceptions of them, theyd canonically work!! The original anon who started all this pointed out how Edward said Jacob’s mind is pleasant and that they might’ve been friends, but like, they have similar personalities in general! People don’t really realise it because what people tend to stick with and therefore what becomes fanon (jacobs NM sunniness and Edwards genuinely surreal lack of social skills) isnt similar, but Smeyer wrote them to be so similar. They’d get along in other circumstances! Within the canon-narrative, if they finally got along and sucked face itd be like… deeply tension filled, And awkward, the only thing stop FtLoaW from happening is like, them having minor social skils compared to their watsonian counterparts

tl;dr somehow your crackfic dependent on watsonian analysis of the series also makes total sense in the context of canon-narrative perceptions of the same characters minus the obvious surrealism and like, holy shit batman, you’ve done it! you’ve taken this series main consistent point of 'doing what u think is best w/o consent’ and drove it to its logical conclusion, accidentally driving it off a cliff (the main romances in the series) in the process!

or, funnier tldr - someone bribe smeyer in writing canon-narrative AU of your fic, i NEED to know how she would confront this.

Sorry if this wasn’t that interesting btw i just like, Have Thoughts. And like i dont think ao3 has that large of a comment character allowance.

Anon, you fascinate me.

[pub-lius]

Henry bestie, do you know anything about Percy Shelly?

Nope! Well, not until now, because I'll do some research for you, bestie. This one probably won't be very in depth, because I have no pre-existing knowledge of this person, so you'll just be getting the basics. I hope its still helpful! (also sorry for being late, i haven't had any time for research and i wanted to thoroughly answer this as much as possible)

I'm assuming you mean Percy Bysshe Shelley (link to Britannica for more in depth information), who was a poet born on August 4, 1792 near Sussex, England. Shelley was the heir to his grandfather's fortune, and he was quite rebellious towards his father, Timothy Shelley. He was educated at Syon House Academy, and then at Eton. He was bullied heavily at Eton, and used literature as an escape.

Shelley published two Gothic novels and two volumes of juvenile verse between 1810 and 1811. Shelley entered Oxford in 1810, and became closely tied with a fellow student, Thomas Jefferson Hogg. Both were expelled in March 1811 for refusing to admit that Shelley had written The Necessity of Atheism. Shelley never apologized (king).

In August 1811, Shelley eloped with the daughter of a tavern owner, Harriet Westbrook, going against his family's plans for him, and rightfully so, as they attempted to cruelly force him into submission.

Shelley moved to Dublin in 1812 with Harriet and her sister, where he supported rights for Roman Catholics, sovereignty for Ireland, and freedom of thought. The couple then moved to Lynmouth, Devon, then to North Wales in 1812.

In 1813, he returned to London due to debt, and issued his first major poem, Queen Mab. Later that year, Harriet gave birth to their daughter, Ianthe. The next year, Shelley fell in love with Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, and they eloped to France on July 27, 1814. They traveled to France, Switzerland, and Germany, then returned to London where they were shunned. After his grandfather's death, his father paid his debts and gave him an annual income.

Shelley settled near Windsor Great Park in 1815, where he wrote Alastor; or The Spirit of Solitude. In 1816, Shelley, Mary and Mary's sister relocated to Geneva. Here, Shelley wrote "Hymn to Intellectual Beauty" and "Mont Blanc". Mary also began her novel Frankenstein. They then returned to Bath, England in September. Harriet Shelley died in London, allowing Percy and Mary to be married with the Godwins' blessing. A Chancery Court decided that Shelley was unfit to care for his children, and they were placed in foster care.

In 1817, the Shelleys moved to Marlow, where Shelley wrote Laon and Cyntha; or, The Revolution of the Golden City, and his wife completed Frankenstein. Shelley's health suffered from the climate, so they moved to Italy in 1818. Shelley completed several other works while there.

In August 1818, the Shelleys remained in Venice or at Este through Octobe 1818, where Shelley writes how the landscape of a hill brought him out of despair for the political regeneration of Italy. He also drafted Act I of Prometheus Unbound before traveling to Naples, where he outlined The Cenci, which he completed in 1819. He completed Prometheus in 1819 as well, which was published along with some shorter poems by him, such as "Ode to Liberty," "Ode to the West Wind," "The Cloud," and "To a Sky-Lark."

Shelley responded to the Peterloo Massacre in August 1819 by writing The Masque of Anarchy to inspire British citizens to peaceful protest. In addition, he wrote, Peter Bell the Third, and A Philosophical View of Reform, which, along with The Masque of Anarchy, were too radical to be published until long after his death.

Shelley continued to publish many different works in the following years, displaying his very radical political and social views. Percy Shelley drowned on July 8, 1822, in a sailing accident. His wife collected his unpublished writings, allowing many of them to be accessed today.

This was a very interesting subject to research! Thank you so much for the ask, and I hope I was able to be helpful in some way <3

[heyyyharry]

Chapter 10: Truth or Truth

(from the My Girl Trilogy: Stay Mine)

…in which the truth comes out.

Word count: 6.6k

AU: actor!Harry, older!Harry, younger!Y/N, (4-year age gap).

Wattpad link (Thea as Y/N)

Well, this is one crazy chapter 👀 Let me know what you think because I’m thirsty for feedback. But also don’t be to harsh on me I’m fragile.

.

.

.

The last Sunday of the month. Laura Hilfgard’s flat. Y/N’s book was almost finished and ready for submission, and she was at the top of her game. She’d been putting off everything else to write, and for the first time in her life, everything was happening according to plan. Last year’s Y/N would’ve spent every passing moment waiting for something to go wrong. The writer-to-be Y/N, however, was living her best life.

“Are you sure you want to omit the confrontation scene in chapter ten?” Laura asked once they’d stopped for a tea break.

Y/N stirred her tea slowly, still contemplating her handwritten notes. “You don’t need drama in every chapter. It’s not realistic.”

“It’s fiction,” said Laura. Y/N glanced up with an eyebrow lifted, and the agent exhaled as she raised her hands, palms out. “Sorry, ma’am. Your book.”

Blowing into her tea, Y/N closed her pink notebook and took a sip. “Sorry, it’s just the story is based on what happened to me.”

“Oh?” Laura blinked, sounding both surprised and intrigued.

“I changed a few things,” Y/N said. “But yeah, my boyfriend used to be my neighbour. We met in his treehouse twelve years ago.”

“Your boyfriend is Harry Styles, right?”

“You know him?”

“Everyone does.” Laura stopped stirring her tea to add more sugar with the same spoon. She’d been stirring and adding sugar for the last five minutes, which made Y/N wonder if she was going to drink at all. “I’ve heard so many stories about you two. You make a fine couple.”

“You’ve heard stories about us?” Y/N carefully set down her cup and smiled questioningly at the woman. “From whom?”

“Everyone,” Laura said and finally brought the cup to her red lips. Y/N watched Laura take the first sip of her overly sweet tea, and the only thing that came to Y/N’s mind was the likelihood of a connection between Laura and Harry.

Impossible. Harry would never have interfered. Not after their fight about John Conall. Besides, Blake had been the one who’d suggested her to Laura, not Harry. So how could Harry have possibly done anything?

Or could he?

What if he’d contacted Laura right after Blake had given the manuscript to her? No, Harry would never lie to Y/N. Harry, of all people, would understand how much this meant to her, that she’d accomplished everything on her own without his help. Harry, of all people, would believe in her.

Once she got back to her flat, she found herself pacing back and forth in her living room, clutching her phone to her chest as she tried to decide if she should just call and ask him. Him saying he had no connection to her literary agent would put Y/N out of her misery. But that would prove that she didn’t trust him, and he’d be so angry, and they would fight again. Things had been going so well recently she didn’t want to mess it up. Although there was a tiny part of her doubting everything, mostly herself…

Her phone rang, and she jumped. It was Harry. Biting her nail, she slid her thumb across the screen to answer and tried her best not to sound like she’d been overthinking. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey, are you working?”

“I just got back from Laura’s.”

“Is the book done?”

“Yup. We’ve submitted it to some publishers, and all we have to do now is wait.”

“That’s my girl.”

The question about Laura was on the tip of her tongue. She bit her nail instead and took a seat on the couch as he went on, “Don’t hate me for what I’m about to say, okay?”

“Okay.” She kept her tone light and neutral while unconsciously picking at a thread on her skirt.

“I forgot that I’d have dinner with my dad. I know I said I’d take you out tonight–”

“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” she said quickly and sat on her hand to stop her fidgeting. “You’ve been spending quite a lot of time with your dad.”

“Yeah,” he sighed contentedly. “Now that I don’t have to hide it from my mum or Gemma anymore, I can support Dad and Emi without feeling bad about it.”

“Support? As in...financially?” She hoped she didn’t sound too judgy.

He was quiet for a full second. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Harry…”

“No, hear me out. They owed the bank a lot of money because of the accident. I only helped them pay their debt. It’s not like I’m buying them a car or a house.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled. “You’ve been giving them so many expensive things, and Isaac told me you’ve also been helping Emi get back to acting.”

“ ‘Help’ as in I got her to castings. She still needs to audition like everyone else. I don’t ask directors to give her roles that she’s incompetent at, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything.” Maybe she was. “It’s just...you can’t live their lives for them, Harry.”

“I don’t. I’m only trying to help.”

“You can help, and you should. Just don’t overspend on them.”

“They’re family.”

She almost told him ‘not really’ and ‘I still don’t trust them’, but then let it go once he fell silent. “That wasn’t a fight, was it?” she asked.

“Of course not, kid.” His low laugh brought her a sense of relief. She straightened before leaning into the couch, staring at one of the cracks on her ceiling.

“I gotta go now. Talk to you later?” he said cautiously.

So she kept her tone light. “Sure. Have fun acting.”

“Have fun writing. Love you.”

She giggled as he kissed the phone.

“I love you, too.”

.

.

.

Since Gemma ran an online business and therefore wasn’t tied to a desk and a chair, she had decided to stay in London for a couple of days. Those couple of days had turned into two weeks and felt like two freaking months. Time slowed down when she was with Isaac; not that she complained.

She’d been with him constantly since they’d left Holmes Chapel. She wasn’t sure what they were. Friends? Way past that. Lovers? Not quite there. Friends who kissed? Well, sure, that might be a suitable label for their ‘relationship’. Gemma hated labels anyway, so it didn’t matter.

“Have you spoken to him?” Isaac asked, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. They were at his house, curled up in his bed, watching Netflix. Almost like a happy couple.

“Harry?” Her eyebrows furrowed as one of the characters was being brutally murdered on the screen. Isaac leaned forward and pressed pause right before the dead body collapsed.

Gemma gasped, “Hey!”

“You’ve already watched this,” he chuckled and removed the laptop from her lap before she could resume the movie.

“Still, that’s the best scene!”

He shook his head, placed the laptop on the other side of him and turned around, facing her. “Have you spoken to Asher?”

“No. He’s probably forgotten about me.”

“Gem…”

“Can we not mention my ex at this moment?”

“He’s not your ex yet, and you don’t want to mention him at any moment.” Isaac took her hand and brought it to his lap. “You need to break up with him.”

“He already broke up with me.”

“He said it was a break.”

She groaned and hugged a pillow to her chest. “He said it so he could hook up with whoever he wanted. He’s done this before, disappeared for a week or two. I was pretty sure he was hooking up with his secretary at the time, then he came back and acted like nothing was wrong. I just...I was stupid and I was in love with him. But not anymore. I’ve had enough.”

“So you’re just gonna wait until he reaches out to you, and then break up with him?”

“Yes. I want it to hurt.”

Isaac screwed up his face. “Why?”

“What do you mean why? After all that he’s done to me?”

“Do you still have feelings for him?” He tried to sound unbothered but she could see right through him. “Is that the reason why you’re so determined to make him feel equally bad?”

“No!” She shook her head, squeezing his hand. “I just don’t want him to think he’s so important. I’m not gonna reach out first. Now can we please get back to the movie?”

“Fine,” he huffed and brought the laptop back to his lap.

As she snuggled up to him and he draped his arm around her shoulders again, the buzzing of his phone on the nightstand interrupted them. She groaned when he withdrew himself from her.

“It could be Lee,” he said. Lee was his manager.

But it wasn’t Lee. She could see it on his face as he put down his phone as soon as he’d read the messages.

“Who’s that?”

“Your half-sister,” he said, drawing her back into his arms.

She lay her head on his chest, her eyebrows pulled together. “She’s still your model?”

“We had our last shoot yesterday. If you’d come, you could have met her.”

“It’s so weird that I haven’t.” She tilted her head up to look at his face. “Do you think she’s scared of me? Because I’m not as easy-going as Harry.”

“Probably.” A grin stretched his pink lips as she weakly hit his chest.

“Did you ever fancy her?” She arched an eyebrow so he mimicked her expression.

“Are you jealous of your own sister?”

“Half-sister.”

Her irritated tone got him laughing. “I mean, she is pretty.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, gazing at the ceiling. “Maybe a little.”

Gemma poked his side and he jerked away, doubling over and protecting his sensitive spots from her tickling. They nearly fell off the bed from laughing too hard. Somehow he ended up on his stomach and she on his back, their cheeks together.

He whispered, “Do you think Harry would like the idea of us?”

“Should we call and ask him?”

“Gemma.”

She giggled as his face turned serious. “Of course. You’re his best friend, right?”

“I don’t know about that. He didn’t talk to me until Y/N and I broke up.”

“That’s because she’s Y/N. He didn’t let me come to the treehouse because it was ‘their place’.” She rolled her eyes. “But it was mine first. Dad built it for me.” When she caught him gazing at her, she returned a look just as bemused. “What?”

“You said ‘Dad’. Not Winton.”

“Oh.” She rolled onto her back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Isaac flipped over to lie on his side, his head propped up on his hand. She waited for another question, but he didn’t ask, so she went on, “I still won’t visit him or even talk to him. But I guess there was a time when he was good, and I should give the old him some credits. It’s easier to do that, now that I no longer have to deal with the consequences of him leaving.” She turned to smile at him. “Now that I’ve found someone who really cares about me.”

“Who’s that? Is it me?” He acted shocked and she shoved him away, cackling.

“Come on.” She sat up, grabbed the laptop and beckoned him over. “We still have to finish this terrible movie.”

.

.

.

A week later, Y/N came to Laura’s office after she’d finished two classes in the morning. Laura’s assistant told her Laura had taken a day off because she was sick. “She’s rescheduled the meeting with the publisher this afternoon,” said the assistant. “I was gonna call you but Ms Hilfgard said she’d tell you herself. She’s probably forgotten.”

Weird. Laura never forgot. She was like a machine when it came to business stuff, and Y/N had always wondered where that woman got all that energy. Laura must be very sick. Y/N normally would stay away from other people’s business, but she’d been inseparable from Laura recently, which gave her a sense of responsibility for her agent. She should probably check in on Laura.

“Is she at her flat today?” she asked the assistant, who seemed unsure.

“I think so. Would you like me to call her for you?”

“No, thank you. I’ll do it myself.”

Y/N adjusted her bag on her shoulder, wished the woman a good day and ambled out of the room. She tried calling Laura when she got into the lift, but Laura didn’t answer the phone. A throb in her stomach led her to believe something was wrong.

Everyone got sick once in a while so Laura couldn’t be an exception; she was human after all. But Y/N’s gut feelings were always correct. And if she chose to ignore them, it’d be her fault when something actually happened to Laura, who lived all by herself and had no close friend or family, none that Y/N knew of.

“Laura! It’s me, Y/N!” Y/N banged on the door after she’d rung the doorbell many times and there was no answer. “Laura! Your assistant told me you were sick. I came to check on you.”

Just as she imagined herself kicking down the door like those badass heroines in movies, she heard the sound of it being unlocked, the handle turned, and the door was opened. Her chest caved when Laura appeared, holding the door just wide enough to reveal half of her face. She was in her bathrobe without any makeup on, her skin marked with freckles, her lips dry, her eyes dark and weary, and her hair wasn’t pulled up into a neat bun like it always was. She looked like she’d gone through hell and back.

“Are you all right?” Y/N asked and immediately realised how stupid she’d sounded; of course, Laura wasn’t all right. Look at her.

“I’m very sorry, Y/N. You shouldn’t have come here.” Laura sounded spacey. The smell of alcohol on her breath was too strong. She held Y/N’s gaze, expecting Y/N to leave, but once she was sure Y/N wasn’t going anywhere, Laura stepped aside and opened the door a bit wider, just enough for Y/N to slip in.

The door was closed. They were standing in the semidarkness; there was still a bit of light coming through the dark blue curtain of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The evident of Laura’s despair was lying on the white carpet in the middle of the room – empty bottles after a wild alcohol-binge. She wasn’t sick. She was drunk.

Laura brushed past a bewildered Y/N and careened toward the sofa. The sofa legs creaked ominously under her weight.

“As you can see, I’m pretty much alive,” she said to the ceiling, an arm placed over her eyes. “You may leave now.”

Y/N wanted to leave. Whatever Laura was dealing with had nothing to do with her. She’d only come to make sure her agent was still alive, and Laura was just drunk for some unknown reason, but that was all Y/N should know. She should leave. Her brain told her to leave, but her guts told her Laura needed help.

She huffed and came to stand at one end of the sofa. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

“It has nothing to do with you, Y/N.”

“You rescheduled a meeting with the publisher without asking me – your author, and then lied about being sick when you’ve been drinking your arse off. So yeah, it has a lot to do with me.”

As Laura didn’t answer, Y/N picked up the woman’s arm and tried to haul her out of the sofa. She resisted the effort, weakly pushing Y/N away.

“Fine. I’m leaving.” Y/N folded her arms over her chest. “Call me when you’ve sobered up.”

“I now see why he’s crazy about you.”

The words froze Y/N to the spot. She slowly turned around and backed away from the front door to return to her previous spot beside Laura. He? Who was he?

Laura’s eyelids fluttered like she was going to fall asleep, but then she continued, “He chose you over me because you’re young and beautiful and ambitious and kind…He chose you over me because...I’m the opposite…”

Y/N’s heart, head, and stomach pulsated at once. “Who...who are you talking about?”

“Blake.”

The name left her in shock. She blinked at Laura, feeling disoriented for a second. She hoped Laura was only messing with her. Laura and Blake? No fucking way.

“He ended it because of you,” Laura went on despite Y/N’s startlement. “We weren’t really together, but he made it clear that we’d never be anything.” She laughed loudly and mirthlessly, her thick dark hair bouncing on her slim shoulders. “You have a boyfriend, and he still chose you over me. I would call him stupid but what would it make me?” Then she glanced up, her glossy eyes filled with wondering and desperation.

Meanwhile, Y/N was stuck in rearranging her thoughts. Everything made sense – Blake had been their connection since the beginning, and Laura had heard so much about Y/N and Harry – but Y/N couldn’t bring herself to believe any of it. She clutched the strap of her handbag and took in the sight of Laura, trying to look for the badass woman hiding underneath.

“I think you should go,” Laura said to her feet and gestured toward the door. “I’ll call you once I’ve sobered up.”

“Do you have anyone else I can call–”

“I don’t need anyone, Y/N. Leave!”

“Okay,” Y/N murmured as she squared her shoulders, gripped the strap of her bag, and marched to the front door.

.

.

.

Thud Thud Thud

“Blake! We need to talk, Blake!”

Blake opened the door and sprang back before Y/N accidentally hit his face with her fist. “Did you sleep with Laura?” she bellowed before he could question, and he blinked as if she was speaking alien language.

“Laura Hilfgard,” her voice dropped, “My fucking agent. For fuck’s sake! Did you sleep with her?”

He still didn’t answer but the look on his face said it all. He couldn’t admit something so horrible.

“Goddamn it, Blake! Fuck!” she roared into her hands, her chest growing hot. When he tried to touch her, she pushed him away and stabbed a finger at his face. “You lied to me!”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m so sorry–”

She held up a hand to stop him. “Oh, don’t fucking apologise to me. I’m not gonna accept it. Apologise to Laura.”

“We’re over.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter, Blake! It’s fucking sick that you slept with her so she would sign me! Fuck you!”

“Y/N!” He caught her wrist and she whipped around to fight him, but his fingers were quick to clasp her other wrist.

“Let me go!”

“Listen to me!” He shook her to get her to stop, and she did, panting and glowering at him. “I didn’t sleep with her so she’d sign you. Yes, I’d...I'd been sleeping with her before. That was how I knew her. I asked her to read your book and she loved it.”

“She only ‘loved’ it because she loved you, Blake!” Y/N yanked her hands back, tears welling up in her eyes. “You broke her and she cancelled the meeting with the publisher. She’s gonna drop me!”

“She won’t. I’ll talk to her–”

“I don’t fucking need your help, Blake. Just…” Y/N stepped back, holding up her hand to stop him from getting any closer. “Just don’t fucking talk to me again.”

“Y/N, please, hey.” He strode forward and got between her and her door, his desperate grey eyes begging her to hear him out. “I swear to you I didn’t do this on purpose. I just wanted to help. You were so desperate and I wanted you to be happy.”

“I was desperate but I wasn’t miserable,” she said through her gritted teeth. “You want me to be happy but what you did was awful, Blake. You made me feel like a talentless piece of shit, that if my boyfriend doesn’t get me a job, then my ex-boyfriend has to sleep with someone for it. God, what is wrong with you?”

“At least I gave your story to Laura and made her read it. Your boyfriend just fucking told John Conall to sign you. He doesn’t even care.”

“Don’t talk about Harry that way. He’s a thousand times better than you.” Then she froze. “How do you even know about Conall?”

“Laura knows him,” Blake said to his feet. “They talked.”

“Fuck this.”

She pulled out her keys and gestured him to get out of the way, but he refused to comply, shaking his head. She had never seen Blake Roman so despondent, and she didn’t like this side of him at all.

“I still love you, Y/N,” he said despite the fact that those were the last words she wanted to hear right now. “I’m sorry I left, but in the last three years, I couldn’t stop thinking about us, and how we could’ve figured out a way to be together instead of giving up. Then I met you here, and...and I–Listen, I’ve been trying to make it up to you–”

“Blake, please…” she breathed, her eyes tight.

“I know you still have feelings for me, Y/N. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have spent so much time with me. You rarely mentioned him when we were together. We have so much in common and we fit.”

“You’re wrong.” She stared dagger at him and unclenched her fists, taking a deep breath. “I rarely mentioned him because I didn’t want to hurt you. I knew you still had feelings for me. I guess I was wrong to want to keep you in my life as a friend when you don’t belong there anymore.”

“I do, Y/N. I do,” he fretted while she kept shaking her head.

“You don’t. You just...you just felt like childhood, which I can’t keep dwelling on anymore. Both of us need to grow up.” She inclined her head, arms wrapped around herself. “I’m sorry, Blake. I don’t think we can be friends anymore. Not after this.”

“Y/N.”

She didn’t look at him and rushed down the stairs, hoping he wouldn’t go after her. And he didn’t. She came dashing out of the building, her eyes prickling with tears. She couldn’t believe she’d doubted Harry and trusted Blake. She felt like such a fool. She hated herself.

Stopping on the side of the road, she fished her phone out of her handbag to call Harry. But then her screen flashed on with the notification of ‘11 missed calls from Laura H’. Her chest throbbed. She called Laura back.

Laura didn’t answer.

.

.

.

When Gemma stepped out of the lift, fumbling around in her bag for her room key, she almost didn’t notice the man waiting for her in the hallway.

“Gem.”

His voice froze her to the spot. She shot her head up, her heart rate increasing as Asher walked up to her holding a rose bouquet. He was dressed in a fine ocean-blue suit, his dark hair pushed back, the strong scent of his cologne so unbearable. He looked like he was here for a photoshoot or a red carpet event. When he cracked a smile, she responded with a grimace.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, unable to take her eyes off the flowers. The last time he’d got her flowers had been their first Valentine’s Day together; things had gone downhill after that.

“I came to see you,” he said. “To apologise.”

He held the flowers toward her with both hands, and she pushed them right back to him, shaking her head.

“I don’t need your apology,” she said. “You made it clear that day on the phone that this was over and I’m thankful for it.”

“I said ‘a break’.”

“You don’t get to call a break and come back whenever you feel like it,” Gemma said in annoyance. “That’s not how a relationship works.”

She gently pushed right past him to unlock the door. Right as she opened it, he slipped straight into her room. She stared at him, speechless. “Asher, leave.”

“I want to talk, please.”

Frustrated and annoyed, she slammed the door behind her, stormed toward the bed and flung her bag on it. He stood by the door with that stupid bouquet, waiting for his chance to speak.

“I can offer you a deal,” he blurted as she turned around. “You don’t have to get back with me. We can go separate ways after this.”

“Or we can go separate ways now.” She gestured to the door.

He pretended like he hadn’t heard that. “My father really likes you,” he said. “He thinks you keep me grounded. So I think...if you ask him for the investment, he’ll most likely say yes. I'll pay you. Please help me, Gem.”

“No!” Gemma put her hands on her hips, her mouth quirked in annoyance. “You’ve got some nerves to ask me that. We are not getting back together. Go find someone else dumb enough to help you.”

Asher’s mouth fell open. He must have come here thinking she would burst into tears and run into his arms the moment she saw him and forgive him like she always had. If so, he was destined for disappointment.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “Why are you like this all of a sudden?”

“Why do I have common sense all of a sudden?” She cocked her head. “Maybe I’ve finally found someone who appreciates me, and is not only with me because he can use me for his own benefit.”

Asher was shallow but he wasn’t stupid. Realization soon dawned on his face. “Have you been cheating on me?”

Before he’d come here, she’d imagined this moment to be extremely awkward, but now she was full of rage. “You and I are not together anymore, Asher,” she snapped. “But well, I did kiss him once when we were ‘together’.”

“You fucking bitch,” Asher bellowed as he threw himself at her. Everything happened so quickly her brain failed to catch on. The next thing she knew, she was on the floor, gripping the edge of the table, her head in pain. She spotted the horror on her ex’s face before he broke into a run out of the room, so she reached for her head and looked at her own fingers.

Blood.

He’d pushed her.

Shocked and dizzy, she held the table for support to stand up and hobbled into the bathroom where she grabbed a hand towel, wetted it and tried to clean the wound on her forehead. That was when she heard the door open and close. She spun around, horrified. It was just Isaac.

“What happened?!” He rushed toward her, held her face between his cold palms.

“Asher came here…” was all she could say while shaking her head, feeling herself going unsteady.

“Did he fucking hit you?” Isaac ground his jaw, his eyes turning dark.

She shuddered at the thought and felt hot tears in the wells of her eyes. “I think he pushed me,” she mumbled.

“Fuck!”

She fisted his shirt, afraid that he might run after Asher, who must have been long gone by now. But Isaac didn’t bother to ask about the arsehole. He inspected the wound on her forehead and encircled his arms around her. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

.

.

.

“Can I see her?” Y/N asked.

“Not yet,” the nurse answered.

“Is she okay?”

“She will be,” the nurse told Y/N while scribbling something on the clipboard. She’d asked Y/N a bunch of questions about Laura, most of which Y/N had answered with “I don’t know”. She didn’t know if Laura was a regular drinker or if she often drank to drunkenness. Y/N only knew what she’d witnessed – Laura blacked out on her bedroom floor with empty bottles scattering all around.

Laura had been taken to the emergency room where they gave her fluids. The doctor had briefed Y/N, saying Laura had got alcohol poisoning from her alcohol binge, and if Y/N hadn’t found her – if she’d locked the door after Y/N had left – then something terrible could have happened tonight. Y/N wasn’t sure if Laura would be okay, but things could have gone worse and she was grateful it hadn’t.

“Is there any family member that we could call?” asked the nurse, who was finally making eye contact with Y/N.

“I-I don’t know. I’m just her client,” Y/N said, rubbing her palms together nervously. “Maybe uhm...maybe I can call her assistant.”

“It’s fine. She’s in a better condition now. We’ll just get information from her when she wakes up.”

Y/N thanked the nurse and sat in one of the chairs in the hallway. She thought of calling Harry but didn’t have any motivation to do it, so she sat with her head against the wall, watching the nurses’ station while she waited for better news.

She didn’t know what time it was. She was already fatigued. She felt herself drifting away when a voice pulled her right back.

“Y/N?”

She looked up. Isaac and Gemma were just as shocked to see her. Gemma didn’t look like herself; she was wearing an oversized black hoodie with the hood on, covering her forehead. Y/N didn’t want to assume the hoodie was Isaac’s, but something told her it wasn’t Gemma’s.

“What...are you guys doing here?” Y/N slowly rose from her seat, her eyes switching back and forth between Isaac and Gemma. “Together.”

Isaac worked his jaw, unable to get any word out as he looked over at Gemma imploringly, and she heaved a sigh. Y/N was losing patience with the suspense when Gemma pulled back the hood to reveal her bandaged forehead.

“Oh my God, what happened?” Y/N gasped, pushing past Isaac to grab Gemma’s shoulders. “Did you get into an accident?”

“Y-Yeah.” Gemma looked unconfident, her eyes searching for Isaac’s again. Something was wrong, and neither of them wanted to tell Y/N what it was. She would have been mad if she didn’t have her own problems to worry about. What a crazy day it had been.

She was going to ask Isaac why he’d been the one to take Gemma to the hospital, but he went first. “Why are you here?”

“A friend of mine got into trouble,” she said. It was only fair that she got to be ambiguous too.

“Alice?” Gemma looked concerned.

“No.”

Isaac grimaced. “Eddie?”

“No!” Y/N rolled her eyes at their surprised reactions. “You guys really assume I have only two friends in London?”

“You do have only two friends in London,” Isaac said, beaming, “Besides us.”

Y/N assumed he meant him, Niall, and Harry. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but she wasn’t going to give him that.

For the second time, she meant to ask why he’d taken Gemma here, but right as she opened her mouth, a nurse showed up with a clipboard.

“Miss Styles," she called.

“Yes?” Gemma whipped around as the nurse sauntered right past her like she wasn’t there.

Confused and surprised, they all watched the nurse head toward the end of the hallway, where sat a brunette with her headphones on. Her hair was covering her face as she was looking down at her phone. The nurse had to tap her on the shoulder to get her attention. She glanced up, eyes popping out the moment she saw them. Y/N, Isaac, and Gemma looked like they’d seen a ghost.

“Emilia Styles,” repeated the nurse since Emilia wasn’t looking at her. “You can see your mother now.”

Y/N glanced over at Isaac and Gemma, who looked as if they’d seen a ghost. The nurse said something else to Emilia and went into one of the rooms. Emilia told the nurse she’d be right back as she shoved her headphones into her tote bag, got up and made way toward Y/N, Isaac and Gemma.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said with a pretentious smile; it was the same smile she always wore, but it was only until this moment that Y/N realized how pompous it was.

“Drop the act,” Y/N snapped. “Are you gonna fucking tell us why you’re here? Or should we go ask your mum who is still ALIVE?”

Isaac held her back by the arm before she could even consider doing something to Emilia. She didn’t want to get violent; she wasn’t that type of person. Not yet.

“Fine.” The fake smile disappeared as Emilia stood taller despite having been exposed. “My mum’s alive,” she calmly confessed. “She has cancer, and my dad doesn’t work anymore so I have to take care of them.”

“With Harry’s money?” Gemma snarled. Y/N believed if Gemma’s head wasn’t hurt, she would have already torn Emilia to pieces.

“I didn’t take anything Harry didn’t want to give.” Emilia crossed her arms and lifted her chin, which made Y/N more shocked than angry; she didn’t know it was possible to be this shameless.

“So everything was fake?” Y/N asked. “You made up a nice little story calling your mum crazy for burning down the house and–”

“It was my dad,” Emilia said with her eyes closed as she sucked in an unsteady breath and opened her eyes at the long exhalation. “He was drunk and he set the house on fire. That was after my mum had been diagnosed with cancer. He was very upset because we didn’t have enough money for the treatment. I had to drop out and use my college money for it.” Then she swallowed and looked over at Isaac, who’d been speechless the whole time. “I’m sorry, Isaac. But when we met I recognised you right away. I knew you were Harry’s friend, and I saw you as an opportunity. We had to lie because Harry didn’t trust us at first; he thought Dad was a terrible man–”

“No decent man would lie to his own son to steal his money!”

“We weren’t stealing!” Emilia half-shouted at Gemma then frantically looked around. A few nurses stared at them with concern but no one attempted to interfere. Emilia turned back to Gemma and lowered her voice, “We were gonna tell him everything.”

“When?” Y/N scoffed. “When your mum gets better? Or when you finally become a successful actress living off Harry’s fame?”

“I started with a lie and I had to go through it.” Emilia huffed, her forehead creased. “Things have got so much better since Harry came into our lives. He paid off our bank debt, for Dad’s medicines, for our food. We never asked him for more money. We simply sold the expensive stuff he bought for us as gifts to pay the hospital bills for Mum. I still have to go to work, but now I can also go to auditions. And Harry doesn’t lose anything. He loves Dad, and he’s rich anyway.”

“Harry worked for everything he owns now,” Gemma hissed. “Your dad doesn’t get to live on the money of the son he left and tried to steal from.”

Emilia’s lips quirked in a scornful manner. “You’re just bitter because Dad doesn’t love you.”

Y/N’s gaze jumped to Gemma, whose face was white with shock. She didn’t expect that. None of them expected that. It was so hurtful. Because it was the truth...

“It was my plan. Dad just went along with it,” Emilia went on despite Gemma’s fists shaking as she refrained herself from tackling Emilia to the floor. Emilia knew Y/N and Gemma couldn’t do anything to her in a hospital hallway, and Isaac would never lay hands on a woman. She considered Gemma’s face. “He just wanted my mum to get better. We knew Harry wouldn’t help us if he had to go behind yours and your mum’s back, so I had to reach out to you first. I had to gain your approval.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Gemma sneered and waved her hand when Emilia gazed at her alarmedly. “Do go on. When will we get to the part where you’re forgivable?”

“Say anything you want, but I did it for a reason,” Emilia murmured, her eyes piercing at Gemma. “What are your reasons for cheating on your boyfriend and sleeping with your brother’s best friend?”

Gemma growled and launched herself at Emilia, who jumped right back as Isaac dragged Gemma away. A few nurses had gathered to watch them, unsure if it was necessary to call security. The four of them weren’t really fighting or being loud, but Y/N wasn’t sure how long they could maintain peace.

“Did I say something wrong?” Emilia looked at Isaac, whose eyes fastened on Y/N’s face at once.

“You two?” Y/N stared at him and Gemma in disbelief.

“Asher and I are over, Y/N,” Gemma said, reaching for Y/N’s hand. Y/N let her hold it, only because Y/N was too shocked to move.

“Does Harry know?” she asked quietly. Gemma and Isaac both shook their heads.

“Guess I’m not the only one who lied to Harry after all.”

Isaac shot Emilia a glare even though his features were incredibly calm. “Why haven’t you told him?”

“This isn’t a game of Truth or Dare,” she told him. “I’m not gonna blackmail you into doing something for me in return for my silence. I’m not a good person but I’m not that awful. I just wanted to help my mum. I don’t care what it takes.” Her voice suddenly dropped as she took a step further from them. “And I really liked you, Isaac. I’m sorry.”

Y/N could tell Isaac had a lot he wanted to say to Emilia, but he kept his lips tight because she wasn’t worth it. From the way Emilia was looking at him, she must regret lying to him the most. What about Harry? Harry didn’t deserve this. He’d been nothing but kind to her and Winton.

“Miss Y/L/N?” a nurse interjected. She was the one who’d spoken to Y/N about Laura. “Your friend is awake. Would you like to see her?” she told Y/N, who sighed in relief. At least this night didn’t go all the way down a pit of despair.

“I have to go,” she told Isaac and Gemma.

Isaac caught Y/N’s elbow before she could follow the nurse. “You’re not gonna tell Harry, are you?”

“I’m not gonna do the hard work for you three,” she said, giving all of them – even Emilia – a disappointed look. “You’re all going to tell him tomorrow. Not tonight. I don’t want his night to be ruined as well.” Then she fixed her eyes on Emilia, whose face was blank; either she hid her emotions really well, or she didn’t feel like any normal person would. Y/N stabbed a finger at Emilia, her voice rough, “You and your family better stay the fuck away from my boyfriend, or you’re gonna have to deal with his lawyer, and it won’t be pretty.”

The other nurses looked scared when Y/N caught them watching. She couldn’t even work up a smile as she mouthed the word “sorry” and marched right past them.

[exoticarmy127]

Hi Kaye. I'm a writer who writes fanfiction and hope to be a published author someday. Do you mind telling me how you first started out and eventually got to publish a book? Sorry if this is a repetitive question. I've tried looking through your previously answered questions but couldn't find an answer. I look forward to your answer!

Hello! 

I’ve been writing since I was in high school, but it was only in college that I began blogging, writing more seriously and sharing more of my works to the public. Anyone can get published really. First you need a finished (edited) book and then a chosen publisher/agent. After that, look up these publishers and review their submission requirements on their official websites. It varies per agent/editor. 

In my case, I started to look for publishers locally and began submitting my works to them. A couple of months later, I received a reply from their editorial assistant expressing their desire to print my work. Two years later, I have Chasing Sunsets & Falling, Falling. For my latest book, Words, Fate & Accidents, it was published by an independent publisher in the US and the process is pretty much the same.

If you think you have a book ready, my advice is that you start looking for a publisher. Know what type of publisher you want though, and see if they’re the proper company to distribute your work. Traditional/big publishers (e.g. Harper Collins, Simon & Schuster, Penguin) don’t accept unagented manuscripts so you have to find an agent first. Prepare a cover letter and whatever submission requirement they ask for. A good place to look for agents and editors is on Manuscript Wishlist. You can also participate in pitch parties/wars on twitter like #PitMad. It’s a good way to get editors and agents’ attention. :) I also suggest following their accounts as well as authors so you know how the industry is going. 

Until today, I’m still submitting to agents so don’t be discouraged if it takes a white to get there. I’ve gotten so many rejections and had to wait many months–years, even, to hear back from them. And that’s really normal. The publishing world is quite slow when it comes to submissions, so hang in there and good luck!!!

[charis2770]

Author: This is a really hard post to write. A lot of you who are reading this already know a little bit of my story, if you follow any of my other blogs. It’s always been important to me not to come off sounding whiny to anyone, because my purpose in creating those blogs has nothing to do with personal gain in any way. I remember being young and confused about my sexuality and my desires. I remember my lack of education about BDSM causing me to make some mistakes that could have had disastrous results. A lot of my writing may be not much more than porn, and it’s definitely meant to entertain, but it’s a lot more than that too. On my blogs, it’s my fervent hope that people will learn something about how BDSM can and should work. That they won’t feel so alone, or feel like freaks, or allow themselves to be abused or taken advantage of. Those things will always be my main goals, and no matter what else happens, I hope to continue to be able to provide a safe haven for everyone to learn how kink should work when it’s done right, and how to keep themselves safe, and to be a place where they’ll be accepted and loved for who they really are.

But I’m going to tell my real story. When I was 22, I met a man. We discovered that we were both into BDSM. I was so excited! A big strong guy (yeah, okay, I admit it, men like Asami and Mike and Erwin and Thor are my weakness) who got off on Dominating his girl, and who made damn good money as an added bonus? I thought I’d found my fairy tale. For a long time, we were really happy. We explored our kinks together. The sex was amazing. We got married. 

Then his father’s illness got bad enough that they decided to dissolve their company. He thought finding a new job would be easy. At the same time, I discovered I was pregnant. We’d been married less than 6 months. And he couldn’t find a job. He started painting houses during the day and waiting tables at night. He was a hard worker. But the stress started showing his true colors. He had a temper, and stress brought it out. By the time our daughter was born, I’d learned to be afraid of him. We still had good times. He got a great job back in the city where I’d grown up. Being close to my parents helped. He could go out drinking all he wanted, and I wouldn’t be alone with the baby because my Mom is the best, and lived for being a Grandmother. But it kept getting worse. He decided I didn’t need a safeword because “we knew each other so well.” He’d “punish” me under the guise of consensual BDSM whenever he felt like I’d messed up. He wanted an open marriage. I was cool with it. Partly because I honestly don’t have a jealous bone in my body, and partly because it meant he spent less time with me. It was fine until I found someone I was interested in too. Then he turned into a jealous, angry monster. 

During that time, I learned I could be a pretty great Top, and started exploring that part of myself. I got really good. My experience as a sub gave me an empathetic connection with my submissive play partners. Since he controlled all the money, I took several people’s suggestions and tried out being a ProDomme. I was good at that too. My home town wasn’t exactly a hotbed for clients, but I was able to make a little extra money of my own. He hated it, and the verbal, physical and sexual abuse got worse. Then I realized how scared my daughter was. All the time. For her, I was able to do something I couldn’t have done for myself. We moved in with my mother. There is no doubt in my mind that if I had not, and if it hadn’t been for my child, I would have died soon if I hadn’t left. The divorce was hell. We met, and agreed not to bring up the BDSM because he told me the courts might take our child from both o us. I agreed. He outed me. So he got to keep shared custody. And proceeded to abuse our child to the point where they ended up in a psychiatric hospital at age 14. That was just the first stay. There have been several others. It was a long process, but they’re working so hard to be stable, and live the life they choose. They only see him now when they choose to, but the damage he did to both of us will last for the rest of our lives. 

On our own, it started to get harder and harder for me to provide for us. With shared custody, there’s little to no child support. My body began to fall apart. Back in 1988, I was in a major car accident in our family truck on January 2. I was driving. I sustained a multiple compound fracture to my right femur, literally erased my nose on the steering wheel (there was nothing but a hole in my face where my nose had been) and serious brain damage. My 15 year old sister was killed. By me. It was an accident, but I still don’t remember how it happened. My parents tried not to blame me, and they did a good job not showing it. But that’s the kind of thing that never leaves you. And now, as I get older (I’m 47 now), the effects of that accident are still taking their toll. I have severe scoliosis that was worsened by the wreck. I have 4 herniated disks, general osteoarthritis, facet syndrome (the small spines the stick out the sides of the lower vertebrae start to lose their connective tissue and bone starts to grind on bone), sacroiliac joint arthritis, and bursitis in my right hip. I have to take 50 mg of morphine twice a day, 7.5 mg of percocet three times a day, and 4 mg of tizanidine (a muscle relaxant) three times a day just to avoid screaming in agony. They don’t help a lot, but they keep me sane. I’m dependent on the drugs. I hate it, but most of my conditions have no treatment. I can’t drive, can’t do chores, and can’t work. I’m trying to get on SSI benefits, but it’s a lengthy process and I’ve already been turned down once. I’ve also lost my medicaid, and am trying desperately to get accepted back into the program. WIthout my meds, I could go into cardiac arrest from the withdrawal symptoms and die. 

The one bright side to all of this is that a couple of years ago, one of my followers messaged me with a suggestion about a story she hesitantly asked if she could write with me. I agreed, and we began to communicate. A friendship formed. She flew out to visit because she wanted to meet me in person. I just had a hunch she was someone special, and I was right. She’d come from a pretty rough background herself, having been raised Mormon and having had her family’s religion used as an excuse to abuse her in many ways. She wanted out of Utah so badly, but was too scared to just randomly move to a strange place where she knew no one. During a single two-week visit, we already felt like family. She decided that here with me was where she was meant to be, and he spouse agreed. They moved here, and in with my child and I. She is now my collared, live-in sub, and has become a sister to my genderfluid offspring. All three of the people who live with me work their asses off, but it’s not enough to support all of us, cover our medical expenses, and take care of all our needs. 

It kills me that I can’t contribute. I’m the kind of person who needs to take care of people. I love being able to help my followers. It makes me feel like I have a purpose. It’s almost impossible to describe how painful it is to be able to help people I’ve never met but to be useless to my own family. I’m here for them to talk to, but when finances are our biggest problem, I’m no help at all.

That’s the reason for my Patreon. I’m not trying to get rich. I’m never going to spend your hard-earned money on frivolous or selfish things. I want to be able to keep the power on another day. I want us to not have to choose between electricity and having enough to eat that day. I’ve found I can’t promote my Patreon on AO3 anymore, so I’ve created this blog as a place I can direct people to try to explain why this is so important to me. I hate sharing this story that sounds so pitiful. I do have documentation to prove that every word of it is true. I’m not making it up to try to make people feel sorry for me. I need your help. I hate asking for it. I want to be a whole person who can have a job and put money in the bank. But my writing is all I have. Even if you can spare just one dollar a month, you’ll be helping me support my family in a way I haven’t been able to in a long time. It’s humiliating to ask, but my family’s welfare is more important to me than my pride. 

So if you like the work I’m doing, I ask that you check out my Patreon and see if there’s a way you can help. It’s set up for monthly pledges, but one-time contributions are an option too, as are story commissions. I’ll be posting some of my drabbles from my blogs and other ideas here as well, so you can experience pieces of my work I don’t publish on AO3 if you’re not a follower of any of my blogs. If you can help in any way, you will have my undying gratitude.

All my love,

Heather

[heatherdemetrios-blog]

The Space Between Breaths: Transitions in the Artistic Life

For the past year, I’ve been going through a transition, floating in a space between. It’s been three years since my first book came out. There was the before publication life, when I’d yet to sell a book and was dreaming hard. Then there was the after, where I struggled to learn the ropes of being a published author, yet still managed to write and sell one to two books a year, hustling like a mother. During that time there were aborted projects and disappointments, but I focused laser-like attention on my work and career, with little time for much else. Sometimes that paid off, and sometimes it didn’t. One thing it resulted in was a near-breakdown, spiritual and creative depletion, and an increasing existential dread that followed me around to the point where I felt like Edward Snowden, always looking over my shoulder. 

This was unsustainable. A life of waiting for the other shoe to drop is not a good life. And a writer who doesn’t write, or who writes but finds no joy in it, does not a happy writer make.  It also, incidentally, makes it hard to sell more books. The nervy you feel about a project somehow winds itself through the text, an X factor that makes or breaks a book. My books were breaking. I was breaking. So began my year of transition, which began in July 2016, an awakening of sorts that’s still very much in progress. This wasn’t intentional, not something I planned as a great experiment. It just sort of happened. Out of necessity and desperation and a nameless need. 

This year of transition actually started in Spring 2016, though I had no idea that this was what was happening. I started devouring books like I used to, back when I wasn’t writing three of them at a time. I literally bought and read every single JoJo Moyes book I could find (okay, I’ve saved a couple because it’s too depressing, a life without a JoJo book to look forward to), after discovering Me Before You on a Barnes and Noble table. I was working—I had revisions and copyedits and submissions. But when I sent in the last thing that was due, in mid-June, I unwittingly gave myself a for-real break. It was on accident—I didn’t realize I was taking a break until the month of July passed with me having written only a handful of words, most of them non-fiction. I got ideas, I threw ideas away—I briefly considered learning Russia and moving to Moscow. The bulk of my writing was for a residency application I never sent in, as well as the occasional blog post or lengthy email. I began meditating, reconnected with my spiritual side, read lots of books, treated myself to copies of Vogue, discovered the delights of the French 75 cocktail, and took a poetry class. I basked in sunshine and visited with friends and family. There were still stressful writerly moments: two rewrites gone bad, dismal royalty statements. But for the first time in years, writing was not the most important thing. The most important thing was me. It was as though my soul had given me one of those piercing looks and said, My dear, you are the canvas. 

Eureka. 

I followed my curiosity, each urge a trail of will-o’-the-wisps that led me deeper into my inner landscape, with its turbulent sea, floating glaciers, and craggy mountains set against endless dunes (yes, somehow my innards resemble Morocco, Ireland, and Iceland). In Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert says: I believe that curiosity is the secret. Curiosity is the truth and the way of creative living. She’s absolutely right. I found such joy poking around in New Age stores and going down the Wiki hole of Romanov research and planning a trip to Prague. I delighted in the plethora of self-help books I kept hearing about, got into essential oils, and finally took a Pilates class. I bought strange rings and drank beer and even started liking kale. I got a Reiki treatment and bought my first deck of Tarot cards and I campaigned for Hillary Clinton. I bought a Nasty Woman shirt and protested with thousands of women all over the world, reigniting that little Marxist-Anarchist activist that has been hiding inside me since the Bush years. I made a few big life decisions, some quite seismic, some still in progress. I grieved, felt confusion, wonder, awe, gratitude, love, solidarity, despair. I probably drank more wine after November 8th than in the rest of my life combined. I cooked my first steak. I began living according to these wise words from Elsie De Wolfe: I am going to make everything around me beautiful. That will be my life. Fresh flowers scattered about the house. Crystals lined up on windowsills. A skirt with red roses splashed across the fabric. I see the changes that all this adventuring has wrought everywhere: in my home, my body, my mind, my spirit. And yet, the writing will not budge. 

I am still trekking up a damnably high mountain, hoping to reach a summit and praying there’s a nice little valley on the other side of it, with cool spring water and long, fragrant grass I can lie in when I look at the stars. Alas, creativity is uncharted territory—ever ineffable, a tricksy landscape complete with quicksand, dark forests, and, well, you get the metaphor. I confess, there have been a few occasions in which I actually uttered the phrase, Why am I doing this? Or I don’t want to be a writer anymore. I’m not sure if I meant it or not. I suspect maybe I did. It sounds ever so wonderful to leave work at work, to have boundaries between oneself and what one does for a living, to not be in constant artistic torture. 

The election and its aftermath was a huge blow that I’m still recovering from. I don’t think I realized how much it affected my ability to be creative until quite recently, when I realized I have to rewrite a bogart of a book I’m working on for the third time. I cannot overstate how unlike me this is. I’ve never spent two years after selling a book trying to rewrite it. It’s madness. Maddening. But when I began to connect the dots, I could see that the bulk of the problem began in the beginning of 2016—a coincidence? I think not. As I said in an email to the book’s editor: I’m sorry for being the world’s shittiest writer. I blame Trump. 

I blamed my mental health and my infernal inability to understand how time works. I blamed New York City for being so goddamn expensive and loud and distracting and fabulous. I also blamed myself, for not taking my own good advice that I give to my clients and that I myself know works. I only give advice when I’ve learned something (usually the hard way), when I know that something is tried and true. As a creativity coach, I tell my clients that each book is a different beast, and that’s true. And also that writing is a marathon (not a race), that you will never be a master, that you will always be learning, and that you should trust the process: the not knowing, the frustration—these are just hazards of the job and an essential part of the process. But each time I find myself uncertain creatively, these lessons are hard to remember. A girl has to eat, you know. 

One thing my meditation teachers like to talk about is the space between breaths. In mindfulness meditation, you focus on the inhale and exhale, using it to anchor your mind in the present. Between each round of inhalation and exhalation, there is a pocket of pure being, where your body has a moment to bask in its existence, where nothing is required of it. It can’t last very long because your lungs need air, but for just a sliver of time, you are infinite. Free-floating. This is also a space for transition, much shorter than my year of transition, but equally powerful. You can discover things there, though it may take you years, or even a lifetime to figure out. You might even see what you’re made of. 

This is an essential part of the meditation process. These pockets of no-breath are not simply a bridge between breaths, links on the path to nirvana. They are teaching moments, rich in the kind of knowledge that lives deep in your bones. It’s the same with the transitions in an artist’s life. The space between projects, between ideas, between inspiration and creative wastelands—this is, paradoxically, where the good stuff lives. Transitions are opportunities to grow, to heal, and to change. They give you space (whether you want it to not) to reassess your work, your craft, your goals. These sometimes involve dark nights of the soul, real reckonings that bring who you are and why you do what you do into sharp focus. Sometimes you won’t like what you see. Transitions, from an artistic point of view, are absolutely necessary. Think about the period when Bowie fled to Berlin, intent on getting clean and reconnecting to his art. He called his cocaine years in Los Angeles, where he embodied the Thin White Duke persona, “the darkest days of my life.” Despite being a rock star, he was going broke and Berlin, at the time, was a cheap place to live while he was in recovery. In Europe, he began visiting galleries, working on self-care through literature and classical music education, and, of course, kicking his cocaine habit and exploring Berlin’s music scene. His roommate was Iggy Pop, and I like to imagine them sitting around late at night, trading notes and blowing each other’s minds. What resulted was the Berlin trilogy, a rich artistic period and a turning point in his life. 

Of course, not all transitions need to be so dramatic, and I’m still trying to figure out what this one means for me. When I look back, what will I call this year (or, God forbid, years)? Will I look on it fondly, or shudder, grateful that it’s over? I can’t imagine not being thankful for it. Already, I’m seeing my interests in what I want to write expand in unexpected ways. Adult fiction, young adult nonfiction, historical. I’m not quite sure where I’ll land. I’m getting ideas, but am wary of investing too much in anything. I think I’m still getting my sea legs. Meditation, exercise, and healthy eating habits are helping. As is travel and working with my clients, who inspire me every day. I’m taking lots of notes because I suspect that as much as I’m learning right now about what it means to be an artist in transition, I suspect there’s even more to glean from this time later, when I can see how all the dots connected. 

Being a creative doesn’t suit our modern world, not if you’re an Artist with a capital A. Because art needs quiet, time, space, privacy. All things that are hard to come by these days, especially in Brooklyn. I stopped using my private Facebook account, rarely leave the apartment, and turn a deaf ear to industry chatter. It’s been a long time since I finished a project. Everything I’m working on is in a different stage and often ends up being cast aside or totally reworked. So of course the age old question of how to make a living as an artist rears its ugly head. If you aren’t producing, you aren’t getting paid. So while artistic explorations sound great on paper, in reality, it’s the paper itself you start worrying about. 

It’s becoming increasingly hard for artists to make a living—just take a look at Trump’s budget proposal, with threatens to cut the NEA out of existence. It’s especially difficult for writers because of the plethora of content out there. Jesus, how many blogs and websites and articles can exist? With newspapers and magazines folding left and right, writers are forced to make some pretty tough choices. These concerns are ever present, and they will be for the foreseeable future. Of course, being an artist has always involved financial acrobatics. Chekhov paid the bills through a medical practice, and Tolstoy had to self-publish War and Peace. I’m in good company. I’ve very much begun to appreciate Elizabeth Gilbert’s words in Big Magic about how your job as an artist is to take care of your creativity, not the other way around. It’s been interesting, cobbling together an income that all leads back to writing, but isn’t necessarily writing. Teaching and coaching and editing allows me to talk about what I love—writing, the artistic process, and creative living—and to help my fellow writers on their own journeys. It also gives me the chance to take care of my writing, rather than requiring it to pay all the bills. I’m already seeing the seeds I’m planting blossoming. For the first time in a long time, I’m allowing myself to consider alternative ways of living and alternative approaches to my writing. Maybe I don’t publish a book every year. Maybe I don’t only write in YA. Maybe I play a whole lot more in my creative process. Maybe I take time to take care of myself. 

The journey continues, endless and exciting and horrible and wonderful, an adventure I’m honored to have. I take a breath, exhale, and rest in the transition, looking forward to whatever comes next.

[itcowcer]

Subject: Pumpkin Patch

Subject: Pumpkin Patch

Paul Holland paulyh@gmail.net 2:05 AM (6 hours ago) to Mark

Heeeeey Mark!

So I know it's been a while, and I wanted to give you a quick heads-up on what’s going on and why I haven’t sent any drafts in recent history. Let's be real, it’s been months. But I want you to know that I haven't just been laying around over here, and that I do have something planned to give to you. It's just not ready yet. Sorry :( Now I'm not trying to tease you; I've hit a wall. What I do have is a bunch of source materials which (I hope) will prove to you that I'm building something, potentially pretty big, for my next novel. That's Right!!!! I've been researching Mark!!!! Who would've thought I knew how. Anyways, I thought this might tide you over until the rough draft or, at the most, spur you to send some seed money..... ;) You will find the sources in the subsequent attachments to this email. I think they kind of speak for themselves, but if you need me to elaborate on what I'm thinking just shoot me a message and I will give you deets.

Pleasure as always [?]

Paul

Paul Holland paulyh@gmail.net 2:56 AM (5 hours ago) to Mark

Whoops! I forgot to attach the sources in that last message. Oh well, I will take better care to attach them this time. I figure I should go ahead and let you know what's going through my head right now, just so we are on the same page. First off, all of this is real. All of this stuff has apparently occurred or is currently occurring, and I've been able to pick up more bits and pieces the longer I've stayed in town (hence the long turn around). Where am I? I don't particularly want to tell you. For that reason I've redacted some information which might clue you into my whereabouts. I'm sure with a certain amount of cyber- sleuthing you'd be able to pinpoint my location, as some of the major points I just cannot change. However by that point I figure it will be too much work for you anyways. DO NOT COME AFTER ME! This story is too good for me to pass up on. I'm only messaging you as a courtesy, and to let you know that I haven't forgotten the money I owe you. I will hopefully be able to pay you back with this novel's completion.

Now onto content. I found this story, of all places, in the newspaper. Yeah it was this grotesque murder which had all of the city community in a hubbub. It was strange too, like ritualistic and such. I've included the short blurb I found in the newspaper, it should be the 3rd attachment. Of course I saved it. I wasn't sure where to go next with my writing and everyone loves true crime or at least a good murder mystery. Then, in the next week, I saw a couple other odd articles (I have attached them as well). One is a letter of resignation from one of the news paper's journalists, due to some kind of journalist ethical concern. Apparently he hasn’t been heard of since. Like completely disappeared. For some reason I was sure that the initial murder, and the later disappearance were related, though I couldn't figure how.

This forced me to dig a little further and I think what I found is captivating at least. Even if I'm grasping at straws I think it tells a compelling narrative, and might sell. I found a small interview, written by the Journalist that disappeared, in regards to a cultural movement within the city. As it turns out this place has a long history of creepy shit, like underground slave prisons, civil war ghosts, a history of catastrophic fires, train accidents, macabre poets, dilapidated asylums turned apartment complexes, and even a vampire legend. No kidding! The guy is entombed down at this old cemetery that overlooks the river. Well the interview is with a member of this group of artists, all of whom were trying to keep this inherent creepiness a part of the city's culture. Though she went by a code name, as all members of Pumpkin Patch do to remain anonymous (in this case kittykat666(=^.^=). I believed that she was the victim in the murder. Having contacted the victim’s parents, I asked if they knew anything about the group Pumpkin Patch. Only the mother would respond, with an invitation to meet with her. Though the meeting was brief, she gave me a series of her daughter's journal entries, a forwarded set of emails between her and her daughter on the topic, and permission to use these things in publishing my next book, so long as I didn't use her daughter's name.

 The first attachment is the newspaper interview with kittykat666(=^.^=) It describes really well what the group is about, and how it operates, and it shows you where I'm leaning for main characters (the girl and the journalist). I think it introduces everything well. The second is the girl's journal entries (at least the ones I've deemed relevant). All of these pertain to Pumpkin Patch and they really get you to see who this poor girl was and how she got sucked into this whole mess. The next attachment is the first article blurb I found, the one that describes the murder. The fourth attachment is the letter of resignation from the journalist who interviewed “Kat”. I figure I will just forward those emails that the mother sent to me. There aren't many of them, however there is some character building stuff there. You can see the loving family “Kat” and her mother had before. They also show how the two found Pumpkin Patch. Sorry in advance, the mother has no clue of grammar. I have also included one last attachment, which is unnerving and chilling when you understand how the group finds its inspiration. It's a series of screen shots I took from the group’s auction site. Here, they post a bunch of their work for buyers. They had just posted a new auction when I checked out the site page. Pay attention to the groups shared theme in the artwork.

Whew! That was a lot for an email! Let me know what you think! Paul

Paul Holland paulyh@gmail.net 2:59 AM (5 hours ago) to Mark

-_____-

Paul

Attachment 1, Attachment 2, Attachment 3, Attachment 4, Attachment 5 

 Paul Holland paulyh@gmail.net 3:08 AM (5 hours ago) to Mark

Weird. Someone just rang the door bell to my apartment. I went to go check and no one was there. I'm a little unnerved, especially given what I've just sent you (that subject matter which is still fresh in my mind). I'm not entirely sure it's nothing, but realistically it’s probably nothing so I'm going to get these emails to you and then cool off. Here you go,

Paul

forwarded message

From: [************] To: paulyh@gmail.net Cc: Sent: [, * *** **** ::**] Subject: opportunities ;)

Hey Kit Kat i hope everything is going better. i know that finding friends can be rough in college but im sure there are a ton of great clubs over there. Just get off your little butt and look!!!! :p only teasing. Also your father should be put that money back into ur college fund. Evidently he needed to buy his new gal pal a car lol. The man's no good! Either way i will make sure everything is all set, u just worry about school work and meeting people and HAVING FUN!!! Let me know if you need anything, im just a phone call away!!!

Love, Mom

. . .

Resp:opportunities ;)

Thanks Mom. Everything is fine, I was just a little worried because the tuition bill is overdue and it needs to be paid in order for me to sign up for classes next semester. He's buying her a CAR!!!!! SMH! SMDH! But my classes are going well. I actually turned in my first couple of paintings and the professor really liked them. He told me I thought out of the box, already had a unique style, and that I should keep pushing myself. He said that I might run into trouble when we start doing other forms, but that he'd help me if I need it. I thought that the class wouldn't like my work or be weirded out, but all in all I got good responses and helpful critiques. Some people in my class invited me to hangout, idk I might go.

. . .

Resp:resp:opportunities ;)

Oh kitty thats great! im glad your classes are going well. And you should SPEND TIME WITH THOSE CLASSMATES!!! Jeeesh!!! Also i am not sure what SMH stands for. i tried to think but cant. :( i did some looking because i knew u wouldnt and i found a club that you might enjoy. They are artists in the area who have auction events, have group meetings and they seem to do a lot in the area. it might be the kind of thing to set u on an art career, if thats what u want to do. i just happened to hear about them and i looked up their site. A lot of their work looks right up ur alley! There is a submission section on their page, and maybe u can send in some of you drawings? i was surprised by how much they were selling for, and i think a lot of ur work is better. I will send you the link. There called the Pumpkin Patch. Thats kinda cute!

Love ya! Mom

. . .

Resp:resp:resp:opportunities ;)

Yeah I'll look it up and send something in. I'll also try hanging out with my class, I'm not sure what we will be doing. Thank you for everything. Love you Too! P.s. SMH is Shaking My Head.

forwarded message

From: [************] To: paulyh@gmail.net Cc: Sent: [, * *** **** ::**] Subject: Pumpkin Patch

Remember that group you were talking about? Pumpkin Patch. I submitted one of my works and it got accepted. I think you'd remember the one, it had that spider made out of sewing needles and thimbles, strung up in a wire web, the one that I got an award for in school. The group admin sent me an email and wanted to know why I wanted to join the group so I kinda bullshitted an answer and I guess they liked it. I'm supposed to go to a meeting with them, however I have to wear a mask and create an artist name which is kind of weird. I guess they want all the artists to be anonymous even to each other. I told them that that made me uncomfortable, but they assured me that the meeting will be on campus. I'm going to see what it is and drop it if its too sketch. I guess most meetings are online, but bimonthly meetings are in person.

. . .

Resp:Pumpkin Patch

Kit Kat. Idk this sounds a little scary. i wish i had known all that before i sent you the link. Be careful there are a lot of weirdos out there and i dont want u to get hurt. u are a grown women and i hope you will use you best discretion. There is always your classmates, and maybe starting a group with them would be better for you. How did that go with them? I expect you to call me soon.

Be safe, Mom

. . .

Resp:resp:Pumpkin Patch

Please don't freak out but I ended up going to that meeting. It was cool though. We kind of just sat around, discussing what the next theme will be, what scary movies we like that kind of thing. We also planned a little get together at a museum. There are a couple other girls there so I think it's fine. I kind of know one of the people in the group too, although I'm not supposed to. He was actually one of the guys I hung out with last week. He's not in my art class but he is a year above us so everyone knows him. He sort of let it slip that he was in the Pumpkin Patch when we were all hanging out. He assured me that it wasn't going to be weird and that the mask thing was more like a gimmick than anything else, to make the group interesting. That night with my class was fun too, we just sat around a fire pit talking, eating hot dogs, sharing stories. Somebody had a guitar and they all started singing these old songs. They are a good group. I'm going to spend time with them again.

. . .

Resp:resp:resp:Pumpkin Patch

Well im glad that you had a good time. Just remember to be careful, and that u dont have to do anything u dont want to, and CALL YOUR MOTHER. Also im glad you met some nice people. Is there anyone I should be meeting anytime soon? ;)

Please call, I worry Mom

forwarded message

From: [************] To: paulyh@gmail.net Cc: Sent: [, * *** **** ::**] Subject: What's Up!!!

Hello Kathryn? Im not sure if you remember me, however im YOUR MOTHER! What's been going on? u haven't called me in a while. I hope you've started thinking about housing for next year. Dont worry about the price its all being paid for by ur father. Also I see that you have another exhibition thingy coming up with your Pumpkin Patch. Im thinking about coming down and rooting u on, seeing as u failed to mention the last one. What do you think?

. . .

Resp:What's Up!!!

Yeah I've been looking at some places. Some friends and I are thinking about getting an apartment together a little off campus. I will let you know what we find. Also that first exhibition wasn't a big thing, and I didn't think you'd want to miss work for it. This next one's not a big deal either and I'm not even going to be there, we aren't supposed to associate with or present our work in order to retain the whole aura of mystery. We can still check it out if you want, we just can't let anyone know that I'm a collaborating artist. Also I can't tell you which work is mine, sorry. :/ We can go to this nice little french restaurant after. I just went there recently with a close friend of mine, it just might be my favorite place in town now :3. Let me know when you're in the area.

forwarded message

From: [************] To: paulyh@gmail.net Cc: Sent: [, * *** **** ::**] Subject: New Exhibition

Hey Mom, I know that there is another exhibition coming up, however I'd prefer that you didn't come to this one. I had fun last time, it's just that I don't think I'd be comfortable with you being there. Also I've decide to leave the group. I just didn't like where it was going and it didn't feel the same as when we first started. That's part of the reason why this latest exhibition would be no good. Also things are falling through at the apartment so I'm trying to find another one for the rest of the semester. I'll send you the places I've found. So far the rent will only be slightly more expensive. Also my roommates already have someone lined up to sublet so we don't have to worry about paying for two places. I will call you soon, and I love you.

Kat

Mark Gergich mgergich@gmail.net 7:13 AM (1 hour ago) to Paul

Paul,

I just read through everything you’ve emailed me. The forwards, the attachments... everything. Paul Pick up the phone, let me know where you are, I am concerned. I think you may have stumbled onto something that needs to be taken care of by the police. Please Paul. Do not write this book. Don't worry about debts you think you owe me, I'm not worried about that I just want you to come out of this safely without a target on your back. You need to STOP writing this book.

Your friend and publisher, Mark

Paul Holland paulyh@gmail.net 8:06 AM (3 Minutes ago) to Mark

Mark,

He says I can’t.

Paul

[henryatkins2]

Philip K Dick’s Work

According to Wikipedia:

“ Philip Kindred Dick (December 16, 1928 – March 2, 1982) was an American writer, who published works mainly belonging to the genre of science fiction. Dick explored philosophical, sociological and political themes in novels with plots dominated by monopolistic corporations, authoritarian governments, and altered states of consciousness. His work reflected his personal interest in metaphysics and theology, and often drew upon his life experiences in addressing the nature of reality, identity, drug abuse, paranoia, schizophrenia, and transcendental experiences.”

All of these words do reflect his stories very well and with the new arise of advanced technology coming down the pipeline as of late, Hollywood finds his stories incredibly relate (and profitable).

Some big Hollywood movies were based off Philips books such as:

‘Blade Runner’ which was ‘Do androids dream of electric sheep?’

Blade Runner is about a futuristic world populated by both humans and humanoid robots. One word Wikipedia used before was ‘Paranoia’ which applies to this story in the sense of not knowing the difference between an android and the real thing since the line between them blurs making it almost impossible to figure out the humans to the fakes.

There are other examples of the same kind of thing happening such as the movie ‘Astroboy’

This movie was about a scientist who made a replica of his dead son fitted with all the memories of his son using DNA technology. Almost identical to the real thing and was also mistaken for the real thing. But the scientist noticed there was something different about the replica. He was not the same. He acted differently and wasn’t quite as brilliantly gifted as the original. The scientist abandoned him.

Again, this blurs the line between machine and man. However when the person knows of the machine, a lack of humanity can start to exist. The scientist knew having his son back after witnessing his death (movie version had this. Originally it was a hover car accident) would leave a mark. Knowing that the replica was just hardware made it easier to disband on. He was expendable. Software and parts easy to duplicate.

A.I. (Artificial Intelligence) Worked in a very similar fashion.

The parents decide to get a replica of their son when they find out he is in a coma and may never come out of it. Surprise, he did and now he has a twin brother. After a while the twin gets dropped off at the side of a road by the parents since his existence in the family had started controversy since the real son didn’t feel to happy about being replaced. That’s another interesting point to make about machines being too human to tell and at the same time replacing existing humans identification. However this child was fitted with Artificial Intelligence (go figure) and longed to get home to see his mother again who had left him. Another interesting point to make about Artificial intelligence becoming to advanced that it thinks beyond its limited expectations and thinks freely like a human as well. 

I can’t think how much closer to human we can get from here if they look and feel like a human. Oh wait. We can.

Introducing, The Bicentennial man starring Robin Williams!

Bicentennial man was about a robot with Artificial Intelligence who could imagine making him unique. Eventually he becomes biologically human through surgery when his desire to become more human reaches the point that he wanted to die naturally like a human when he grows old with a person he had fell in love with. It’s an incredibly sweet story really. His desire to be human also includes even getting a module that makes him feel pain.

We’ve ended up at a point where you cannot get androids and machines more human than the Bicentennial man. It’s a strange process which begs the question on what society really thinks of a non-biological being having rights like to die or even get married and have kids. Things like that.

I’m not necessarily proud to bring this up but... A movie does exist which looks into the actual idea behind the moral standings in the presence of law and such on a person who doesn’t technically live to our definition.

This film is... Ted 2...

I know that this necessarily a film about androids and the like but this film does cover how the law does not support, at the beginning of the film, sentient Teddy bears. (Remember that word in bold. I’ll be talking about that later too).

Although I’ve never seen Ted, I’ve seen the trailer and I’ve seen Ted. I’d expect the same rash jokes about sex, drugs and getting wasted with a light hearted message at the end. Most likely this movie ends with sentience equalling equal rights. The point is that this movie covers the law and society allowing a non-human citizen regular human privileges.

There are other films that cover this side of man and machine equality but I’d doubt to say they would do very well at a selling standpoint in a movie.

Short Circuit 2 has a bit of robot racism in it.

At the end of the movie, Johnny 5 (the robot you see on the poster) becomes an official U.S citizen for stopping a robbery of priceless jewels and is even given a super chrome, gold body. Probably gold. The old footage doesn’t help identify it.

However this film doesn’t work on the same basis we’re trying which is a humanoid robot evolving into a human or a robot with Artificial Intelligence getting the basic human rights lawfully since this film revolves around the manipulation of the big city and not much else. More about the mistreating of robots than the lawful well-being of robots.

Not much else I could add on this subject other than the first Short Circuit movie was talking about the actual conscientiousness of a robot.

Short Circuit had a proper story about how humans would react (in a campy, 80s fashion) to a robot that was built to be a mindless, submissive weapon becoming self-conscience, intelligent and overall, Alive. “Number 5. Is. Alive!”. It’s really good flick because of that. A computer that can speed read faster than anything and is able to not only deconstruct a full car in mere seconds just from reading the manual, but also predict and ricochet every bullet from a rifle shot at him. For that one time however. Other than that the android lines only weaknesses appear to be mud, latrines and rope loop traps that pioneers and hunters used to use back in the day. Very advanced laser equipped, multi-terrain, paragliding, hacking wiz robots, aren’t they?

Throughout the story, the military are tracking Number 5 (later renamed to “Johnny 5″) to destroy him since to them he’s a robot gone rogue that they need to bring back to fix its “malfunction”. Take note how I purposely avoided calling Number 5 ‘He’ and instead used ‘it’. Because that’s what the military and pretty much everyone else think Johnny 5 is. Whilst the other lady (I apologise for not remembering her name) has witnessed Johnny 5 learning and growing by the day. He learns about pretty much everything there is in a fortnight, learns about his own mortality through putting the pieces together than when he crushed a grasshopper and “disassembles” it, it can’t be “reassembled” because it’s a living creature. Since Johnny 5 knows that his creators want to “disassemble” him and he knows he’s alive, he freaks out since “Disassemble” know means ‘Dead’ to him. A frankly amazing idea to me when I analyse how he progressively says out loud his thought process and puts together a conclusion. I can only pity the guy.

He’s also very, Very smart as well.

He built a drone replica of himself out of spare pieces to get destroyed in order to fake his death and live peacefully! Colour me impressed!

‘Total Recall’ which was ‘We can remember it for you wholesale’

Sorry for dragging on for so long.

Unfortunately I have never watched this film. Neither have I watched the Blade Runner in fact. But from what I can tell from the wikipedia page, Total Recall is about a man who goes to a virtual reality place to experience his memories of going to Mars for vacation. However this leads to an inception kind of story when you’re not sure which is real life and which is the virtual reality. I used the word Inception just then because the movie, Inception, does something very similar but with dreams within dreams.

I won’t talk at all about Inception just because of how irrelevant the movie is to what we’re doing other than the minor comparison between the illusion and the real thing.

However another film did do what we did as well. The Matrix Trilogy.

I know the story to this one after watching an unsavory review on it from the Nostalgia Critic on YouTube.

Computers have taken over and have put the human race into a unified virtual reality world where they all live together with no idea of the real world. This fake world is the matrix.

The way they go about it flawed in some spaces about the chosen one who ends up having his powers outside of the computer realm as well, that and the weird psychic messages about bending spoons and the like. The stuff that makes sense though is the parts when they describe the Matrix world they’re in about how you can see imperfections or maybe glitches even.

Just imagine a video game built to perfectly match the real world but being a game probably has plenty of bugs ruining the experience. Those flaws are all that defines the Matrix.

The point of bringing it up is that not only do the past films we’ve been looking at in this post explain the evolution of robots becoming more and more like people, but this explains how much the actual programming starts to become identical to the real thing. The same goes for Total Recall.

The world has also been evolving alongside the movie world in a very similar way.

The Gemonoid project have been making robots so close to life-like as of late and pretty much proves the point of robots becoming just like humans.

I’ve also heard that in the next 10-20 years, we would have achieved Artificial Intelligence.

With these leaps in technology it makes using Phillip K. Dicks work more and more relevant since it’s kind of a trial or an explanation to the oncoming tech and how it can effect us.

[richmegavideo]

‘Jane the Virgin’ Review: That 7-Minute Epic Monologue Is Everything That’s Great About the Series

[Editor’s Note: The following contains spoilers from “Jane the Virgin” Season 5 premiere episode, “Chapter Eighty-Two.”]

“Jane the Virgin” returned in top form Wednesday night for the premiere of its final season and resolved two cliffhangers: Who JR (Rosario Dawson) shot and the apparent return of Jane’s husband Michael (Brett Dier) from the dead after four years. Both of these sensationalized stories stay true to the show’s telenovela roots, but the latter is this season’s pièce de résistance, through which the show explores how Jane (Gina Rodriguez) has grown and the ways that one forms a sense of self.

It turns out that this man is indeed Michael, but through an elaborate scheme, someone faked his death and gave him amnesia with electroshock therapy. He now calls himself Jason — after Jason Bourne — and has built a life for himself in Montana. Jason isn’t anything like Michael; he lacks humor, speaks in a slow drawl, and — most distressingly — is no longer a cat person (sorry, Faith N. Whiskers III). He has no memory of Jane or any of the Villanueva clan, and even his palate and preferences have changed.

Read More:‘Jane the Virgin’ Final Season Will Be a ‘Pornography of Emotion’

As viewers, it’s disturbing to watch this man who looks like Michael treat his own wife like a stranger, and for Jane, it’s even harder to experience this firsthand. Michael’s personality reset makes her question her concept of what forms identity — not only for him, but herself as well. In an extended, seven-minute, one-take scene that screams “Emmy submission,” Rodriguez delivers a speech that reveals Jane’s inner turmoil. And while the show is known for its signature twists, colorful narration, and imaginative use of graphics, Jane’s monologue encapsulates why the show’s merits run deeper than those surface quirks.

Andrea Navedo and Gina Rodriguez, “Jane the Virgin”

The CW

The series has always been a master of tone: balancing the lighthearted, campier aspects with an unwavering heartfelt core. The monologue takes the viewers on an emotional ride as Jane confides in her mother Xo (Andrea Navedo) and grandmother Alba (Ivonne Coll) about her confusion and fears. It’s not an accident that her family is there in the scene, present and supportive as they’ve always been throughout the series. As Jane spins out, consumed with the implications of Michael’s return, she becomes absent-minded, forgetting to heat the kettle, rambling with her mouth full, and eventually just walking around without her pants. It’s these small, hilarious details that give the show its emotional authenticity, embracing sentiment without devolving into melodrama (at least when it comes to Jane’s journey). Expect to cry at least once per episode for this final run.

Read More:The CW Boss on ‘Jane the Virgin’ and ‘Crazy Ex-Girlfriend’ Emmy Snubs: ‘Never Got the Accolades They Deserved’

The monologue also showcases the series’ presentation of the Latinx-American cultural experience in an everyday, matter-of-fact way. Even though chunks of Alba’s Spanish-spoken dialogue are translated through subtitles, when Jane sprinkles in cognates such as “inhala, exhala,” it’s not accompanied with onscreen text. It simply exists for the viewer to accept. Similarly, when Jane pauses mid-ramble to ask her grandmother if she made arepas, no awkward explanation is given for what that food is. Instead, Jane is simply seen eating it. As with shows like “Fresh Off the Boat” and “Vida,” “Jane” aims to normalize, not Otherize these cultural aspects.

Most of all, the speech goes to the heart of what “Jane the Virgin” is all about: the growth of Jane and how she defines herself. She’s embraced being a widow and the grief that comes with it for so long, she has no clue what she’s supposed to feel now that Michael is alive. And yet, because he’s forgotten her, she doesn’t feel like a wife, but instead feels rejected, negated. This confusion is reflected in her comment to the cat, “Faith N. Whiskers, you remember that person who loved you so much because he was a cat person? Well, guess what? You’re out!”

In the same vein, Michael has stopped being a Jane person. Or has he? An ongoing line that viewers have latched onto throughout the seasons involves one of Michael’s comments about always believing that he and Jane belong together. The omniscient narrator once proclaimed that Michael would never stop loving Jane, “and for as long as Michael lived, until he drew his very last breath, he never did.” But if Michael is no longer Michael, what does this mean for his love for Jane?

Gina Rodriguez, “Jane the Virgin”

The CW

It’s an existential dilemma that Jane as a writer can’t help but trying to categorize or identify. “You tell all these stories about yourself and that’s who you are. That’s your identity,” she says. “And I’m a widow… I mean, that’s not all that I am. I’m a mother and a daughter and a published-freaking-author.”

In fact, from the outset, the show has tried to define Jane through its title. “Jane the Virgin” outlines the show’s premise, but post-virginity, the series has taken a creative approach to the title by crossing out or eliminating the word “Virgin” onscreen and replacing it with a new identifier. For this episode, she has been labeled “Jane the Forgotten.” Next week, she’ll have a new moniker. It’s thrilling to discover new aspects of this person week to week. She is all of those things, but in the end, no matter what the designation is, it’s enough that she is just Jane.

Grade: B+

”Jane the Virgin” airs Wednesdays at 9/8c on The CW.

The post ‘Jane the Virgin’ Review: That 7-Minute Epic Monologue Is Everything That’s Great About the Series appeared first on .

The post ‘Jane the Virgin’ Review: That 7-Minute Epic Monologue Is Everything That’s Great About the Series appeared first on .

from WordPress http://www.richmegavideo.com/jane-the-virgin-review-that-7-minute-epic-monologue-is-everything-thats-great-about-the-series/