#and then 'again.' is in theory more convoluted but because i have never actually sat down and made the decision tree i need to make to writ

[curiosity-killed]

✍️ 📑 and 📚 for the writer's ask game if you'd like!!

:D i'd be delighted, in fact

✍️ What’s your writing process?

uh. chaos ??? I feel like this is so project-dependent lol but in all cases it's basically a matter of "get what's in ur head down on paper as fast as possible before you lose focus and it vanishes into Oblivion"

in practice, that tends to mean I have A Single Source of Truth document on my laptop where I compile all the writing I wind up doing on my phone or notebooks (or sketchbooks) roughly in story order. There's no outline or storyboarding or whatever lol And for things that I need to research/develop outside of the actual prose, I either leave comments in the doc with links or have a spreadsheet with organized tabs called '[Story Title] Bible'. Most of what is known about any given story is ultimately just in my head which is a very dangerous place to be.

📑 How many drafts do you write on average?

average story gets 5 revisions factoid actually just statistical error. average story gets 0 revisions. tcp georg, which is 18 years old and has had at least 10 drafts, is an outlier adn should not have been counted

ahem. for fic, usually, the only draft is the draft you see posted. some stories, like whipstitch or sequence the bones, get actual systematic editing but it still doesn't usually manifest as full drafts. for original fic, it's....complicated lmao in part because most of them are old enough they've been marinating for years but have never had a complete draft. tcp, as the above meme indicates, has had so many versions that I stopped referring to them as drafts and started referring to them as drafts of a specific version (i.e., currently, I'm working on draft 2 of version...9 or 10. i am not actually sure.)

📚 Who’s your favorite author (or a few of them)?

SO MANY. A quick, incomplete list:

Arthur Sze

Octavia Butler

Mary Oliver

Margaret Atwood

Shakespeare

Kafka

Neruda

David Sedaris

....I know I'm missing obvious ones

writer asks

[astrum-aetherium]

What do you think Henry whispered in Camilla's ear at the end? It's a moment that really stuck with me somehow and I love hearing theories about it

what can possibly be more personal, more ponderous and intimate than i love you?

i'm sure this is something everyone who has read TSH has previously wondered about. i know i have. what i also know is that the most common theory is "live forever", and yes — it would make sense, given that henry is undeniably a devoted little teacher's pet to julian, but it does seem a little melodramatic to me (specifically because julian did abandon them all in the end as well, lol). henry going out with a bang (literally) wouldn't be defined by something as simple as that, however much meaning is attached to it in theory. besides, we've all heard that theory a million times over. i'll offer a new one.

he's goddamn pretentious. to the bone. he refused to take his SATs and thereby consciously denied himself the opportunity to attend any prestigious schools (which he would've certainly gotten into and dominated) for singularly aesthetic reasons. you simply can't get more pretentious than that. i always say that he's too intelligent for his own good — to the point it no longer benefits him at times. just too smart to possess any ability to reflect on himself. almost amusing in that way.

therefore, i believe it was something along the lines of a riddle — something that would keep camilla puzzling over it for a long time succeeding his death. and yes, you can say that his suicide was an impulsive decision and all that, but he had been (even verbally) entertaining suicidal ideology way before he actually went through with it. plus, he just seems like someone who would have something like that — his last words — memorized and ready to go at all times, specifically at a time as dangerous as toying with the possibility of being detained and thrown in jail for murder. just a thought.

i'm almost 100% sure it was also in any language other than english, according to his customs. i've already elaborated on how pretentious he is. he wouldn't make it easy for anyone to figure him out that quickly, not even camilla. the i love you was just a premise, nearly nothing compared to the whisper. and if it's not english, then it must be one of the languages that he does know. assuming that it's either latin or ancient greek, he would go out of his merry way to make it as complex and hardly translatable as he can. he would apply the most archaic of archaic versions of those languages, even with one simple phrase. as i said, he would've planned it out beforehand deliberately. it makes perfect sense.

what it would be, however, is a whole other conversation of its own. maybe that very "i love you" or previously mentioned "live forever", just in a different language. that is the simplest answer i can offer. i like to dig deeper when it comes to mysteries such as this one, though, so i've been gathering my thoughts all day today in order to predominantly satisfy myself with an obnoxiously pretentious answer. how about: "to the stars" (kitsch but fitting, obviously convoluted, and in a different language) or a translated version of "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" — just to deride religion and tradition one last time. or, perhaps, "permanence". something that perpetuates his convicted disbelief in vanitas. "never gone"; "the conclusion". and i know, all of these sound dumb as hell in english, but do remember — they would be uttered in a different language, and in a complex way, too. to be mulled over; wondered about for a long time, even as a scholar.

someone needs to hook me up with ms tartt's phone number so we can settle this once and for all, lol. but then again, i don't want to know. i don't want a simple answer to such a mystifying, ponderous question. i'm fine with eternally musing over it — it certainly keeps me entertained.

[sleepii-moth]

the fact that fnaf after everything with its creator still has adult fans and is getting new merch, games, and other things made for it is wild to me. regardless of how you feel about death of the author or whatever, the new fnaf content that is being made is getting less and less coherent plot wise and the gameplay is getting repetitive. From an objective standpoint i think that the first fnaf game was never meant to be what the series became. As someone who has a general knowledge of how games are made, especially when it comes to narrative driven games, it was clearly meant to simply be a gameplay focused horror game with a little story thrown in to give some cool backstory and add some mystery, and then maybe there'd be a few more games in the series that expand on the mechanics and elaborate on the story a bit but its pretty reasonable to assume that the story of the game was meant to be mostly up for interpretation and that as a series, it wouldnt be too long. Unfortunately though, it ended up gaining fame and people reading more into it which definitely contributed to the series being what it is now (and also yknow.. money is another reason.) It sort of ended up having a certain Supernatural (tm) effect where it kept getting worse but people still watched it which i guess answers my question of why people still like it (because people arent willing to let things they like go even if theyre bad) but that is an unfulfilling answer to me and theres definitely a more fulfilling one

so im wondering now.. are people (not counting kids for a reason) who still like fnaf holding onto the series because they liked the concept (of animatronics, a sprawling mystery, and other things) and have never found or heard of other things that share those same concepts? Or is it really just simply holding onto things that are nostalgic to them? Im genuinely curious because i have been into things that just got bad because they went for too long or tried to do convoluted things with the story that i just moved on from. I still remember when i was younger i watched supernatural with my sibling, and did really enjoy it, we got pretty late in the show before my sibling told me they thought it was getting worse and didnt want to watch it anymore. Of course as a kid who didn't really even know how to tell if a form of entertainment was bad, i was a little upset and didnt understand why but agreed anyway. And so we stopped watching supernatural and watched other things together like steven universe that we ended up liking way more. Occasionally there would be tv show or anime that just ended up sucking and from then on we just stopped watching it and watched something else.

I think the reason i fully stopped liking fnaf was partly that i recognized the content i was watching for it (like lets plays or theory videos) were getting worse and i also just grew out of it? As the years went on i got into other games like half life or portal that had way more fulfilling stories to me that i enjoyed a lot more so fnaf just became something i didnt care about. fnaf is like the cracker barrel of video games to me, i went there as a kid because other people liked it so i was supposed to also like it and mostly really liked it because it was restaurant food and to a kid thats better than anything you get at home (and also they have little toys), and then one day when i was older and had gone to more different places i sat down, ate my food, and thought "wow this is bad actually," and never ate there again. And all of that is to say i really do wonder if the majority of adult fans of fnaf still like it because its one of the few games theyve engaged with in their life, and that if they were to expand their palette, try new things, and look back on their interests, then theyd be able to more easily accept its (and its creators) problems and move on from it as purely a thing of their past. because i promise you, there are better things out there, not everything is cracker barrel or supernatural, theres genres youve never even heard of, games that no one knows about waiting to be played, theres the sprawling mysteries of Outer Wilds, the gut wrenching horror of Devotion, the captivating characters of Psychonauts, the expansive world building of Half Life, there are so many better things out there made by better people. Letting go of something doesnt hurt as much when you have more things to enjoy. There are better things out there, you just have to stop looking in the same place.

[bsidethetrees]

Death Talk

"What happens when you die?"

"I'm so glad that you asked, Lisanna." Bickslow, who'd been lazily puffing away on a smoke, sat up then. He and the woman in question were on his apartment floor, in the dark, spending time alone with just them and his babies. How they liked it. Looking to her then, he went on. "I know that a lot of people have that hang up. Death. But I am very experienced in it and no longer ponder. Rather, I've formed something greater than just stupid theories. I've proven things! Things no one can disprove. I'm pretty much an expert. I-"

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"Eh?"

She sat up some too, one of his babies, Pappa, tumbling down from her chest and into her lap. "I wasn't being philosophical. I really don't care what you think about life after death."

"Well, there is none, Lisanna, and it's not what I think, it's what I know, so-"

"Bickslow-"

"What are you asking then?"

"When you die," Lisanna began once more. "What happens to your babies? Your magic ends at your death, so they'll be released from their bodies and then what? Do they just go back to what they did before they found you? Or do they wait for your soul? Is your soul going to meet them?"

Slowly, as if deflated, the seith fell back once more to the carpet. After another puff, he remarked. "Dunno."

"You don't know?"

"That's what I said."

"Bickslow, how do you not know? You're the master of souls, aren't you? Is that not what you said? You know everything about death."

"I do."

"Then-"

"I don't know what happens to them or if I'll be able to find their souls once mine's free from my carcass." He liked that word. Carcass. Tried to work it into a conversation at least once a day. Lisanna should know. It was normally conversations with her that he worked them into. "So I don't waste time thinking about it."

"So according to you," she said with a slight suspicious look, "not only do you know everything that happens after death-"

"Yes."

"-except for what will happen to you and your children after death."

"Also yes."

"You sound like a shitty father then."

"Lisanna!" He gave her a glare and his dolls hummed. "What naughty language to use around such young children."

She gave him a look of her own as she said, "Sometimes, Bicks, I think you just lie and make up the things that you know to impress me. But the jokes on you; I probably know way more about death than you ever could."

"No way."

"Yes way."

"This is absurd. The audacity of this one, babies. Who do she think she is? Huh?"

"I," Lisanna told him confidently, "am someone who beat death. Who are you?"

"I am so glad you asked." Again, he moved to happily sit up, cigarette dangling from his lips as he spoke. "I am the one, the only, the magnificent Bickslow. And yet often overlooked. Even in my tiny circles. Why is that? Because the most important thing that I am is a dark knight. A misunderstood, cast aside, forgotten dark knight. Do I let this bother me? No! Why? Because I understand my role. Though not large to many, it's important to me. And I uphold my duty far better than any other possible ever could. So you're Lisanna Strauss? Fine. Great. That's nothing to the Dark Knight Bickslow."

"Mmmm," it was her turn to hum as his babies took to flying around the room, all five of them, excited from their father's tone of voice. "You sure have a love for theater, Bicks. Sure you're not more suited for that."

"I'm a dark knight, Lisanna. You can joke-"

"Isn't that Freed's thing? Anyways?" She looked up then, as if considering. "Freed the Dark. Bickslow the Dark Knight. Sounds like copyright infringement, if you ask me."

"Is not! I was Bickslow the Dark Knight long before he ever-"

"It's at the very least gimmick infringement."

"It's not a gimmick, Lisanna."

"Sounds a lot like one."

"Well, it's not! I can't speak for stupid Freed, but mine's not a game." And he fell back in a huff onto the floor. His babies took to swarming him then, as if to cheer up the man. After a long drag on his smoke, he grumbled, "It's the only way I know how to be."

She gave him a few long stares then, a slight smile playing at her lips. It was so different, when she was with Bickslow, than the others. She was relegated to the emotional position with her older siblings, with Natsu, probably not with Happy, but they were both pretty prone to emotions together.

With Bickslow though, somehow, she was the adult. Somehow.

One of the things that always drew Lisanna to him was that he was older and darker and there was something more to him, but as she dug, she found that the things that were beneath the surface were there for a reason. Because they destroyed the outer persona. On the inside, Bickslow was actually an emotional wreck for the most part who cared pretty deeply what others thought of him and only pretended to be apathetic towards the others. His image meant the world to him. He had to preserve it. At all costs.

Which is why it annoyed him so much, in those few moments, when Lisanna poked at it. She could tell. As one of the few people allowed in, it got on his nerves when she wouldn't conform to the rules of entry.

He was a bit of a prick, Bickslow was. He liked for people to play by his rules and, if they refused, tended to flip the board and declare himself the winner regardless. It was the only way he knew how to play.

And Bickslow wasn't big on change.

"I'm just kidding, you know," Lisanna said after letting him pout for a few moments. Observing him and his demeanor, she knew it was time to stop the charade before he got too low on himself. "Bicks."

He only grunted, at first, before grumbling out, "I know."

"Well, don't get all upset about it then."

"I'm not."

Lisanna fell too then, on the carpet, but closer to him. Resting up against the man, she giggled as she rested against him. After pressing her lips to his cheek, she whispered, "I didn't mean to put you in a bad mood."

"I'm not in one."

"Bickslow."

"What?"

He turned his head down then, to stare at her, while Lisanna looked right back up, with little concern. She was one of the only people that willingly looked him in the eyes. Then again, she was one of the only ones to routinely see him without his visor on.

"I just wanted to know what your contingency plan was, for after your death," she said simply. "That's all."

"Contingency, huh?"

"Like, I know what happens to Happy if I die."

"Well, that's just not fair," he pointed out. "He already lives with Natsu and you've already died once before, so you have a dry run to go by."

"My point is that I know that he's fine."

"Again, because you're not really providing any real care to him-"

"I provide plenty of care."

"I think you're a deadbeat, Lisanna."

"At least I know that he's safe if something happens to me."

"You seem really concerned with this, Lissy," the man accused then with a suspicious stare. "You planning on offing me? And concerned that you won't get access to my wonderful dolls anymore? Have no fear!"

"I think if that's the plan, you should probably be the one in fear, actually, but go on."

"With just a few simple grueling years learning the art of seith magic," he began with a nod of his head, "you too can capture souls and care for my young when I am no longer able."

"Are they really young though?" she questioned. "If their eternally the same?"

"Why are you so full of questions today?" he griped. "You know how I feel about question."

"I'm nearly one hundred percent certain I don't because you've only made up this dislike just this moment."

"No. I haven't." And he stuck his tongue out at the woman then as his smoke found its way between his fingers instead. Guild mark flapping, he remarked, "Questions lead to what?"

"Answer, I'd hope."

"More questions! And more questions! And more questions!" He huffed. "It's a paradox, Lissy."

"I really don't think it is, Bicks."

"It's better to never question anything and just live your life in ignorant bliss."

"Except for when I'm asking you about one of the things that you're so glad I've asked about?"

"Except for then."

She couldn't help it with the smirk and he'd been trying to be so annoyed the whole time, but it showed through then as he reflected her grin and when they kissed, finally, it just all felt right.

"Are you going to tell me?" she asked though, once they separated. He'd fallen completely onto his back and she was over him, her hands rested on either side of the seith's head, looking right down at him. "Bickslow?"

"'bout what?" he asked as he blinked up at her with almost a sleepy expression. He still had his smoke in his fingers and glanced at it then, a bit bummed that with the way she was over him, it was inaccessible. "What happens to the babies when I die?"

"No. I think we can both agree you're too neglectful to know that."

"Least my fake children live with me, deadbeat."

"Happy's very real, thanks."

"So are my babies."

"I'm not the one that implied otherwise."

Eyeing her then, he asked, "Just what are you so curious about now? Eh? Lissy?"

"What you were trying to tell me before. About death. Tell me about all the things that you've proven."

"Really?"

"Mmmhmm." Her blue eyes shined brightly down into his. "I really do."

He needed a few more puffs for that and Lisanna obliged without verbal communication, just easily falling off to his side with a giggle as his babies landed on his chest, also eager for their father's deep ponders.

As expected, they were poorly thought out, convoluted, and not based in any fact whatsoever regardless of his insistence of otherwise. And yet Lisanna found herself nodding along and agreeing regardless because, hey, he really was good at it. Playing up the dramatics that way he loved so much.

Bickslow wasn't as dark and devious as he played himself up to be, but he certainly was misunderstood. By nearly everyone else. Not her though. Not in those days.

"Death," the seith finished after a few long and pointless tangents that he seemed to just be making up as he went along, "can be summed up in one way, Lisanna. You know that really visceral feeling you get, you know, when you see something you haven't in a long time. So long that it feels all fuzzy. What is that? Nostalgia? But different. Deeper. Like hearing a song that you only heard once, when you were a really little kid. That special scent that your home always had, when you were a baby. It's there, just barely, but it stops you dead in your tracks, because you can feel it. In your gut, in your mind, it's all you can do to continue on because it's just so overpowering. That's death. Because you have experienced it before. It's the first thing and the last thing. The end. The dark. The long night. It's what you had before this and it's what you'll have after. It's familiar and yet distant. It-"

"Wait." She was just vying to interrupt him at some point. He could tell. "What are you saying then? Bickslow? If we've experienced it before and go back to it, that means that we had life before as well, right? To know what the darkness was? So you think death leads to reincarnation. That's what you're saying."

For some reason, her claim annoyed him.

"No. That's not what I'm saying."

"I think it is."

"It's not."

"It's okay. A lot of people believe that."

"But I don't."

"Then what-"

"Life is...cyclical." And, smoke dangling from his mouth again, he made a circular motion with one finger. "It's just a long, endless, rehash. One after another. And any slight deviance you could have produces complete other universes. Like Edo-ass."

"Edolas, you ass," he got a slight grumble.

Undeterred, Bickslow only said, "You know the dark because you did live the dark once, before. But you know the light too. It never ends. We've had this conversation an infinite amount of times and will have it an infinite amount more. It all just continues on for the rest of forever exactly how it was. Each and every time. When it doesn't, it gets stored in another universe. Like I said before. That's why we're so afraid of it. Death. Because we have to return to it. That darkness. But we get to see the light again, eventually. We get to do it all over again. We always will."

"Is that what you really think? Bickslow?"

He nodded before looking at her. "It is."

"Mmmm. It sounds nice, anyways. That you get to do it all again. Even...even if you just get the same worthless result." She shrugged a bit. "You'll get to see everyone that you lost, again, eventually, right? Like I could see my parents again. Is that...is that why you believe that?"

"No. Why would I want to see your parents?"

"Bickslow-"

"Not everything has a deeper meaning, Lisanna. Somethings just are."

Yeah. But the moment they were having wasn't one of them.

"What do you think then?" he complained at her. "Since you're the rest master of death, huh? Isn't that what you said."

"It is."

"What then?"

Humming some, she thought before saying, "Mira believes in an afterlife and divinity. Elf thinks that we become the stars, the air, stuff like that. Just going on. Forever. And you think, apparently, that it all just restarts? Right? Again and again?"

"I asked what you thought."

"I think," she told him then as she shut her eyes, as if envisioning it as she spoke, "that there's nothing."

He frowned. "Nothing?"

"That's right. That there's nothing."

"At all?"

"At all."

"But-"

"There's nothing after this. Why would there be? Where was that promised? At any point? To any of us? Once this is done, we're just not anything anymore."

"My babies-"

"They're souls, fine, but you know as well as I do that there's not just a bunch of souls floating around constantly, like there would have to be, if all the humans and animals that died over the centuries were still around. The vast majority of us don't get stuck. We just finish. We stop breathing, our heart stops pumping, our brain dies, and that's it. That's the end."

Not pleased with this, Bickslow frowned some and thought before remarking, "That's fucking dark, Lisanna."

"Oh, you're one to talk!"

"I am the only one to talk, yes. I should be. I agree."

"And it's not dark," she retorted with a tongue sticking out of her own. But only quickly as she couldn't do it like him. Couldn't speak around it. Not without biting the appendage off. "It's beautiful."

"How?"

"What's in nothingness, Bickslow? Not pain or hurt or anything. Not happiness or joy either, fine, but you have to hurt to have those. To know what those are. Nothing...to be finished...to complete whatever reason you were put here and go softly into the night… I really want that. And I hope that Edolas Lisanna got that."

Considering her, Bickslow watched the woman for a few moments before, with one last puff of his smoke, saying, "If I die before you, will you try and find my babies? Keep 'em, if you can? Explain to them, at least, that if there's any way I can get back to them, any way at all, I will?"

"Yeah, Bickslow." She even nodded. "Of course."

"Great." And he tumbled up then, to go stab the butt of his smoke out in the overflowing ashtray that rested on the coffee table. Glancing over his shoulder at woman, he said, "And if, you know, you kick the bucket again, I'll take care of things with the cat. He has Natsu and all, but you know, I'll take him aside. Man to man. Stepfather to stepson. Give him a real good speech. All about you. And how you love him. All that good stuff a stepfather should."

"You keep using that word, stepfather, but I'm starting to think you're confused on the meaning."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

Grinning widely, he fell onto his back once more. "Why don't you explain it to me then?"

"Well, for starters," she began as, once more, she cuddled against him., there, in the dark apartment, "Happy doesn't even like you so it doesn't matter what you are. He thinks you're weird."

"As any good stepfather should be."

"Plus, Natsu also thinks you're pretty weird."

"See, Lissy, you keep trying to disprove me as this cat's stepfather, but everything you list-"

"Not to mention he's an Exceed, not a cat, so-"

"A distinction for a father. Not a step-"

"Bicks."

"What?"

"Let's just both agree to never die? Okay?"

"I didn't know it was an option."

"We can pretend it's one," she pointed out. "Until, you know, it's not."

"Sounds irresponsible." Then he laughed, loudly, and made her and the babies alike jump. "Right up my alley!"

Lisanna giggled and he grinned and it didn't matter, when it would all end, because it was there, in that moment, and that's what made it so perfect.

That's what made everything so perfect.

[notsoguiltykpop]

The Tenth Floor pt15

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader & Taehyung x Reader

Min Yoongi had gone through 34 secretaries in the past 24 months, and each one of them left in tears. This fact alone should have warned you against taking the job, but the pay was too good to pass up. Surely you could put up with a billionaires temper-tantrums, right?

Genre: Fluff, humor, probably some angst

Warnings: Strong language, smut talked about/implied, some dark themes

Chapter Warning: Kind of substance abuse? Cough syrup abuse.

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

Yoongi did follow you, albeit somewhat reluctantly. At first, he stayed a fair space behind you, as though scared to walk side by side. To someone who didn’t know any better, they might have thought he was stalking you, stopping four feet away when you paused to look across the street, and keeping up the distance when you continued. It was irksome, but not so much so that you would tell him to cut it out and try to be normal. As it was, the only reminder that you were actually allowing Min Yoongi to know where you lived was the faint click of his shoes on the sidewalk.

“Here.” Yoongi interrupted the silence that had surrounded you for the last five minutes or so abruptly, and when you turned to him, you saw him holding out his jacket without looking directly at you.

“What?” You snapped. You definitely liked it better when he wasn’t talking.

“I’m too hot anyway.” Yoongi said gruffly. “You should wear it, you look cold.”

You were cold, but that didn’t mean you were going to take anything from him. Besides, you could tell by his red-tipped nose in the dim light that he was lying; he was just as frozen at that point as you were. “You’re not going to accomplish anything by giving me your jacket, so you might as well put it back on.”

Yoongi looked indignant. “I’m not trying to ‘accomplish’ something, I just said I was too hot, so you might as well wear it.”

You scoffed, turning away from him. The idea that he still thought he might win you over was absurd, and the fact that he was trying was mildly insulting. Yet, the action made you hesitate, if only momentarily, which was one of the main reasons you refused. It was a kind gesture, and you could feel yourself melting slightly because of it. You supposed in theory you could wear the jacket and take joy in the fact that he was that much more miserable, but you feared that it was more likely that you would instead start forgetting your anger and giving in to his and Taehyung’s game.

It wasn’t until you stepped into your apartment building that you noticed that Yoongi hadn’t ever put his jacket back on. You were about to make a snide comment, perhaps a jab at the fact that his pride had made him suffer completely unnecessary when you noticed how sickly he looked in the light. A cold sweat was starting on his brow, and he loosened his tie absently as you studied him. “Are… You okay?” You asked slowly.

“Yeah, why?” He raised an eyebrow as he followed you into the elevator. You’d forgotten how rickety it felt, and were more aware of how loud it was standing next to Yoongi. But he either wasn’t aware of it, or didn’t show that he was.

“You don’t… Look okay.” You replied. You were half furious at yourself for noticing and caring, and half concerned about him. Without thinking, you held out a hand and put it to his forehead. “You have a fever.”

Yoongi brushed your hand away looking somewhat alarmed by it, then rubbed his eyes. “Flu medicine ’s wearing off.” He muttered.

You stared at him incredulously. “You have the flu?” It was a redundant question, you knew, but you would have thought he would have said something earlier.

“Do you care?” He countered. “It isn’t a big deal, I just need some rest.”

“You didn’t think maybe you should let other people know you were sick?” You continued regardless as you stepped out of the elevator.

“I said I was tired!” Yoongi snapped. That was true, and looking back, he had stayed as far away from people as possible the whole night. You had assumed he was just being antisocial. “What difference would it have made? If I didn’t show up because I’m sick, everyone would think I was lying. And no one would have known better if I’d gotten home an hour and a half ago like I was supposed to.”

He followed you into your apartment, palms pressed to his eyes. “I feel like shit.”

“You look like shit.” You said, and he shot you a glare. Sighing, you opened a few kitchen cabinets before finding something for his fever. You set it on the counter in front of him, and he said a quiet “thanks” in return. “I’m going to change into something warmer, and then I’ll drive you home.” You told him, and he nodded absently. “Just how much flu medicine did you take for you to be able act normal earlier?” You couldn’t help the question.

Yoongi shrugged. “I dunno. Enough that I felt a dizzy for a while.”

You almost scolded him, told him that overdosing on cough medicine was dangerous and stupid, but stopped yourself. It wasn’t any of your business. If he wanted to get high off DXM, that was his problem, not yours. “Whatever.” You muttered. You needed to stop asking questions; the sooner he was out of your home, the better.

You changed quickly into a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, but when you walked back to the living area, you found Yoongi passed out on your couch. Your first thought was to wake him up and drag him to your car, but you did no such thing. Instead, for some reason you couldn’t explain, you grabbed an extra blanket and draped it over his shoulders. He muttered something you couldn’t quite understand, and thinking that he had woken up, you asked “What?”

“Thank you.” Yoongi said somewhat more coherently. You blinked, taken aback.

“Just… Get some sleep.” You said, unsure of what else to do or say.

“Fuck off, I’ll do what I want.” His voice trailed off as he mumbled this, and you realized he was talking in his sleep. You laughed under your breath. He wasn’t even a normal person in his dreams.

When you woke on Saturday morning, you didn’t initially remember that Min Yoongi was sleeping in your house. But when you exited your room and found him sprawled sideways on your couch, one arm slung over his eyes to keep out the bright light of day, it all came back to you.

It was funny, you thought, how easily you were swayed by this man. Only the day before, you wanted nothing to do with him, save for the money you got from working with him. Now, you didn’t know how to feel. Were you angry? Yes. But it wasn’t the burning rage that had made your blood boil at the thought of him days before. More than anything, you were frustrated and confused by him now. 

You were curious about him--who he was, what he did in his spare time, the reasons for his actions--and you wanted desperately to understand, though you suspected that it wouldn’t help you. Everything you had learned about Yoongi only seemed to hurt your further, and sometimes you wondered if he himself even knew who he was, his character was so convoluted and twisted.

You glanced at him again, sleeping relatively peacefully. He looked better than he had the night before, and you were grateful for it. Like this, he didn’t seem intimidating or scary, he just looked like... Well, a normal person. One you could get to know, and one who had normal interests, hobbies, and fears. Someone you could relate to, perhaps, and share stories with.

You stopped that train of thought there, however.

Maybe it was a form of stockholm syndrome, you thought. Was that even possible? You had no idea, but you decided the question could wait until you’d found something to eat.

You’d left your phone on the kitchen counter the night before, too distracted to plug it in. You glanced at it briefly to check the time, and grimaced when you saw the number of missed calls and messages. Many of them appeared to be from Jessica, while three were from a number you didn’t recognize. You sighed, putting it back down. Whatever it was, they could wait.

It was no wonder you were hungry, it was after 11am. You’d just sat down with a bowl of cereal when Yoongi dragged himself off the couch, taking the blanket with him as he walked over to sit across from you at your table.

“Why am I in your house?” He asked flatly.

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Because you fell asleep last night and I didn’t want to wake you up--you clearly needed the rest.” He blinked slowly. “You don’t remember being here?” 

“Fevers have a bad effect on me, and I think I took too much cough syrup.” He replied. “I remember walking here, but not much after that. Also, your couch sucks as a bed.”  

You sighed. Yoongi was clearly feeling more like himself, judging by his blunt tone. But he still looked and sounded sick, and you tried not to care. “You should take time off when you’re sick.” You said rather than address his words. “You would recover faster if you didn’t push yourself--that’s probably why you were so sick last night. You went out and exerted yourself when you should’ve been resting, and then all the physical exercise of walking here...” You shook your head disapprovingly.

Yoongi didn’t look like he appreciated your mini-lecture, but your doorbell buzzing interrupted him before he could start complaining about it.

“Are you expecting company?” He asked.

You ignored him. It was probably your neighbor, ready to tell you off for letting someone stay the night. Mrs. Brickman had spider-senses when it came to that sort of thing, and never hesitated to let people know how much she disapproved. So when you opened the door and found yourself face-to-face with Jungkook, you were startled.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m making sure you’re not dead.” Jungkook was frowning, his arms folded. “I wouldn’t have had to come all the way here if you’d just answered your texts like a normal person.”

“How do you even have my number?” You could never really predict what Jungkook was going to do next, so perhaps in that respect it shouldn’t have been surprising. You might have been annoyed if you weren’t so confused.

“Oh, please. It takes a two minute google search to find someone’s number, don’t act surprised.” Jungkook then stepped past you into your apartment. You did try to stop him, but it wasn’t much use. “I don’t want to be weird, but I got worried when I didn’t hear back from you. After knowing what Yoongi and Taehyung said, who knows what they would do--” He stopped upon seeing Yoongi still sitting at your breakfast table. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” You said dryly. “Oh.”

Jungkook’s eyes widened. “You didn’t.”

You shook your head quickly, knowing what it must look like. “God, no--are you judging me right now? You, of all people?”

Jungkook grimaced. “I didn’t mean it that way--just, he’s such a…” He stopped and glanced at Yoongi.

“Does everyone but me know where you live?” Yoongi asked. By some miracle, he apparently hadn’t been paying attention to what Jungkook was saying only moments before, instead looking at his phone.

“You’re here.” Jungkook raised his eyebrows at Yoongi. “So wouldn't you know where she lives as well?”

“I have no fucking clue where this is.” Yoongi shot back, then seemed to think about what he had just said.

“Did you drug him?” Jungkook turned to you suspiciously.

“He drugged himself, but that isn’t the point.” Jungkook looked like he wanted more of an explanation on the subject, but you didn’t give him the chance to ask. “I’m fine; thanks for your concern, I guess, but you can leave now.”

“You can drive me home at the same time.” Yoongi cut in. He had his palms covering his eyes once more, and his elbows leaning on the table.

“Seriously, what’s wrong with him?” Jungkook asked you.

“Apparently, he has the flu.” You said. You phone started ringing, making you and Yoongi both jump. You answered it without looking at who it was. Too much was happening at once, and you didn’t like it.

“Open the door, my hands are full.” It was Jessica’s voice that greeted you, and you had never been so panicked hearing your friends voice. “I totally forgot there’s this conference thing I’m supposed to go to later, and I need my dress back. I tried to text you, but you never got back to me.”

Oh, good god. This couldn’t get worse, you were sure. The situation wouldn’t be so terrible if Jungkook wasn’t currently standing in your apartment, but it was made a worse by Yoongi’s presence on top of that. You longed for the floor to open up and swallow you whole, but your wishes were left ungranted. “I’ll bring it out to you, just wait there. No, wait downstairs.” You took a few steps further away from Yoongi and Jungkook so they might not hear what you were saying.

“What are you talking about, just open the door--” There was a knocking on your door that sounded like Jessica was using her foot rather than her fist.

“Don’t--” You started, but Jungkook was closer to the door, and much faster than you. He stood dumbfounded with the door still open as you hurried over.

“How dare you.” Jessica said lowly, glaring at Jungkook. “You have some fucking nerve to be here.”

“Jessica, I can explain--” You started, pushing past Jungkook who was as still as a statue.

“Explain?” Jessica said weakly. She had two to-go cups of iced coffee in her hands, one you guessed was supposed to be for you. “Knowing what he did to me--knowing what a piece of shit he is, you still--god, how could you do this to me?” Tears were welling in her eyes as she spoke, and Jungkook finally came back to his senses.

“You know each other?” He all but whispered.

Jessica’s response was to drop one of the cups of coffee, rip the lid off the other, and throw it’s contents into Jungkook’s face. Some of it landed on you, but the majority soaked into Jungkook’s shirt and hair. “Fucking scumbag.” She said as she walked away.

Jungkook didn’t waste any time chasing after her. You heard his “Jessica--Jess, wait. Please?” as he followed her down the hall, and you debated whether or not you should do the same. You deemed that it might be best that you didn’t, because Jessica’s anger wasn’t only at Jungkook, and both of you pursuing her would likely do more harm than good.

“Who was that?” Yoongi asked, walking up to stand beside you, sticking his head out the door to see their retreating forms.

“Jessica.” You said. Yoongi didn’t look like he knew who you were talking about, so you added; “She was your secretary for almost two weeks, remember?”

Yoongi shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of secretaries. It takes at least four weeks for me to remember their names.”

You turned to him slowly. “Is that why you never refer to me by name?” You asked. “Because you don’t know it what it is?”

Yoongi shifted his weight. “No.”

“It is, isn’t it?” You demanded. “You don’t know my name.”

“I do too.” Yoongi said, his tone slightly resentful.

“Oh, really?” You took a step towards him, so you were nearly nose-to-nose. “Then what is it?” You were sure he wouldn’t have an answer, that he would continue trying to avoid the question.

“Y/n.” Yoongi said simply. “Your name is Y/n.”

You wished you hadn’t made him say it. Hearing your name from his lips, in his voice made you feel things you knew you shouldn’t. You were in far, far too deep, and if you weren’t careful, you’d end up drowning. 

A/N Two updates in the same week, both over 2k words long?! It’s been a while lol! I’m going to see if I can finish up the next part of Royals soon, Jimin is killing me recently ;-; Thanks for reading this, and let me know what you think, of course! Originally there was going to be a lot more to this chapter, but sometimes I prefer to update more consistently rather than with longer parts haha. Also, have any of you ever taken too much cough syrup? I did one time before I knew it makes you loopy, it was a weird day (I didn’t even take all that much, I’m just a lightweight lol) 0/10 would not recommend.

@sanfurcopi @parkjiminsjagiya @rimuslymoony @lunarosemai

Let me know if you want to be tagged in future update and I’ll add you to the list! <3

[kingofthewilderwest]

Shiro back in Black is *FORWARD* story development

Thought I’d make a title for once to pique peoples’ interests. I mean, that statement is probably a rare opinion. I’ve seen many individuals comment that they felt Shiro’s return to Black in S4 was a cop-out, “too soon,” convoluted mess, or backwards step in storytelling (especially concerning Keith’s characterization as a Paladin). And while at first I found the writers’ choice weird, I sat back to rewatch S3... and lo and behold everything clicked.

This is actually a really smart move and smooth storytelling point on the writers’ part to put Shiro in Black for S4.

The gap between Seasons 3 and 4 I think have thrown many of us. Though we understand that S3+S4 = the length of S1 alone, many of us have treated these seasons so separately that the broader plot arc of 3 / 4 got passed over. This was passed over also because of the time gap... while waiting for S4 to premiere, our minds got solidified in the current state of S3... thus treating the events of S3 as though they were more permanent, resolute, and long-lasting than they were. I mean, there was so little permanent about 3... it was only seven episodes, after all! And only in five of those did we see Keith in Black.

For I noticed a trend in how people theorized about future Black Paladins. Pre-S4 predictions about the Black leader mainly followed the lines of:

Keith always stays in Black and the lion switch of S3 is permanent.

The Paladin team grows in their new lions and learns new lessons. Once they have matured as people, they more or less return to the original configuration.

And then there are theories about a sixth lion, Paladins constantly swapping depending upon needs per mission, etc.

Now the thing is, ideas #1 and #2 always felt to me as... problematic... concerning either Keith or Shiro’s character development. 

If we go with #1, Keith gets a brilliant character arc where he grows into a leader. He is forced into a leadership role and has to become someone great. But Shiro would easily be shafted in this route. It would be very hard to write a satisfactory character arc for Shiro without him returning to Black. It would be hard to get a sense of growth for his character upon permanently leaving as Voltron tream leader. Not to mention... the S2 plot arc of Shiro trying to bond with Black was only just making headway when he disappeared. So #1 shafts Shiro’s characterization.

If we go with #2, then Keith, Lance, and Allura allegedly would return to their old lions. It again could easily feel like a step back, especially for Keith and Allura. A story introducing Keith as “a leader with potential” cannot have him tossed back to second-in-command and never actualizing as leader. He has to become that leader for the story to make sense.

These theories all have something in common that I only realized with S4 in retrospect. These ideas assumed that the lion switch is what would stimulate Paladin character growth. But with Keith, it’s not simply that piloting Black will characterize him into leadership. Rather, S3-4 suggest there’s also the idea that learning leadership will characterize Keith into piloting Black. We got it swapped!

And Keith isn’t at that point to take such command of Black. Not yet. But because we assumed that Keith being in Black was how he would become actualized as a leader, it felt like a step backward or a reverting to “the original” when Shiro flew Black in S4. It felt like taking away that character growth of how Keith could become leader... something that desperately needs to happen in storytelling.

Lots of people seem to be disjointed by Shiro returning to Black, especially so soon before his psychological struggles are resolved. Lots of people seem disjointed by Keith leaving Black so soon, especially since he only just began to demonstrate any good leadership at all. It seems like a step backwards to undo the little Keith was beginning to do, and to simply default back to what we’re “used to” with Shiro. Overall it can feel the writers took away change and progress.

But no. That’s not the actual arc of S3 / 4. We didn’t take a step backward. We didn’t return to the default Black Paladin in a muddy, useless tangle of plot. We’ll never get back to S1′s status. Instead, the writers did something cool and progressive, moving the plot forward in a neat and linear progression.  Check out what’s been happening when we actually look at S3-4 as one unit:

Season 1: Shiro is the clear, dominant, uncontested leader of Voltron. There’s no question about it and basically nothing to suggest otherwise.

Season 2: Shiro is still the clear, dominant, uncontested leader of Voltron... but there’s a new suggestion that someone else might have the potential to lead someday. Shiro suggests Keith as a replacement just in case anything goes wrong.

Season 3 / 4:  Keith gets that taste of leading alone, but emotionally doesn’t feel ready, opts out, and the command continues with Shiro. Shiro can still pilot the Black Lion and act as a good Voltron leader, but cracks are developing. He’s no longer the clear, dominant, uncontested leader. Keith is now something that has to be considered because he can pilot Black, too.

Nothing is ever going to return to the old S1 standard. Keith versus Shiro flying Black is a problem with much more development to come. S4 contributes rather than degrades the development of the situation, in fact, by throwing in the detail both can pilot Black. That’s a lot more complicated with more questions than just, “Oh, now we have a different pilot: it’s Keith.”

See the progression that’s happening? It’s like there’s a slow gradient of black to white. We started in black, then slowly have transitioned to dark grey, then a more average grey. Slowly, the story is building cracks into the idea of Shiro being the one, dominant Paladin of Black. Slowly, the story is building Keith into the idea he can be leader of Voltron. It’s not by shoving Keith into the Black position that he becomes leader... but by growing him into the position to pilot Black.

We have to have this starting point of Keith’s first time in Black... where he’s not ready and leaves... where it still feels as though Shiro is “it”... but where we are starting to see the questions...

By having Keith get a taste of Black but not ultimately take Black on permanently in S3 / 4, we fall into the grey zone between black and white. We show the first glimpses of what it can be like as Keith in Black. The story doesn’t just close up that concept of him flying Black then and there in S3, and then we say, “Keith’s in Black, done deal, he has to learn, Shiro has to cope.” We didn’t just snap one Paladin into another Lion, done deal, black to white with no gray in between. Instead, the idea of who is the rightful Paladin of Black becomes a growing, morphing, black to grey to white gradient storytelling point with more nuance, development, and smooth direction. That’s pretty cool and will make for fascinating storytelling, character moments, and more.

Season 3 isn’t meant to feel as solidly “Keith is Black” as it should be. It’s meant to initially fool you because Shiro is gone, but it’s not meant to have this feeling Keith is solidly there because, really, he’s not - he goes in and out of Black quickly. But because we had that big time gap from 3-4, Keith further growing into the role of Black Paladin got solidified in our heads, making it feel all the weirder to see Shiro return “so soon.” But again, if you watch 3 directly into 4, you might see... it’s just that Keith is getting a taste, and the story is slowly building to ask the question of who should rightfully lead Voltron.

Because that’s obviously not a topic that’s done with, between Keith saying Shiro is the rightful Paladin, Shiro saying Keith is the rightful Paladin, yet Keith leaving and Shiro taking position without complaint. Yeah, issue totally not done.

And in this sort of storytelling format, we avoid the awkwardness I mentioned in #1 and #2. We won’t have Shiro’s characterization arc fall flat because he got shafted and put to the side. It won’t feel like this character just disappeared and poof wasn’t a leader and poof wasn’t cool anymore and poof wasn’t progressing anymore with his connection to the Black Lion. And it won’t have Keith’s arc fall flat at all... because this means that Keith will have a long, nuanced, gradual, inclining development into someone who can be a great leader. In fact Shiro returning to Black makes Keith’s characterization into a leader all the richer.

For we see Keith go from someone who isn’t a leader, to someone who is suggested to be a leader, to someone who gets a taste of leadership and rejects it. We create more nuance and steps this way, than just by having a plot where first he’s recommended to be leader, then lo and behold he is leader, and now he learns how to be leader while being leader. The writers are building more. Keith is learning both how to become leader and how to accept being leader this canon way. Keith is progressing just as much about how to become a leader than if he stayed in Black. Furthermore, rejecting leadership and leaving it and seeing Shiro still lead is a cool stage for Keith’s growth! Because S3 / 4 gave Keith the taste of being leader but ultimately not becoming leader, we show that Keith still has so much further to go. We show that there’s an interesting avenue that he might be headed towards... but we still have to wait eagerly to see actualized. We’ve got to get this whole growth going for Keith to learn how to accept leadership - even leadership as a Paladin of Voltron - before we really see him frequently back in action in Black.

And indeed, S4 shows that idea progressing forward of Keith learning leadership and Shiro increasingly being shown not to be the irrevocable leader of Voltron. Shiro makes a big mistake this season. Keith leaves, but learns some responsibility with the Blade of Marmora (rallying back-up? that’s new for him!)... and likely, he’ll continue learning. It might seem like a big, tangled, directionless mess when we focus just on the microcosm that is S4′s six tiny episodes... but looking at the larger plot arc, I am pleased. I think they’ve got great potential to develop this, for Shiro, for especially Keith, and for VLD as a whole.

[dontshootmespence]

IQ Meets Experience

A/N: An anon request for a fic where the reader is a young genius (about 21) and they get into the BAU because of their genius. Kind of like Spencer. Due to age, they aren’t that confident and start to make mistakes in their profiling, but Reid assures them that everyone makes mistakes. They’re also intimidated by everyone in general, looks, intelligence, and otherwise. The requester didn’t specify him or her, so because I get them so rarely, this is a Spencer x Male Reader (who is bisexual because my bisexual ass has a mighty need). @coveofmemories @sexualemobitch @jamiemelyn @unstoppableangel8

                                                              ----

This is like high school all over again. I’m never going to fit in. Intelligence is one thing, but everyone else is a minimum five years older than me, plus they’re all beautiful, intelligent and nice, and here I am, this bumbling genius, idiot that despite an IQ of 190 can’t get my damn profiling right. 

Fuck me.

I started at the BAU nearly a month ago, brought in on sheer intelligence and the basic ability to stand upright, because physical prowess there was none of whatsoever. “Dammit all.” Once again, I’ve spilled coffee on my way out of the cafe, causing my hand to burn, which in turn caused me to drop the coffee on the ground, so I had to go get a new one. This was the third time this week. 

After grabbing another cup, I walked carefully to the Bureau and into the elevator. JJ and Morgan were on their way up at the same time. “Hey, Y/N,” Morgan said as he slapped me on the shoulder. “How are you this morning?”

Play off the clumsiness and the burn on your hand as a joke. “Well, I’ve burnt my hand for the third time this week, but otherwise I’m okay.” Morgan chuckled as we all left the elevator and I couldn’t help but think that not only was I never going to get the hang of this job no matter how badly I wanted it, but I was also just never going to fit in. My bisexual ass couldn’t possibly be more intimidated by the beauty of everyone on this team. JJ was a goddamn angel sent down from the heavens. Morgan, as Garcia said, was sculpted from the most decadent chocolate. Hotch had his own charm, though it was hidden most of the time. Emily was a raven-haired goddess. Penelope was a fucking ray of sunshine that I could never even hope to be, Rossi was well...Rossi, which I’m sure he would appreciate me saying, and Reid...goddammit. His confidence level is just a hair’s breath above mine, but I have no clue why. I have the hots for everyone, but Reid...Reid is an angel with cheekbones that could cut a roast, deep-set eyes that convey all the emotions of the universe, and stupid fucking hair that makes me want to pull my fingers through it. Oh, and lips that gave me the dirtiest of mental images.

Everyone is cool and intelligent and pretty and I am so out of my league. Why the hell did I accept this job? That’s right, because I wanted it more than anything in the world - still do - I just wish that I could actually fit in.

“Morning, Y/N,” Reid said, his smile nearly killing me inside. I did manage to control myself and give him a good morning back. Go me.

Just as my train of thought was going to pull over to ‘Please-Fuck-Me-Reid Junction,’ Hotch came out of his office. “We have a case.”

Everyone got up and made their way into the conference room. I followed behind, but kept my distance. Though everyone was welcoming and warm, my stupid brain refused to let me believe that I actually fit in. I hadn’t for the entirety of my 21 years. Why would I now? “What do we have?” Emily asked as her hair fell in front of her face. God I’m bi as fuck.

“Garcia?”

As happily as she could under the circumstances, Garcia stood up and started briefing us on the case. “New York City. Three women have been found with their throats cut.” When the pictures came up, it was fairly easy to see they were prostitutes. “Now, by their clothing and the locations they were found, one might assume they were prostitutes. But they aren’t.”

Oh fantastic. Now I’m making assumptions. What is wrong with me?

“All three of them are suburban moms from Long Island. All blonde. All between the ages of 25 and 35, and all were abducted from a date with their significant others just prior to their deaths.”

“The clothing,” I started without realizing it. “Was that what they were wearing on their dates or were they changed post-mortem?”

“We don’t know yet,” Hotch replied. I was going to have to get used to the way he spoke. I kept thinking that when he spoke to me I was wrong, or I had asked a stupid question, but I knew I hadn’t. Adjustments were taking longer than I wanted. “Y/N, why don’t you give us a reason that the clothes would’ve been changed post-mortem.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and attempted to form a hypothesis. “Well, the fact that they are suburban moms is obviously important to him.” I tried to think of a reason, but the only one I could come up with sounded convoluted to my own ears. I said it anyway. “These women could be substitutes for a mother or caregiver in his own life. They fit the bill look-wise, but not professionally, so he changes their outfits.”

“So the unsub’s mother or mother figure was a prostitute and he’s substituting these women for them?” JJ asked. I nodded and JJ reciprocated. “That’s definitely possible. But what started this unsub off?” Again, the question seemed to be geared toward me. I had no idea. That was one thing I really needed to work on. I could dissect a crime scene with the best of them, but coming up with a motive for murder was always more difficult. Who was able to think like a killer? Well, everyone on the team but me apparently.

For a moment, I stared at the screen, trying to come up with a motive. “Motive, I’m not sure, but the trigger could’ve been the mother figure’s death, or possibly a return to prostitution.”

The rest of the team nodded and started to throw around other possibilities. Of course most of them sounded better to me than my own theories. “Wheels up in 30,” Hotch said, bringing me out of my daze. I’d only been here for a month, but I’d already gotten used to Hotch saying ‘wheels up.’

As the rest of the team filed out of the room, I stayed behind. Reid was gathering his things; he must’ve noticed the doubt in my eyes. “You okay, Y/N?”

“Yea,” I sighed. “I just can’t help but think...you know what, never mind.”

“You can talk to me Y/N,” he said. “I’ve been through a lot. Probably a lot of what you’ve been through.”

“I just keep fucking up when we’re profiling. I have an IQ of 190 and I feel like the dumbest person in the room,” I said quickly. That was practically word vomit. I guess I’d been bottling that up since I started. “Plus, everyone is so nice and intelligent and good looking,” Fuck that came out of your brain. Good job, asshole. “I just don’t fit in.”

Reid smirked as he picked up his files and started walking out of the conference room. “If anyone knows about not fitting in, it’s me,” he said. “You do fit in here. I can promise you that. Everyone loves you. And when it comes to profiling, mistakes happen. Human beings are too varied to not make a mistake every now and then.”

“Yea?” I asked. “Are you sure? Because I feel like an idiot. And with an IQ of 190, I feel like that shouldn’t be a word that exists for me.”

We walked down the stairs and towards the jet. Both of us had our go-bags ready to go so we figured why not just go to the jet straightaway. “Intelligence is one thing. You have that,” he started again. While he spoke, I started to feel better, his voice washing over me like a hot shower after a long day. “Profiling is taking that intelligence and applying it to real life crime. Even with crazy intelligence, that takes practice. You’ve only been here a month. Just give yourself some time.”

I heaved a deep sigh as we both walked onto the jet, taking seats across from each other. “I guess you’re right. I’ve just been straddling the line between being comfortable with my intelligence and not fitting in for so long that I’m tired. I want to take a firm step to one side, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” he laughed. “After a little more time, you’ll wobble over to one side. We’ll pick you up and then you’ll be there. Okay?”

“Okay,” I smiled. It’s a good thing everyone else started to pile onto the jet because I could feel my brain getting ready to say something stupid - probably about how hot I found Reid. As the plane readied for takeoff, the rest of the team sat down beside me and we began talking about whatever the fuck before we had to turn our attention to the profile again. Emily asked my opinion as the plane took off. Maybe I would actually fit in here eventually.

[survivingart]

HOW TO MAKE ART THAT TRANSFORMS PEOPLE

Creating art is a two step process; first you obviously have to make it, but then you also have to show it and present it to the public, and hopefully leave an impact on the world (preferably for the better).

But these two steps could not be further apart in both their methodology and all-around nature. The real problem is that making art is a predominantly personal and intimate experience, but showing and presenting it requires an entirely different skillset.

So, in today’s blunder I would like to explore the act of creation and presentation and — with a little help from psychoanalysis, theory of mind and history, all sprinkled with a few down-to-earth examples — show that even though it seems like they are two very disparate things, in order to master either of them, we really “only” need to master one thing: ourselves.

But first; let’s talk about making art.

First we need to figure out the basics and touch upon what we are actually making: Art is an experience, embodied inside an object or subject (like a painting or a performance piece). Its sole purpose is to communicate something, anything, and this purpose always stays the same, whilst the core message and even how it is conveyed changes constantly (think how different styles, motifs, art eras and political ideologies change the purpose of any particular art piece, but the basic idea of any one piece still stays the same — propagation of ideas).

But, at the beginning of our path as artists, art is primarily an exploration of self and not that much about communicating anything. We first have to find our message in order to then concern ourselves with communicating it, and this is where a strong distinction occurs: the distinction between artisan or craftsperson and artist.

The artisan or craftsperson does not posses a message, they do not wish or know how to communicate whatever it is they would like to propagate into the world with their creations. They only create.

Be it out of an urge to make beautiful things, to make functional things or just to play and create for the sake of creation, I’m not really saying that their creations are void of anything — beauty is a message, and so is play — but there exists a strong difference between those that imbue their creations with life, and those that merely bring into life whatever they create as a consequence of creation itself.

To create a table for example, I do not need much in order for me to make my object become a table. I can take a few planks of wood and at least three (but preferably four) sticks and attach them to the planks and call it a day.

Most people would probably agree that I have made a table — albeit a horrible and probably even dangerous one if it were used, but the point is, it could be used as a table and therefore it is one.

So, making a table isn’t that hard and it’s the same with making a chair, a sink and so on. The only difference in making any utilitarian object is the amount of technical expertise one needs to adequately make one (let’s call that part 80% of any particular object).

It is of course harder to make a car or an aeroplane, but as we humans know how to group-up, roll-up our selves, and since Ford demonstrated the incredible efficiency of labour division, even such a feat is doable in the long run and given enough time and resources.

But what about the rest? What about the extra 20% of anything we make, and that basic mathematics so eloquently describes as being quite important for any thing to be a whole “thing”, rather than just a work in progress?

The extra 20% is the semantic value, the meaning of a thing. That part cannot be fully constructed individually or in a group when the object is being built. It can only be made collectively; it needs creators and spectators to come together and ponder over whatever has been made and how it relates to their surroundings and themselves.

And even without the creator present, the object always has a certain semantic value, but it is never present in the object itself. While a bit convoluted, the point is: a chair is not a chair because there exists a heavenly blueprint of “The Chair” somewhere in god’s warehouse of stuff, with IKEA, OBI and MÖMAX fighting epic battles in order to obtain that immaculate rendition for the perfect chair to up their quarterly earnings.

A chair is only a chair because people have collectively decided to call it that and give it its now defined specific purpose — to be sat upon. It is a part of our belief system, and when that system changes, so does the semantic value of the chair (and all other objects, that are part of that system).

If we look at old pottery for example, the first time white long-necked vases were found in Greece, they could’ve been considered to be just that, vases. But as researchers explored them over time (and because they weren’t ignorant people), more detail and context was uncovered pertaining to these peculiar yet ordinary objects. Soon they found that such vases were actually urns, originally filled with the ashes of deceased children and were painted in white, because they symbolised their innocence at death.

And exactly this is the punchline: to symbolise. Only by uncovering context (we could also say the collective amalgamation of beliefs that the researchers uncovered from that time and of those people) could the function of those vases be determined — even if only approximately, because one can never be 100% sure about anything that has happened, especially if it happened in the distant past.

So, in order to find the meaning of anything, we first have to find the context in which it was created. Only by understanding how any object is connected with its surroundings (physical, cultural, etc.) can we really know what that object is.

Without context, you get a Plumbus (the Plumbus is an oddly shaped imaginary object that has no functional application or description of what it is useful for, that appears throughout the popular animated series Rick and Morty on Adult Swim). 

And what is most important for us artists, we can also create context for any one object or subject yourself, either by taking something that has an already established function and purpose in society and reappropriating it for our own means, or creating something new entirely (the best way is usually to combine both worlds, so as to make our art seem novel while still being accessible enough for people to understand the newly created object).

And one of the parts that is incredibly important for us is exactly this process of creating, because it is the process itself that actually stands as a temple to the human condition and capability — without our ability to create, we would have gone extinct as a species a long time ago.

In his book The Hero With a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell describes this process as an ever-present, ever-revolving wheel that just keeps turning throughout human existence.

From Genesis, the Bhagavad Gita to the stories of Buddha, Jesus Christ and Muhammad, the Babylonian and Mesopotamian creation myths, Egyptian and Greek mythology; all such stories tell us more or less the same thing: How a person can become the hero of their own world, or to say a bit differently; how a person can acquire the mental and physical tools to bend reality to their will and become a true creator.

Starting ones journey because of the call to action, stepping into the unknown and even dying (albeit a metaphorical, spiritual death, rather than the non-amendable physical variety), finding the demons that dwell in ones mind and soul and slaying them, only to rise again into the world forever changed; such is the evolution of The Hero archetype.

I butcher Campbells book by only giving it this much space in today’s piece, so please read or listen to it if you’re interested, because it is an incredibly amazing piece of literature — almost as incredible as the guy who wrote it (just type his name into YouTube and enjoy the ride).

But my point in mentioning all of this is that the process of creating art is nothing else than the reenactment of what Campbell describes in his book: the Monomyth. In order to create any one art piece that can actually have an impact on people, it has to come from a deep place of understanding and a strong foundation of courage for its creator to even be able to get to that place of knowledge (or enlightenment if you will) in the first place.

It’s not a coincidence so many artists go crazy, commit suicide or just sink into the depths of depression, alcoholism and drug abuse. It’s not that artists are incompetent alcoholics and junkies, it’s the process of making art that takes such a toll on many people.

And the irony of this example is in the fact that most “outsiders” view art as a safe heaven from the “real world”, where adult children can play and not be fretted by words like job security, pension fund and mortgage. But we all know (or at least I hope we do) that there is no such place, and what may be even more important, there is absolutely no such place in art.

Art is a mirror to the world, but not a gross mirror that directly shows a copy of what is in front of it, it’s an exposé, a dissection of reality that takes what it is pointed towards and rips it apart, exposing the bare flesh and inner workings underneath. And it does so without prejudice, without presuppositions and without constraints. Even if we’re not prepared to see what really hides inside ourselves and the objects we are studying, the mirror does not care.

This is the part where one ventures into the abyss, into the dark forrest where the ogre lives, that devours people whole. And this is also the place where many loose a part of themselves — the truth is, we never know how courageous we are, until the time comes when we are tested to our limits.

The point here though is not to stop and never even dare to peek inside the dark places of life. The whole idea is only to be self-conscious and humble enough to know that whatever was, is not all that can be — regardless of how horrible or great we think life is, nothing is static and everything can be changed. If, and this is a big one, if we are willing to pay the price (and as so eloquently described in any old myth or story, the heroes never know the real price, the only thing that keeps them going are their courage and their iron will to go on).

And sure it sounds easy and maybe even stupid, but Basquiat, Van Gogh and Modigliani thought so too. Or maybe they didn’t; regardless, the real point is that we all should respect the process of making art and not take creation lightly, at least if we’d like to one day have a steady and comfortable life, paid for by our art.

Because only the courage to stand and fight in the darkest of forests and in the deepest of nights can conquer the demons that inhabit our hearts and souls. And even if one thinks there are none there, I can assure you we all have them; leeching on our hopes and dreams and silently turning childlike awe and wonder into despair, depression and the monotony of the 9-5. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next year. But all of us, if left to our own devices, eventually end up there whether we like it or not.

It’s a choice that is undeniably hard, but righteous and well worth it in the end.

And the best part: the same courage that we can use to create art can then also be used to show art — or better put, is absolutely imperative to show art. Because when we create that piercing mirror and put in into the world, we inevitably become reflected inside of it too. And when that happens, when our exhibition has opened and the spectators come, it’s not only our creation that is judged, but all that we are, even all we wish to become.

And to stand pure judgment, to weather the storm of anonymous critique and the potential of being seen as a failure in the eyes of the people we care about, those we strive to impress, we have to be strong. 

To be frank, we have to stop impressing completely and ourselves become the impression. And the only place to find the strength, courage and the tools to even try to do so, is in the darkness that lives inside of us all.  

from Surviving Art https://ift.tt/2lF2BE0 via IFTTT