#brought to you by I Am Aware Of Every Day I'm Not Querying

[aritany]

i truly think the best thing you can do for your writing is remove the sense of urgency.

this especially applies if you're hoping to break into tradpub (or publishing in general). there's this pervasive feeling that you've got get it done. get it polished get it ready go go gogogogogogo, because the querying process takes forever, and then being on sub takes forever, and getting published after getting a deal takes forever on top of that, and all of those timelines are one hundred percent out of your control.

the logical step is to speed up the part of the process you can control, right? it's tempting to try to rush to the finish line.

don't fall into that trap. let your writing simmer. it takes time to tell a good story. allow yourself that time. it's a gift.

[zorilleerrant]

Hi, I absolutely loved the previous ask I sent and was wondering if you would mind doing another? I was thinking either 15 clingy or 46 reversal with Constantine? Or, if not, then your choice of character? Thank you so much!

(I'll absolutely do more; my brain is kind of stuck on all my current WIPs so I'm not making a lot of momentum, not even with Lex's ranty blog entries. WIP more like RIP me amirite)

Constantine is no stranger to the reversal of fortunes. This is one of the central features of the Synchronicity Highway: a streak of good luck is a bad time to ride it, because the house always wins sooner or later, and the universe is a house with a fuckload of bouncers who don't care whether or not you come back. A run of shit luck, though? The perfect time to let it take you where you need to be.

Constantine is peripherally aware, if he lets himself be introspective, which he tries never to do these days, that the only reason it works so well is that the only place he ever wants to be is away from here, and there's nothing magic likes more than to whisk one into the unknown, far from all they know and love, but far from hate, and usually politics, too. If he had more of a sense of adventure - well, if he had more of a sense of adventure, he'd probably have promoted his band the way he was told to, instead of hiding from interviewers.

Not that, he figures, his life would've been much better as a musician. Starving every other day, still. Doing odd jobs, still. Gaz just as dead from an overdose and no danger to the world, but everyone's world still ended, staring down at his waxy face. Fingers blistered, callouses in all the wrong places, no longer able to hold a playing card the right way to throw it, not without a cramp, and still, always, getting too old for this shit. Chas would probably be happier, anyway.

The only time Synchronicity really works is when some naif believes it will, someone credulous enough, with enough trust in Constantine, and enough will of their own to guide them somewhere meaningful. Somewhere beautiful in its own right. Used to be he could trust family for that. Well, not Dad, his faith in the Almighty was steadfast enough it was a wonder Constantine could've cursed him in the first place. Tiny Johnny, enamored with the wonders of tricks in a Real Magic Book could barely float a quarter in front of him, and levitation came easy to him, those early days. It's not like a Chosen One's going to come along every week, take his hand and look at him with those wide lamb eyes, and ask - am I really evil? Every time?

He likes Chosen Ones, if he's being honest. Something neat in that package, a quest that can be finished and left at the door. A story that's larger than him, some grand sweeping narrative that Conjob only plays the bittiest part in. Philosophy he doesn't so much care for. It's easier having no answers than too many, and the shifting world only adds more at his fingertips, less than a phone call away when he has some idle query that he doesn't yet know can ruin his life.

Books were easiest, as the tiniest lad on the block, every block, every time. Books had answers. (Too many answers. Too many tempting questions.) Books never hit him or turned him upside down, books never dared him into the deepest shadows of the quarry. Books never spoke his father's name, his own name, with laughter and words he'd be punished for if he brought them home. Lightly, himself, but with the harsher echo heard through the wall as he bit his tongue. Books were steadfast and kind, through every change of address, every change of parent, every twist of his early life.

The friendless child had his stack of books, and the charming adult had his music, and that's its own synchronicity, really. Its own reversal. Different hands in different places and different voices screaming different words. It always nags at him, whether the band ever needed him. Everything else in his life drew him there, one way or another. The band may have been pure coincidence.

Magic is shaped by will, by belief, by the kind of conviction that bends the universe around it. Everyone knows that. It's the first thing people teach, the first thing people learn, the beginning of half the spellbooks he owns. That's what draws you in, on the highway, that and not really anything to do with you. You're just a magical magnet, drawn to someone who needs your help.

It's not always help. Constantine knows as well as anyone that sometimes you're drawn to someone who just needs a warm body to tear into, or someone who needs your magic as a component rather than a tool. Sometimes you're drawn to a tragedy so long ago and far a way the echo shocks a ripple down the back of your neck, scaring your ghosts into silence for a handful of breaths. Sometimes it's a trap, or you're a hindrance, or it's someone else's story you've stumbled into as a comedy relief bit. Sometimes, though, someone needs help, and that's all the world really is, isn't it? Everyone calling for help and you struggling to answer when you can.

He's changed a flat, more than once. It's funny, in a highway way, when that happens. It's funny when Chas gives him The Look, even when he reminds his friend it's an invaluable life skill. Even when he's helped change Chas's tires. Some thanks. He's helped find lost pets, told too many people he couldn't much help find lost anyone else. He's screamed at a few newbie practitioners. Confiscated their grimoires. If he's in a friendly mood, pointed them in the direction of help. He's decked a politician or two. That's always fun.

And sometimes, sometimes he's on the run from the filth, trying not to whisper words through panted breaths before he turns himself into a toad, and slips into the space between spaces. Everywhere has its alleys, literal and metaphorical, and the liminal is harder to avoid the stronger the wifi signal permeates the air. Sometimes he slips through, runs, jogs along with a fitness group, follows tourists photographing ducks. Takes a bus, and a train, and then a taxicab he's sure isn't from the country he ends up in. Walks, doing like he always promises he will, and smelling the roses.

Only they're not roses, though, and he comes back to himself to the strong scent of sweet basil, a windowbox carefully planted to flourish in the sun. Soft music playing, classical, but by some local band fundraising for - he can't remember. He bought their CD. He raises his hand to knock on the door, but he hesitates, the way he always does, goes to turn away. They need him here about as much as they ever did, and he doesn't need to reverse their fortunes, too.

But his sister's smile he could never turn away from, the delighted surprise as she takes him by the hand, asks him, "of course you'll stay for dinner, Johnny," sits him down at the table before he responds. Gemma gives him the least impressed look a teenager has ever bestowed on anyone, glancing back down at her phone, ignoring Cheryl's attempts to cajole her into setting the table. Even Tony's jokes can't turn Constantine away from the marvel that is his family, whole and hale again, sitting right across from him like they weren't a universe and lifetime away, out of sight and out of mind.

He stays for dinner.