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shiteating · 1 year

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i finished the limbus event ages ago but forgot to post my thoughts (still gotta grind in the upcoming weeks) but what a tour de force of an event. i quite liked it. the chickens rolling 11-13 on one coin was pretty annoying so anyone reading this who hasn't started: bring your high rollers. at any rate, i like that it gave limelight to characters that haven't had much so far— it feels as if they combed through the script of the cantos released so far and listed sinners in order of not necessarily who said the least, rather who hasn't really had a chance to show off their personality as much. i do quite understand and feel it— "gives spotlight to characters who needed it" is quite cliché praise that conveys nothing, at the end of the day. but it's true.

spoilers under the cut, for like everything potentially, but especially the event of course. (also may include my grievances with the fandom so if youre not about negativity...well if you follow me here youre probably ok but just a warning out of courtesy)

I LOVED HOW IT GAVE FOCUS TO CERTAIN SINNERS!!!! especially meursault, yi sang and hong lu!! donQ was funny!! gregor was cringefail moe!! more of ryoshu is NEVER a bad thing!! (ryoshu pussy destroyer, apropos of nothing) i think even though sinclair had his introductory canto already with arguably the best sinner to story+dungeon integration and immersion so far, its nice to see him not suffering and just being some guy. i did say "they gave the characters who didn't do much more spotlight" rather than "didn't say much" because in the grand scheme of things, sinclair didn't do that much in canto 1 and 2, and 3 was an interesting facet of him but nonetheless we hunger for these sinners in any situation funny or tragic.

but also because i have a huge issue with "XYZ doesn't talk much" sort of justification for mischaracterization. this concerns mostly yi sang and meursault. now, to preface things, usually i am not the kind of person who likes to heckle people and demand they meet prerequisities before consuming a work (well it depends, for me personally i like going in production order when it comes to games and anime but this is different+if someone came up to me demanding stuff my response would be "no way" out of spite a lot of the time. though i try to respect the work by honoring its othee branches IVE GONE OFF ON A TANGENT SORRY), but yi sang and meursault in particular are about the most straightforward original book to limbus character translations there are probably. i think i mentioned it on main before, but the solution to "i don't know how this character is" is probably to look back on the source material. i suspect it is due to the short length of their respective sources, even yi sang who seems to take after his poetry as well and not just the wings, does not come up to even 50 pages all together probably. (i have not read all his poetry but i've read crow eye's view right after this event because i was further spurned to do so, i read the wings last week) the stranger is about 100 pages. it makes sense, when you have a longer source like for example crime and punishment, you have more room to do more topsy turvy aversions like mixing sonya and rodya's convictions together and switching stuff around ever so slightly... also the genderbending but that's obvious. prosthetics racism aside, they played with sinclair a bit still, but all in all it's following most of demian's beats quite closely, down to demian magically making kromer go away in an act of demian ex machina (though on screen as opposed to off in the book, though the mystique is arguably not lost because the fucker is floating like some kind of ghost or guardian spirit. not saying he is any of this but yknow). P.S. i think if they somehow work eva into limbus i might lose my mind that was such an insane part of the book

however even before this event, in the three cantos we have available, i feel that yi sang and meursault have been adequately characterized. i read the stranger in high school so my memory on it is fuzzy, and as aforementioned i read the wings last week, and they are represented quite faithfully! not to mention meursault wasn't even scarce in canto 3! i understand that they're a little dry as characters, maybe that is seemingly boring to some people but i don't think it is an excuse. there's no REAL need to read the books and that's not my point here at all, but still, i think what we have in the game even pre-event paints a quite clear picture as it is. i'm trying my best not to sound like i'm looking down on anyone, i say this all the time but before limbussy i had only been reading non-fiction books for years because i lost my spark for fiction. i'm happy it revived it. so i'm not gonna come from the angle of "read books or die" cuz that's not me. i'm saying this because i have intense anxiety but i will repeat again that while i speak strongly and perhaps even harshly, i do not think any less of most people. though maybe i cannot hide my annoyance at fandom types much even if i am trying. <-im just a guy

though i will spill the beans on myself and admit that i feel that you miss out on so much when not reading at least some of the books. sure, some of them follow quite closely, but there'a so much fun in comparing and contrasting. seeing the subversions and aversions, and what they chose to keep as is. I LOVE IT!!! i want you guys to know this joy. and i love that my reading block is going away. btw i am reading stuff in canto order. 👍

my comments on donQ in laconic because no one wants to hear it (will oblige if you ask but it is groanworthy so i will use my discretion regardless) (also clarifying again cuz i have anxiety but i do not ever think donQ being silly is bad. she is perfect. i have 0 complaints. it is more about fandom treatment):

and then there was hong lu.

this one's a real stinker. hong lu isn't topping much of my lists but i think he is a charming and nuanced character who is unfortunately probably the most flanderized sinner next to heathcliff and donQ (THE CROWD BOOS AT THE NOTION OF DONQ BEING FLANDERIZED). as with many people, i don't know if a day may come that i will read dream of the red chamber in whole— i may attempt it of course, but the length is undeniably daunting. i don't know much about it, only that hong lu himself is not a character in it, but more like some kind of metaphysical mishmash of different elements in the novel (even his name is derived from the title itself). it is not difficult to surmise that the odds are stacked against him. i don't think this section will be too long, but i feel that not only is the nuance in his character in limbus easily disregarded, but it is being superceded entirely by this phantom of what the fandom has thrust onto him. i am not anti-fun, nor am i "you're enjoying it wrong grrr" (this is a lie i kind of am sometimes but i am self aware of it)

but even just judging from the material in limbus alone i do not see where people got the "hong lu is a frivolous shallow whore" thing outside of idk, him being a handsome somewhat kind of sort of gender non-conforming male character and acting (strong emphasis on acting) a little ditzy and being showy. he's quite sheltered, i do not deny that he says ignorant things because of his upbringing, but the event did lay it on thick in one scene that he also enjoys messing with people a bit. but i think it will still be taken super literally regardless. he is a character with hidden depths, so far not much of it is revealed, but he shows moments of great emotional intelligence at times (like in canto 3 when he told a different sort of half truth to saude about effie being "fine"... i mean it's uh. not a lie) and the guy can definitely read the room if he so chooses to do so. the moment in the event where he got a little cagey and perhaps even introspective when faust used him as an example to explain distortion was another moment of depth uncovered: i think it will be a slow process overall. which is great. there are some characters that we will continue to learn more and more about incrementally throughout the run of the game (however long that will be, but i will be there no matter what) rather than getting a seemingly complete baseline right away. (because really, everyone has hidden depths still, it's just that sinners in the position not unlike hong lu's just have MORE hidden i suspect donQ is the same— /shot

but yeah. i had a lot to think about because of the event. but i love the direction it went with showing the sinners' individuality off and who they chose to show more of. i could not be happier with it. i feel like very few mobage are able to do this balancing act of fleshing out characters outside of story. i think fgo also does it well (CROWD STARTS THROWING ROCKS AT ME)

P.S. i do not assert that my interpretation of the characters is 100% correct and infallible EVER— everyone sees things differently. however what is objectively incorrect is stuff that just ignores canon outright and on a consistent basis. at that point idk if we are reading the same text.

#m #postmortem #kinda

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mandadoration · 4 years

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hound - vii.

summary: You head to Canto Bight to gather more information about a bounty of yours when you’re ambushed and drugged. Your relationship with Mando is ever confusing.

word count: 3, 200

pairing: mandalorian x mandalorian!reader

Warnings: non-consensual drug use, swearing, sexually suggestive content, canon-typical violence

a/n: I know I said I wouldn’t update this until next week... But are you complaining? If you follow this story on AO3, you will see that I predict that there will be 14 chapters total!

chapters: i | ii | iii | iv | v | vi | vii

Read this on AO3

You vaguely remember Mando saying that Canto Bight was nice this time of year, back when you were bleeding all over the floor of the Razor Crest and half delirious. As you fly in, the bright lights of the city almost make your head hurt. You’ve been here once a long time ago, you remember, for an emergency landing that had cost you an arm and a leg just so that you could leave your rented ship overnight.

It’s a bit of a rough landing about a mile or so away from the city, landing somewhere in an unlit, grassy area, scaring some fathiers away. You head to the back to suit up, Mando trailing after you.

“We’re looking for someone by the name of Desdre,” he informs. “He was a part of the same intergalactic gang as the bounty. He says he’ll tell us where Jahjon is in exchange for our word that we won’t turn him in.” You tilt your head. It seems suspicious that he was willing to give such precious information in return for safety. There’s no doubt the same thought has crossed his mind.

“Will we?” you ask. Mando scoffs and slings his rifle over his shoulder and tucks ammo away.

“We’ll see,” he says curtly, and leaves the ship. You tuck in a few more medshots into your vambrace and check the fuel for your flamethrower and follow him like a shadow.

You don’t feel underdressed, exactly, but in the glitz and glamour of the glitter and expensive fabrics, you and Mando stick out like a sore thumb with your scratched up beskar and arsenal. If Mando is affected by the stares and whispers that follow you, he doesn’t show it. He goes through the alleyways and backstreets of Canto Bight, past the drugged-out spice users and teens using deathsticks, past the couples and trios and straight up orgies on the streets. You’re not quite sure where he’s going, but you stick close to him, warily watching the rooftops. Eventually, he stops at an ornate wooden door, and knocks three times.

“Who is it?” a singsongy voice calls out. The door swings open to reveal a very scantily dressed man, gold paint rimming his dark eyes, face flushed from drinking and eyes red from spice. He pushes his curly hair up and out of his face, the bangles on his wrist jingling, eyeing you and Mando up and down hungrily. “Oh hello there,” he purrs, and practically lounges against the doorframe. “Mandalorians? What brings you here to my humble abode?” You shift your eyes away from his searching gaze to look beyond him and into the room. Moans and giggles drift into the open air. Did Mando just bring you to drug den?

“We’re looking for Desdre,” Mando answers. “Urgent business.” The man raises a carefully plucked eyebrow and squints his eyes.

“Like what?” he questions. There are hickies and bruises lining his throat.

“None of your business, that’s for sure,” Mando says, and you think that the man is about to refuse you entry, but his face breaks into a charming smile and motions for you two to come in.

“Be my guest,” he drawls. He doesn’t move from his position, and forces you and Mando to brush past him, and you grit your teeth as you feel hands feel you up. Judging by the sudden tense shoulders, the same has happened to Mando. The man’s voice leans in close and you do your best to try not flinch from the sudden wave of perfume and musk. His grip on your wrist is hot. “If you and your friend ever decide to come back, not on business, just ask for Pretre, hm?” he whispers, voice low and wanton. You quickly pull yourself away from him, ignoring how he laughs, and follow Mando to the back. “I’ve always wanted to fuck a Mando!” his voice calls out after you.

The further back into the room you go, the less clothes there are, and the more blissed out the people look. Eventually, you come to an area of the room blocked off by velveteen curtains. You push through it, and wince.

You didn’t think that people wore those gold metal bikinis willingly.

Still, it’s better than nothing, and your gaze settles on a man, sitting in the center of the pile of blankets and soft pillows, covered by a thin robe, pulling his face from the neck of an attractive Twi’lek whose hands are tangled in his dark hair, and grinning when he sees you and Mando. A few men and women peel themselves off of the floor to prowl around you. It’s hazy in here from smoke and stifling from all the bodies. The lights from outside are barely trickling in, heavy curtains on every window, and your eyes strain to adjust.

“Desdre,” Mando says. You scowl under your helmet as you grab the wrist of someone who was feeling up your leg.

“Mando!” Desdre crows. He flourishes his arm out. “Come sit! You and your friend- please, relax.” Neither of you move, and Desdre at least has the decency to look a little sheepish. “Well, can I offer you something to drink? Some spice? Or a girl?” he offers, waggling his eyebrows.

“We’re not here to waste time,” Mando says. Desdre sighs and gets up, soothing the girls that whine and ruffling the hair of a boy that kisses his calf as he moves to stand in front of you and Mando, pipe dangling in his fingers.

“Always business, Mando, and no play,” he complains in a lilting accent. “Who’s your friend?” He trails a finger up your armor before tapping it a couple of times. “Another Mandalorian?” He takes a deep drag from his pipe and blows sickly sweet smoke in your face. Although your helmet filters out most of it, the smell still makes your head ring.

“Yes.”

“Hm, interesting,” he hums. He stares intensely at you.

“Jahjon. You said know where he is?” Mando asks. Desdre nods, and goes back to join his harem, leaning back languidly as they crawl over him again. He teasingly smacks the rear of someone you can’t quite see.

“I do, my friend,” he says. “But remember what I asked for? My safety guaranteed for information.” At that, more people slip in the room past the dividing curtains. You count in your head. There’s seven people in here now, all looking at you like you’re their next meal.

“You have our word,” Mando says, but Desdre clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

“I need to hear it from both of you,” he orders, his piercing gaze looking straight at you. You clench your jaw, and you want to smack the smug grin from his face. “I’ve heard about you, you know? The Dog? Loyal to your master and hunting together. I’ve heard you’re ruthless in the field.” All the heads in the room have turned to look at you in unison, and you would’ve found it unsettling if there wasn’t a cold weight settling in your stomach. “Especially how that poor Gran came back in pieces, body mangled like he’d been bashed in.” He’s playing you, you know it, and you shouldn’t let it affect you, but your temper is uncharacteristically short. “Your bite really is worse than your bark, huh? I wonder what you’re like in bed. If you fuck as brutally as you kill.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Mando finally says frustratedly. He steps forward. “If you won’t help us--”

“You have my word,” you grit out, interrupting Mando. You hate this. You hate how you’ve become notorious and people have started assuming, more bold and daring, pushing your buttons and bending you, expecting you to break. You hate that people have started twisting the facts about you to make you more vicious, more blood-thirsty and unforgiving when that’s not anywhere remotely close to the truth. You don’t know how it’s come to this. You haven’t really even done anything remotely interesting. As far as you’re concerned, you’re nobody. A Mandalore without a clan who doesn’t even know why there are people so curious about you. You think the world is against you, using your moment of weakness where your nightmares have been gnawing at you to try and knock you down, degrading you down to a feral animal. You want to prove them wrong. You’ve bled for Mando to know you're human, and you really don’t want to bleed again.

“And so she speaks,” Desdre says, looking pleasantly surprised, and Mando glances at you. “Mando finally took the muzzle off you?”

But you decide to play the part of that mangy mutt, and bare your teeth.

You don't know what it is that made you do it, what possessed you to make such a rash decision, but you pull the blaster from your holster and point it at Desdre.

“Jahjon. Where is he?” you demand, voice low and dangerous. The people flocking on either side of Desdre scramble away.

“Dog,” Mando hisses. “Put that down.” You ignore him and stalk closer, your blaster still carefully trained. Desdre doesn’t even look fazed. He looks at you curiously. Your heart is pounding in your ears. Something’s wrong. Your limbs feel too heavy and the room is spinning. It’s too bright in here, even in low-light.

“Answer me,” you bark. Your grip wavers, and Desdre smiles.

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

Mando walks up to stand close to you and tries to pull your arm back, but you wrench it out his grip, and accidentally fire into the ceiling.

The room descends into chaos.

Desdre stumbles back, and his little harem get up, looking alert, drawing their own weapons, and as more people flood into the room, surrounding you, you know what this is.

Desdre never had the intentions to tell you anything.

And this was an ambush.

You fire your blaster a few more times, hitting Desdre in the leg and another shot going through the chest of a half-naked humanoid that you can barely make out from your blurred vision before it’s knocked out of your hand. You lash out, your fist catching the jaw of some other poor soul, sending them flying back and taking two more down with them. Your vambrace shoots out a medshot, knocking the Twi’lek he was kissing before out, and your grappling line tangles around their ankle. Yanking on it, another harem girl stumbles over them.

A staff knocks you over the head, increasing the ringing that’s building up in your ears. You whip around to see Mando shoot them with his own blaster, their body falling limp at your feet. He’s got blood smeared on his chestplate as he fights around the small room. It’s too cramped and too risky to use his amban rifle, but overall, most of the attackers are already dead or knocked out, too drugged up and sluggish to take down two Mandalorians. A tap on your shoulder distracts you. You turn around, fists raised, but a sharp pain twinges in your neck. It’s Pretre, and the gold paint in around his eyes sparkles as you raise a hand and pull out a syringe. Your chest feels tight as you drop it. It shatters on the ground, red liquid seeping out and soaking into the carpet.

“I forgot that your helmet filters,” he says. Pretre’s voice sounds slow and deep as the room starts to tilt. “I was wondering why it took so long for this to happen. Luckily I had this. My brother is too incompetent. Ah, well, hindsight, you know?” A smile plays on his lips, and you wonder why you hadn’t seen the resemblance before. A wave of pleasure rides over you, but then it starts dragging you down, making your eyelids heavy.

“You… what?” you ask stupidly. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth and fire is dancing across your skin. “What did you…?” Everything’s muffled. He puts a hand on your chest and gives the gentlest of pushes, but it topples you over as you collapse on the ground. He stands over you, a pitying smile on his face, showing the barest of white teeth. You vaguely register Mando’s voice calling out to you, but it’s cut off and there’s more blaster fire.

“I do hope I didn’t give you too much,” Pretre sighs. He bends down and crouches next to you, running a single finger down the length of your helmet, dragging a finger across your neck, nails digging in. “Oh dear. Maybe just a smidge too much… Just ride it out, and you’ll be fine.” He hooks a finger under your helmet, and you cry out weakly, but you’re arms are too heavy and your mind is too light to stop him. Just as he finds the button to release your helmet, something catches his attention. His head snaps up and he pulls away. “Next time,” he promises, “and my offer still stands.” He leaves you on the floor, and your vision is swimming, the ceiling and tapestries on the wall swirling together as you feel sweat dripping down your neck. Whatever Pretre put in you was making you burn up and feel sickly. You hear panting next to your ear. You turn your head--

-- and there’s a strill snarling in your face.

You reel back, away from its dripping jowls as it pads closer to you. It bays at your sudden reaction, and more hounds appear, surrounding you as you gasp in shallow breaths and scramble away, tripping over bodies and pillows in your effort to get away. They follow you, eyes red and glowing as they bare their sharp teeth at you. Their claws are tearing up the carpet underneath them. The strills come closer and closer, but your back is already up against the wall, and your blaster is too far out of your reach. The one in the front, the biggest and angriest of the pack, goes right to your face, nose touching your helmet, and you close your eyes and curl into yourself as howling echoes in your ears.

“Dog!”

Your head snaps up. The hounds are gone, and Mando is hovering over you. He holds out your blaster for you to take.

“We have to go,” he says, out of breath as he looks around. “That stupid kid who met us at the door- he took Desdre and left. We have to leave before more come.” You stare at him blankly. Where had the dogs gone? When you look, the carpet in front of you is intact and whole, and there’s no slobber. You slowly reach up to take the blaster, holding it in your hand. You pull yourself up, head swiveling as the howling picks up again.

“Did you hear that?” you choke out. You wave the blaster wildly as you spin to try and find the source.

“Hey, calm down--” You jerk back as his hand rests on your shoulder. His voice is loud and booming in your ears. Spots dance in your vision as Mando grabs your hand and tugs you along, through the curtains, through the now-empty room, and into the alley ways of Canto Bight. The lights are bright and sends piercing pains up your head as you stumble along.

“Mando,” you gasp out. It’s getting harder and harder to keep your feet under you. You think you hear dogs running behind you, but every glance back comes up empty.

“What?” he grunts, pulling you into another winding backstreet. Bile rises up in your throat with each yank.

“Mando,” you call out again. There are phantom hands against your throat and you can’t breathe. “Mando.” He finally stops and pulls you into an alcove.

“What? What’s wrong?” he hisses, and then he takes in you heaving shoulders, your choked out pleas, and hold your head in his hands. He calls your name, your real name, soft and pleading, and that’s when it peaks.

You faintly register how your eyes roll to the back of your head and you collapse like a puppet with its strings cut, Mando just barely managing to catch you before you can hit your head. But his hands add on to your discomfort as it feels like there are thousands upon thousands of hand pulling, tugging, and scratching you, around your throat and holding your arms and legs down. A panic swells in you and you struggle to get away and push the hands off you. It’s smothering, the suffocation in your lungs and your head making you dizzy. It feels like they’re trying to pry your helmet off, but as you go through the streets of Canto Bight, jostling in someone’s arms, you realize it feels like they’re trying to rip your head from your shoulders and tear you limb from limb.

You think you hear screaming, and as more and more things come into focus, you realize it’s you. You shoot up from your cot, gasping and Mando shushes you and calms you down. You flail around, trying to make sense of things.

You can breath, finally, as the recycled air of the Razor Crest buzzes over you. And you realize it’s light outside.

“How long--”

“Just a day,” Mando answers, and he sounds exhausted. You wonder if he stayed up to make sure you were okay. “What happened?”

“Drugged,” you say. “I… I don’t know what it was.”

“You were freaking out,” he starts, “horribly. You were screaming and trying to claw your own skin off, talking about dogs and strills.” He eyes you warily, taking in your hunched stance and bouncing knees. “You wanna talk about it?”

And although you know you should, that those hallucinations are fresh and feels as real as memories, the words die in your throat as you clam up. “I can’t,” you admit. “I’m sorry, it’s not that I don’t trust you, I just--” Mando abruptly stands up.

“It’s fine,” he says, but his tone is short and you can tell he’s irritated. “I’ve located the last of the bounties. We’ll be there in a few hours.” He leaves to go back up the cockpit and you tamp down the urge to bang your head against the wall. The emotional stalemate is driving you up the wall. You can’t understand why Mando is upset you can’t confide in him when he himself is the most closed off person you’ve ever met. If anything, you’ve given him more than he has. After a moment, you go meet up with him.

You see a red liquid shimmering in a vial in his pocket. He follows your gaze to see what you’re staring at, and he pulls it out and hands it to you. “Mnemiotic drug,” he says. “Imps used it all the time. That’s what they gave you. Modified, but the base is the same. Hallucinations, raised body temperature, heightened aggression, increased sensitivity. Brain damage in extreme cases.”

“What happened to Pretre and Desdre?” you ask him. He doesn’t need to describe the effects if you’ve lived through them.

“They got what they deserved,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Hound Tag List: @knockbeforeyouspeak @gothtechie @killtherandomness

#mandalorian reader #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin reader #mando reader #my writing #fic: hound #the mandalorian #mandalorian #din djarin

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cleverwordsandotherstuffilike · 7 years

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i) scents: familiar skin and unfamiliar skin, bedsheets left to hang in the sun, sunlight, warm light, the earth after a storm, the different perfumes of a night sky in every season, in every city and mountaintop, pine-sol, the soft, tender space of a small child’s head, the scent of the ocean that stays with you days after you’ve visited the shorelines (hidden in pockets and the soles of your shoes and in the little hollow of your belly button), passing by christmas trees with my eyes closed at seven in the morning ii) sounds: street musicians, cellists playing on subway platforms, snow falling on more snow, the silence of the world coated in that snow — your footsteps like avalanches out your front door, the hush, hush, sigh, of slippered feet in the morning. a weekend morning, waking up because of sunlight licking your limbs, and hearing the coffee brewing in the kitchen. coltrane’s ‘in a sentimental mood.’ hearing ‘i love you’ as an alarm clock. august’s crickets. sparse guitar music. voices that sound like water falling over rocks. the sound of a smile over a phone call. iii) things to touch: skin to skin, the hair out of someone’s eyes, a warm mug of fresh tea, people who wear textures like it’s a lifestyle. grass under bare feet, pulling at them like bedsheets with your fingers. wet stone. the skin of another person’s hand. drawing lines across a lover’s face. pen to paper. every surface of the world — wooden floors, moss floors, the floor of your palms. iv) colors: wine in clear glasses. the eerie black of a guinness. the pink of flushed cheeks. the paler parts of a boy’s body. a peachy sunset. deep wooden floors. red lips. a colored pencil the color of tree lines. the clarity of water pulling towards the shore. a pale, pale, moon in the daylight. v) books: the english patient (michael ondaatje). in search of lost time (mostly vols. v and vi). fugitive pieces (anne michaels). a convergence of birds (edited by jonathon safran foer). bluets (maggie nelson). just kids (patti smith). beloved (toni morrison). as i lay dying (faulkner). the collector (john fowles). perfume: the story of a murderer (patrick suskind). bel canto (ann patchett). the book thief (markus zusak). the history of love (nicole krauss). the people of paper (salvador plascencia). vi) movies: the fall, amélie, princess mononoke, almost famous, ferris bueller’s day off, cruel intentions, donnie darko, the bfg, anastasia, inglorious basterds, moon, garden state, perfume: the story of a murderer, delicatessen, a very long engagement, lord of the rings, spirited away, edward scissorhands, eternal sunshine of a spotless mind, all dogs go to heaven, wristcutters: a love story, the diving bell and the butterfly, pan’s labyrinth, chocolat, howl’s moving castle, the pianist, it’s a wonderful life, the truman show, trainspotting, big fish, laputa: castle in the sky, the science of sleep, blood diamond vii) kisses: the ‘kiss me like you won’t see me in three weeks’ kiss viii) touches: the one that says ‘promise me you’ll stay’ ix) words: kitten, kaleidoscope, kitten, melodious, soliloquy, kitten, pamplemousse (this wasn’t an actual list of words i don’t have the time for that) x) voices: my father’s preacher voice. patrick watson. joni mitchell — her voice like water, her voice like rain. the voice of someone who trusts you. the three in the morning voice. the soft voice of a boy who will always love you.

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jam2289 · 5 years

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Making Speeches for the Harry Potter Festival - Part 5 of ?

Potter in the Park is tomorrow. I'm going to go over a number of logistical issues (the boring part), and then the presentations themselves (the exciting part).

The woman that manages the event seems way overwhelmed. She started this thing a number of years ago and I think it's probably surprised her how large it is getting now. She kept telling me that she would answer my questions later because she was busy. That went on for a few months. For about a week now she hasn't responded to, or even looked at, my messages. So, I don't know if I can get into the event early, which is kind of important because early admission is at noon and I give a speech at 12:15, which is before the general admission at 12:30. I don't know if there is an MC or if I will get introduced. I don't know if I will have a handheld microphone or a headset. Basically, I have none of the information that you would like to have if you were giving a presentation at an event. But, I do like to have my presentations half set and half created in the moment, apparently the whole event is like that.

Since Rebecca never found out if the real muzzleloaders could be used at the event, I ordered and am bringing cap guns, but they are ones that look like classic dueling pistols, they look good. Since she never got back to me about if anyone is introducing me, or if I just wander up on stage at my time and take over, I should probably go in with the plan that no one is introducing me. That's probably for the best anyway. I'll obviously have to figure out the microphone situation when I get there. Hopefully the tech people will be on it, hopefully there are tech people.

I did notice that the schedule was released a few days ago. Here are the times for my presentations.

- - - - - - -

12:15 - Muggle Studies: The Great Gnome Conspiracy of the 18th and 19th Centuries

3:30 - Muggle Studies: A Short History of Muggle Dueling

4:45 - Muggle studies: Muggle Encounters with Dragons Through the Ages

6:30 - Muggle Studies: Further Research on the Many Uses of the Rubber Duck

- - - - - - -

I don't know how much prep time I get, and I don't know if there's any way to keep track of my presentation time while on stage. Good things to know beforehand, but since I have a lack of communication coming my way, I'll have to figure these out on the fly. (I wonder if all of the presenters are completely in the dark on all of this stuff, or if there's a list I wasn't put on, or if I was blacklisted.)

The world is full of logistical issues, but I do have a lot of things going well.

I inked my own tattoos and they turned out pretty well. Better than I expected. I have the Dark Mark on the inside of my left forearm (from my impertinent youth as a gullible young wizard). I have the Deathly Hallows on the back of my right hand. (I also have 42 on my left hand. I find it odd that no one has asked why. It's not from Harry Potter, it's the answer the ultimate question of the meaning of life, the universe, and everything from "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy". I feel like someone will say something tomorrow.)

I carved my own wand, and it looks decent. It is definitely unique. I don't really need it for anything, but hey, I have it.

I have a bag of rubber ducks. They're for the presentation about rubber ducks. And, they're better than I expected. They just arrived today. There are six, and they are different sizes. The big one will be great for people to see from farther away, and they will all be good for throwing.

I picked up the LARP staffs and swords today from The Griffin's Rest in Muskegon. They will be used in the dueling demonstration, along with the pistols. I told Kiel to pick them out for me and just told him that I was doing a dueling demonstration at a Harry Potter festival. I assumed I would end up with normal looking staffs and crazy swords for some reason. I was completely backwards, I have crazy looking staffs and normal looking swords. I've been thinking about how to use that, and I think it'll work great.

I'm hoping that some people will record the presentations and send me the videos. We'll see.

I may try to get a chiropractic adjustment tomorrow after teaching and before heading to Sparta. I'm not sure I can fit it in though. I should get there early because parking is usually an issue in Sparta, and I'll have to store stuff in my car and retrieve it for my presentations.

Since I'm a professor, I can carry a notebook on stage, so I'll probably do that. I don't usually use notes, and in general I really dislike it, but it makes sense in this situation. It will be more difficult if I have to use a handheld mic, so I'll be flexible on that tomorrow.

Since we're assuming I'll be introducing myself I'll probably do something similar at the beginning of each presentation. I don't want to dive right into the main part of my presentation unless someone else introduces me, or a lot of people will miss the first line. That's the main difference between being introduced and introducing yourself.

I'll probably do something like:

- - - - - - -

My name is Jeffrey Alexander Martin. I'm a writer at JeffThinks.com. I am a visiting lecturer here at the Sparta Institute for Muggle Studies, the current Assistant Professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the former Professor of Muggle Studies at Ilvernmorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This is MUG 207 - Muggles in Real Life, and today we'll be going over...(depends on the speech).

Now, let me ask you this...(start speech).

- - - - - - -

Something like that. It will change in the moment, because that's how I like to do it.

Alright, let's tackle the speeches in order. Gnomes first.

- - - - - - -

Have you ever seen a muggle lawn gnome?

Just a few years ago - doing research door to door - saw a few of these weird little things and asked about them.

The real story - first used in muggle book in 1753.

1794 book "A Complete Edition of the Poets of Great Britain. Volume the Eighth. Containing Pope, Gay, Pattifon, Hammond, Savage, Hill, Tickell, Somervile, Broome, Pitt & Blair."

Canto IV of "The Rape of the Lock" by Alexander Pope

Swift on his footy pinions flits the gnome,

And in a vapour reach'd the difmal dome.

Seen as magical by muggles, who caught them for various reasons. Hotly debated, some saw it as good, others opposed. Political meeting where fight broke out.

Small group launched a conspiracy to get muggles to think that gnomes were fictional creatures and to replace them with different kinds of wooden and stone statues.

Problem still ongoing. Muggle encounter with a gnome that I saw.

The next time that you see a gnome on a muggles lawn, know that there is more to the story.

- - - - - - -

I reserve the right to change any of this at any moment. There is a balance here to being between a professor and a speaker.

Next, dueling.

- - - - - - -

Laura in crowd.

"Have you ever seen muggles fight?"

Story of seeing muggle fight.

Story of starting research, connecting with a history buff that's a reenactor.

Call up Laura - Professor Whitestone, who teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts.

The Griffin's Rest of Muskegon lent us muggle training instruments.

Staff - trade blows in kneeling position, Jeff down. (Only one written record of such a type of duel. Look at notes to seem like I'm reading instructions.)

Sword - classic kid's style, Laura down.

Gun - get the crowd involved. Back to back 10 paces, turn and fire. Split crowd, one half says pow and one half says boom. Jeff down. Laura comes to check.

Ongoing research is important. The next time you see muggles in an argument, ask them if you can watch them duel.

- - - - - - -

And... dragons!

- - - - - - -

Have you ever heard muggles talking about dragons?

First time I saw a dragon, fly over at quidditch tournament as kid.

First time I heard muggles talking about dragons, at least that I noticed, doing research on dueling, of course. Seemed like they thought they were real.

Did door to door research to determine what muggles thought of dragons. (When I found out about muggle lawn gnomes.)

Most thought fake, some thought real as an archetype. Explain archetype psychology.

George and the Dragon, what people know and what's real.

Specific organizations handle these incidents. Plane, boat, and car accidents. Example.

The next time you hear muggles talking about dragons, ask them if they think they're real.

- - - - - - -

Finally, the rubber ducks.

- - - - - - -

My first accidental encounter with a rubber duck as a child.

Reading Arthur Weasley's paper on "The Many Uses of the Rubber Duck" while in school at Ilvermorny.

A teenage adventure to try to observe a rubber duck in action. (factory and/or family)

What the research has revealed: humor, entertainment, child training in animal interaction, water transportation, distraction, possible growth into hunting decoys, relation to the rubber chicken, play as life preparation.

Questions fielded from the class. (Possibly hundreds of people from a large crowd in front of the main stage.)

Homework assignments.

- - - - - - -

Somewhere in there I'm going to throw some rubber ducks into the crowd.

I may or may not do homework assignments and questions in any of the presentations. That will depend on how the situation is going. If I get hecklers I will probably just take points away from their house, which will never be from the best house, which is Ravenclaw.

Well, that's the basic idea anyway. I'll learn a lot about how the event is going to go in that first speech. That should allow me to work out a lot of the logistical details for the later speeches. It's going to be pretty crazy.

________________________________________________

You can find more of what I'm doing at http://www.JeffreyAlexanderMartin.com

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palussomninovel · 5 years

Text

Canto IV

In the Misty Hills Lies a Forgotten Tale by Dwalin

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[A letter from William Montagu, an accountant and cambist, to his husband Jonathan Vesey, dated 10th October 1724. A note is attached: Harriet, look at this. I think this letter was never sent? The seal was intact (Never fear, I opened it with utmost care), and it was tucked into a daybook from the old collection. Nothing interesting other than this, just accounts and payments. -Hazel x]

My Dearest Jonathan,

Lord Mallory is such a scrawny and odious man who boasts the most tremendous Hapsburg jaw, one might think they were in the presence of the Emperor himself. At first glance I thought him squat, but upon standing he unfolds himself like a spider and I realised it was his posture, the twisted grimace of a burdened man, that made him seem to metamorphosize before my eyes. His macilent frame towers over me, and as you know I am not a small man. Overall my first impression was one I would not like to repeat again, and so I have taken to eating meals in my salon. Presumably, this also suits my Lord, for he has not once complained about the arrangement.

His son, Oscar, is a scraggy boy of twelve and by all accounts a much more likable fellow than his father, but I worry that the expectations of his family weigh heavily upon him. He is dour for his age. Where other boys might be spirited and playful, he is sullen and withdrawn. His father has him reading all day about tombs. Tombs! Really, what kind of man could even suck all the youthful joy out of a book about crypts and treasures, and yet the boy reads it as though it were the strictest punishment, presenting what he has learned every night to his father in a voice as cool as slate. I worry for his future and hope for his sake that he takes more after his mother.

The mansion itself is a grand and foreboding place, I cannot stress enough just how much of it there is. Every time I think I have reached the end of a corridor, two more branch off from it like some sort of daemonic junction. Even the corners have corners! I tried once to count the windows from the outside, and could not. Even counting the windows of a single floor got me all confused, as my bedroom is on a corner, and yet I could not see the lamp I left in the window from any outside angle! The word mansion barely does justice to this vast and looming palace, it is more like a castle than a mere country house, what with these turreted towers and thick, basalt walls.

The Mallory's are the best in their line of work. The cryptography of Mallory the elder, Gods rest his soul, was renowned. Not a single noble of note was buried without a Mallory contraption in his final place of rest. I must admit, I was surprised to hear that the current Lord Mallory was not of the same level of accomplishment, but having now met him I can understand why. Something has taken root in this man's mind, his worldview has narrowed and he has time only for his marsh, his mines and his growing religious fervour. He is training his son, however, and the boy does at least show a shining potential. I think it would help him to get away from the manor, and study in some other part of the world, where he can enjoy the fame his name grants him and forget about the building and maintaining of catacombs for a while.

My work here is fairly straightforward, though by the gods there is enough of it. I feel like these accounts have never been looked at, there is work here that will last me for months. But luckily, Mallory is willing to pay. What he could be needing with all this equipment however, I haven't the faintest idea. The mansion is sprawling enough, and I cannot see any sign of new construction nor indeed any workers who might carry it out. Apart from myself, the Lord, the young master and a few servants the place is empty. And yet, day after day carts of metal and mortar are delivered and deposited somewhere, I do not know where. I just tally the books, and count my money.

The Romans called this place Palus Sulis, the swamp-land of Sulis, goddess of the water, as many of the streams and rivers which nourished the local villages came down from the peaks of this rocky haven. There was even a small temple, the ruins of which you can see in the north garden. In modern times, this has been corrupted into Palus Somni, for reasons unknown but when I mentioned it to Lord Mallory he just gave me a rasping laugh and said "Even goddesses need to sleep, Montagu."

The water here is thermal, naturally heated from deep beneath the stone which has led to many a pleasant hot bath, despite being accompanied by the pungent smell of brimstone. I was told by one of the servants that the spring waters, when meeting the porous earth of the marshland, creates a rather beneficial epsom salt, pinkish in colour from the iron deposits and very good for sore muscles and as a medicinal base. I have enclosed some for your satisfaction, as I know how much your knees pain you.

Everything here smells of rust and sulphur and peat, and I miss you and your good company. I miss your smiles, and your strong arms around my shoulders. I know you would have something insightful to say about all this, and I await your response with excessive eagerness, as one might who is cursed to stay in the middle of nowhere with no decent conversation in sight in the long months ahead.

Ever yours, my love,

William

----

[Harriet – I found another letter! It was in the same book. I know, I know – I’m not the most observant cat in the closet but at least I found it before it got filed away forever. Poor William though, it looks like none of them ever got sent. I’ll have another look through the daybooks and send any more correspondence your way for cataloguing. H x]

19th October 1724.

The strangest thing, my love. The most curious incident happened this morning, and I need to get my thoughts down on paper because if I leave them buzzing around my head I fear I shall go mad.

Forgive me for writing again so soon but I couldn’t wait another moment, I had to share with you my thoughts. Hopefully you will receive this alongside the other letter, as the postal service here is scarce. Lord Mallory’s assistant took my letter for posting but said that it may be a week or two before the postwoman comes (she is a shepherdess, you know – she takes letters between the villages as she moves her flock for grazing, how peculiar!)

I had skipped dinner last night, and sorely regretted it later. I thought I knew my way to the kitchens by now, but I must have taken a wrong turn in this damnable maze. Surely, all stairs should lead to the ground floor, I thought, but it was impossible to tell without windows where the earth began and the sky ended. The air grew increasingly stuffier as I made the trek down staircase after staircase, each step narrower than the last before realising that this was a fool’s errand. I should have been content with the fruit plate up in my room. I turned to go back up the way I came and – oh! – when I put my fingers upon the wall it was damp, and there was a strong smell of rust. Where I had touched the wall - now, please suspend your disbelief for a moment my dearest - it had started bleeding! Fresh clots of bright red blood oozed out from the mortar and painted my hand a brilliant crimson. I raised my torch to see only red. The hall behind me, and in front, was a sickly mess of bloody sinew where there should have been mortar. I am ashamed now to admit that I ran like the devil and went to bed, for what remained of the night, hungry and sleepless. I don’t know how my feet found their way up, some instinct to avoid the visceral and seek the safety of the familiar was at work in my brain.

Jonathan, I think this building is haunted.

By what, I cannot say. Perhaps it is merely channelling the restless spirit of Mallory and his mad obsession. He has found some kind of new material, he claims. A new species of metal that he calls ‘pearl iron’. It doesn’t act like any normal metal that you might be familiar with, more like quicksilver when warmed and mother of pearl when cool. Its metallic radiance is corroded with speckles of opalescent shimmer, and overall it is a bright and vivid crimson.

“Listen closely, Montagu.” Mallory said to me over dinner today, as he slid a chunk of the substance over the table towards me. “Listen tight and listen fast, for you understand nothing – Nothing! – you hear, Montagu? Nothing!”

I could only nod my head at this, for it was true – I knew nothing of his ramblings. I was tired from the previous night abroad and wanted only to finish my meal in peace.

“Touch it.”

“Touch it, my lord?”

“Touch the damn stone, Montagu, or I shall throw it.”

(Such charm you would never find in the city!)

I put my hand upon the chunk of ore, expecting it to be cool and smooth beneath my palm. But to my surprise, it was warm! Warm and vibrating, like the heart of some quivering, noble creature. When I took my hand away, it left streaks of red upon it, just like in the basement.

I saw his laugh before I heard it, his face splitting in half with a wolfish grin. Too many teeth and too little empathy.

“See now? This house is as alive as this rock, and no more.”

I felt my face burning with realisation as I watched a rusty droplet trickle down and stain my cuff. The workers were hollowing out this very same ore from beneath the mansion itself. It was pearl iron I had seen between the cracks in the walls. I have no idea how Mallory found out about my night-time jaunt but I suppose in a place like this, even the walls have eyes.

I stand by what I said however. This place, if not haunted, is cursed.

Ever yours,

William

---

[A note is tacked on to the back of the letter, in a clear and spidery hand:

Pearl iron - golem coagulate. Can find it in the undercroft?]

---

[The next note is written on modern paper in the same handwriting.]

I checked the catacombs, it took me a while to find any but it was there. None in the undercroft, William Montagu’s night-time wanderings must have taken him deeper than he realised. It’s stubborn stuff, I had to bathe twice before my skin returned to normal, and even then the smell still lingers. I shall have to take some to the engineer and see what she makes of it, what properties it could have. To think that I of all people could stumble into such a mess! I’ll have to be more careful. From now on, I’m going to start keeping a more detailed log of this discovery. I already have a good place I can hide it. Rookery.

I want to stop and put these letters down. Forget I ever saw anything. But here I stand, feet planted firmly on the mossy earth, and wonder; might the secrets we have been pining for be so very near us, so close beneath us that I could touch them, if only I reached out?

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#palus somni #chapter #webnovel #webseries #canto

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caredogstips · 7 years

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Ann Patchett:’ If writers are to survive we must take responsibility for ourselves and our manufacture’

The author explores buying her own bookstore, the bequest of divorce and referring to herself in the third person

In the windowpane above Ann Patchetts desk is a small steel and enamel sign that reads: What good shall I do this day? This simple dictum is the engine of Patchetts world, both on the sheet and off. In the Orange prizewinning Bel Canto , comradeship, ardour and productivity bloom among terrorists and captives; in 2011 s artful State of Wonder , a sensible research scientist faces not just the serpents and other frights of the Amazonian jungle, but the dragon of her former medical lecturer.

I have been shown so much kindness in “peoples lives”, so for me to write volumes about good, species parties seems totally natural, Patchett tells. When “theyre saying”, Oh its too nice, its naive, I just think: who killed your mother?

It infringes a literary inhibition to write fiction that hints parties might be fundamentally good. For the 52 -year-old Patchett, however, the real taboo was writing about their own families. Commonwealth , her seventh romance, publicized this week, encompasses 50 years and two pedigrees, the Cousinses and the Keatings, whose common fate is set in motion at a gin-soaked christening defendant where Albert Cousins caresses Beverley Keating.

Today, the very best that Patchett will do involves picking up a columnist from Nashvilles airport and devoting her whole daytime to zipping around township in her little silver Prius, testifying mentioned journalist her world-wide. Even if she hadnt published an paper, The Mercies, about her schooling with the Sisters of Mercy, you might guess that Patchett had been raised by nuns. She excretes that sleeves-rolled, get-on-with it ability, paired with the clarity and occasional brutality of true-blue righteousness. To watch her in action is to hear the Mother Abbess from The Sound of Music sing, Climb Evry Mountain. Patchett climbs every mountain, but she will also croak an occasional, and deliciously un-nun-like, fuck!

What do you do when the bookstores in your hometown all shut down? If youre Patchett, you open one yourself. In 2011, she founded Parnassus Books, an idyll in a shopping plaza, with her business marriage, Karen Hayes. She has since become a rallying spokesperson for independent bookstores.

I feel that writers are treated like orchids: they keep us in the hothouse, they cloud the americans and attend to our every motivation, but if this system is going to work, if we are going to survive, we need to come out of the hothouse and take responsibility for ourselves and for the health of the industry.

She takes a firm line. When customers visit the bookstore and keep telling her Amazon is cheaper: Im like, You cannot come in, soak up what we have, talk to the staff, get recommendations, then go home and buy the book on Amazon. If you do, I will hunt you down and smack-dab you guys later. Somehow, she lends with a smiling, Ann Patchett can say that in a way that your regular bookstore owned cant.

She leads the way to the offices at the back, where young women work with puppies at their hoofs and on their laps. One of the salesclerks pokes her president around the door and tells Patchett that theres an Australian fan here who would really like to meet her.

All right, here “theres going”, and Patchett psyches out to the storey to signal four replicas for her love. Later, she tells me that when people tell her how much they cherish her notebooks, Im smiling, and Im grateful, but I almost dont know what theyre speak about. Its so far away, and what I am thinking at that moment, is: I hope I am cooking my face in a way that I seem hired and grateful.

She and her husband, the surgeon Karl Vandevender, talking here Ann Patchett in the third largest being, as do her friends and peers at the bookstore. Theyll reply: Oh, we need Ann Patchett for something, and Ill run: Ill see if I can conjure her up. Ann Patchett, she reads definitively, is the label. Ive got to employed that away at the end of the day.

All of her tales, she explains, are the same floor: a group of parties are thrown together and must forge connections to survive. Ive been writing the same journal my whole life that youre in one family, and all of a sudden, youre in another family and its not your option and you cant get off. Eventually, she expected herself: I wonder if I wrote the storey that Im so carefully not writing, if I might be free of it?

As soon as she began working on Commonwealth , the story of her own parents divorce and her precede life with stepsiblings, she announced her intentions to her family. Thats brave, I say.

Yeah, it is. It was also really smart. She told them: I dont want to cut off a part of my life any more. I dont wishes to not have access to my own experience because I dont want to set anybody out. I want to be able to grow. And, I find, until I get this done, Im not going to grow. And everybody supposed: You lead, girl!

Patchett concedes that, until this stage, shed been very self-congratulatory over not having written a volume about their own families, which seemed like the strong, easy thing to do. Then she read an paper by Jonathan Franzen in which he insisted that the novelist has to do what intimidates him “the worlds largest” and, for him, that had been writing about his family. When I speak that, I thoughts: oh , good-for-nothing would scare me more. I would happily razz down the Amazon in a canoe and is being dealt with serpents[ as she did to study State of Wonder ] rather than face my family.

In the entitle paper of her 2013 non-fiction collect, This Is the Story of a Joyous Wedding , she details the lineage of divorce in her own family, including her own at the age of 25, and her eventual matrimony to Vandevender. There is a sense in that paper, which moves in steady, clear-eyed increments, of a columnist willing herself into facing and articulating hard truths, of which this is paramount: Divorce is the history lesson, that circumstance that must be remembered in order not to be repeated. Divorce is the rock upon which this faith is built.

She remembers sweat swarming down her appearance as she wrote it, while she experienced the distinct sensation that she was sitting in the middle of the road in the dark, with a legal pad, contemplation: Im going to get squashed by a truck.

She writes candidly, for example, that she, her sister and their stepsiblings werent the products of our mothers joyous wedlocks: “were in” the flotsam of their divorces. In Commonwealth , that flotsam is the intense little tribe of the six Cousins and Keating babes, each of whom corresponds to her own stepsiblings.

Its like chess fragments, she tells, as she explains that each persona stood in for a real family member. In this mode, it was very easy for me to keep track of everyone over 50 years. And genuinely, I committed everybody a high quality of life, by a very large margin. The parties in the book somehow represented my dearest desires for all the people.

Its dedicated to Mike Glasscock, her half-brother, reimagined here as Albie, a very young, whom the others find so annoying that they narcotic him with Benadryl to induce him sleep for hours. Years afterwards, as a bicycle messenger and recovering heroin user, Albie chances upon a romance called Commonwealth by a writer announced Leo Posen. He realises it is about two pedigrees, his own, about the inestimable burden of their lives: the occupation, the houses, the friendships, the marriages, the children, as if all the things theyd craved and worked for had cemented the impossibility of any kind of merriment. He wonders: Isnt that what everyone wants, just for a moment to be unencumbered?

Its surely my greedy lust, Patchett laughs. Franny, whom the nun had led to believe that God granted preference to people who did things the hard way, is a cocktail waitress when she first fulfils the famous novelist Posen.( Who wants to have a novel about a novelist? Patchett groan. But thats the way it turned out .) He becomes so drunk that she must help him up to his hotel chamber, where he has only enough time left to ask for one more advantage, which Franny thought was the deepest difference between women and men. Eventually, that dynamic is enlarged in incidents established in the Hamptons, Long Island, where Franny spots herself expected to single-handedly acquire dinner and liquors for changing hordes of Posens clients. Theyre some of the funniest of the book.

You wanna talk about which part of this volume is autobiographical? Patchett reads. That fraction. How exhausting it is, as the status of women, to always be the one who has to do the meat and change the bunks. No topic how enlightened, how much of a feminist I am, I am still doing all of it.[ With] every journal I conceive: well, if this ones actually successful, maybe I wont “re going to have to” acquire dinner any more, she laughs. Perhaps Ill finally is how to not do this any more, because its my fault. Its is not simply gender, but the 12 years of Catholic school and being trained to be a good servant. I believe in this, I truly believe that the greatest event you can do is to serve.

Oh, if I could free-spoken myself from the autocracy of good deeds, she mocklaments. Oh, there used to be no stopping me. I could be Tolstoy without good deeds. I has actually be something.

Over lunch she tells me that she read a Charles Bukowski poem that morning that aims those who/ replace/ know/ this secret :/ there isnt/ one. Its abide with her, perhaps because writing, more than any other art formation, is susceptible to regulations, premier among other issues being to write every day.

Dont you think guys are the ones that always say that? she adds. Im not sure Ive heard a woman say you have to write every day. Theyre too busy obligating dinner. I go through extended periods of time when I dont write, and Im fine. Writing is an amazing situate to hide, to go into the rabbit defect and pull the trap door down over your premier. I want to have time in my life when I dont have that cover.

She also insists that there are things that are a lot more important than me writing a novel. For illustration: If person told, OK, you can either write five more great novels, or you are able to made to ensure that the people who work in bookstores have health insurance and have some home to depart if they need assistance because theyre transgressed. At this stage I might certainly go for the very best. Nothing fuels the good of “the worlds” like gaiety, and the thing that sees me feel really alive is figuring out how I can startle other beings into doing good.

To ordering Commonwealth for 15.57( Bloomsbury, RRP 18.99) go to bookshop.theguardian.com or announce 0330 333 6846. Free UK p& p over 10, online orders merely. Phone orders min p& p of 1.99.