#ends up writing a book about it ten years later (all names changed)

[symphonyofmars]

There was something I wanted to add as i saw people arguing back and forth (and this might be against my better judgement): but I believe the first post I saw referenced Bell Hooks, and then I later saw someone else say that the use of her quote was bullshit. The quote had to do with being compassionate towards men, and then the person responding said that wasn't what the quote is about (iirc, it's been a few days and my sense of time is not great) but having read The Will to Change (which I believe the quote was taken from), that's exactly what it was about.

[adding a read more because this became much longer than I intended it to be]

The book discusses how the patriarchy hurts not just women, but ALSO men, and how it's so much harder to rehabilitate men from it because: they think they stand something to gain from cramming themselves into the box they're supposed to fit into, and, many of them just have no idea that their life could even be different. That they could be an artist if they want to, they could dance if they want to, they could go into childcare if they want to or grow their hair long or write poetry or paint their nails-- that there are no "boy colors" and "girl colors", that there are no "men's jobs" and "women's jobs", that they could just do what they want because it makes them happy. They don't even know that being happy is more important than filling their sociological niche that someone else has carved out for them. It reminds me when I learned the story of Siddhartha Gautama when I was little, and that he had no idea that poverty, sickness, and suffering even existed because he had never been outside the palace walls and, not that I'm saying every man can achieve nirvana in an afternoon (or even in a lifetime), sometimes someone who knows what's outside the walls has to let you know that there is even something beyond the walls.

Which is also not to say that women need to be doing all the work for men. I spent ten years trying to disabuse a man of the "things he has to do to be manly" and it ended with him breaking up with me and joining a trad christian cult.

Some men (like my ex) are just extremely resistant to change because change is terrifying, but they also have this sense of Sunk Cost Fallacy, where if they were doing this thing the whole time and it's not working, then what were they wasting their time on?? (I feel like you see this with a lot of evangelical/trad Christians as well, where the idea that they might have been wrong is so scary that they double down on their beliefs in the hope that it will work out for them.)

But, there are also men like a book reviewer I was watching a few days ago (whose name I don't know), who admitted that he really had no idea women were catcalled as much as we say we are, until he was grocery shopping with his girlfriend and she went into the next aisle (literally like five feet away, just with the wall of food between them) and he heard a man catcall her. Like, the second she walked away from him and she no longer obviously belonged to him (in the mind of horrible men like her catcaller) she was suddenly fair game to be harassed in public. And he said that he never didn't believe his girlfriend, but to witness something makes it so much more real. To use my "wall" metaphor another way: he and so many men are still inside the palace, experiencing what they think is the same life others experience, while women are outside of the walls, struggling. The incident of hearing his girlfriend (who is an adult women and who shouldn't need him constantly around as protection from horrible men) being treated like an object while she's by herself was like someone grabbing his hand and pulling him outside the walls without even asking if he wanted to go, showing him a truth that can only be experienced by someone who is not him.

Back to Bell Hooks because there was something I wanted to add: yes she does say that it is at least partly the job of feminists to help to deprogram men. Men, as a group, have been brainwashed to think that they have to be The Provider, The Protector, The Leader, and not all of them are good at providing, protecting, or leading. Maybe some of them want to do the things I mentioned before like care for others (in the way we would describe as "maternal" and attribute to women), maybe they want to create art or do crafts or other things not considered "traditionally masculine", and that's not even taking into account that the "traditional idea" of a man is to be constantly wanting sex, and that men could never be sexually assaulted because they're in a constant state of wanting to fuck (obviously this is a lie; anyone can be sexually assaulted, and not everyone wants to fuck). You can't just take a dog who was taught only to fight and put it in a house of children, it won't know how to act around them and might attack them: it needs to be rehabilitated first.

And Bell Hooks does note, that the problem with trying to deprogram men comes from how they're raised. I'd like to submit this video about men and empathy, since I've already typed a bunch:

When I was reading The Will To Change and I got up to the part about her dad, I realized how different my dad is. And, because you don't get to choose your parents, I consider myself very lucky that my dad has always been unconditional in his love. For a moment I almost found this strange because his older brother was the "golden child" and his younger brother was "the baby", so he should have been somewhat neglected because they always got more affection from their parents, but I think it's because he was the favorite of his four girl cousins who would take him everywhere and fight over him (even now, he's the one they're excited to see and they shittalk the other two lol). So, I have a sneaking suspicion that the only reason he didn't end up shitty like his brothers, is because when he was a child he had four girls who were showing him what unconditional love was like and that you don't need to meet the criteria of your niche in order to receive love.

Which, I have to thank them for, because it's so much easier not having to decide whether or not I want to talk to my own parents as an adult because they've gone Fox News Insane. Both my parents will actually ask me about things they don't understand - like trans rights, queer rights in general, voting (I made them a paper of who/what to vote for for the election since the props always need extra research), geopolitical things - and I've even caught my dad making fun of conspiracy theorists and the thinking that trans women are ruining sports (he's a big sports guy and he mostly watches women's bball because he likes that they actually have to play as a team in a team sport). Life is a lot easier when both parents have empathy and don't have to be convinced to care about others.

And I think that's why the OG post I saw quoted Bell Hooks, because the "we need to rehabilitate men otherwise we can't have the feminist future we want" contingent of feminism never really took off; there was one-- I believe they were originally called "Meninists" as in "men who are feminists" and I've seen a picture of them from a parade in the 70s, but it died out because they were fighting such an uphill battle trying to convince other men to join. So now, we have more women who are independent and who have de-centered men from their lives, but also a bunch of men who were never rehabbed and who don't know their life doesn't need to revolve around "being a man." Being a man means being strong, it means being able to provide, it means being attractive; and the Tates and Fresh and Fits and all the other scam artists of the world sell them this on steroids: buy my book and you WILL be hot, you WILL be a millionaire, you WILL have women who want to fuck you...

Never mind that those guys are probably on actual steroids, they only have that money from scamming other men, and many of them have been found to hire escorts (which, there's nothing wrong with hiring sex workers, but there's a difference between selling the idea that you'll be so charismatic that women will throw themselves at you and having to hire a sex worker because your personality is so bad that no one wants to go near you.)

They're selling a false ideal to men who don't even know it's false in the first place.

But going back to Ms Hooks again: she did talk a great deal about how we need to raise our boys (as a society). She talks about how the whole thing of telling a nine-year old "Take care of your mother" is an insane notion, because he's nine and he can't do anything, and she's an adult woman who is actually the caretaker; and about how boy babies are treated so differently even to the point of "baby boys should not cry as much as baby girls". Like, the gender requirements are there before they can even talk, no wonder they're so damaged and hard to convince of anything later in life.

Reads with Rachel and her husband, Carlos, had two really good discussions about masculinity; one about real masculinity vs performed masculinity as they compared two books about being a man:

As Rachel says after Carlos complained about being made fun of for cleaning his nails after working on his car ("I work an office job and I have cleanliness standards"): "It's not enough for you to know how to work on a car, you also have to be dirty in order to be the manliest man."

The other is in the context of talking about how Patrick Rothfuss isn't the feminist he thinks he is because he still wants the women around him to perform femininity so he can perform masculinity and feel like "a big strong man" before going into a general discussion about masculinity (from about 9:01 to 53:55):

Together they ask a really good question (pardon me if I don't remember it verbatim): "Why does it take someone acting in a particular role for you to feel like a man?" And it's easier for Carlos to be able to deal with that question, because he started deconstructing from the patriarchy when he was 25 (he said he's 32 at the time of that video). It's something he and Rachel have done together as they learn and grow and live their lives together, him deconstructing from the patriarchy and her deconstructing from her fundamentalist christian upbringing (which is basically just The Patriarchy, but More, and +God.) And they've done this because they came to realize their upbringing was wrong, and they didn't want to raise their sons to be saddled with the same baggage that they both grew up with that made their lives worse.

So yeah, I forgot where I was going with this anymore since finding the one video took so long. The majority of men are resistant to changing their mind and it's because they were raised to be unemotional and not care about others but, sometimes, if maybe you've been friends with someone a while and take the time to explain something in a way they understand, you can change someone's mind. Story time:

I was a mod for a streamer for about a month and a half roundabouts January to February of this year (I ended up leaving because trying to get a bunch of randos to behave was stressful - esp since the streamer's rules weren't clear - and I ended up not really liking the streamer as a person). One person in the discord said that they hated the phrase "It's not my job to educate you" because it was condescending. I defended it as people being tired of having to explain shit to people just because they're black or trans or a woman but a bunch of people latched on and started saying anti-left things, which was weird because the streamer and his discord were supposed to be leftist (it's part of why I left, he was just weirdly antagonistic towards leftist ideals despite calling himself a leftist and he was attracting some *ahem* weird types). Anyway, a day goes by and a trans person comes in and says something like "I don't think I should have to explain my existence to random people on the street just because I decided to go outside," and a bunch of people descended on them, telling them they were wrong, and I'm pretty sure they ended up leaving the server.

[Like, the original group-agreed-upon argument came down to "I shouldn't have to google things or look up books to read or do my own work to discover anything new about the world, I should be able to demand of a random person's time and energy, even though I'm not giving off the vibe of someone who is actually ready to listen" and when I pointed out that people know when someone is and is not ready to listen, the streamer himself asked me how I knew and I was like like "do you think that I, a woman in her 30s, is somehow incapable of being able to discern intent?" Most women and queer folk KNOW who's a bad actor before they open their mouth, the idea that any of us wouldn't was just wildly ignorant.]

I complained to my friend (who I had met in the server) that the streamer was wrong and everyone's reaction was bullshit and, at first, he agreed with the position that a trans person should be prepared to debate people on their own rights if they deign to step outside their home. I countered with "You know, [streamer] doesn't it get it because he's a straight white man. He's the default. Other straight white men already know what it's like to be a straight white man so they have no questions for him. But to be trans or otherwise queer or a woman or any other person outside of a white man, is to have people question whether you have a right to be where you are. Trans women I've known have told me that they've had complete randos ask them if they've had bottom surgery and just-- how is that their business? People act so invasive towards non-straight non-white non-men in a way that no one does towards straight white men that they literally just can't understand what it's like to have your existence questioned just because you went outside. Asking a stranger if they've had bottom surgery is LITERALLY sexual harassment, and no one would ever walk up to someone like [streamer] and ask him like, "How big is your dick?" or something of a similar nature because that's just insane behavior, but when it's a trans person or a woman, it's suddenly okay? Like why do you think that is?" And my comparison to how white men are treated vs everyone else, and my stance that asking a stranger if they've had bottom surgery is sexual harassment (it is, no one needs to know about your genitalia) got through to him and he agreed with me. Awhile later I even heard him saying something similar to someone else about a situation that was similar and taking up the stance that I had given him.

So like... yeah, I probably wouldn't do that for a random man on the internet who is determined to hate me, but I can do it for a friend who I know might be receptive to what I have to say to him, and help steer him away from opinions that could end up dragging him down the wrong path.

As this post's OP said: "it's not saying you HAVE to do it! it's saying you CAN do it!"

It's up to you if you want to try effecting the people around you, but if they've dug in their heels that much then it's okay if you want to leave and not speak to them again. Just know that, it's only so hard for you because they were brainwashed since birth to think the way they think and that's REALLY hard to undo. And that's not a pass, that's just the reason why this is so fucking hard for the rest of us (when they're adults and harder to reason with because they're so invested) and also, the reason why mothers of sons need to maybe rethink how they're raising them. Like, don't raise them with "boy colors" and "girl colors" raise them with "colors." Dance isn't something a girl does, it's something a body does. Women don't cook because cooking is a woman's thing, people cook because they want to eat. And... I'll be honest, I've known a few women who are just so mean to their husbands in a "why can't you be a real man?" way, and I just DON'T see how that makes him want to be a better person, but then again, those woman probably need as much deprogramming as their husbands do since they just keep reinforcing something that (she may not even be aware) is hurting them both.

So yeah, sorry if this was a bit rambling, but seeing people fight back and forth for the past week and seeing people take up some really... Mad Max-ian, like, ultra-anarcho-capitalist positions of "we shouldn't help any man at all, fuck em!" was really weird when it was being said by people who purport themselves as being feminists when feminist ethics is supposed to be more compassionate. There were just a handful of reactions I saw that seemed very "pull yourself up out of the patriarchy by your bootstraps" but like... what if their boots don't have bootstraps? What if they don't even have shoes on? What if they don't even know they could have shoes?

posts about the alt-right pipeline being compassionate towards young men while radical leftists shun and shame them are not fucking saying "the men are becoming violent because feminists are too mean!" and if that is your takeaway you need to get off tumblr until you've better honed your critical thinking skills.

those posts are talking about how effective the language and approach you take in your activism can be. this is literally cult deprogramming 101. if someone is being taken in by a violent or dangerous group, that violent or dangerous group is usually offering them compassion and solace while working hard to convince them everyone else in the world is their enemy. you are under no obligation to coddle or act compassionate toward these men and their violent ideologies, but if you have the means to try, it is something that you can do to make a tangible difference.

radicalized people are often only one loving friend or family member or external voice away from being de-radicalized. of course that is not always the case, but it very often is. a lot of y'all rightfully understand that you do not carry the burden of being that voice, but a lot of y'all also have a lot of internalized ideas about morals and punitive justice and have simply written off these people as deserving of only the worst and not worth saving.

ten years ago, my grandmother was a fox news watching republican who voted red in every election and very well could have fallen down the qanon rabbit hole if not for me and her daughter challenging her compassionately, walking her through hypotheticals that validated her feelings & proving why they were false, & being patient with her despite our extreme division in political ideology. it was frustrating fucking work! but i decided i wanted to do it, because i could see the horizon and i could see me making a difference!

"misogynists have been saying feminists are too mean for years, get new material" that is not the fucking POINT. the point is that you, feminist, can be the compassionate voice that guides your brother, your father, your cousin, your grandfather away from fucking becoming or staying a nazi. you can show them compassion and companionship. you can be the woman they think of when their alt-right bros try to convince them that women are the enemy. and you can choose to crystallize that image of yourself so wholly in their mind's eye as worth protecting that they may very well choose to reject those harmful ideas.

it's not saying you HAVE to do it! it's saying you CAN do it! don't you 'firebomb a walmart' people all love taking change into your own hands? where the fuck is that energy right now, huh?

[tennessoui]

where’s my toxic dark academia au where the Jedi Order is a prestigious private university for rich kids who are all a different flavor of beautiful and fucked up, and Anakin is the kid they let in on scholarship once every a few years and he comes in scrappy and defensive and in love with the daughter of the family who is sponsoring him (and maybe half-adopted him when he was 10 so it’s a bit fucked up all around)

and he meets this pretentious dickbag of a student on his hall who is so cold and aloof that anakin can’t stand him, this guy obi-wan who’s so beautiful and untouchable and who sees right through him

I imagine they fuck in the most explosive way where they’re in the middle of a very loud fight in some bathroom in some rich kid’s house and neither is sober, and obi-wan says some awful shit about anakin being in love with Padmé and if his adoptive parents knew they probably would wish they hadn’t adopted him and anakin says some awful shit about how obi-wan’s been sent to boarding schools all his life cause his father never wanted him, and it starts as a fight but they’re just punching each other with their mouths and probably crying too

[fortheloveofwonderland]

My Reply | S.R

This one was a request from the lovely @reidsaurora-replies for my milestone celebration which got wildly out of hand. I think I damn near used every lyric of the song in this one. Also, Maeve does not exist in this universe. I felt like his phone calls with her were too similar to the letters with reader and not needed

Summary - Spencer writes his deepest tragedies down on paper for his pen pal. After ten years of exchanging letters and some divine intervention from JJ, the two of you finally come face to face.

CW - this one covers most of Spencer’s canon storylines including Tobis Hankel and his drug addiction, his moms illness, his fathers abandonment, getting shot in the knee, his headaches, Emily’s “death”, prison arc, Mr Scratch and Emily’s kidnapping, angst, interfering friends, lots of literary quotes.

WC - 6.3k

Making friends was always something Spencer Reid had been inherently bad at. He was always too young or too smart which always seemed to put people off of forming friendships with him. 

When he joined the BAU, his team called themselves his friends. But Spencer knew if he’d met any of them outside of work he would have nothing in common with them. 

They were simply friends by proximity, which admittedly was better than having no friends at all. But he couldn’t talk to them about everything, afraid to scare them away with talk of his mothers illness or his fathers abandonment. 

And sometimes he just needed to talk to someone. 

It was Garcia’s idea that he sign up for a pen pal. When she found out about his mom during the course of the fisher king case, he’d confessed that he didn’t feel comfortable talking to the team about such things. 

At first she’d actually suggested talking to someone online, she had many online friends who she talked to in various chat rooms. But after almost an hour of trying to explain that to the technophobe doctor and getting little more than a deep frown in response, she changed tact. 

A pen pal appealed to Spencer greatly. He already wrote daily letters to his mom and found it somewhat cathartic, getting his thoughts down on the page, but he never bothered her with the darker stuff. 

The idea of a faceless person he’d never meet reading his deepest, darkest thoughts was actually intriguing to him. And so with the help of Penelope he found himself a pen pal. 

In his first letter he’d just introduced the basics, his name and age, what he did for a living and that he lived in DC. 

He went on to explain how hard he found it to make friends and the difficulties of talking to his already established friends about the darker parts of his life. He ended the letter with a quote from To Kill a Mockingbird.

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” - Harper Lee.

He received a reply little over a week later. 

Your name was Y/N and you were twenty two, three years younger than him and a grad student at Columbia University. You told him you would be happy to read whatever he sent you, that you were more than willing for him to write to you about the things he didn’t tell his friends. 

You signed off with a quote of your own quote from the book Infinite Jest.

“You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realise how seldom they do.” - David Foster Wallace. 

And so he did just as you said and he wrote another letter. 

His second letter to you was five pages long. He went into great detail about his mothers illness, how he’d been left to deal with it alone at ten years old. He wrote about how he’d made the decision at eighteen years old to have her committed to a sanitarium. 

He told you about growing up as a child prodigy in Las Vegas and how hard that was. You were the first person he ever told about Alexa Lisbon and being tied naked to a flagpole. 

He spoke about the events surrounding Elle leaving the team and how it didn’t feel complete without her. 

He ended the letter by apologising profusely that he’d wasted your time with his long winded rambles and said he hoped to hear from you soon and scrawled a quote from The Great Gatsby.

“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald.

He said he would understand if you didn’t reply. But you did. 

The letter took two weeks to arrive and you explained that it was because you wanted to really process his words and give each and every one of them the time they deserved. He read the last few lines of your letter over and over again in a loop even though they were etched into his memory after only one glance.

I wish there was something I could say, to erase each and every page you've been through,

even though it's not my place to save you. 

“When I get lonely these days, I think: so be lonely. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.” - Elizabeth Gilbert - Eat, Pray, Love. 

He wasn’t familiar with the book and so he’d gone out and brought it and read it cover to cover within an hour. 

Reading your letter made Spencer feel understood for the first time in his young life. You didn’t pass judgement on him. Spencer found that between the pages of your letters he found a kindred spirit. 

The letters continued back and forth for several months until one day you didn’t receive a reply. His last letter had been penned to you on route to a case in Atlanta, which you’d responded to the day you received it. But there was radio silence from Spencer. 

You shouldn’t have been as worried as you were, but you couldn’t help yourself. His letters had become such a huge part of your world, often rereading them hundreds of times just to make sure you didn’t miss any little nuance on the page. 

His handwriting was ingrained within you, his scrawly, sometimes barely legible penmanship danced behind your eyelids every time you closed your eyes. His letters had rapidly become the best part of any day. And for over a year you didn’t receive a reply. 

After a while you’d stopped holding out hope every time you collected your mail. Eventually you gave up ever expecting to hear from him again. Maybe he didn’t need you anymore. Perhaps he’d made a real life friend, maybe even a girlfriend and you’d been rendered ineffective. 

But then little over a year after you sent your last letter, you found an envelope in your mail slot with the familiar handwriting you adored so much and the DC postmark. 

Y/N,

I don’t really have any excuses, all I can say is I’m sorry. I have written you fifty three letters over the course of the last year but never mailed a single one. They are piled up on my desk, addressed and even stamped, but I couldn’t bring myself to mail them. 

I’ve been struggling, I can’t lie to you. I can’t even lie to you through a letter and tell you I’ve been fine because I haven’t. I think you would see through my prose, know that I wasn’t being truthful. And you’ve never given me a reason to be anything but honest with you.

The case in Atlanta was one of the hardest I’ve ever worked. I’m not going to beat around the bush, I’m just going to tell what happened and hopefully this letter will end up with you and not in the pile on my desk. 

I was kidnapped by the man we were hunting down. I spent two days tied to a chair being beaten within an inch of my life but a man with multiple personalities. In fact, that’s not strictly true. I wasn’t beaten within an inch of my life; one of the personas killed me. 

I’m not entirely sure how long I was technically dead before he revived me but obviously not long enough to cause permanent neurological damage. Irreversible brain damage occurs after four minutes without oxygen so it stands to reason it was less than four minutes. 

But during that time, my life flashed before my eyes, including every single word of every single one of your letters. 

One of the alter’s drugged me in his own way of trying to save me. Drugging me was supposed to help with the pain, both mental and physical. I fought it at first, desperate for him not to stick that needle in my vein. But after that first hit, I stopped resisting. 

I think you can probably already see where this is going. You’re incredibly smart and you seem to know me so well. After I shot Tobias Hankel dead I took three vials of dilaudid from his corpse. 

I should have prefaced this by saying I am now ten months sober, and offered up the good news first. But there were several months that I continued using the drug in secret, hoping it would aid in erasing the memories of it all. 

It took a case in New Orleans in which I met up with an old friend Ethan and ended up almost destroying my career for me to decide to get sober. I’ve had a lot of difficulties in my life, as you know, but getting clean is the hardest thing I have ever done. 

And now for the first time in months I’m craving again. Maybe that’s why I’m writing to you, determined to send this letter this time. I need to know that everything is going to be ok and you are the only one that I will believe it from. 

My team tries. Now it's all out in the open, they try to help. But you don’t even need to try. Your help is so effortless, so easy and I’m in real need of that right now. 

His letter went on in this vein for another six pages. He also included several pages of handwritten poetry which he had copied out of a book to send you. With each word you consumed you felt your heart breaking for him a piece at a time. 

And he signed off with a surprising choice of quote from The Lorax.

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.” - Dr Seuss. 

You spent the next month or so trying to cultivate the perfect reply, but for the first time in your life, words failed you. 

It was three days after Spencer received his one year sober chip that your letter arrived. 

I got your letter and the poetry you sent me, postmarked in December of last year. I really hope you’re doing better, all your friends close by your side, one step closer to recovery.

I hope by the time you receive this you are close to one year sober, but if you didn’t make it you need to know that’s ok too. Life is full of ups and downs Spencer. If you didn’t make it this time you will the next time. Or the one after that. 

If you relapsed I need you to not beat yourself up over it. You will be ok, Spencer Reid, for that I am certain. 

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” Maya Angelou - I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. 

***

When he got shot in the knee, he wrote to you from the hospital. He told you how hard it was for him to turn down pain medication when he was in so much agony. But he was over two years sober now and he wouldn’t do anything to risk a relapse. 

Your reply spoke of how proud of him you were and how you knew it couldn’t have been easy for him but you hoped the fact you were proud went some way to aid him. 

He told you it meant more to him than you would ever know. 

Then he started having headaches and the letters became sporadic. When he did write he told you how painful it was for him to try to focus on the words in front of him. 

I’ve seen so many doctors and no one can tell me what’s wrong with me. It’s like they think I’m making it up, like this pain isn’t real. 

On my good days it’s a dull throb but on the bad days it’s nearly paralysing. I’m so scared that this is a precursor for schizophrenia. I'm still young enough for my first break, and it is a genetic illness. 

I love my mom but I can’t turn out like her, Y/N, I just can’t. I'm so, so scared. 

But your letters are the greatest comfort to me. I don’t think there are words to describe how much they mean - I will try to surmise it with a quote from Charlotte's Web -

"'Why did you do all this for me?' he asked. 'I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.' 'You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing.'" - E.B White.

You could feel his fear through the pages. His handwriting was somehow even harder to read than usual and sentences often tapered off with no ending. There were whole passages scribbled out so violently his pen had ripped the paper in places. There were crude drawings of brains and dark rain clouds in the margins. 

Spencer, 

I am so sorry you are going through this and that no one can give you the answers you seek. But this isn’t the end for you, even if it is schizophrenia, you can still live a full and normal life. 

If you'll just hold on for one more second, if you just hold on to what you have, you will wake up tomorrow. Behind every rain cloud lies the sun. As Victor Hugo said in Les Miserables -

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.” 

In his next few letters he seemed to be getting better, his headaches slowly dissipating until they only hassled him every once in a while. Things seemed to be looking up for him. 

But then one of his best friends died. 

His detailed letter told you all about Ian Doyle and Emily’s history with him and went on to conclude how she died on the operating table. 

I’ve been through a lot of trauma in my life, lost a lot of people close to me but never like this. I’ve never had to bury someone I love and honestly I don’t know how to move past this. 

My initial reaction has been dilaudid. It's the only thing I can think of to take the pain away. 

Tell me not to do it, Y/N, please. Please tell me that this grief will get better and that using drugs again is not the answer. Please help me stay clean. 

"When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time — the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers.” John Irving - A Prayer for Owen Meany

It took you longer than it should have done to formulate a reply. You felt pressured, like his sobriety hung in your hands. You hated that his friend had died but you didn’t think it was fair of him to put this on you. And you told him such.

Spencer,

I am sorry to hear about Emily, I know how close the two of you were. I’m no expert on grief, I can’t tell you how to deal with this.

You know full well that using dilaudid again is a bad idea, you really don’t need me to tell you that. Honestly, I’m a little frustrated at you for putting this on my shoulders. 

I am always here to help Spencer, in any way I can but sometimes I think you expect too much from me. We’ve been trading letters back and forth for the better part of five years and I don’t think you’ve ever really asked me about myself aside from those first initial letters.

And it’s fine, you needed this friendship more than I did. But over time this has started to feel so one sided and I don’t always look forward to your letters as much as I once did. 

I realise this is not the best time for me to be saying these things but I can’t hold back any longer. I’m glad I can be someone you can turn to but I have my own life, my own issues and I have no one to talk to about them. 

You put too much pressure on me Spencer and it’s a lot to take. I’ve tried to help shoulder your misery all these years but it’s starting to bring me down. All I can say is you need to wake up, you've gotta believe; you can't give up. Time keeps going on without us, long after we're dead and gone.

And you finished it with a simple quote from After You by Jojo Moyes.

“No journey out of grief was straightforward. There would be good days and bad days.” 

It was no surprise to you that you didn’t receive a reply. 

***

Y/N,

It’s been two years and I’m sorry for that. Two years, one month and eleven days. The truth is your last letter was hard for me to read as you can probably understand. 

The hardest part of reading it was the fact that I knew you were right. I’ve been selfish all these years. I’ve treated you like a sounding board for my problems and never once asked how you were. 

It's taken me time to write this because I wanted to get to a better place before I responded. I was angry at first, I felt like I was being abandoned again and my anger would not have been conducive. 

Then I was hurt, hurt that the one person I thought would always be there for me had turned their back on me. I displaced my grief over Emily’s death onto you and anything I would have written in that time would have only been the rage fuelled epitaph of a grieving man. 

And then once I dealt with those emotions, life simply got away from me. Emily was alive and well, her death was faked to get Doyle off of her back. Again I was angry about being lied to by my friends but eventually I was just happy she was alive. 

Then I turned thirty and had a crisis of faith I suppose. I guess with my intellect I always assumed I would be doing something more with my life and turning thirty kind of threw me through a loop. 

We had some changes to the team, new agents coming and going. All in all things have been somewhat hectic. 

But that’s not why I’m writing. 

I am writing because I really do want to know everything about you. I want you to be able to open up to me the way I always have to you. I want to be your shoulder, your repreve. I really hope I haven’t completely blown our friendship and I hope to be the kind of person who you can talk to. 

These arms remain stretched out to you and maybe someday you'll accept them. Maybe it's too late to save a young girl's heart that's long stopped beating. But I hope that it isn’t. 

“You have been in every way all that anyone could be…if anybody could have saved me it would have been you.” Jennifer Niven - All the Bright Places. 

You wanted to tell him it was too little too late, that after two years of silence you weren’t interested anymore. 

You wanted to simply not reply, ignore him entirely like he’d done to you. 

But you couldn’t. And so you replied. 

It was your longest letter to date, depicting in great detail how he’d made you feel over the years and all the hardships you’d faced without having someone to vent to. 

But getting to write it all down had been purifying, and by the time you were finished you weren’t mad anymore. 

I am willing to give this another shot, but things have to be different. If we’re to continue this friendship then it has to be a two way street. 

But I can’t pretend that I haven’t missed your letters because I have. I see pieces of you between the words, parts of yourself I’m not sure you realise you leave on the page. 

I’ve painted a picture of you in my mind's eye and even after two years with no letters, I’ve carried that picture with me wherever I go. 

I feel like I somehow know you better than I know myself and I hope going forward you can start to know me the same way. Charlotte Bronte once said -

“Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.” - Jane Eyre. 

***

Spencer didn’t know how it happened, he only knew that it had happened. Over the course of all the years writing to you it was almost a surprise it hadn’t happened sooner. Or maybe it had and he just didn’t realise until now. 

Spencer Reid had fallen in love with the woman who wrote her prose to him. 

It had been ten years of letters, every single one of which he kept in their envelopes in date order in the bottom drawer of his desk at home. 

Those letters were his lifelines on bad days, the one thing that kept him tethered. He didn’t even know what you looked like, even what you sounded like but he loved you. He loved you with every fibre of his being. 

And he couldn’t stop himself from telling you exactly what you meant to him. Even if it inevitably destroyed what the two of you had, he couldn’t stop the words from flying across the page. 

So that’s pretty much everything that’s happened these past few weeks. Mom’s doing ok but obviously it's a huge adjustment for her and I’m not entirely sure how long I can keep her living with me but for now it works.

How did the interview go? I have absolutely no doubts that you blew them all away with your presentation, you’re a hard person not to fall in love with.

Your presence in my life has brightened my every waking minute. You once told me that behind every rain cloud lies the sun; you are the sun behind my clouds. Your letters bring me back to life, your handwriting penned onto my soul. 

Is it foolish of me to be in love with someone I have never laid eyes on? William Makepeace Thackery said in Vanity Fair -

“It is better to have loved wisely, no doubt: but to love foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all.” 

I suppose that’s as good of an answer as any. 

***

Five days after he penned his love confession, he was arrested in Mexico. Once all the drugs had left his system, only after he was extradited and arraigned and placed at Milburn was he able to dwell on the fact he never received your reply. 

And being trapped in a cell gave him way too much time to think about that. 

It was possible you had replied, maybe even just to tell him he was crazy to even think he could be in love with someone he had never met. But he was sure you wouldn’t have even bothered to respond, thinking him a lunatic you needed to cut ties with. 

After a month in prison on one of JJ’s visits she brought a letter with her which she had found in his apartment. She recognised the handwriting on the envelope from several she’d seen him reading over the years. 

She wasn’t allowed to give him the letter but she offered to read it to him. At first he’d declined because he had no idea what to expect from your reply but after several long minutes he’d decided to let JJ read it to him. 

Spencer,

I am pleased to hear your mom is doing well but I do think you know that this solution won’t work in the long run. You say you live in a one bedroom apartment? You and I both know that you can’t sustain having your mother live there permanently. But I know you and I know you will figure out what’s best for you both.

The interview was amazing and they offered me the job on the spot. If it wasn’t for all your help with the presentation there is no way I would have gotten it, so thank you so much for that. 

As for the other thing…

For some time now I have been wondering about feelings I didn’t understand. You’ve been such a large part of my life for so long and even though we’ve never met I feel like we have, if that makes sense? I feel like in my heart I know you. My heart knows your heart.

Falling for you was as inevitable as the sun rising each morning. Perhaps it is foolish but I believe Thackeray knew what he was talking about. And I also believe Emily Bronte was talking about me and you when she said, “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” 

Spencer had interrupted JJ then, when she was smiling from ear to ear as she read your words out loud. 

“That’s enough.” He cut her off, burying his head in his hands.

“Wow, Spence, I had no idea you’d met someone.” 

“I haven’t met anyone. She is simply a woman at the other end of a series of letters.” 

“How long?” JJ placed the pages down in front of her.

Spencer looked up at her, a small blush on his cheeks. He didn't want to be talking about this, least of all on the other side of a plexiglass screen with his other inmates nearby but he responded all the same.

“Ten years.” He shrugged. 

“Ten years?” JJ sounded incredulous. “Ten years of letters and you’ve never met? Why?”

“I, uh, it never really came up.” It wasn’t a lie, you’d never once discussed meeting in all those years. 

“Is it like a distance thing? Does she live far away?” 

“No,” He sighed with a shake of his head. “She’s in New York.” 

“New York!” She huffed. “New York is a five hour train journey, Spence!” 

“Jennifer, now is really not the time for this.” He lowered his voice as JJ’s had garnered eyes in their direction. “There is really no point in discussing this as we have no idea when or even if I’m going to get out of here.” 

“Don’t say that.” She shook her head.

“It’s true.” He shrugged sadly. “I really can’t think about all this right now, ok? Just take the letter back to my apartment and pretend you didn’t see it. Please?” 

If it weren’t for the desperation in his eyes she might have argued it. But she didn’t want to waste what little time she got to spend with Spencer fighting.

“Ok.” She relented with a small roll of her eyes.

“Thank you, JJ.” He offered a tight lipped smile. “How are the boys?” 

JJ filled him in but she wasn’t really focused anymore. In her head, she was already penning a letter of her own…

Y/N,

My name is Jennifer Jareau, JJ, and I work with Spencer at the BAU. I’m not sure if he’s mentioned me to you or not. He hasn’t really told me too much about you if I’m honest. But I have learned that he has strong feelings for you and you for him. I’m wondering if I can make a suggestion…

***

When you received the strange letter from Spencer’s friend JJ in response to yours, you’d been initially extremely confused as to why he was letting his teammates read your secret correspondence. 

But when she’d gone on to tell you that Spencer had been arrested along with all the details surrounding his incarceration and how she’d read your letter to him during their visitation, you started to understand. 

But then a few days later, before you had a chance to reply to her, you received another letter from Spencer with a postmark from Milburn Correctional Facility.

Y/N,

Maybe Thackeray and Bronte were right or maybe they were wrong, I can’t say for sure. What I can say with certainty is that I can’t carry on like this a moment longer.

Something has happened to me, it won’t be hard for you to figure out what as soon as you see the postmark. I am not willing to get into it or explain how I ended up here. But I have no idea how long I am going to be inside and I don’t want the rest of our communication to be sent through a string of guards who will pick apart each tormented sentence. 

I ask you not to write me back. This has to be the end of the road my dear. This letter has to be our last. I don’t know how much longer I will continue to be able to live like this. Each day my hope dies a little more and I’m sure I won’t make it out of here alive. 

I am writing simply to say thank you. Thank you for all your years of listening, for all your patience and kind words and your hopeful prose. In my darkest hours you have shown me the light, dragged me out of the shadows of my own creation. 

I love you for all that you are and all that you have done but even you can’t save me this time. This really might be the end for me and I don’t want you to blame yourself. You are the only reason I made it this far in this treacherous game we call life. 

Take care of yourself, continue to live your absolute best life. And in time I pray that you forget me and are able to love someone far more tangible. 

All that is left to say can be summed up by a quote from The Miniaturist - 

“You are the sunlight through a window, which I stand in, warmed. My darling.” Jessie Burton.

You replied firstly to Spencer, his heartbreaking words more pressing than JJ’s letter. You kept it short and to the point, knowing that various other prison guards would read it before it even made it to his hands. 

I appreciate but can't accept this thank you note that's sealed with your last breath and I won't stand aside and listen to you give up. 

You are stronger than that Spencer Reid and if I know anything about your team from all the years of hearing you speak of them it’s that they are the best at what they do and they will prove your innocence. 

Just remember what Ernest Hemmingway said in A Farewell to Arms -

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places.” 

You will be stronger at those broken places, Spencer, I have no doubt about it. 

And besides, if you don’t make it out of there, how do you  propose to ever meet me? 

Whilst on a role, you grabbed a clean sheet of paper and started scrawling again. 

Jennifer,

Thank you for your letter. I have spent some time musing on your suggestion and I think you might be right. 

I think it's time for me to take a trip to DC…

***

Spencer never opened your last letter because he had no intention of replying to it. If he didn’t read it, he could pretend you had never sent it and he wouldn’t be tempted to write a response. 

Instead he stuffed it between the pages of his book and tried not to think about it. 

After two and half months his team proved his innocence and he was released but he was thrown into the deep end of trying to find his mother. 

And even once he found her unscathed, he was rapidly thrust right into Scratch’s web after he kidnapped Emily. 

Taking the elevator back up to the BAU alongside JJ after they’d escorted Emily to the hospital it already felt like a lifetime had passed since he left prison. And all he wanted to do was chronicle all of it to you. 

Maybe once the dust settled, once he’d wrapped his head around everything that happened he would open your letter and send you a reply. 

But for the first time in ten years, Spencer didn’t want to drag you into his mess. 

JJ was strangely quiet as the elevator made its ascent. He didn’t even want to be here, he’d planned on going straight home after leaving the hospital. He hadn’t slept in his own bed for two and a half months and he couldn’t wait to collapse into it. 

But JJ had insisted that instead of him getting the metro home, if he popped back to the BAU with her to collect some paperwork, she would drive him home. 

And honestly he was just too exhausted to decline. 

JJ’s eyes were hyper focused on the digital floor numbers as they got higher. A few seconds after it displayed number five, one floor below the BAU, she turned and looked at him. 

“Don’t hate me for this.” She blurted out. 

“Excuse me?” Spencer frowned, too tired to try to understand what she meant. 

“I couldn’t just let it go.” She shrugged, a guilty smile on her lips. 

“Let what go?” His frown deepened. 

Her eyes flicked back upwards as the number five rolled into the number six and the elevator started to judder as it prepared to stop. 

“Just remember I love you and that’s the only reason I interfered.” She shrugged as the elevator stopped entirely and soon the doors were peeling open. 

Spencer looked away from her and out of the open doors to where someone was standing just a few feet back. 

Spencer’s eyes landed on the stranger only it wasn’t a stranger. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew exactly who this person was standing on the BAU floor. 

He remembered the way JJ had read him your letter and how you’d told him your heart knows his heart. 

Well his heart knew yours too. And he knew the heart beating a few feet away from him was yours. 

“Y/N?” He croaked, slowly stepping out of the elevator but not too close to you. 

“Spencer?” You smiled at him, the kind that reached all the way to your eyes. 

Neither of you noticed JJ slipping quietly away, wanting to give you some privacy. 

“What are you doing here?” His brows were furrowed and he was rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“You’re friend JJ wrote to me. She told me everything that happened to you. And she made me realise that ten years is too long to wait for a first meeting.” Your voice was like honey to Spencer’s ears. 

Your prose was beautiful, but hearing the words from your lips as you stood in front of him in all your ethereal glory was more than any letter could convey. 

“I…I am actually speechless.” He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. 

“You? Speechless?” You giggled and Spencer felt the sound all the way to his heart. 

“You’ll come to learn I am much more of a wordsmith on paper. In person I am incredibly awkward and often trip over my words. I ramble when I’m nervous or clam up entirely, no in between. I spout facts and statistics rather than have a meaningful conversation. I am much more comfortable writing my words down on paper than speaking them out loud.” He let the words spill out of his mouth, proving his point entirely. 

“I’ve waited ten years to hear your voice. Please never stop talking.” You smiled so brightly at him he felt like he was floating. 

You were here in front of him, not just hidden between pages of letters. You were real, tangible; within his reach. 

And suddenly the last thing Spencer wanted to do was talk. 

He took a few tentative steps towards you and cautiously raised a hand to your cheek. You sighed in content when he cupped your face and nuzzled against his palm. 

“I could talk to you about anything and everything all day long, my love.” He smiled, inching his face closer to yours. “But at this moment in time I have one slightly more pressing desire to do with my mouth rather than speak.” 

“Oh yeah?” You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer. 

The warmth of your body and your smile encompassed him. As he looked into your eyes, finally looked into your eyes, every bad thing that had ever happened to him slipped away. 

“Love starts as a feeling, but to continue is a choice. And I find myself choosing you, more and more every day.” He quoted Justin Wetch’s Bending the Universe. 

“Spence?” 

“Yes Y/N?” 

“As sweet as that is, I thought there were more pressing desires to use your mouth for?” 

“If you insist.” He smiled and quickly closed the small space between you.

When his lips finally met yours it felt like all the pieces of the universe were falling into place. 

For ten long years you’d communicated in the pages of letters, constructing replies to what felt like one sided conversations that were confined to only live on paper. 

As the kiss deepened every single one of those words seemed to float in the air around you, spiralling like a tornado made of a decade worth of missives. 

He swore he could hear each and every word whispered to him in the voice he’d longed to hear all these years as he kissed you like you were the most important being on the face of the earth. 

And when he pulled back and mumbled I love you against your lips, it was the easiest reply you’d ever given. 

[boogleboot]

One year since Fateheart

A year ago I posted Fateheart: A Starless Seaquel to Ao3 (link here) - the mammoth fanfic sequel to Erin Morgenstern's The Starless Sea.

Fateheart has had an incredible year, and has completely changed my life, by all measures. Posting it has connected me to so many wonderful people and helped bring together a genuine community over on the Starless Sea discord (which you should join hey here's a link) who have supported me through the last hellish few weeks of uni assignments as well as months and months of creative projects and ambitious fic writing.

So on this blessed solstice day, here is a lil update for those who are following the slow progress of the unofficial Starless Sea canon as developed in Fateheart.

Oh that's right, baby. It ain't just one fan sequel. It's gonna be uhhh (checks notes) at least four.

I really really wanted to get the next book out at this year mark - on the solstice and year anniversary - but despite hitting that 50k mark for NaNoWriMo last month it just didn't happen (it's been a rough couple months - I am currently doing a master's course that is kicking my ass).

But I am determined to get Fever Pitch, the next full-novel-length follow-up story, out in full as soon as humanly possible. Toward that end I have gone ahead and made a posting for it. The first few chapters are done and have been done for a while, so I shall slowly be posting them as I work on the rest.

Watch this space!!!!

I never really intended Fever Pitch to be a fully-fledged sequel. Mind you, I didn't intend that with Fateheart either, but in a different way. In my mind the next book in the sequence is and always has been a story called The Lotus Flowers. Nearly 180k words of that one exist, but it is too important a story not to get right. So I'm gonna give it as much time as it needs - and it may need quite a lot.

But in working on Lotus Flowers, I came to realise that a lot of the world-building and character development which I was taking for granted was in fact not as obvious to the reader as it would be to me - LF is, after all, set ten or so years after Fateheart, and considering all of The Starless Sea (at least for Zachary and Dorian) takes place in about two weeks, ten years is space enough for a LOT of story.

So in order to strengthen my sense of where Zachary, Dorian, and Kat have found themselves by the ten year mark, I started noting down some of the more important moments from that decade of time. And then just kept writing. And writing and writing and writing until a handful of them were fully fledged novellas.

I have put up the polished ones - they are collected together on Ao3 as 'Fateheart: The Extended Canon'. Which is. A bit pretentious. But whatever. (Also I'm not kidding myself that all the fics in this collection are vital plot points, but there are a couple standout ones which are Canon Events in my mind, that will be referenced in later full-length fics. Namely A Heart That Won't Break, Death in the Valley, and The Man Named Sky.)

But one of these short (aspirationally) stories seemed as I wrote to have particular space in it for so much of that world-building and exposition, and that was Fever Pitch.

Fever Pitch takes place five years after the birth of the Harbour, and the events of Fateheart, and is an Alice-in-Wonderland themed story which explores the lives of all the main Fateheart characters (Zachary, Dorian, Kat, and Leander, namely), introduces some new players (shoutout Tabuzae and Kirsty Baudeville), as well as establishing the limits and life of the Harbour they live in.

I'd say a solid sixty percent of this story currently exists, and I'm gonna amp up the pressure on myself to complete it by posting it as I go - something I've never done before, so bear with me.

It means so much to me that there are people out here who care as much about these people and this little world on the Starless Sea as I do - even more so that so many people have loved my offerings of more story. The above photo is of my christmas present from a housemate who was one of Fateheart's earliest readers. It's so beautiful it makes my heart leap.

We rise, we fall - as stories do.

I am committed to seeing this story through, by the way - all the way to the end - and that is gonna take years. But we start here - with the next book in the series. First few chapters to appear over Christmas.

Until then, happy solstice. To seeking x

[celestemagnoliathewriter]

Twilight

Written for @remadoramicrofics day 26: twilight. G, 720 words. Read below or on Ao3.

The Lupins arrived at the cinema with plenty of time to spare. Dora wandered to the posters to show Remus which one she’d selected.

“This is it,” she said, pointing up at a dark film poster, where two pale figures were in a sort of embrace. “The bloke looks constipated. It should be good.”

“Are you sure this is the one you want to see?” Remus stared apprehensively at the poster, whose tagline read “When you can live forever, what do you live for?”

“It’s all over the Muggle news. Besides, it’s either this or the talking animal one, and I told Teddy we’d see it together.”

Remus sighed and followed her into the cinema to purchase their tickets. It was his wife’s turn to choose their date night activity, and while he didn’t usually mind Muggle films, she had described this one as ‘a girl stuck in the middle of a vampire and werewolf war.’ After eleven years of marriage, he’d learned to take her summaries with a grain of salt. 

They indulged in fresh popcorn and Muggle sweets for their date. As they sat down to see the opening scenes of a deer hopping through the forest, Remus prepared himself for Twilight.

Two Weeks Later

“Edward.”

“Jacob.”

“Vampire, Dora,” Remus insisted. “A vampire who shares our son’s name. Edward’s the right one for Bella.”

“Edward ran off and left her alone for a year!”

Remus half-closed his eyes and blinked tiredly at his wife. 

“Oh, right,” said Tonks. “But you and I were different. Jacob’s furry and cute. Edward’s just a shiny rock!”

“According to the books—” Remus lifted a newly purchased and fully read copy of Breaking Dawn. “Edward is who she belongs with. If you don’t like that ending, imagine your own!”

“Well, maybe I will!” Tonks scrunched her face up, her hair turning flaming red, and stomped out of the kitchen, her hips swaying attractively with her rage. 

Remus covered his mouth with his hand and hid his laugh. It never failed to make him smile, seeing Tonks riled up over anything lycanthropic. He too preferred the film werewolf to his vampire counterpart, but witnessing Dora work herself up over the issue was entertaining.

Teddy poked his turquoise head into the kitchen. “Dad, why does mum have her wand in a knot? Did someone write something bad about werewolves again?” 

Remus chuckled at him. “Your mother didn’t like the ending of a book we read.”

“Did you do that thing where you change the ending on purpose?” 

“No, actually, I . . . pretended to disagree with her.”

Teddy smirked knowingly. “Can I play?”

Remus knew he oughtn’t encourage his ten year old son in deceit, but it would be funny to see Nymphadora try to argue with him.

“Tell her you think vampires are better than werewolves,” Remus whispered. 

Teddy grinned and dashed off, knocking over a pile of parchment in his hurry, and tapped his mother on the shoulder. Remus stood in the back, waiting.

“Mum, mum, mum—”

“Teddy, what?”

“Do you think dad would be cooler if he was a vampire instead of a werewolf?” 

Tonks shook her head slightly in disbelief. 

“Blood would be so easy to get. Muggle hospitals have loads of it! We’d just have to get in and take some—”

“REMUS!”

Dora got out of her chair and marched up to him, her nose adorably scrunching up in righteous anger. Teddy picked up the parchment she was working on and began to read aloud.

“And after the Volturi were defeated,” he read, “Bella dropped Nessie off with her mother and ran off with Jacob, the real hero.” 

Remus brought his fist to his mouth and tried not to laugh at Dora’s attempt to rewrite the story.

“Is this a joke to—” Her face scrunched up again. She put her hands on her hips and huffed angrily. “This is a joke! You—you—”

“I love you,” said Remus, bending down to kiss her cheek, “and I couldn’t help myself.” He continued pressing kisses to her face until Dora’s hands fell from her hips and her hair softened from its fiery red to a pastel pink. 

“Eww!”

Teddy stuck his tongue out at them and stormed upstairs. Chuckling to himself, Remus returned his full attention to his wife’s lips with a satisfied grin. 

[scarlet-witchery]

i was tagged by the lovely @callivich for some fandom asks, let's fuckin goooo

What’s a fic you’ve read more than once? Cold Feet by aeli_kindara; In a Haze of Smoke & Fire by IanRightsOnly; please don't say I'm going alone and broad-shouldered beasts by biblionerd07; Cooperative Gameplay and Bright by grayola; to think that we could stay the same by teatrolley; love, let your hands be tender by sadwhales; to stop our hearts from drowning by enbytim; Redheaded Stepchildren by ZebraWallpaper (there's a lot, I know)

What’s a gifset you always have to reblog? anything with 5x10 i'm a slut for love and violence interplay

What’s a headcanon you can’t stop thinking about? honestly when/if ian and mickey do eventually end up with a kid (it would happen completely by accident, of course) they're the biggest girl dads ever.

What’s a fanart you love looking at? this one is g o r g e o u s

What’s an idea you’d love to create if you had the time/inspiration? well, i'm currently working on a soulmates au fic that's canon-adjacent of seasons 1-5, so that's been fun! (featuring romantic and platonic soulmates because i refuse to write only the romantic kind :p) i'm also fond of writing character study fics when the mood strikes. i haven't been motivated to write fic and post it in nearly ten years, but i'm very happy that shameless and gallavich have helped me knock some of the rust off the old writing skills.

What’s an underrated trope or concept you’d like to see more of? SHOTGUNNING. where are all the shotgunning fics. also nurse!mickey (I read a fic with this once and it's a crying shame there's no emt!ian/nurse!mickey fic--at least none that i've ever seen...)

What’s your favourite season? And has this changed after multiple rewatches of the show? i've only watched the show through once but honestly s4/5 are my favorites, but i have a special place in my heart for s1 and s10.

What’s a plot hole you wish had been answered or resolved? I mean the fact that they managed to convict mickey of attempted murder and debbie of statutory rape is insane. (the age of consent is 17 in illinois! and it's literally sammi's word against mickey's AND debbie's! but it's fine, just fine, everything's fine...)

What line/dialogue/description from something else (a poem, a book, a tv show, a movie, or something else) do you feel describes Ian and Mickey’s relationship? these two are the most siken-coded ship since dean/cas. in particular: little beast, saying your names, you are jeff, and wishbone. I even named my gallavich playlist on spotify after a siken poem, and half the chapter titles in my long fic will end up being from his works as well....

What do you think is next for Ian and Mickey post-finale? i think things are gonna go okay for them! i think that they may make their way back to the south side, but in a house of their own not too far from the other gallaghers. i like the idea of them ending up with a little girl of their own but i can also see them just being cat dads and being the best uncles to ian's siblings' kids. i would love for them to reunite with svet and yev later down the road, as well. there's endless possibilities <3

[heroftruth]

behind the scenes character notes

'heroftruth' used to have two o's. It's been a constant user name/url/ present somewhere. While Hilda will not refer to herself as a hero so to speak, that position of Reshiram's chosen has been a constant central theme since the night I started writing her. It's a defining point in her story.

Expressing Hilda's trauma more properly has been a theme since I picked her back up in 2020. I've had this muse for a LONG time and while the heart of her (a small-town girl who had a strong belief in what was right and refused to back down) has stayed the same, she has definitely evolved.

I view her and N as two sides of the same coin, a foil to one another. N isn't a villain, he's an anti-hero. In older takes on Hilda I followed as her reasoning for leaving Unova was to look for N, because one she wanted to make sure he was okay and two it felt to her like he would be the only one to really understand what she went through. They both had the weight of the region on their shoulders. While she still does look for N and follows leads (same reasons still) I changed things in 2020 as her needing to get away because I didn't want it being viewed by others as the stereotypical "oh the protag dropped everything to find N". Because there is more to it than that.

Her Samurott's name, Percy, comes from Percy Jackson. I know, look I was 14 and couldn't think of another water-type male name, and it just STUCK.

Hilda having trauma from the events with plasma has been a constant. Having experienced that sort of intense fear and pressure is trauma and so is something that shouldn't have happened to you making you lose out on normal experiences. I've just progressively better at writing expressions of trauma as I've learned more about it.

One of my goals with Hilda has always been showing a female character with trauma not letting it own her. One of my favorite book series, Shatter Me, has a character like this (Juliette Ferrars) and that character has been a big inspiration since around 2015.

Katniss and Snow (hunger games) conversation scenes are inspo for writing involving Hilda and Ghetsis. That cold & calculated dynamic vs unwilling to give up because there are people you care about that need you to keep going.

Hilda was not the strongest protagonist in terms of pokemon team levels. If you play though BW without excessive training, only doing enough training to be up against what the game puts in front of you, you'll finish with your pokemon in the 50's. The strongest opponent pokemon is level 54. All of my other games main teams (without excessive training) have finished in the 70's. I see her strength coming from the way her and her pokemon work together and her determination. People are going to have a challenge facing her, even if their pokemon are higher level, but it may be more of a "she and her team are very much one" type thing. Her team is definitely higher levels now, around 70's-verging 90's maybe one or two is in low 90's but it's been years.

The levels you end in bw are the reason WHY I hc that the events of BW occurred at a FAST pace and within MONTHS. No later than ten months at the MOST.

my last thing is this muse is just, I love her okay? Hopefully that shows <3

[linked-universe-fic-finder]

Welcome, Mod Ammo! Do you have a top 5 (or 6 or 7 or 12) fics to add to the mod recs?

Oh ho ho boy do I have recs! These aren’t in any particular order, but here’s just a few of my favorites. 

Follow the Lights by CluelessMoose - Someone's messed with some of the shrines, and it's up to Link to find out what the hell is going on. And alright, maybe it's less a man hunt than it is a series of rescue missions, but as the Champion and the only one able to travel across the shrines he's the only chance these mysterious travelers have. (Love love love this fic and it’s sister fic. Really good Wild whump and it has Chain with a soul bond which I adore.)

Level One by LightBlueScrubs - A deafening roar filled his head, drowning out the noise of the trauma bay. He saw nothing except the limp body with the scars he knew by heart. At the Regional Trauma Center, a surgeon faces his deepest fear. (I’ve recced this fic to several friends and they’ve all loved it as much as I do. One of those fics you read and know that the author knows what they’re talking about. Great whump and you learn something new all the time while reading.)

Reunion Tour by coolcrocs - It's been done. The Heroes of Hyrule have come together and saved the day, once and for all. And though their victory meant that they'd never see each other again, the memories that they made would be looked back on fondly, as a reminder of days gone by. Ten years later, the portals start opening up again. (Love this little look into the heroes' lives after their adventures and seeing where they’ve ended up ten years down the line, as well as how they handle the changes in each other. Just a fun read all around.)

memories misplaced by wheatbreadslice - Link feels like he’s forgetting something. There are names on the tip of his tongue that he just can't quite recall. Trinkets in his bag that don’t belong to him, scars he’s not sure when he got, tendencies and habits he’s never had before. Really, he’s been living in his house for a year now. Why is his first instinct to pull out a bedroll at night? It takes him an extra second at dinnertime to remember he has to actually get up and cook it-- what’s that all about? Since when, on his harp, do his fingers drift to notes by muscle memory of tunes he’s never heard of? But he’s solved a few puzzles in his time. He’s solved seven-- no, six-- (seven? Where’d that number come from?)-- six adventures’ worth of them. And that’s more than enough to figure this single one out. Write down for the history books that the Hero of Legend is nothing if not curious, and nothing if not determined. Or: in which the timeline's gotta pretend to stay intact somehow. They all get around it anyways. (Legends pov is always great and this fic where hylia is trying to hold the timeline together with butter and hope is amazing. Love post LU fics, especially ones that go the extra mile like this one.)

hero’s spirit by wheatbreadslice - Wind sees ghosts on their adventure. Some are more familiar than others. (Love when people use Wind being able to see ghosts as a story mechanic and this one is really good.)

This got a little long, but I hope you find something to enjoy here! I have a lot more I'd like to rec, but they'll have to wait for another time.

[bellaleighwrites]

Writeblr Intro

General Info

Hello! My name is Isabella. I'm in my 40s (a sentence that I'm going to have to change in 13.5 months, but leaving it for now). I've been writing for as long as I can remember. We won't talk about most of my early attempts. I could probably recreate the story I wrote in 7th grade word for word if I wanted to. But, the only reason to do that would be to torture somebody with it. And I don't have anybody I dislike enough to make them read that thing. Same as any of the poetry I wrote during my poetry phase in junior high and high school.

Currently, I work at the service desk in a grocery store. It's great for people watching. Of course, it's also good for making me want to never leave my house and not have to deal with people ever again. If I could get my ADHD brain to work long enough to look into classes, I really want to go into accounting or bookkeeping. The morning bookwork is my favorite part of my job honestly (other than most of my coworkers. I DO like them). I'm the oldest of 4 girls (though, technically one of them is actually a sister from another mister. But, her kids call me and my other sisters "aunt" and my parents "grandma and grandpa" so she still counts.) and have TEN niblings ranging in age from 19 down to almost 8. I think. I tend to lose track of the younger ones.

Anyway! On to my writing! Which is honestly the most interesting thing about me, anyway.

I am in the process of revising my first novel. It's an Urban Fantasy about a vampire who is trying to protect his girlfriend in a world going increasingly mad. He has reason to believe that his Sire is in town and gunning for his friends. He's been informed by the local seer that he will somehow be instrumental in preventing the end of the world. There is apparently a Necromancer loose in the city - and when you and most of your friends are dead, that is a bit concerning. And the firestarting abilities he thought he lost when he was turned have returned, and after 275 years of being dormant they're out of control. This is the first in a series. The book doesn't have a title yet, but the series is called The Vampires of Sangue Collina. Any posts about it will be tagged with #Sangue Collina.

I am also writing the first draft of a Historical Romance. a Regency-era second chance romance. Four years ago, Evelyn and Lucas fell in love. But, her stepfather intended to marry her to the son of an associate of his, using her dowry to pay off a gambling debt. Evelyn takes one night for herself and sleeps with Lucas before running away. Four years later, Lucas has a bad riding accident and in his moments of semi-lucidity the only coherent thing he can say is Evelyn’s name. So, his older brother tracks her down. When he finds her, he also discovers that she has had Lucas’s baby. He drags them both back to London. When Lucas finally actually wakes up and finds out about their child - and about the fact that her stepfather is still looking for her - he realizes the only way to protect them is to marry her. Of course he kind of hates her for what she did, and never mind her reasons. I'm 12 scenes in and really like most of what I have, even though I know that it DOES need a lot of work. I'm probably going to have to add in some flashbacks or something. Because the 12th scene is literally the first time Evelyn and Lucas see each other, and they don't have a proper conversation until the next scene. I need to do something about that. But, that is future me's problem. The tags for that are #You're still the one and #ysto.

And then there's my fanfiction. I write Bridgerton. Mostly Kate and Anthony. And it would take way too long to talk about all of my fics on here. I'll be posting later to talk about all of them. And with links to everything.

Anyway! I intend to post writing updates and snippets on here. I'll also be reblogging writing advice and I want to get better about reblogging other people's writing.

I am especially looking for fellow romance writers. Bonus if you also write historical romance. Much as I love my mutuals, it would be great to find people I can talk to about the specifics of my genre.

[figthefruitfaeth]

Mail, Murder, & Other Mysteries

From the Nancy Wheeler Files

Chapter Two: The Anonymous Letter(s) (prev chapter) (ao3 link)

Eddie wakes up to the shrill ring of the landline and stale taste of sugar rotting his teeth. A weak ray of mid-morning light streams in through the windows. The ringing stops. The faint sound of traffic and city life drifts into the quiet of the apartment. He breathes, in, then out.

Just when he starts to relax, the ringing starts up again. He groans, rolling over and shoving his face into the back of the couch.

Eddie knows what he’s doing is stupid. Not just stupid, but a fool’s errand, because trying to avoid Chrissy Cunningham is about as easy as avoiding sunrise. Bright, blinding, and only averted by the machinations of the solar system or God himself. He should write that down…

The ringing stops. Then, a click and—

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment.

Christ, she’s leaving a message.

Looks like we’re unavailable at the moment, so leave your name and number at the tone and we’ll get back to you when we can—BEEP.

Eddie! It’s Chrissy. I know you’re there, unless you’re checking the mail again, which I guess means you’re not there. Well, if you’re actually busy then give me a call back when you can! And if you’re not, I’d really appreciate if you’d stop avoiding me. I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but most people would consider that rude! Alright, well I’ll call back later, we’ve got a lot to talk about. Byeeeee!

He sighs, rolling himself flat on his back. This wouldn’t be so hard if she wasn’t so nice about it. For their five years of friendship, he’s never seen her get mean, not even when her shitbag ex-boyfriend showed up at her house drunk and calling her every name in the book (Eddie keyed his car for that, because of the two, he’s the mean one). Worse than that, Chrissy knows it too, using her sweet small-town charm to weasel him into meeting his deadlines. He works best under pressure, and guilt is a motivating pressure alright.

The ceiling is the same ugly off-white color that dominates the rest of their apartment, but it’s also got a popcorn design, which he knows Nancy can’t stand, but he likes it. Maybe not like—intrigue is the better word. It’s a bit like TV static, in that if he stares at it long enough, his brain will drift past himself and the answers to all life’s problems will sail in. It’s how he figured out the twist ending of his last novel (that the Queen’s guard had survived after all) and what to get Nancy for her birthday (a lock-picking kit you could only get at specialty stores).

He lingers in a patch of sunlit popcorn near the edge of The Board. It’s not like he wants to avoid Chrissy’s calls and it’s not like she deserves it either. She’s a good friend and she’s good at her job, which means she won’t let him sulk around in his writer’s block no matter how much he wants to. And God, does he want to.

His latest work, the next in the series, just won’t come together. Nancy had balked at his villain’s third name change, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. His plot is all over the place, the dialogue stilted, motivations out of character. His editor keeps saying it’s fine, that it’s exactly what the readers (all six of them, he’s not exactly flying off the shelves) want, but it feels wrong. It’s overplayed conformist bullshit he doesn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.

The phone rings and Eddie is suddenly very aware of the gnawing pit in his stomach. So much for those answers.

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment—

He shoves a handful of store-brand cereal in his mouth, washing it down with the rest of the milk straight from the carton. He ditches the takeout containers in the trash, wipes down the table, and starts a load of dishes.

I’m trying to contact a Nancy Wheeler. This is John from KX News. Like I’ve said before, we don’t have the capabilities—

He sits at his keyboard for five minutes, then makes himself a sandwich.

Eddie, it’s Jeff. Can’t make the next jam sesh, does Thursday work?

The couch would look better against the windows, actually. Or if he moved the coffee table—

Ms. Wheeler, please stop calling me, I don’t know—

You’re not happy with it, I get it, but I can’t help you fix it if you won’t talk to me about it—

You’ve reached Nancy and Eddie’s apartment—

2:30 pm, his watch beeps. He breathes a sigh of relief, throws on a pair of jeans, grabs his keys, and heads downstairs.

Though Nancy may tease him for it, to Eddie, the mail is serious business. Though his fanbase is small, they’re a dedicated bunch, and he gets a nice little chunk of fan mail. He’s particularly fond of the ones he gets from a local group of high schoolers, who send weekly letters with theories about his newest novel or asking for his opinion on movies they’d seen recently. The highlight of his life had to have been when he dedicated, The Battle of Starcourt, to them, and received a 20pg letter in all caps from the group.

It also gives him the chance to get out, or close to out, of the house during daylight hours, which is apparently important according to Chrissy. When he eventually calls back, he can at least give her that.

On the second floor, he passes Mrs. Romero, a withered old woman only ever dressed in floor length floral nightgowns. He waves, she rolls her eyes.

It also, also gives him the chance to, outside of Nancy which apparently does not count according to Nancy herself, engage in more regular social interaction. If maybe one of those interactions includes seeing the cute guy from 3B, would that be so wrong?

He jumps the last few steps, landing against the black and white checkered tile with a satisfying slap. The lobby, which is really just a long hallway with a few signs and a wall of mailboxes, is empty.

Eddie tries not to pout. It’s not like he sees the guy from 3B every day, but when he does, it always seems to be about now. If Nancy’s Nancy Drew act is anything to go by, which, it usually is, then he doesn’t have a reason to check the mail anyway because he’d already picked up everything he’d end up getting for the week. Not unless he’s actually flirting with him, which after yesterday’s fiasco, isn’t likely anymore.

Maybe it’s better this way anyway, Eddie reasons, jamming his key in the lock when it won’t budge open the first time. No 3B, so at least he won’t have to face his humiliation so soon. Big boy? He couldn’t have gone with something a little more casual? And the guy’s face—

He lets his head fall against the mailbox, cold metal biting against his forehead.

“Bad news?”   

Eddie’s never been a particularly lucky guy. He failed his last year of high school twice, been arrested for weed that was actually his friend’s, and always dies in campaigns he isn’t DMing. Today, however, luck definitely isn’t on his side because the voice behind him is none other than 3B.

3B saunters up next to him and leans against the mailbox, a hand at his hip and an eyebrow cocked, like he knows just how good he looks. Which, Eddie bites back a groan, is particularly good today—snug in a pair of the world’s tightest Levi’s and a yellow sweater brighter than the sun. It’s just a tad dated—something he’d see the popular kids in high school wear rather than the loose fit everyone’s starting to sport now. He can’t tell if that means 3B is trying to hang on to the last vestiges of his high school glory days or is sticking to his guns despite the popular opinion, and more concerning, knows the answer wouldn’t change much.

It’s actually really unfair how much Eddie is into him.

“No news, actually,” he swallows, tugging on his key for effect. “I can’t get the stupid little door to open—” he tugs again, and the door swings open, and with it all of his mail.

“Oh shit—”

“Here, let me—”

Together they collect the mail, which isn’t even a lot this time around, but spread out across the hall it takes an awkwardly long time. Eddie can feel his face flush red, and while he hopes it isn’t noticeable, the look 3B is giving him suggests otherwise.

“Well, that’s a newsflash for you,” Eddie mutters more to himself than anything.

3B tilts his head.

“Cause, you asked if I had news…”

“Oh,” he nods. “Right, yeah.”

If the ground could open up and swallow him whole that would make the situation a lot better.

“Well, thanks for the assist, I guess—”

“Oh, hold up,” 3B stops him, a hand clutching his forearm. He lets go just as quickly, but Eddie stays kneeling in his black square, struck still by the other man’s order and the ghost of his palm along the soft of his arm. 3B leans over to the far side of the mailbox, sweater riding up just past his hip, revealing a thin strip of scarred skin. They’re relatively new, still pink and shiny near the bone, but they must feel fine if the way he’s twisting is any indicator. Eddie thinks back to Nancy’s observation, and desperately hopes it’s not true.

“Here we go,” 3B smiles, pushing a few loose strands back with one hand and flashing Eddie his bounty with the other. It’s the latest edition of Fangoria, one Eddie had finally managed to get an article in. “My kids love these.”

“Kids?”

“Not mine!” He scrambles, cheeks tinting a rosy pink. “Not that I don’t want some of my own someday. Or, they don’t have to be mine mine, adopting is just as good, better sometimes in fact, actually. But I’m not ready for kids now, obviously. I mean the apartment is way too small and Robin—” he winces. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

“No, go on,” Eddie grins. Getting his terribly hot neighbor to fall apart on him, well, it’s certainly a confidence boost that’s for sure. “You got names picked out yet?”

“Haha, very funny.”

“Oh, I haven’t heard those before. Family names?”

3B pushes him, but laughs as he does it, the sound a bright and clear echo in the hall. Eddie falls over with little resistance.

“God, this floor is disgusting,” and then there’s a hand in his face. Eddie grabs on and is heaved up with a surprisingly little effort on his part, bringing him close to the warm, sunny chest of 3B. He’s got a soft smile, one that pulls at the corner of his mouth and leaves a crinkle at his eyes. Eddie’s solidly on his feet now, and still, 3B is holding onto him.

“I’m Steve, by the way. Steve Buckley.”

Steve. It’s exactly the kind of name a yellow sweater wearing prep would have. Steve, a guy’s guy, who plays sports and flirts with pretty girls and who lives a nice, normal life. It’s such a cliché it should turn him off.

“Eddie Munson.”

“Ah, so now I know who’s name to yell when Metallica comes on at 3 am.”

“I thought you didn’t know who they were?” He squints, desperately ignoring the part of his brain playing the idea of Steve yelling his name on a loop 

Steve shrugs, “I might’ve picked up a CD yesterday on my way home from the center. Not really my thing, I think. Too much noise.”

“Too much noise? What are you, sixty?”

“Fifty-nine, actually,” he smirks, drawing another laugh from Eddie.

Steve is leaned in close enough that Eddie can get a good hard look at him. He’s got a few dark moles dotted across his face and trailing down his neck, almost black where they meet the collar of his sweater. There’s a whisper of a mustache on his otherwise clean-shaven face, like maybe he forgot to shave this morning. And although Eddie can’t imagine he’s actually any older than himself, Steve’s already got a few lines along his forehead. Not a lot, and they mostly fade when he relaxes his face, but enough to make him think he spends a lot of time frowning. Or laughing. He hopes it’s the latter, he wants to be the latter.

“Well,” Steve says after a few moments, finally letting go of his arm and pressing the long-forgotten magazine into Eddie’s unoccupied hand. “Try to hold onto these this time.”

Steve leans back, like he knows he should go, but expects Eddie to say something else. Maybe even, Eddie hopes, wants him to say something else.

“So, the Buckley twins are fans of horror?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s leaning back into his orbit.

“Again, I don’t actually have any kids. I’m a Big over at Big Brother, Big Sister. Technically, I’m only a Big to Dustin, but his friends are clingy so I end up driving all of them around when we hang out. They love all this kind of nerd shit,” he points at the cover, featuring a sickly pale Dracula leering over the title, “and apparently their favorite author’s in it or something. An Edwin something?”

Eddie sighs. Of course, this would happen, of course—

“Edgar M.W.?”

Steve snaps a finger, “There you go. Yeah, they go crazy for those books, won’t shut up about them. You know him?”

He bites down on a panicked laugh.

Edgar M.W. His pseudonym. His publishers had thought ‘Eddie Munson’ wasn’t a right fit for his brand, which was bullshit, and almost made him keep it just to piss them off. Ultimately, he’d wanted the anonymity a little more than that, so he’d made up Edgar and added the ‘W’ for his Uncle Wayne.

He’s got six fans, and they’re definitely not adults. They don’t sign their full names off, but he’s got more than a sneaking suspicion that the letters he’s been getting, always signed Yours Faithfully, D. and Company, may in fact belong to Steve’s children. Of course—

“Yeah…we, uh, run in similar circles. I’m a writer, too. Fantasy horror.” It’s technically a lie, but it doesn’t feel like one since he’s not legally Edgar M.W. It’s also not a lie in the way he really hasn’t felt like Edgar M.W. in a long time.

“No way,” Steve’s eyes light up, honey brown in the dead of winter. “Publish anything I’d know? Or, that the kids would?”

“Nah, not lately.” The last work he’d published under ‘Eddie Munson’ had been in high school. Not to mention his work in progress, Untitled (1), which he hadn’t touched in the New Year.

“Why’s that?”

It, or, some variation of it, is the question that’s hounded him since he first started writing it. Where his work was, when was it going to be ready, why couldn’t he pull it together. The question he can’t avoid try as he might, what sends him running, because at the end of the day, Eddie’s only brave in stories.

That’s what should be happening now. He should be giving Steve a polite answer and excusing himself back to avoiding his responsibilities. But…

Steve is watching him. He’s not flashing a smile, but the crinkle around his eyes is still there, still happy talking to him. He’s only an inch taller, if that, but he’s got his head titled down the way tall guys always do when they’re trying to listen—trying to catch what Eddie’s going to say, the same way he had pointed at his bleached-out tour t-shirt yesterday. The t-shirt he’d asked about, and then went and bought a CD just to understand what Eddie meant.

Eddie feels…maybe not brave, but less like a coward.

“Cause it’s shit.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow.

“It is! Grade A, 100% bullshit, as my roommate would call it. It’s overwritten and predictable, it’s got absolutely no heart. And the worst part is, I mean, I’ve written something that could be published. It’s a pile of garbage, but it’s ‘sellable’,” Eddie laughs bitterly.

“My editor loves it,” he continues, everything that’s been rolled up tight in him all pouring out at once, “and the guys who sign my checks really love it. Forget making a statement or art, forget trying to wake people up and do something for a change. Sellable is good! Sellable means the readers get to enjoy a nice bedtime story and we all get to pop champagne. It certainly shouldn’t be a problem, because I do like being able to afford more than canned meat and cold showers, but, uh—” God, he sounds stupid, doesn’t he? He could still be stuck in the trailer selling poppers to high schoolers. He could be Munson Senior, behind bars for a rap sheet longer than his IQ, and he’s worried about selling out. Back then it was easy to talk about artistic integrity when he didn’t have shit to lose.

“Sounds hard,” Steve nods sympathetically.

He rolls his eyes, “Thanks, but it’s really not. I mean—”

“Give yourself a break man,” Steve jostles him, the arm just barely grazing his stomach a shock down his spine. “It sucks, trying to live up to expectations and shit and not getting to be who you are. It’s not fair. And maybe it’s not the biggest deal in the world, but uh…it still hurts. Just, quietly.”

Eddie nods.

“Well, whoever said life was fair, huh?”

“Yeah…yeah, you’re not wrong,” Steve hums, eyes still on him but looking past Eddie to something painful. He wonder if Steve would tell him what he’s thinking, which lines in his face hurt and which he’d wear with pride.

Just when Eddie thinks he’s really brought the mood down just after salvaging yesterday’s mess, Steve comes back to him. He smirks, and he can tell it’s a little put on, but not disingenuous.

“Shame though, I was looking for something new for my bookshelf.”

“I thank you for your artistic integrity, but honestly, if I’m selling out, I’m gonna need you to buy a copy,” Eddie grins at the laugh the bursts from Steve. “Maybe even ten. Something to sandwich between all those Sports Illustrated and the high school copy of The Catcher in the Rye I know you’ve got squirreled away.”

He casts Eddie a wary eye. “How’d you know about those?” He asks, leaning back just slightly, a razor thin edge to his tone.

“Just look the type,” Eddie shrugs, uncertain where he’d fallen off track. “I’ve met a lot of jocks and they’ve all got the same library. And you, Steve-o, with the polos, and the hair, and the clear lack of fine musical sensibilities, well. You fall right into that sweet, sweet preppy jock stereotype.”

Quick as it came, the tension melts from his shoulders, and Steve is back on him again.

“Ouch. I’ve got layers, you know.”

Eddie gives him a considering once over. He’s not exactly the tough guy he’d expected, but there’s something in Buckley he wasn’t prepared for. The flat, small-town plain he’d anticipated had suddenly turned off into a forest without a clear path. Deep, winding, and though perhaps not frightening, something to tread through with a clear mind. An adventure.

“Oh, I’m not saying you don’t,” he smirks, pocketing Steve’s little moment for further inspection. “I’m sure there’s a lot under there I’d like to see.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve breathes, eyes dark and focused. “And what would that be?”

Eddie swallows, throat dry and wanting. Steve’s eyes dart with the movement, before slowly trailing back up to meet him, a smug smirk playing on his lips. The distance between them is barely a foot, just a few inches at most. They’re not touching, but Eddie can feel every carefully measured breath between them, the warmth emanating from Steve seeping into his usually freeze-numb fingertips.

“Well—” he starts, when there’s a beeping, and Steve is out of orbit in a snap. Eddie blinks, the temperature drop an unwelcome wake up call.

“Oh shit—I gotta go,” Steve resets his watch, other hand buried in his hair. “It’s my day to pick up Dustin and his freeloaders, and the last time I was late I got chewed out for an hour.”

“Right! Can’t delay the esteemed royal court,” Eddie says, still dizzy.

Steve snorts. “Royal somethings alright.”

He takes a step back, then stops, and before Eddie can think of anything cute to say, Steve’s tugging at his mail. He pulls out a thick white envelope, one of the square ones that always means someone’s in trouble, and he’s got a cap between his teeth and he’s writing—

“I’m usually home after seven. If Robin answers, hang up. She’s being the most right now,” he presses the letter into Eddie’s chest, keeping his hand there.

“You can throw it away if you want, but if you need someone to talk to. Or see what’s underneath,” he winks.

Eddie blinks. He blinks again, mouth dropping open for a response he simply no longer has the braincells to muster. This is—

He looks down, and he notices three things in an order of increasing despair. The first being that Steve’s got nice handwriting, and he signed it ‘Stevie’ with a little heart over the ‘i’. It’s cute for someone who just technically committed a federal crime, so he’s going to be obsessing over that for the next few hours. Second, the number lands directly over the mailing address, which isn’t Eddie Munson. The means Nancy’s letter, an official looking document spelling only trouble, has been scribbled over by his crush. She’s going to yell at him. Or laugh. Probably both.

And thirdly, Eddie notices Steve’s hand. Pale, with those same dark moles just lightly dotted along the smooth skin and up his well-manicured nails. He hasn’t had a life of hard manual labor, but there’s strength there. The fingers spread wide across his chest, keeping the letter pinned in place, are holding back. Eddie knows he’s also going to be thinking about those fingers later, when he sees it. A little flash of gold gleaming cruelly in the thin winter light.

Steve takes a step back, snapping a finger gun at Eddie.

“See you later, big boy.”

He trips a little on the outer door, then exits with a wave.

Nancy was right. Steve Buckley is definitely flirting with him. Steve Buckley, who is also married.

—

Eddie trudges up to the apartment one stair at a time, letters heavy in his hand. He walks in, slips his shoes off, and slumps into the seat by the window overlooking the alley.

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment.

He tosses aside a few credit card offers, and sets Fangoria to the side for himself, same with the letter from the kids, which is particularly heavy today. Star Trek VI must’ve been good. D. & Company. Steve’s Dustin. Steve who’s good with kids and cheats on his wife.

Eddie groans, letting his head fall onto the tiny side table. This, this is why he didn’t want to see the signs. Because just his type is also code for unavailable. From ‘straight’ boys wanting to experiment in high school to sleazy one-night stands in the city, he has a knack for attracting the worst guys. So of course, his cute, flirty, kind and considerate neighbor is legally spoken for and less than morally upstanding.

Why else would a guy and girl move in together? Why else would he mention wanting kids?

If Robin answers, hang up. He’s met Robin before, mostly in passing and never for a terribly long conversation, but she’s funny and a little weird the way he likes his friends. There’s also something distinctly not-straight about her. She’s got a pink triangle pin on her bag and she manages to bring up Nancy in every single one of their five-minute conversations. Maybe she’s just a great ally, a true feminist, but it’s more than that. It’s the way she carries herself, the carefully placed confidence along her shoulders, like she’s not used to being loud and proud but fighting for it anyway.

Steve didn’t have those shoulders. His spoke confidence, a lightness to them that detailed a life of things being handed to him, of smiles and pats on the back and the easiness that came with being blissfully unaware of slurs thrown out car windows and nightmares of hospital rooms.

Just, quiet. The lines in his forehead. The tender pink of his hip bone. The CD he bought and the book he wanted to read.

He shoves his hands into his hair, rings knotting up in the greasy roots, and pulls hard, hissing at the sharp pain along his crown. He’s being stupid, he’s acting desperate. Sure, Steve’s hot and good to kids, but at the end of the day, he’s like every other guy. He’s a straight guy bored with his happy marriage. They’ll hook up and maybe it would be fun for a weekend, but he’ll always get The Look. A sneer of disgust and shame, a blank stare when Eddie mentions breakfast. No, Steve’s nice, so he’d get a pitying smile and a pat on the cheek before he leaves to pick up Robin for t-ball practice.

No. Fuck. He’s not going to be another repressed guy’s outlet. He’s not going to call, he’s not going to think about the little heart, and he’s not going to get the look.

Determined, Eddie pops up, sorting through the remaining pile for his number and does his best to crumble it up, the thick cardstock texture unwilling to bend very far. He doesn’t get the ball he wanted, and he’s a little sweaty at this point, but the symbolism is there. He chucks the envelope out the window before realizing that one, it’s still Nancy’s fucking mail, and two, that the window is in fact still shut tight, bouncing back on his face.

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment.

He only screams a little.

Outside, a flock of birds fly over the adjacent apartment building. A car horn blares. That’s when he notices an unfamiliar face leaning up against the trash bin. Cities are big, sure, but their alley isn’t one you exactly wander into by accident. The guy’s got tight blonde curls, a gold tan unhindered by anything more than a short-sleeve button-down, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. There’s a distinct edge to his stance, one Eddie recognizes from his dad’s old buddies. This guy’s done time, and he did it well.

Unease itches along his spine. Eddie might scare easy, but there is definitely something wrong with this guy.

As if sensing his thoughts, the guy looks directly up at him. Logically, Eddie knows he’s not really looking at him, the vantage from the alley into the living room is pretty shit, but there’s a smirk on his lip more akin to a snarl than anything. Like a predator that’s finally caught sight of its prey.

Quick as it came, the cigarette is crushed under the heel of his dark boots and he struts back out to the street.

Eddie sighs. This city is so fucking weird sometimes. God, he’d kill for a cigarette.

What he settles for instead is curling up on the couch with a Lucky Light and the rhythmic flick of his lighter. He misses their TV. Not by much, but it was always a nice distraction. More than anything, he misses the old westerns Wayne used to watch, misses his gentle snores and the death grip he had on his stone-cold mug of coffee. No cigarettes, no TV, no goddamn luck. Not unless you count the bubblegum, which ain’t much.

At some point he falls into a restless sleep, tossing and turning, each time almost drifting off until another call comes in or the radiator screams randomly.

“Hey,” and there’s a short, strong tug on his shoulder. He jerks up, blurry vision focusing on Nancy setting down a take-out bag on the table. “Got Thai tonight.”

“Oh, thank God,” Eddie mumbles, digging into the first plastic container she hands him, groaning as grilled chicken and sweet and sour sauce hit him full force. “Cross that—you are God, Nancy Wheeler.”

 “Jesus, okay. Did you eat today?”

“Yes, dad. Had a sandwich with bread and everything.”

She raises a brow, “That’s it?” 

He rolls his eyes. It’s not his fault his brain doesn’t tell him he’s hungry till three hours later. At least it wasn’t a nothing-in-this-house-is-edible day. “Oh, yeah? And what’d you have?”

Though she doesn’t have the same malfunction, Nancy is just as bad as him, regularly skipping meals in favor of shitty office coffee. A cliché if he’s ever seen one, though he can’t blame her. He’s right too, because suddenly, she seems very interested in her spring rolls.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he smirks.

“Anyway,” she breezes through, shoulders clinched tight, “How was your day? Did you call Chrissy back yet?”

“…no.”

“Eddie—”

“I know! I was going to but—” he sighs. She’s going to get it out of him one way or the other, might as well submit to the inevitable. “I saw 3B again.”

“Oh?”

“His name is Steve. As always, you were right, he was definitely flirting with me and it was going, if I say so myself, really well. That is, until I saw the ring.” He hums a few notes, miming a piano with one hand.

The heavy pit in his stomach from earlier grows twice in size at the sight of Nancy’s face. Mouth pinched, eyebrows slightly upturned. It’s the look he gets whenever he tells her a story from his childhood, even though some of those are actually funny just in an admittedly fucked up kind of way. He shifts uncomfortably.  

“It’s whatever, Nance. Life sucks, and then you die,” he shrugs, trying to play it cool. It doesn’t work, it never works with her, because she’s still got her look. “Probably better not to get biblical with the neighbors anyway. Don’t shit where you eat and all that.”

He itches under her gaze.

“Eddie—"

“Just—leave it. Okay? Honestly, it’s not even that big of a deal. I’m just sorry for Robin if anything.”

The radiator clanks.

“I told you she wasn’t into me,” she says, just as cool.

“I wouldn’t say that, I mean—"

“What would you say, then?” Her voice has the razor-sharp edge to it, the kind that tells him if he pushes, he’s getting cut, and Eddie’s had enough slashes to the heart for one day.

She goes back to her spring rolls, skipping the usual third-degree he’d be getting over his feelings and what exactly he saw. Great. Fucking great. As much as she’s the rock in this relationship, he forgets how sensitive she is underneath it all, and now he’s gone and fucked it up. He sinks further into the couch.

The rest of the meal is quiet, both of them stewing in their own take-out container of disappointment. When they’re done, Eddie cleans up, a quiet apology for ruining the mood.

Nancy’s with The Board now, back turned to him. He slouches over to the couch, burying himself in one of the pillows. It’s always easier for him to sleep with someone else in the room, something about the noise of cohabitation lulling him to sleep, but the weight of 3B presses in on him.

He turns over, still deciding between a joke and a more sincere apology, to find Nancy not where he left her. Instead, she’s by the window, opened envelope clutched in one hand and its contents in the other, brow furrowed.

“What is this?”

Panic floods over him, “Oh, shit—listen, he wrote it down before I realized—”

“No, Eddie—” she crosses the room, thrusting the letter in his face. “What is this?”

Instead of anger or frustration like he expects, her face is almost completely blank, just the slightest twitch of her lip like she’s holding herself back from firing off. She raises a brow at the mail, wiggling it for effect.

At first, Eddie’s sure he’s somehow still halfway asleep, because it won’t come into focus. He blinks, then wipes at his eyes with a clumsy hand. The first page, creased from his earlier attempts, has a row of columns with a series of numbers running down the left-hand side and dotted throughout the main text. The text itself is strange, letters he recognizes but strung together wrong, forming half a word before falling into gibberish. Some of the letters themselves don’t look right, ‘N’s that face the other way or ‘O’s with slashes through them. Wait—

“Is that—”

“Russian,” she nods, eyes shining bright as she shuffles through the pages, “And look. No sender, no return address. Just this.”

The last page has the same column structure but is almost entirely empty save for a few notes in Russian at the top. Scribbled across the center in thick black ink are two distinctly English words:

KEEP. DIGGING.

Holy. Fuck.

“Barbara Holland was murdered,” Nancy says. “We’re going to find out why.”

[bluedalahorse]

Scenes are such an interesting element of writing because like… you can have a writing teacher who tells you that scenes are the basic units that make up a story, and that writing teacher can also give you tips on what makes a good scene and different ways to start and end scenes and so on. I’ve had helpful teachers over the years who teach me these things! And I’ve taken the time to read other books closely, and watched TV shows with a solid grasp of plot. I’ve taken notes and marked up books with sticky notes even built elaborate spreadsheets to teach myself how works are structured.

But even armed with so much theoretical knowledge, I still find writing my own scenes, as well as balancing them with summary, quite challenging. I’ve had to write and revise and write and revise, and sometimes I’ve had to change course in the middle of a fanfic chapter when I realize a particular part of the story needs three scenes instead of one. Or sometimes I’m summarizing something that needs to be dramatized in a scene (or at times dramatizing something that can be summarized.) There’s a part of scene-crafting that’s intuitive and emotional but another part that’s all about the logic and structure and you have to get those two parts of your brain to cooperate, but they are two different cats with two very different temperaments. It’s difficult!

“Show, don’t tell” is conventional writing advice to the point of being cliché and not always helpful. However, I find I vibe with it so much more when I think about it in the context of scene crafting rather than about it being something that happens on the level of individual sentences or paragraphs. Like, scenes are a chance to show what is internally going on with the character through their interaction with an external world. I could write you an essay about how much my protagonist hates PE class and summarize her reasons for hating it, or I could write you a scene where PE class is starting and she’s desperately trying to hide under the bleachers and play hooky, and the teacher’s calling her name in the attendance, and everything smells enough like sweaty gym socks enough that it makes her want to puke a bit.

But that’s me getting into writing theory again. What I’m trying to say here is that I didn’t get better at scenes without constantly practicing them in my own writing. Writing novels in verse seriously helped me, because I had to tell everything in poems. Poems as units of a story have to be very purposeful, and usually there’s an image or set of images tied to that purpose. So I think writing in verse helped me to think more purposefully about scenes, even when I got back to prose. I know some authors who draft entirely in verse and only come back to prose later. That’s not quite me but I do use poetry a lot to open up my brain and get it working.

The wild thing is… something else may work for you! Poems work for me but they don’t work for everyone! I swear, you hit a certain part in your journey as a writer, and you’re like, is this the part where it gets easy? And no, what you’re really learning is, some things will always be difficult, you’re just more realistic about what the difficult parts are and you’ve built up more capacity to be stubborn about doing them anyway, and you have ten thousand more strategies for tricking yourself into getting words on the page.

Anyway. Scenes are neat but challenging. How does everyone else handle scene crafting in their work?

[ineffible-chaos]

The Christmas Kids

Summery:

It's been four years since Craig Tucker stepped into South Park. After a nasty, one-sided breakup at sixteen with his long-term boyfriend, Tweek Tweak, Craig has been on a downward spiral with seemingly no end. With a new assignment from his therapist, Stripe #10 and enough medication to kill a small village, Craig is returning to the source of all his problems. Things have changed in South Park and some people don't know how to leave well enough alone. With new friends, old friends, and something in between, Craig just wants to disappear out of the lives of everyone

Parings: Craig/Tweek, Kyle/Stan, Kenny/Butters/Marj

“I dream of you in every waking and sleeping moment and its the sweetest and cruelest form of torture.”

Day one.

My name is Craig Tucker.

I’m twenty-two years old.

My therapist is making me do this assignment where I have to make an entry for a whole year. Three hundred and sixty-five entries. He told me that it was okay to skip a day or two if I forgot or didn't have the energy to write anything down. I don't mind this if i'm being honest, it's better than wallowing in my own self pity like I have been the last few years.

I think it would be rude to not introduce myself to you, even if you are just a leather bound book filled with empty space.

So.

My name is Craig Tucker and I'm depressed.

I was first diagnosed when I was sixteen when my boyfriend of six years broke up with me. Then a lot of stuff happened and I got the free upgrade of having MDD- major depressive disorder, a few years later. I’m gay, I’ve known since I was fourteen. You’re probably wondering, “Craig, how did you have a boyfriend for six years if you didn’t know you were gay until years after you started dating him?”

That, my friend, is the question, isn't it? I grew up in South Park, this fucked up little town in Colorado. The adults were insane, there was one fat kid who was a menace to society (his friends were too, I still hate them for Puru) and then there was Tweek.

Tweek Tweak was this neurotic little blond kid whose parents ran the only coffee shop in all of South Park.

We even fought once because of the fat kid I mentioned earlier. We’d played superheroes together (I was Super Craig and I beat the shit out of other kids, I loved it) and before we “dated”, we were doing some medieval shit with this new kid who farted. Like, a lot. It was a weird time.

Then the Asian girls started making yaoi fanart of us and the whole town had decided that we were gay, dating and that was that. We “broke up” shortly after and Tweek had decided to make me sound like a cheating bastard with some dude named Michael (srsly what the fuck, im still mad about that).

But I guess we just sort of stayed together after that. We fake dated for the town but we actually became really good friends and eventually the line between friends and being something more just… blurred. I was the only one who could calm him down and he was the only one I could stand touching me.

That's sort of my thing. My family never believed in coddling their kids and it was rare to be touched in a way that wasn't violent (I got into fights a lot) or those posed two second family pictures. I even remember flinching away from his touch in the beginning because it was so foreign.

I haven't let anyone else touch me since.

The thought makes my skin crawl, like having any one else’s hands on me but his made me want to throw up.

Sorry, I'm rambling aren't i? It's been a while since i've talked to anyone that wasn't the therapist.

I'm gonna be honest, book. I’m not okay.

I’ve been in love with my ex for nearly ten years and I don't know how to get over him. No one else clicks and a part of me is so, so tired of getting drunk and high to feel something other than misery and self pity that I just want everything to end. That sounds bad doesn't it? Who feels that way over some guy?

Everything feels heightened now because I'm going home to South Park for the first time in four years and I'm scared out of my mind. I was a complete mess that last year and a half of high school after Tweek broke up with me and I spent most of that time high, drunk or both on the first set of meds that made me feel numb enough that I could barely think and when i could, i was so fucking miserable i wanted to die.

If I'm being honest, I don't even know how I graduated. Despite what everyone thought about Kyle Broflovsky and Wendy Testaburger being the smartest in our grade, I had been on track to be valedictorian, which I hid from everyone as best I could. Sure, I had sucked at school when I was younger but the teachers had been able to tweak (ha, jokes) how I was taught and boom, smart as hell.

Honestly, I think my teachers felt bad for me and just passed the depressed gay kid who was dumped by his long term boyfriend for a fucking girl.

Ugh.

Book, this entry is making me want to jump so I’m gonna end it here. So see you for entry two, maybe I won’t be so miserable the next time we talk.

-Craig.

He flipped the book closed and flexed his fingers, which had cramped from the amount of writing he'd done. A part of him had almost felt bad for trauma dumping through the pages and immediately wanted to punch himself in the face because how fucking stupid is that? It's a book.

He hadn’t been lying as he wrote and he’d even felt like the slightest bit of weight had eased off of his shoulders for a moment. He looked around his barren dorm room and wished he could make time stop moving; graduation had come and gone and now he was heading back home to South Park for the first time in years. Apartments were too expensive in the city and he was completely wiped out from paying tuition.

So home it was. Tricia was about to be in her senior year of high school and he’d felt guilty for missing so many events the last few years. His mom was excited he was coming home and he had no doubt that every single miserable person in town knew the Gay Kid was coming back home.

Being out of the cold shadow of the mountains had done him good, his voice had finally let go of the lispy rasp he’d had for so long and he'd let his hair grow out so it stuck out from under his hat.

He looked towards the desk in his room and stood from his perch on the bed. Stripe #10 had been changed to his carrying case and he’d protested it, his angry weeks expressing just how he felt being in his tiny enclosure.

“Dude, chill. You’ll be in there for only a little longer and I’ll give you treats later.”

Stripe let out a huff in response.

“Don’t sass me young man, it's hard being a single mother dealing with your tantrums.”

Damn kids.

He shrugged his bag on and lifted the cage, leaving behind the dorm he’d occupied for so long. He left the key by the RA office and put Stripe in the front seat of his car, buckling him in and throwing the bag into the back seat.

“Don’t expect to see your deadbeat dad anytime soon bud, just because we’re going home doesn’t mean you get to see him.” He said to Stripe, who didn’t respond.

Teenagers are so ungrateful nowadays, he thought to himself and started the long journey to South Park.

this is also posted on A03

<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/

[zephfair]

Thank you so much for tagging me @mychemicalrachel You made me really think about this one! 😘💖💖💖

Rules: in a text post, list ten books that have stayed with you in some way. don’t take but a few minutes, and don’t think too hard — they don’t have to be the “right” or “great” works, just the ones that have touched you.

I’m cheating because I’m procrastinating, these are mostly series, and I feel like babbling.🤣

1. The Black Stallion series by Walter Farley. 🐴🐎🐴 I was that crazy horse girl growing up and I re-read most of these books so many times, especially The Black Stallion Mystery, I could’ve quoted them. Except for the weird end-of-the-world one. That one scared me so badly, I never could finish it.

2. Man O’ War by Walter Farley. 🐴🏇🏇 Same reason, I was a horse-obsessed kid and this one about the real-life, famous racehorse moved me and made me cry and I told everyone for years that I wanted to be a jockey when I grew up. SPOILER: I did not achieve this dream. But I still remember the book and story very fondly.

3. The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. 🌸💮🌸 I read this as a kid and thought it was lovely and sad and very moving. I listened to an audiobook of it a couple years ago, and it held up.

4. Red Storm Rising by Tom Clancy. As a teenager I got into the Tom Clancy novels (idk how; I think Mom bought me some used because they were very long and she thought it’d slow down my book consumption🤷), and I remember carrying this one to school for months because I would read it (656 pages!) in hidden snatches during study halls or free time. When I finished it, I did a book report on it and got an A.😂

5. Agatha Christie’s novels. I started reading them young and I think they convinced me that I and everyone I knew was eventually going to be poisoned to death or, alternatively, accused of poisoning someone to death.☠️🕵️🧐 She made me love mystery novels! I’ve started listening to her works on audiobooks and they’re still fun—overly convoluted and chock-full of dated red herrings—but fun!

6. The Amelia Peabody series by Elizabeth Peters. 💖💖💖💖💖 I love these books so much. I stumbled upon the first one just browsing in the library as an adult, and I read the series as quickly as possible. They’re fantastic, and some of the best first-person, unreliable narrator books I’ve ever read. They’re funny and full of adventure because Amelia and her family are Egyptologists in Victorian times. The later ones don’t hold up quite as well because of one relationship I will never like, but they’re still better than most other mysteries. The author was an Egyptologist so she gets all that right. The audiobooks with Barbara Rosenblat are amazing—she is fantastic!

7. Die for Love by Elizabeth Peters. 💀💖 Her standalone novels are definitely dated, but still more fun and entertaining than most other authors. I just love her style of writing, and she crafts characters that make me care because they feel like fully realized people. This one is in another of her series featuring Jacqueline Kirby who might be a stand-in for the author, but as I approach middle-age, I appreciate her a lot more. 🤣 This one pokes gentle fun at the romance novel industry—not the novels because the author literally wrote romance novels under another name—but the publishing industry as a whole. I have no idea if things have improved, but I hope so.

8. The Discworld series by Terry Pratchett.🐢🐘❣️❣️❣️ I can’t even pick out my favorites, or the ones who’ve influenced me the most, because they all have. Finding Terry Pratchett’s works changed my life, and specifically, changed my ideas about writing and storytelling. I could talk forever about everything I love about his writing--because even the books I don’t love the most still have made me think and analyze things about life and myself--but I won’t. Just go read them. If anyone wants a specific recommendation, hit me up. There are different sagas within the series, and you can start with one of them.

9. One for the Money by Janet Evanovich was really interesting to me because her writing style is so spare and her characters are complete caricatures, but it worked for, like, five or six fun books. By the time I found her books, I was in my 20s and analyzing writing styles, and I still don’t want to write like her, but it’s okay for a really quick, action-packed read.

10. The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan. The first four books are incredible. The best fantasy I’ve ever read, and I will fight about this.😂🤣 I was introduced to them in college, and I read those 7 or 8 available, but especially the first four over and over. I loved his writing style, I was in awe of his world-building abilities, I adored his characters because even the ones I loathed felt like real people. I waited for years to read the final three, and I’m sorry and all apologies to Brandon Sanderson fans, but I was majorly, extremely disappointed. The change in style, the huge changes in characters, all of it was too much. I only read them once, cried a lot at the fate of some of my favorites, and was done. 😢

[narwhalpanda]

15 questions/15 people

thank you @angry-velociraptor for tagging me! im usually horrible at filling these (i tell myself aw thats sweet, ill do it later and then ill NEVER get back to it) but today im determined to answer some questions >:3c

1. are you named after anyone?

nope, my mom had to change plans for my name last minute so that my birthday and name day didn't fall on the same day. but even the planned name still wasn't an homage to anyone

2. when was the last time you cried?

about two days ago watching the end of Search for Bob (CR1 oneshot) when Liev'tel asks the Raven Queen whether Vex and Keyleth will be happy. that got me good, dammit Liam and Matthew

but overall i am so easily moved to tears its ridiculous

3. do you have kids?

nu-uh

4. do you use sarcasm a lot?

lately i've noticed that it's not always obvious to some of my friends when im joking/sarcastic without malice, so im trying not to unless im sure there cannot be a misunderstanding

5. what’s the first thing you notice about people?

their neutral facial expression (or how the look at me) and height i think?

6. what’s your eye color?

grey-blue, got that from dad's side

7. scary movie or happy endings?

im not much into movies but ive definitely watched more horrors than romantic comedies, so ill go with scary (ive got Mouth of Madness on my list rn)

8. any special talents?

not exactly a talent but id say im weirdly lucky when it counts

9. where were you born?

in czech republic, normal hospital baby

10. what are your hobbies?

drawing is my life long hobby, something i keep coming back to. lately ive become the filthiest of casuals of ttrpgs and im having a blast. also i have been housebound for past three months (icky leg injury) and in that time i got to come back to reading which has also always been my beloved activity, as well as pick up new things like painting minis (ive got little ranger/fighter/wizard mice miniatures and the are tiny and adorable af) and in past few days i got into neocities so im learning html and css to make my own little website and im having so much fun. id like to formally apologize to all my for the time abandoned hobbies, including but not limited to writing, embroidery, linocut and sewing, i swear ill get back to yall some time but now is just not that time.

11. do you have any pets?

currently not :c

12. what sports do you play/have you played?

ive played volleyball for ten years, i stopped playing when i went to college. after that ive done tai-chi for a year, then nothing for a loong time, then i finally decided to hit the gym and get some shoulders, which went great before i felt fit enough to try volleyball again and that is where my 3 month long icky leg injury comes from lmao. but when im healed id love to get fit again (not sure about the volleyball, im super scared but asasdgf it made me so happy to play again), it was brief but awesome, it really is so good for my body and brain to exercise regularly

13. how tall are you?

169 cm, which i think is about 5'6"

14. favorite subject in school?

geography and literature. i wish i remembered more from both high school and uni, man, it was cool to know things about these

15. dream job?

my dream job used to be book editor or librarian. now... ive worked as a librarian for two years now, on two different posts, and i really like the job, tho i eventually wish to do something that is paid a bit better and/or more creative. id like some fun job sometime in my life. but who wouldnt :D

tagging: @lawful-goof @mu-mumie @zraloci-cpr @picachews @zelvuska (feel no obligation you know how it goes :3)

[nothingofvaluewaslost]

STORY: My Horse

Horror; surreal. A young girl waits for the day when she will get to fulfil her purpose as a horse owner.

No objectionable content.

If you enjoyed it, here is my Patreon.

My Horse, by Christina Nordlander

There are fifteen days to go until Mum takes me to the stables to meet my horse.

I have already got past the first stage: the one where I wrote to all my relatives to tell them, the one where I could have rushed down to the playground and shouted it to all the other kids in the apartment block. Now I am sitting in the living-room where Mum sleeps at night, at my writing-desk in the shaft of daylight beneath the window, reading Equine Anatomy and Husbandry and the entry about horses in the encyclopaedia.

I made sure to be seen with them in front of me all the time, the only books about horses that we own, while Mum was still making her mind up. Now that I do not need to worry any more, I read them for real, so that I will know straight away what to do if my horse eats anything dangerous or its hooves need cleaning. I cover the labels on the anatomical chart to check how many I know by heart, and when I have to turn out the light in the bedroom, when I have no other way to make time move, I rattle off the names in the dark inside my head until they are gone and I am asleep.

If I put as much time into homework, I would probably have the best grades in my year. Mum would be proud of me, but studying is for people who want to shine and put their hands up all the time. Aunt Nadège says that a horse is more important, the commitment of a lifetime.

Other times, I sit with a sheet of paper on top of the glossy pages, writing lists of horse names. Even that is almost too intense. Maybe I should have waited until a bit later. Mum says that she has seen the horse and that it is brown, the colour that is called bay in horses. But I do not need to know what it looks like to come up with a long row of names.

Star. Fury. Silverwhite. Jewel.

*

Fourteen days left. It feels longer, now that it has become two weeks.

*

Thirteen days. I can barely manage – I can manage only because all I need to do is wait. Thirteen days feels as hard for the brain to grasp as a year, but maybe I will dream about it. Nights do not count; they feel like they only last a couple of minutes. I would sleep more if I could, but I have to do my homework and make sure that the kitchen is tidy when Mum comes home.

There is such a long time left. If I got to sleep through it, there would be no risk of anything getting in the way.

*

Eleven days. I have not got anything to tell, unless I should tell my dreams. I like the dreams, but my horse will not remember what adventures we had in them.

I do not go to school any more. Amy on the floor below us, who is one of the people whom Mum cleans for, comes up and gives me the page numbers for that day in the study books. We have jumped ahead in the book and the assignments have got harder. When I told Mum, she joked, “or else it’s you who have become a bit thick, honey.”

We have these two rooms: my room, which never lets in enough light to do anything other than get changed or sleep, and the living-room with Mum’s sofa-bed and my writing-desk and the fumes from the kitchenette. And the window, which shows the playground in the square, then the other blocks, then the forest canopy. There is nowhere here suitable for a horse. Perhaps the forest, if there is enough space between the trunks.

I let my gaze glide across the wallpaper, the same in both rooms, beige and white bands with a design of brown metallic rosettes. Or else I look out into the pearly sky, as if my gaze could pierce through the haze, to the stables.

*

Ten days, and everything is about to end.

Mum came home and yelled at me because I had not done the washing-up. Sometimes she has been able to finish earlier and come home before I thought I needed to start, but this time I had no excuse. I sat with my list of names and my articles about symptoms when I heard her clatter in the stairwell.

She never gets angrier than when I give her more work to do. There are things that make her shout louder, but this time her voice sounded as if something had broken inside her. She said I was just a stupid child who could not think about anything except having fun.

She says she might not take me to the stables.

My thoughts hit a high threshold there. All the things I could do to convince her how bad I feel – cry, throw myself on the floor, promise to do better – would only convince her that I do not deserve Silverwhite.

We had dinner in silence. It was pork loin with pineapple sauce, and all I could taste was the tears running down the inside. The food was just thick matter. I did not let myself cry externally until I was lying in bed and the light was off.

*

Nine days.

Eight days.

Mum has not said anything about him.

*

Silverwhite

*

Six days.

It might be fine now. Mum came home and talked about Silverwhite – though of course she does not know his name – as if it is still on the table.

I do not know how I reacted. The threat felt like it was eternal, but this new state is like something guttering that can be taken from me at any moment. I get the notion that I must not show how happy I am, because then she might take him from me again: tell me I am irresponsible, or childish, or any of all the other words that only mean that I will be cut off from Silverwhite. And another part of my distracted brain feels that I need to show how happy I am, or else she will think it is not important to me.

*

Five days.

Hooves, currying, saddle blanket, girth, bit, headpiece, noseband. There are still so many days left, the only things I can do are in my head. I write rhymes about the different parts of horse husbandry and memorise them. I practised saddling and bridling movements with my hands, until Amy told me I had not held the equipment yet and might be learning wrong.

I wonder if I can learn farriery. I wonder if Silverwhite will tell me what is his favourite food.

When I went to bed, I heard the door click. Mum stood in the lit doorway.

“Océane,” she said, “it feels like you see me as a crabby old witch.”

Or perhaps it was last night, I no longer remember well.

*

Four days.

When I opened my eyes, it was with a resolve, as real as if I had woken up with an alien object in my bed: I need to wait until Silverwhite has imprinted on me, and then we will run away together.

I do not know whether I can manage. I do not hate Mum, I do not see her as a witch. I try not to look at her at all, because if I do, I will see how tired and middle-aged and anxious she is.

What I want is for her to see how happy I will be when Silverwhite is with me, and then I will have them both and we will like each other. But as long as she can take him from me, just on a whim, we are not safe.

*

The last day!

I do not think I have dreamt about anything other than Silverwhite last night, so to wake and brush my teeth was like a transparent skip in my dream.

I will tell the clearest one. I was outside the apartment block. I assume I was outside: there were squares of shrubberies and a luminous sky, and, far, far up, great statues or beings that looked down on us. I do not know if they could move.

I toss down a breakfast that I cannot taste and put on my finest outdoorsy clothes, the pearl-grey skirt with a wide hem and the white blouse with openwork in the cuffs. I leave ahead of Mum and the delegate from the stables.

The outside world looks like my dream. I am close to stumbling and slowing them down, even now, because there is so much sky, far more than ground.

One of those times I glance back towards them. I see that Mum is grumpy. Yes, she looks like a grumpy, bitter, crabby witch. I have given up the hope of getting to keep them both, but now I know I will manage, because I can hear Silverwhite’s voice in the soughing of my blood and the rhythm of my heartbeat.

Come, he calls, his voice as wild as if he were a cloud and a gale that have only been captured in a horse’s image by an allegorical artist. Come, Océane, vanquisher!

Our footsteps echo in the riding stables. I enter a cloakroom and put on jodhpurs in brown chamois, a riding cap and shiny boots. On the other side of the plank door, the delegate says:

“... unnecessary, really.”

And Mum forces out a hiss, as if she wants it to be heard inside:

“Oh, let her have this, at least!”

The boots give me different steps as I emerge in the sunlight. His voice is almost deafening now, impossible to separate from the wind.

Mum’s hand clamps like scissors around my shoulder through the jacket. I cannot understand why she begrudges me this, what I may have done for her to hate me so.

The yard is in shadow now. It is only a cloud, but it is flying too low.

It peeks over the stable roof. I walk alone across the quad towards him.

THE END

[musingsofabookworm1]

My Last Five Reads of Summer 2024

Last day of summer. One of the saddest days on the calendar. But at least I snuck in two books this weekend.

*By Any Other Name by Jodi Picoult I pre-ordered this ages ago. I avoided reading anything about it until it arrived on my doorstep. And as if I wasn't excited enough, Shakespeare was a huge part of the plot! Most people who know enough about Shakespeare know that it is widely accepted that he didn't write his works. There are various reasonings which all make sense, and there are a number of people at the time who are pointed to as potential authors of his plays and his poems. Picoult's novel sets out to show how Emilia Bassano - the first woman in England who declared herself a professional poet - could be the writer of Shakespeare's work.

The book is written in two timelines. Obviously Bassano's is one of them. The other is one of her ancestors in, for the most part, present day: Melissa Green. Melissa, too, is playwright. Years prior to the plot, in college, a critic ripped one of her plays to shreds and told her what to write instead. So ten years later, she wrote it. And her friend, unbeknownst to Melissa, sent it in to a contest. If her play wins, it'd be performed.

I liked that part of the book. A lot. But Emilia's part dominated much more of the almost 500 pages. And her part got long. And, at times, boring. And I am someone that read a lot of Shakespeare in college and enjoyed it.

*Sigh* to three stars. Here's hoping her next effort is better.

*Small Game by Blair Braverman I had this one on hold as an ebook for a long time as the library didn't have it. Which is odd because it's by a Wisconsin author and takes place in Northern Wisconsin.

Protagonist Mara is one of four strangers chosen to be dropped into the wilderness of northern Wisconsin for a survival-themed reality show. If she survives for six weeks, she wins a big chunk of change.

That's all I knew going in, and I think that made for a solid reading experience. Until the end. Being totally up front and honest, this was one of the most disappointing endings I've ever read it. It was like the author had reached a quota or decided she didn't want to write anymore. She tried to bring the whole novel together in a page and a half. And it deserved more.

4 stars only because of the ending.

The Mysterious Case of the Alperton Angels by Janice Hallett I loved this book! There was no prose. None! It was all written in texts and emails and dialogs. This is definitely not for everyone, but it was definitely for me. I haven't felt this sucked into a book in awhile!

The title group is cult who tricked a teenaged girl into thinking her baby was the anti-Christ. When they wanted to kill the baby, the girl called the police. The cult committed suicide, and the underage mother and baby disappeared.

18 years later, as the baby is coming of age, author Amanda Bailey wants to write a true crime book about the Alperton Angels. That's what this book is about. She wants to find the girl and the baby as well as the baby's father to get the real info about what went down.

The plot works with being written this way as texts and emails are exchanged between Amanda and people who are related to the case. When she meets up with some, the dialogs come to light. The plot does get a bit convoluted at the end but not in a confusing way.

5 stars for this one!

In the Study with the Wrench and In the Ballroom with the Candlestick by Diana Peterfreund

The second two books of a young-adult trilogy based on the board game. So nothing to report here. But I did actually like them better than the first. Oddly, I liked the second book most of all, and those are usually the worst of trilogies! 4 stars each