#fanfiction is cheaper than therapy

[kidsomeday]

Summary:

“It’s worse than that,” Chuuya said. “He hasn’t gone grocery shopping in two weeks.”

“Well sometimes we all lose track of time-”

“He hasn’t needed to go grocery shopping in two weeks,” Akutagawa cut in.

Dazai took a moment to process that.

“Fuck,” was his conclusion.

Atsushi and Dazai both struggle with their inner demons, but at least they're not alone.

(Elsewhere, he thinks he might begin to understand.) Written for Dazatsu Week Day 4 (belated) (This fic deals with eating disorders and self harm. Mind the tags and take care of yourself.)

[ineffectualdemon]

Sometimes you can't say something nice to yourself or face a personal revelation head on so you make fictional characters say and experience those things for you

[massharp1971]

He’d never felt it before. This sense of home, of family, of belonging. Rodney knew he wasn’t the easiest of people to be around, but being welcomed in Atlantis slowly knocked off some of his rough edges. He’d mellowed over that first decade here. It felt good. And then tiny changes happened – he became they, Rodney became Mer, the appearance of occasional nail polish, a little eyeliner, discreet earrings. Such small things. Then some healthcare happened that wasn’t anybody’s business but theirs.

read on ao3

[lex-jots]

From a Taste for Danger (Charlie/Reader)

Charlie remembered the fight he and his parents had when he broke the news that he was failing one of his classes. “How could the same kid who spent hours practicing kickflips—” his dad spat the word, and Charlie winced, “—go on to fail English 101?”

For Charlie, it's a perfect night for a good old-fashioned pity party. Lucky for him, Casper arrives just in time to break up the wallowing.

AO3

Charlie didn’t consider himself a risk-taker. Just… mildly rebellious.

He’d been having a beef stroganoff dinner with his folks in the beige-themed dining room. There was a plastic floral centerpiece on the table. It was normal. His Pop asked him about his day (fine, apart from the feisty old lady with the Coke bottle glasses, whose shrill voice he could still hear in his head after messing up her order), and how Pete was (also fine, if cranky due to the shrill old lady). His mom went on about what’s-her-face from Human Resources, and how she was a bitch sometimes but she was going through an ugly divorce so his mom was trying to lend her some grace, and Charlie hummed and nodded along to her rant. His dad not-so-subtly brought up juco, and Charlie not-so-subtly excused himself from the conversation and the table to wash dishes.

It was a nice, normal dinner, and he was grateful for it, he thought as he paced impatiently around his acid green-painted room.

After a few minutes of pacing, Charlie scrubbed at his face. He didn’t get why he couldn’t just be happy. It had been this way since he was young, too. There was something about sitting in that beige dining room and gossiping like a normal, Hallmark middle class family that was like sandpaper on his skin. Or… under his skin? Like that scene in Nightmare Before Christmas where the burlap sack guy was really just a bunch of bugs pretending to be a person. Sitting at the table made the bugs under his skin crawl.

Was that a weird thought? That was probably a weird thought.

Maybe it was a comparison thing. His mom and pop had respectable jobs, college degrees, and success, versus him, the oddball, fuck-up kid who worked at a pizza joint and smoked dope sometimes and schmoozed off their generosity.

Charlie stopped pacing. No, he thought sternly. He was working an honest job, just like them. Charlie might not have had much to brag about, but at least he had that much. It was something. He nodded to himself and continued pacing.

He really did feel like an oddball, though. Like a puzzle piece that never quite fit into his parents’ perfect picture. Always a little too loud, or a little too quiet; always caring too much about stuff that didn’t matter, or too little about stuff that did.

Charlie remembered the fight when he broke it to them at that very dinner table that he was failing one of his classes.

His dad had rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How could the same kid who spent hours practicing kickflips—” he spat the word, and Charlie winced, “—go on to fail English 101?”

Charlie’s face had burned, but he crossed his arms in silence while his mom said with infuriating gentleness, “Obviously he’s not incapable of being dedicated, it’s just…” She had trailed off.

He’d only been thinking about it, but the pity in her voice made him decide that night: he was going to drop out, find another way to make it. His own way.

Charlie forced himself out of his trance, massaging the back of his neck. That one was still sore. And it could go deep, too, if he let it. He must have been in a self-pitying mood.

Charlie liked to imagine all his thoughts as shoe boxes. He put that memory in a box, carefully shut it, then put it down. Not tonight, he thought. He had a mental rule about pity parties after nine o’clock. He didn’t always follow it, of course, but wallowing too much could really, really suck.

Maybe those moments of stark normalcy bugged him so much because now he knew what the alternative could be: chewing on ice cubes to stave off the gnawing in his belly because he had exactly four bucks in his pocket and still needed to pay up the next day, somehow; laying under a park bench while he racked his brains for “friends” he could cash in a favor with so he could crash on their couch for a day or two; bleeding in a seedy alley, waiting for his tunnel vision to close in—

Charlie snapped that mental box shut and dropped it in a dark corner.

Man, he really was in a self-pitying mood. He needed to snap out of it or he’d just be a sad little rodent curled up in his room all night. What was that saying? Count your blessings or whatever?

Charlie held up a finger for each blessing. A home. A bed. Parents who gave a shit. A job. Pocket money. Food. Plumbing. Threads. Casper. Hey—Casper!

Charlie pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped them a message, knowing damn well they were nearly nocturnal: you up??

There was something about Casper. They were like a magic cure for that oddball, sandpapery, bugs-wearing-human-skin feeling he sometimes got with his family.

Their response was immediate: duh lol.

wanna hang?

omw

He blinked; he hadn’t even asked if they wanted to hang at his (parents’) place or theirs. They were like that sometimes, though: once they got an idea in their head, they just… went for it. It was admirable. And pretty hot. Especially when they got that determined glitter in their eye…

Charlie grinned as he put his phone back in his pocket and laid on his bed, hands behind his head.

Not five minutes later, something knocked loudly on his window, and Charlie jumped almost a full foot in the air. Sure enough, Cas was at the window, a bit sweaty and waving innocently.

“Jesus, Cas,” Charlie gasped as he opened the window. “You can’t knock that loud or one of these days I’m gonna have to change my pants, and that’ll be embarrassin’.” They laughed, and so did he, adding, “You got here quick.”

“I was in the area,” they said, holding up their board.

 So he had interrupted their night skate session, and they’d dropped what they were doing just to come see him? Charlie felt his face bend into a dopey smile.

“And you hurried over here for me? D’aww. C’mere.” They leaned forward and he kissed them, not minding the saltiness one bit. “So, are you comin’ in or am I comin’ out?”

“You’re coming out.” They gestured behind themself. “I found a great spot for hill bombing. I’ll even let you borrow my pads so you don’t break anything important.”

Charlie laughed, grabbing his beanie from the pile of clothes on his bed. “Well, aren’t you a sweetheart tonight?” He hoisted his board into the crook of his arm, then clambered out the window as carefully as possible so his arm didn’t get shredded by grip tape. “So long as I’m not exceeding, like, twenty miles an hour, I think I’ll be good.”

When he planted his feet on the lawn, Cas grinned at him in that way they liked to when they picked on him. “Congratulations.”

“Huh? On what?”

“On coming out.” They were fighting laughter.

Charlie blinked stupidly until it hit him. Then he hit them on the shoulder, and they threw their head back laughing.

“Yeah, yeah, you little shit,” he grumbled with fake annoyance, but the twisting in his lip was a dead giveaway of how much he actually enjoyed being picked on. “I’m not even gonna ask how long you’ve been sittin’ on that one. But, hey, I respect your commitment to the bit.”

“Oh, c’mon.” Casper swaggered across Charlie’s (parents’) lawn. “You love it.”

“Yeah, I do,” Charlie said, following them.

Casper visibly paused, eyes wide and starstruck. It was Charlie’s turn to laugh; for some reason (one he never pried too much about), they always seemed shocked at how easy it was for him to just admit how much he adored them.

“You should see your face when I talk all sweet to you,” he said, imitating a chef’s kiss. “Price-less.”

“Shut up, man.” But there was no barb to their words, only a sheepish smile.

Charlie took a second to just… bask. In them. In the uncomplicated, guiltless joy. In how normal and right he felt, and how they felt to him. They were so good at pulling him out of those cycles of wallowing, even when they were kids. Like it was effortless. Did they know what they were doing? He hoped so. They deserved to.

“Hey, Cas?” Charlie slowed almost to a stop. They slowed with him.

“Hm?”

“Thank you. For comin’ over. I mean it.” He reached for their hand and they took it, nodding once, brows drawing together with understanding. “I was thinkin’ about stuff, and I got to thinkin’ too much, so… it really means a lot to me.”

“Anytime.” They squeezed his hand. “And I mean anytime.”

Charlie took a breath, soaking in the gravity of anytime. They had all the time in the world, now. There was no one he would rather spend it with. And knowing that they felt the same…

“Thanks, babe.” He swallowed back emotions. “Thank you.”

Cas smiled, held up their twined hands, and kissed his knuckles. Their lips were chapped, but gentle. “Anytime.” They swung their hands back and forth. “Now let’s go show that hill who’s boss.”

They held hands as they jaywalked in front of his parents’ house.

[no-context-nonsense]

New AO3 slogan

[reiverreturns]

the belief i am faithfully interpreting a character with nuance and care 🤝 the understanding that i am projecting my own deep-rooted issues onto them against their will

[yeeiguess]

Hi I’m writing an ADHD Zuko fic so here are my notes for adhd stuff Zuko does. I’ll try to include most of that in the fic

- volume control is hard !!! he yells a lot

- Trouble understanding verbal explanations + super stubborn when it doesn’t fit his logic, follows rules to the letter

- sensitivity (too warm n stuff because of fire bending, noise because metal ship, clothes and armour being constricting)

- Zoning out in important convos

- Fidgeting : rubbing armour, swinging his head so the ponytail follows, tap his foot, bite the inside of his lips, finger rubs, rocking a tiny bit when there’s no one around, rubbing his scar

- Forgetful = notebook

- Hyperfocus on theater + avatar stuff

- Hyperactive thoughts

- RSD

- Talks before thinking

- But masking that shit +++ because you know ! Does the fire Lord look like someone who vibes with nd people

[loona-beans]

Cheaper then therapy 😌

Yeah, I'm fine

*Types "<character name> x reader" into tumblr search bar*

[bluefeatheredfeline]

You ever want to write something F-ed up, but your brain is like, “babe, sweetie… chill”

[pitiful-anonymous-vampire]

need more platonic reader-insert good omens fics please

any recommendations would be greatly appreciated ❤️

[kidsomeday]

I just wanted to write a slightly angsty slightly sexy prequel to one of my stories but instead I’ve written nearly 3k of torture and angst with an (un)healthy bit of me processing my body dysphoria as a bonus.

And the characters haven’t even met yet.

Please send help.

[ineffectualdemon]

Fanfiction is cheaper than therapy

Excerpt from one of my WIPs below the cut:

“Listen to me. I know I can’t convince you that you weren’t born rotten anymore than I can convince myself of the same. But we are not those that made the rot we were born into. We are, for better or for worse, people. People who are defined not by our birth but by our choices. We can choose what kind of person we want to be. What kind of role we play, and if we choose kindness it is worth holding on to the kindness. If we choose mercy it is worth holding on to that mercy. Because we may have been born in rot and dragged through it but we did not choose it. We can make the choice to wash it off and drive it back and become something better than those who infected us. Even if we can never quite leave the rot behind completely, even if we feel it dormant inside forever it’s alright. Because we don't have to spread their rot for the rest of our lives, and we can starve it of what it wants.” 

[aaaalexthewritersir]

my biggest fans are literally me and my two friend-family sisters

one of them wrote a coffee shop au with my oc's and the other was devastated when i gave up on my wip she'd been hyping up from the start

as for me? i get excited at my own stories like i've never read them before. like omg what happens next? the thing that i just wrote? no fucking way dude, how was i supposed to see this coming?

maybe this is wildly off topic, but found family is truly at its best when you see yourself as one of the people that you found.

feeling like an outcast as a child because i was too afraid to show anyone when i was feeling a negative emotion. giving myself criticism i wouldn't levy against my worst enemy. my real Moment of growing up was taking that kid by the hand, taking them to a mirror, and saying 'i think every part of you is wonderful' and offering a place in my found family.

my friends are my found family. without a doubt. but i'm also my found family. and that's pretty dope.

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

Shaking (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have an anxiety attack in a public setting, but luckily, the doctor is there to help you through it.

Word Count: 2450

Warnings: Anxiety attack, mild cursing, mostly just ANGST and then comforting FLUFF

A/N: Wanted to write Spence comforting the reader during a panic attack. Fanfiction is better than therapy, right? At least, it’s cheaper! Also not my GIF

——

“You don’t want to just order it online?” Spencer asked as you walked beside him down the sidewalk. His longer legs would typically mean that he’d be several steps ahead of you, but he always slowed his pace so you wouldn’t have to strain to keep up with him. He also walked on the outside of the path because, let’s face it, he was a gentleman.

You shook your head. “No, I want the whole experience,” you said excitedly as you walked, your face lighting up in anticipation. You were on your way towards a local bookstore, where the third book in your favorite series was being released today. The bookstore was going to be packed, but you were so excited to be one of the first ones in the door, to get your hands on a physical copy. “I don’t ever do things like this, but it’ll be something I think about every time I look at the book sitting on my shelf.”

Spencer nodded, lifting his hand, his thumb and forefinger in an O-shape as he spoke. “Ah, the age-old concept of symbolic treasures. One of the main reasons why souvenirs are such a prevalent part of going on vacation. Did you know the tradition dates back to Ancient Egypt?”

You shook your head as you continued to walk with him. Your boyfriend carried on without fault. “As far back as 2200 B.C, Egyptian Prince Harkhuf traveled to what is now known as Sudan and returned with all sorts of objects to present to his father, the pharaoh,” Spencer explained. His words spat out quickly, compulsively, as though they had to exit his encyclopedic brain. “He brought back items such as incense, ivory, even the skins of leopards to show off to his father.”

“I had no idea,” you told Spencer as you neared the bookstore, smiling sideways at him. You loved it when he spouted off facts like that, like he had to get the information out or else he’d explode. He had confessed to you more than once before that most people found it weird or off-putting or even annoying, but not you. Rather, you loved learning new things. Whatever information he had to share with you was always relevant in one way or another, and it was just one of the reasons why you loved spending time with him - he made you a more knowledgeable, well-rounded person.

Before either of you could say much else, you’d reached the back of the line of the bookstore. You checked the time on your phone. The store would open in about fifteen minutes. The line stretched down at least a full block, from what you could see. Lots of people dressed like characters from the books, shuffling their feet in excited anticipation.

There were at least a hundred people in the line, and after a minute or two, a couple dozen more had filed in behind where you stood. You pursed your lips for a moment, scanning the crowd until your eyes met Spencer’s.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, inclining his head to the side.

You shook your head. “Nothing,” you said. “Just… lot of people.”

Spencer nodded understandingly, then reached down to take your hand. Your fingers twined with his and he squeezed his palm against yours. “I’m right here,” he reminded you. You didn’t love crowds. They always made you feel anxious, perhaps even a little claustrophobic. You and Spencer had gone to a fairly crowded French film festival a few months ago and there hadn’t been an organized line to enter; rather, it had been a cluster of people, all pressed together. And you had felt like you couldn’t breathe. Spencer’d had to pull you to a seat off to the side so you could catch your breath, and you’d missed getting a seat up front like you’d been hoping for.

Right now, you were okay, though. There were people in front of you and behind you, but they weren’t flush against you like they had been waiting for the film festival to open. And Spencer was holding your hand, and you were outside, with the cool, spring morning breeze hitting your face. It was fine. You were going to be fine. You inhaled deeply and exhaled, then nodded your head, feeling the anxiety dissipate. “I’m good,” you told Spencer, looking up at him.

Spencer nodded. He squeezed your hand once again before letting go, only so he could wrap his arm around your shoulders and tug you so you leaned against his chest. He kissed the top of your hair. “It’s going to be just fine,” he promised you, and you just smiled to yourself.

About ten minutes later, the store opened. You only knew that because the line started moving, and more quickly than you thought. You squealed in delight and matched the pace of the people in front of you, Spencer by your side with an amused grin on his face. He loved books just as much as you did, if not more, but this outing was definitely just for you. He’d read the other preceding books in this series (literally just because you asked him to and it took him an hour, tops), but he wasn’t a total geek for it like you were.

You finally made it inside the bookstore, a small business, a local place. You’d been inside several times before, but you hadn’t realized just how small the building actually was until you stepped in now. It was two stories, but everyone was tightly packed, with the people and the bookshelves crowding around you as you made it fully inside the store. There was even a line to go up to the second floor, like a queue at an amusement park.

There was little to no breathing room. Everyone was talking as they waited their turn to grab a copy of the new book, and the sound seemed to bounce off the walls and the ceiling and smack you right in the ear. The air felt thick despite the front door and handful of windows being opened, allowing the cool spring breeze to ruffle the pages of the paperbacks on display.

But it wasn’t refreshing. Rather, it was another stimulant that caused the neurons in your brain to fire even faster. You felt your palms get slick. You felt your heart start to pound, and your knees wobble as you shuffled forward in the line. What were you even waiting in line for? You momentarily forgot, blinking a few times before looking up at the man beside you. Spencer was engrossed in looking around the bookstore, the corners of his mouth quirking upward as he seemed to find something amusing. But when his eyes came full circle back to you, they were immediately filled with concern. “Y/N?” He asked softly, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You couldn’t even hear him. The sound of his voice just bounced off your brain, like you were trapped inside of cellophane. All you could think was trapped. I’m trapped. No way out. Stuck. Caged. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

You felt your breathing go heavy, and your eyes fill up with tears. Your cheeks were red, bright red, judging from how hot you suddenly felt. “Leave,” you managed to choke out, your voice coming out from your throat. It felt like your throat was lined with thorns, like the words you wanted to say kept getting caught.

Spencer nodded. “Leave? Yeah. Yeah, baby, we can leave,” Spencer grabbed your hand, tugging you along behind him as he murmured “excuse me, pardon me,” to the other patrons, to get through the crowd. Moving against the crowd was so much worse than standing still. All those eyes on you, seeing your red face and the anxious tears trickling down your cheeks. It was so embarrassing, freaking out like this is such a public space. Everyone thinks I’m a freak, you thought. Your anxiety became not about the crowd, but about your anxiety, about how you were being perceived. Your breathing picked up, quickened, and by the time Spencer led you out into the morning sun, you were fully hyperventilating.

The thoughts in your head were racing at the speed of light. You hated feeling nervous like this, but moreover, you hated that Spencer had to take care of you because of it. You felt like you had ruined the day because your head wasn’t on straight, because you couldn’t stand in a crowd of people and hear the cacophony of voices and tamp down your panic.

Spencer led you down the block, about twenty feet from the store, away from the crowd, and your breath was still coming out staccato, unstable as you looked down at your shaking hands. You were crying and hyperventilating and the whole world felt like it was spinning. Spencer kept his hold on your hand and stood in front of you, squeezing his palm against yours. His eyes, those light brown irises with little flecks of green, stared into yours. “Hey, Y/N,” he said, bending his knees so his face was level with yours. “Breathe with me, okay?”

You shook your head, your eyes clamping shut. You were so mad at yourself in that moment. You didn’t want to have Spencer take care of you, to have to drag you out of a bookstore because you were having a panic attack. “Baby, you’re trembling,” you heard Spencer’s voice laced with concern. “Look at me. We’ll get through this together.”

You opened your eyes slowly, and that’s when you realized your entire body was shaking. You looked into Spencer’s eyes and he released your hand so he could cup your face. His fingers anchored under your jaw, his thumbs rested on your cheeks, and his eyes were wide, full of worry, but his voice managed to stay soothing and calm. “Follow my breath, Y/N. Do what I’m doing, okay? In for four, hold for four, out for four.”

He inhaled for 4 seconds, and you tried to follow his lead, but you just couldn’t control your lungs. “It’s okay,” he assured you as your brows furrowed, presenting frustration. “C’mon, try again.” He inhaled for 4 seconds, and you managed to match him this time. “Hold for four,” you held your breath while Spencer counted. “And out for four,” you exhaled deeply. “Good, okay, let’s do it again.”

Spencer guided your breath for a few minutes, until you finally felt like you could do it on your own. And when you finally felt yourself coming down from the rush of panic that had sent you into fight-or-flight, you wiped at your wet eyes. “I’m sorry,” you croaked, and Spencer just shook his head.

“No,” he insisted, taking your hand and placing it on his heart. You could feel it beating through his long-sleeved t-shirt. “No, you don’t have to be sorry.” You rubbed your hand against his chest, finding it comforting as you hung your head. “Baby, look at me,” he requested, and you met his eyes.

“Please don’t ever apologize for having an anxiety attack, okay? For one thing, it’s not your fault. You can’t control the chemicals and waves in your brain and how your body reacts to situations,” Spencer began, his hand on top of yours that rested on his chest. You nodded, using the heel of your free hand to wipe away your tears. The crying was over, you were fairly certain, but god, did this suck. “You also should never feel ashamed for having a panic attack, Y/N. It happened, and we’re working through it. It’s a lot like boiling a pot of water, isn’t it?”

You let out a garbled sounding laugh and your brows furrowed. “How so?” You stammered out.

“Well, you set the pot of water on the stove, right?” Spencer began, and you nodded. “And then when it starts to bubble, that’s your anxiety. Some sort of external stimulant - the stove, or, in your case, the overwhelming feeling of being in a crowd - is causing the water to bubble. And when the external stimulant increases in intensity, so too does your anxiety. And sometimes, yeah, the pot boils over.” Spencer shrugged like it was no big deal. “But then you just turn the stove off, grab a dishtowel, and clean up the mess. Problem solved.”

You cracked a half-hearted smile. “So in this metaphor, you’re a dishtowel?” You asked, curling your fingers around the fabric of his shirt.

“Technically, I think it’s a simile, but yes,” Spencer grinned as he looked in your eyes.

“But the book,” you sighed, looking back at the bookstore, which was still filtering people in and out slowly. The patrons leaving the store clutched their new copies of the book in their hands, grinning and taking pictures with their phones, laughing with their friends excitedly.

“Do you want to get back in line and try again?” Spencer asked, and you bit your cheek pensively.

“I don’t think so,” you said softly, defeatedly.

“That’s okay,” Spencer said. You loved that he wasn’t coddling you, he was just feeling it out, seeing what you were up for. “Do you want to get brunch somewhere and come back? Maybe the line will have died down by then?”

You nodded, your lips curling into a small smile. “Yeah,” you agreed. You realized your hand was still over his heart, rubbing at his chest. Your movement halted and you retracted your hand, but before your arm could fall completely at your side, Spencer scooped your hand up and kissed the back of your palm. “What if we come back and they’ve sold out of the book, though?” You asked as Spencer walked with you in the direction of one of your favorite brunch places, just a short walk from the bookstore.

“There are twenty-two independent bookstores in the D.C. metropolitan area alone,” Spencer rattled off. “If this one doesn’t have it, we’ll drive around until we find one that does.”

“What article did you read that told you how many bookstores were in D.C?” You asked. You often liked to challenge him by asking him to cite his sources.

“No article. I did a search on Google Maps last night,” Spencer explained.

“What, because you knew I’d freak out when we walked into this one?” You asked him.

Spencer shook his head. “No, just wanted to have a contingency plan in case our first stop sold out before we got there.”

“Always thinking ahead, huh, Boy Wonder?”

“Damn straight.” A smirk formed across Spencer’s lips.

You shook your head. “You’re the best dishtowel a girl could ask for.”

[bibmob]

Writing fanfiction is cheaper than therapy

in other words guess what is going in my fanfic next

~my fucking daddy issues~

[penig]

I feel a little creepy bringing this up, but I also think it's important for people to realize it. Especially people who work out their issues through fandom a lot - cheaper than therapy, often more effective, been going on for millennia, go forth and do what you need to do.

Authors engage with their fiction at a personal level, too. Authors work on their own issues in fiction, and don't necessarily understand that they're doing it until afterward.

I have a writer friend who was in an abusive relationship. She got out of it about the same time I had a personal crisis that deeply involved my marriage. We were able to talk about these things to each other in a productive way. One of the things she said was: "When you reread what you wrote during X time later, you'll see that you were already telling yourself about this."

Most of this author's mid-career was spent writing thrillers, about being trapped, misled, and harmed; about making mistakes and taking responsibility; about choosing options that other people think are bad for you, because for you they are the safe options. Once you know some details of her experience, you can see exactly where the abusive relationship began and roughly how it played out, and how all of the stories she wrote during this time, and during the long period of her recovery, had him for a villain, until she was finally able to kill him off the way she needed to. Since then, she's written a joyful celebration of art and community; she's written a medievalist fantasy of self-discovery; she's done the work she had to do and gone on with her life at last. But it wasn't until she was safe that she could even admit to herself that she'd been writing about her abuse the whole time she was being abused.

Lots of people have engaged with her thrillers at the surface level; we will never know how many people engaged with them to do the same kind of work she was doing; or how many engaged with them to do different work on different issues; or what qualitative difference it makes to all those processes to know how her personal history shaped her work. This is the nature of the beast.

One of the ways people work on their issues with art is through creating for themselves - fanfiction, meta, formal litcrit, adaptation to other forms of media. This is normal. Usually it's healthy. But it doesn't have to be. This is not something that can be judged from outside. Sometimes people who really, really ought to have therapy cling to a fandom instead and this...is not always productive. And sometimes people get into parasocial relationships with creators in which their own real issues get all mixed up with their imaginary construct of the creator.

So that's enough vagueblogging. It's time to talk about Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Who were two very different people who were best friends forever. Who were both writers doing what writers do. Who early in their careers collaborated on a religious satire in which their work got so mixed up together that they couldn't always tell who had written what in its final form, and which featured major themes about friendship, including two best friends forever collaborating, not particularly effectually, to save the world. Who had fun identifying themselves with those two characters. Who liked the idea of a film adaptation, who actively wanted a film adaptation, but couldn't find an acceptable way to do it within the industry. Who verbally worked out the details of a sequel, but never could actually sit down to write it together, but who continued to influence each other's work in ways that anyone reading both of them could see easily if they cared to look.

(Coraline and The Wee Free Men were written and published almost at the same time. I read them one after the other. The two books are very different reads, in different genres, but at the high concept level, they are the same story. Tell me that's a coincidence and I'll shake my head and say "Bless your heart, child.")

And then one of those friends got a debilitating disease and died.

And the survivor became determined to bring about the film adaptation and to get the sequel made, explicitly for his friend's sake.

Even though his friend would never see it, and it meant new collaboration with new people.

Good Omens (TV) is the best film adaptation of a text work I have ever seen in a longish life of being disappointed by film adaptations. S1 made me happy; S2 made me happy and sad and ultimately (perhaps inevitably) dissatisfied; I hope that S3 will make me happy and satisfied. But there is a level at which that doesn't matter. Gaiman has repeatedly expressed gratification over the way people have embraced it; but he's not doing this for us. And he's not only doing it for Pratchett.

He's doing it because he needs to process what happened when his best friend got Alzheimer's and died. Maybe he doesn't know that's what he's doing - but he clearly is.

Pratchett's illness and death are all over the adaptation. We saw it even in S1, we talked about it, the difference between Crowley and the Bookshop Fire in the book and in the show, and people openly recognized that the difference was between a young artist working with his best friend and an older artist whose best friend had died. That was simple; we all got it. Some of us didn't like it, but we got it.

But it's all over S2, too, and here it's not simple, it's a big complicated mess. The villain of S1, who wasn't in the book at all, shows up sporting the most noticeable symptoms of the disease that killed the member of the creative team identified with the character the villain goes to for refuge. The original creative team's avatars are suddenly working at cross-purposes when they seem to be allying where before they were allying when they appeared to be working at cross purposes. Mirrors function in the plot again but they're confusing. Memory is a huge theme but it doesn't resolve. And the character who is the avatar of the creator who died goes off to a Heaven it knows is a horrible place and leaves the avatar of the creator who survived angry and miserable on Earth. All in the service of setting up that long-deferred sequel.

And the thousands of people who are in a parasocial relationship with the survivor and are livid, or feel betrayed, or otherwise take this personally - really need to accept and remember that.