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paradiselostbythedashboardlight · 4 years ago

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Quarantine, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Wrote 430,943 Words of Prose in a Year

As we are coming up terrifyingly fast on a full year of quarantine with no end to the pandemic yet in sight for most people, I’ve been taking some time to reflect on the last year of my existence in a state that most people now refer to as quarantine. Since March of 2020, I, like most other sane people in my country, have stopped traveling, going to stores, seeing all but a limited group of other humans, and begun having recurring nightmares about being in crowds without a piece of cloth over my nose and mouth.

Suffice to say, it has been a bit stressful.

The other thing that I have done since COVID-19 began rapidly spreading across the globe last year is write over 430,943 words of fiction.

The number seems insane to me still. That is (approximately) one Gone With The Wind, one entire Lord of the Rings series, or the first four Harry Potter books. That is still sadly not yet War and Peace (but who knows… the pandemic isn’t over yet).

So now that I am looking back, I find myself with one question: how did this happen? Why did I do this? What does this mean about my life this year?

Since apparently I answer best by writing a lot, let’s begin at the beginning. Let me tell you a story. I’ll keep it short, I swear.

Part 1: Blast From the Past

In March of 2020, I was still in the midst of an academic semester. There was a long academic document to write and a class to teach. However, as quarantine abruptly robbed me of most of my usual commitments, I was suddenly thrust into the position of having more time on my hands than I knew what to do with. Consequently, I decided to break out the Nintendo Switch I’d gotten for Christmas and revive a childhood interest in video games.

And boy did I. I played the games I owned for all they were worth. I played them during the evenings when I had no social engagements to attend. I played them during the Zoom meetings I was already struggling to pay attention to. By the end of March, I had finished one game, and it had set the wheels turning in my brain.

Here’s a fact about me: I don’t usually tend to write or read a lot of fanfiction about things that I consider really really good. Basically, fanfiction for me has always been an impulse born from incompletion or imperfection. I see no need to add to a perfect story (although I happily consume and create fanart). But for something enjoyable and yet slightly unsatisfying? That’s fanfic territory, bud.

So by April, I had developed a sort of epic fanfiction for this video game I was playing. It was one of those magnum opus kind of ideas, a grand retelling of the story with a huge sprawling plot and Themes (™).

At first, it was merely a thought experiment that lived only in my head, a sort of entertainment to ponder in the hours before falling asleep. What changed? Well, a friend of mine decided to also write a fanfiction on the same video game and she kindly consented to let me read it.

Suddenly, I was ravenously hungry to read and to write and to share and to consume. I wrote a hundred thousand words of this fanfic in April and into early May, sending each chapter to my friend and being spurred onward by her kind comments.

The fic became a gargantuan endeavor full of strange little challenges I set for myself. It was a canon-divergence, requiring plotting, worldbuilding, a darker and grimer tone. For some reason, I decided to write each chapter from a different character’s perspective, making the final product into a series of essentially short story character studies which together formed a plot.

By the end of May, the story was published for the world to see. It was well-received, although not particularly popular by fandom standards. And that was the end. I had gotten out my pandemic crazies, the semester was over and now I could move on. I had made my peace with the source material, plumbing all of the little details that I wanted to examine and creating a narrative that I found satisfying.

It was over.

Part 2: Summer Lovin?

Except that it wasn’t.

Confession: as I had been posting my giant fanfiction, I had also begun to explore the fan community itself, mostly curious to see some nice art and gather a bit of demographic info about what was popular within the community. As a result, I found a fanfic recommendations page. Among the recommendations was one author who kept popping up and i finally decided to give the fic a read.

Woah. It was good. Like, really good. Like, professional quality writing and themes that seemed designed to appeal to me. I devoured everything that the creator had posted in a week and then subscribed to eagerly wait for more.

As June rolled around, I realized that I had a problem on my hands. My great big gen masterpiece was finished, but this author had gotten me hooked on something else, something with a nefarious reputation online: shipping.

The term du jour for this seems to be “brain worms” so let’s just say that reading other fanworks had given me some brain worms. Inspired this time not just by the source material of the game, but now the fan community itself, my mind began to develop another idea.

I wrote the fic, about 11k, in a single afternoon of frantic writing. When I finished it, I knew it was one of my strongest pieces. It had just come together, a combination of all the thought that I’d been brewing up and a stylistic execution that just worked with the story I wanted to tell.

I posted it on a new account. Shipping seemed vaguely shameful to me still and my mom reads the other account.

To my surprise, the fic blew up. It got so much more attention than my long fic ever had. Even more significantly, a fan artist actually drew a gorgeous comic of the pivotal scene, completely out of the blue! I was essentially thunderstruck. Honestly, it was probably the first time in my life that I’d ever received so much positive reinforcement from a piece of writing.

While I’d written short stories for undergrad workshops, they’d never been particularly good and I’d never gotten particularly great feedback on them. I’d applied and been rejected by more MFAs and literary magazines than I could count. I’d pretty much resigned myself to writing for an audience of me and me alone (which I don’t mean to sound tragic about, writing for you is great and fun!)

But receiving so much support and praise and feeling like I’d made other people happy or sad or moved? There’s nothing better.

This makes my decision to write another fic for the ship sound vaguely cynical, the action of a person driven by an addiction to praise. I mean, no lie, aren’t we all a little addicted to approval?

But my next fic was another long one, an 80k passion project modern AU that I dreamed up while spending a slow summer alone with my books and only able to leave the house for long rambling walks in the woods. The premise was essentially about characters attending a five year college reunion, something that I myself had missed due to COVID in May of the same year. The fic quickly became a way for me to process thoughts on a lot of topics in my life ranging from relationships to politics to mental health to classical literature.

This fic was also received with far more attention than I was used to and, as a result, I finally joined the notorious Twitter dot com where I found people talking about my fic unprompted, eager to follow me and like my every random thought.

I can’t say that this process was not without its ups and downs. Fandom has changed, in many ways for the better, since my last engagement with it during the 2013 Supernatural days on Tumblr. While fan friendships are often idealized or demonized, they are pretty much like any other human friendship (okay, maybe a little bit more horny on main). There is potential for amazing connection as well as pettiness. But in a year where many people suddenly had no social spaces that were safe anymore, I’m glad that I found a new line of communication with the world.

So I kept writing fics for the ship, producing a lot of work that I am genuinely proud of and making connections with other people who enjoyed it enough to leave a comment.

To conclude this section, I was in fandom again. While I had not seriously engaged with a fan community since around 2014, I was back with a vengeance. And I had discovered an important truth about what unlocked my ability to write more than I ever had before: community support.

Not simply the kudos and the views. It was the comments. The discourse. The discussion. To add and contribute my thoughts and ideas to a greater network of thoughts and ideas that fed off of one another.

Often I had seen people complain about there not being enough fanworks for particular media or characters. Now I knew the secret. The comments and the community created the works. If I commented on other people’s fics, the more likely they were to write more. I made a resolution I have tried to keep, to comment on any story that I legitimately enjoyed reading, even if I had no particularly intelligent thing to say about it.

Part 3: A Novel Idea

By late October, I had produced a considering oeuvre for my ship of choice and was enjoying slowing my pace as I planned a few future projects.

Remember, though, how I mentioned not having engaged with fandom for the past 5 years? Well, that didn’t mean I hadn’t been writing.

For the past 4 years, I have won NaNoWriMo and completed 4 novels of over 100k each in length. These projects have been massively fun and improved my confidence with executing stories at the scope that I desire.

And so in November 2020, I settled down to write another novel. November is always a sort of terrible time write a novel if you work in academia, but this year, I had more time than usual. I set out to write a comedy fantasy novel, something mostly lighthearted and full of hijinks in order to pretend away some of the quarantine blues (which by this point were well established in my psyche).

This year in particular, I was reminded that writing a novel is… harder than fanfic. That seems like a very obvious point, but I’d written novels before. Suddenly, though, I was realizing how much a novel requires you to set up the world and the characters, while fanfic can be pretty much all payoff all the time.

While the fanfic flowed in wild creative bursts of energy, the novel required diligence of another sort. I wrote 2,000 words every day for two months. It was a grind. Sometimes, it was a slog.

And sometimes it just wasn't good. The thing about writing your own novels is that the first draft is way more likely to be not good. You’re balancing a lot and it’s easy to let a few balls that you have in the air drop for a chapter or two, with no recourse but to go back and edit later.

I finished the novel by writing a final speedrun of 6k on new years eve, ending my 2020 with another project under my belt. No one has read it. Not even I have reread it.

I’m still glad that I wrote it. I’ll write another one next year. No one will read that one either.

Sometimes, we write for ourselves and no external validation is necessary.

Part 4: Where are they now?

January of 2021 is somehow now behind me, which is terrifying. I’m still writing. Mostly fanfic, although occasionally I go doodle around with some original ideas that are more conceptual sketches for the next novel.

As for the fanfic, I think I still have a few more good ideas left in me, but I will probably leave it behind before the year is out. That feels a little bittersweet, a sort of temporary burst of fun and friendship that I wonder if I’ll ever experience again.

Coming to the end of this reflection, I suppose I should make a summative statement about what it all means.

In the end, it might not mean a lot. There are some small takeaways.

It turns out that encouragement makes you write more! Who knew? Also, more free time makes you write more! Wow!!!!

The point that I think this reflection exercise has shown me, the point that I think matters more than any other, is that writing is a way to process my thoughts. Even if it is through the lens of ridiculous video game fanfic or novels about sad wizards, my writing is my way to make sense of my own mind.

And sharing that is special. If you share it with online strangers, with your family on Christmas Eve, with your close friend who has become even closer and dearer to you since she let you read her work, or just with your mom (the one personal legally required to read your damn novel if you want to share it). To share writing is to give someone a little peek at your beliefs about the world.

And right now? When we’re still isolated and bored and scared and in desperate need of distraction? Binge some TV, play Nintendo, read a book. Take in other people’s thoughts.

But put down your own somewhere as well. It’s a conversation.

And for once, it’s a conversation that doesn’t have to take place on fucking Zoom.

#writing #personal rambling #fanfiction

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angelatiwi · 4 years ago

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【literature and art Commentary】See clearly the face of the "dangai drama" By National Radio and Television Zhiku

Guide : Not long ago, "Dangai Drama" and "Shanhe Ling" became a hit and attracted social attention. "Dangai Opera" became a hot topic for a while. Many production organizations have heard the news. According to relevant information, there are more than 80 Danchang dramas to be broadcast this year, already started, and in preparation. In 2021, they were dubbed "Dangai 101" by netizens. Why this niche subculture became a film A new outlet for the show? Is there really a market need or a capital marketing effect?

One, Capital is acting an increasingly important role in the development of Dangai dramas Tanmei, originally meaning "wonderful, aestheticism", Tanmei culture mainly refers to cultural works that express the love between two men and target women as the audience. Since it was introduced to Mainland China via the Internet in the late 1990s, it was first popular with comics and online novels. Since 2014, the web drama "Counterattack" has been adapted from online texts, and the development of Chinese dramas has been on the fast track. Among them, there are several iconic dramas.

For example, in 2016, "Addicted", this youthful campus-themed drama, was taken off the shelves due to its overly explicit content and obvious violation of online audiovisual-related policies. However, its spread was rapid, breaking through 10 million in 24 hours before it was released, and 100 million before it was removed. In 2017, "Guardian" embodies a strong desire to survive in its creation. For the first time, the male love in the original work was changed to brotherhood, and the final broadcast volume exceeded 3.2 billion. The overall production of the drama is not excellent, even slightly rough in special effects, but for the first time it became popular with two top stars. In 2018, "Chen Qing Ling" was a purely commercial creation after capital intervention. From planning, production, dissemination, and even peripheral product development, the entire process and the entire industry chain were firmly controlled by commercial capital, becoming a phenomenon-level network of the year. Drama, a single episode has 113 million views, and the total number of views currently exceeds 9.1 billion. The 2021 "Shanhe Ling" is a reprint similar to "Chen Qingling", with more than 1.27 billion broadcasts.

From the perspective of the development process of Dangai drama, there are two notable features : First, from the content point of view, under the background of increasingly strict policy supervision, the desire to survive is becoming stronger and stronger. The male love component in Danmei literature is weakening, and it is basically transformed into brotherhood and confidant love, gradually move closer to mainstream values; Second, with the intervention of commercial capital, Dangai drama has long been not only a special film and television drama theme, but has become a new format that is more and more closely integrated with capital and fan economy. It is like a new industry investment outlet, and it is also a fast Star-making tools have an increasing impact on young people, but they are also prone to proliferation of themes, causing problems such as chasing stars and excessive entertainment.

two,

Why did the drama come out?

First of all, from the perspective of subject matter, due to policy restrictions, Danmei culture has always been in a relatively recessive subcultural position, a taboo place for industry creation, and the Internet is a flexible, The free "heterotopia" provides the soil for the prosperity of Danmei literature, and fully releases the "audience's eros creativity" (Marcuse language). Through their own participation, Internet audiences, such as writing fanarts, in turn promote Danmei literature The development of online literature, and as the commercialization mechanism of online literature becomes more and more mature, the influence of Danmei literature is also growing, forming a huge fan group, which has become the most important soil for the prosperity of Dangai drama.

Secondly, it is also related to the homogenization of the current love genre drama series. Looking at some of the current romantic dramas, whether it is a modern sweet pet drama or an ancient costume fantasy drama, there is a core creative mode that allows the hero and heroine to "sprinkle sugar" anytime, anywhere, In addition, there are some romantic dramas that do not respect the rules of artistic creation. They create emotional conflicts through sadomasochism, triangle love and even polygamy between men and women, which are easy to be assimilated and routine, and love such as "the domineering president falls in love with me" drama, There is also the suspicion of dwarfing and objectifying women. On the other hand, Dangai drama does not deny the masculine and rough part of men, but at the same time removes the overly feminine part of men, providing a relatively novel emotional model. Just as netizens commented, "When the audience watch Dangai drama, they just want to see the emotions of evenness and detachment from gender. This is an important reason for delaying the change of the drama to get out of the circle."

From a deeper reason, it is because with the economic and social development, the improvement of women’s economic status has brought about the awakening of women’s consciousness and the tremendous increase in spending power. Few works actively cater to women’s preferences, including consumption of male sex. Many Danmei dramas are typical popular cultures written by women, presupposed with female audiences, and women as the absolute main consumer. Looking at the dramas that are out of the circle, the biggest feature is that the appearance of the two male protagonists must be high, and their behavior interaction must also meet the aesthetic expectations of women.

three,

What problems will the prosperous creation of Dangai drama bring?

Dangai drama originated from Danmei culture. Although it is constantly evolving under the dual drive of policy pressure and commercial interests, it shows marginal values after all, and is a subculture that is more suitable for enclosing self-initiation. Once Danmei's text was adapted into a Dangai drama, it has a larger audience, and its dissemination and influence are also greater. If it is allowed to over-market, large-scale follow-up creation and other bad tendencies, it will not only have an impact on mainstream culture and mainstream value, but also on the industry trend. It will also bring adverse effects, and we must pay attention to it.

First, it has an impact on the values of young people "Ban Yue Tan" once pointed out that "Dangai drama enters the field of mass entertainment, and you need to beware of its adverse effects, especially on young people who are not deeply involved in the world. Research has shown that the motivation for many young people to first come into contact with danmei culture is that they are influenced by their peers, and then they "enter into the pit" under the attitude of being curious. In a survey of female audiences aged 15-23, in the question "What factors make you start reading Danmei literature", the second-ranked option is "Affected by CP orientation in animation, film and television, and variety shows". The establishment and broadcasting of so many delay-change dramas will objectively stimulate the soil of "corrupt culture", which may confuse young people who are in the critical period of shaping their outlook on life and values, and their aesthetics will be biased. As the article "Guang Ming Daily" stated, "When Danmei culture has stepped onto the cultural front and is known and obsessed by more and more people, the problem is not that simple when it even has an impact on mainstream values."

Second, the marketing chaos of delayed reform dramas will damage the industry's trend

With the rise of Danmei culture, excessive marketing has acted a role in fueling the flames, and these marketing platforms are often inextricably linked with production agencies, and they will take the initiative to set up issues, such as in the Weibo Chaohua community, movies, TV series, and animation In the ranking list, the topic of "male and male CP" in some Danmei-themed works not only appears on the list, but also often occupies the top rankings. In addition, although some dramas have reduced the affection between men and men in content, they have strengthened or even extreme in marketing. They are ubiquitously hyping up the ambiguous emotions and behaviors of men and men, promote marginal values and emotional views, impact the mainstream value sentiment, and disrupt the network environment. And order is more likely to overwhelm and obscure mainstream voices. As some media publications pointed out, "We should not be wary of Danmei culture itself, but after some companies have tasted the sweetness, they have bottomless hype and excessive consumption of "corrupt culture" in order to cater to market demand."

Third, Dangai dramas cannot carry serious and heavy mainstream value expressions

The characteristic of Dangai literature is that it is mostly confined to the overhead world, exaggerating the sorrows and joys of the individual. Its characteristics determine that this subject is difficult to carry an epic and heavy narrative, and some Dangai dramas highlight the male on the screen in order to attract attention. The ambiguous teasing of body language, some can't bear to look directly, show a tendency to be vulgar and low. The competent authority has repeatedly emphasized that the creation of TV dramas must follow the requirements of "finding the right topic, telling the story, and making a good shot", and fulfilling its duties and mission, the first is to find the right topic. Literary and artistic creation advocates a hundred flowers blooming, but realism must be the mainstream of the topic selection and the mainstream of creation, because fundamentally speaking, socialist literature and art are essentially people’s literature and art, which must reflect the most mainstream life and promote the most mainstream values. From the creations in recent years, we can also see that only by adhering to a realistic attitude, describing the characteristics of the times, and showing the spirit of the people, can we resonate with the audience and give full eduction to the spiritual inspiration of literature and art.

Fourth, the creation of Dangai dramas can easily lead to a utilitarian mentality.

The appearance of Dangai drama can make the starring famous quickly and become a shortcut to fame and wealth. As a result, many young actors are eager to appear in dramas, and there are even mature actors who want to take the opportunity to become popular. Netizens ridiculed them as "too utilitarian and ugly to eat." "If young actors don't want to sink down to hone their acting skills, but are rushing to shoot and change dramas to become traffic stars, who would be willing to act in reality-themed TV dramas in a down-to-earth manner? In fact, in recent years, under the control of the national authorities, the problems of star chasing and excessive entertainment have been brought under control. Many real acting actors have ushered in the spring, and the industry atmosphere has been invigorated. This is countless down-to-earth. The actor's hard work is hard-won If the opening of the Dangai drama is opened, there will be a resurgence of problems such as traffic fraud, exaggerated acting skills, and even sky-high pay.

It can be seen that the large-scale follow-up of the drama is not as simple as the theme of overheating, but also involves the issue of value orientation. If it is not properly guided, on the one hand, it may have a negative impact on the values and aesthetics of young people. On the other hand, it may make industry creation move toward utilitarianism and speculation, and it may be in line with the core socialist values. There are conflicts in the socialist views on literature and art. How to supervise this new form of literature and art is a test of the wisdom of the competent authorities.

Literature and art is the clarion call for the advancement of the times. It can best represent the style of an era and can best lead the trend of an era. General Secretary Xi Jinping emphasized :”Chinese writers and artists should be the forerunners, pioneers, and pioneers of the times, and write and record the great practices of the people and the progress requirements of the times through more muscular, moral, and warm literary works, and demonstrate the beauty and nobility of faith. The beauty of China promotes the Chinese spirit and gathers Chinese power.” Literary and artistic creation must firmly grasp the correct orientation, insist on putting social benefits in the first place, and unifying social and economic benefits. "Dangai 101" phenomenon urgently needs to be strengthened by all parties concerned to conduct fine management, especially in the face of large-scale project establishment and broadcasting of delay dramas. It is also necessary to consider the establishment of an early warning mechanism for themes, and the industry value orientation and creative wind direction. In addition, it requires the joint efforts of the entire industry, especially the major creative communication agencies, to further enhance cultural awareness and responsibility, adhere to the people-centered approach, and actively invest the most advantageous resources in realistic themes. The majority of actors should sink their bodies, hone their acting skills down-to-earth, and use more profound thoughts, exquisite art, and well-made excellent works to create a biography for the people, statues for the times, and souls for the nation.

(Author's unit: Development Research Center of the State Administration of Radio and Television)

https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/Ub89VUIqXFMSY8pDdbdZHQ

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cristalknife · 4 years ago

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On Comments, feedback anxiety on both the writer and the reader’s side

If one could look into my WIP draw, or take a glance at the fics I’ve actually posted, it becomes clear misunderstandings based on miscommunication is something I seem have a thing for. In all honesty is more of a lifelong study and recurring theme I keep stumbling on or consciously walking into. Preface: I am only human and mistakes can happen, but usually I try to handle the detailed label (also referred as Read the Tin or as written on the tin) of major warning with my writings that is usually missing in any other aspect of life, sort of a lovely user manual/preview so one could know to walk away before getting invested or worse triggered.

Or at least know exactly what they signed up for.

Is it perfect? No but at least it’s there, as a writer I did all I could to avoid unpleasantness, the rest it’s up to the reader’s discretion. Which leads me to the heart of this post: comments, feedbacks, criticism, politically correctness, manners and the anxiety they produce in both the writer and the reader.

The picture is big so I’ll divide in sides, but remember that people are made of multiple sides, and sometimes those sides are at odds or outwardly warring against each other. That’s pretty average for any irrational human being with emotions.

From the POV of an overthinking anxious writer:

1) Ao3′s Kudos are sort of like a watered down thumbs up, after about 4-5 fic posted (or ~15K words of stories out there to be consumed), they became the kind of anxiety triggers feeding thoughts of why so many people/guests left a kudo but the story wasn’t good enough to warrant the time of a comment/review 2) Comments are lovely reminder someone found something in your words that made them react so strongly they felt like sharing that reaction with you was worth their time.

2.1) Comments are also the cause of anxiety about their content before you have the courage to read what they says...

3) Criticisms and feedbacks can be a wonderful tool to improve your writing for the next story. But not if they are laced with insult, personal attacks in that case they are the kind of black hole that pushes people to stop writing all together, or at least stop sharing what they write.

4) single emoji (♥), 2 char long (<3) comments takes years of effort and a lot of conditioning to remember to slip in reader mode and appreciate the effort it took to stop and do even that, instead of allowing doubts to gnaw at the back of your head with waaaiiiiit that’s all? was it good? was it bad? arrrghhh what does it even mean???

5) Statistics and numbers, those are the evilest of the most buggering things and the most vile tempters that will push you to compare your stories against others (a futile exercise in frustration and pointless reason to shred one’s own self confidence to the tiniest of pieces for literally nothing)

5.1) Especially when you have two writing mind frames:

writing the stories you want to read (and usually it is either a niche where you’ve already consumed all you could find so you write it because duh, more content might ignite back the fire please, or you haven’t found yet someone to say it how you want to read it) vs what I simply call

exorcism writing (the kind of free therapy exercise when something is bugging the heck out you and not leaving your mind so you put it down to words and then let them fly free, instead of trapping them on a diary you’d just return to read and start the vicious cycle all over again)

5.1.1) and your exorcism stories become more popular than the stories you want to read, because at the end of your raw ranting exorcism you managed to write something that would end up falling within mainstream tropes. Which just makes you sad because those were not the result of love and planning and endless hours of writing and editing that you put in your other stories.

6) I’m not writing fan fiction to be an educator, it is possible that my day job is being an educator, but unless I’m there writing textbooks, as a writer it is not my responsibility to teach the reader something that has to be authentic, realistic and a good practice. I’m just here to tell a story. Or are you really telling me that you watch superheros movies and series and expect them to appear outside your window? If you just laughed then why are you looking at fanfic smut with the expectation of finding a more interesting and alternative way to have a sex ed lesson? If you subscribe to the school that a story has has to make sense... Let me ask have you ever read some of the greatest literature works like Frankenstain, Moby Dick, The Hobbit, Journey to the center of the Earth, Alice through the looking glass, Aeneas, if you did and subscribe to “fiction as to make sense” then please please enlighten me I’m rady to sit back and hear all the points you can make how any of those are realistic representations of how things go. If you says that those are just stories told oh so long ago... Lets pick more recent ones, the Harry Potters books, Goosebumps, Twilight, The Shadowhunters Chronicles, 50 shades of , all those are listed as fiction which yes sadly too many used as a portrait of theme touched in there as realistic because the story was not set in a fantastical world and made the mistake of treating a work of fiction as a documentary... Sorry people I’m a writer, choosing the right words matters, words meanings and definitions matter please learn to think critically, and learn your words, there is a difference between fiction and documentary 6.1) At the same time it might be that I am the kind of writer who loves to add factually authentic things in my writings, someone who actually had spent hours and hours on research to make sure that what they have been writing is not utter and complete made up rubbish, and that’s ok too. I do not expect readers to assume it is correct or that it is purely made up, and if someone is curious they could use the comment to ask a question, I’ve never turned out a curious question, even when it was difficult to answer it

7) Just because I am writing about something, it doesn’t mean I support it... Again those are stories, not a scientific report on a lab experiment, I can write about abusive relationships, doesn’t mean I support them, I could write about self harm or depression, doesn’t mean I am encouraging those behaviors, in fact those usually come with a Trigger Warning, why? because a reader should have the option to walk away from what should be just a moment of pleasure and relax, not finding themselves triggered because I didn’t want to spoil the surprise of what was going to come in a story posted on the internet... 8) This far I’ve personally chosen to not push for comment, no beg necessary, I decided years ago to be the kind of self centered bad ass who writes for themselves, who’s not going to dangle the promises of more chapters in exchange for comments, I dislike the practice, and I find too exhausting shouting left and right hey hey I’ve written this read it read it... So I do get why my stories do not have such a large audience, it doesn’t help I’ve actually posted way less than what I’ve written over the years. I do welcome comments, though I have no clue on how to respond to short ones, or a single emoji/<3 to all chapters to those I end up answering only to the most recent one of that person and thank for their support. Longer comments are easier to answer because it gives me something to say back or comment/thanks for, though it becomes weird for me when someone speculate on future developments in what they wish to see, and since I’ve recently adopted the policy of posting only completed stories (even for the chaptered ones that will not be posted at the same time, the number of total chapter is not an estimation it is exactly the number of files I’ve divided the story into for reasons) because I do know whether something of that sort will happen or not, and I don’t want to put someone out of my story if they are too invested in see what they imagined happen... Though as I do write stories I’d like to read I’m quick to encourage aspiring writers to feel free to take that what if and work with it, just to please mention that my story inspired theirs and that I’d love to see what they come up with. Constructive criticisms, I do not have a beta for most of my works, I do not work too well depending on other people’s time, I confess even in the past I received criticisms that were not constructive if we push the boundaries and call those criticisms rather than just plain old complains, which is sort of the reason why I stopped explicitly encouraging communication. Because I do expect respect, you don’t know anything about me or what I believe in, you might make some guesses from my profile because I haven’t been shy and pretty open on them, but I won’t accept being personally attacked or talked to in a disrespectful manner just because you didn’t like what I wrote. I have no problem accepting criticisms, as long as they are criticisms and not just whining. You cannot come to me with “I hate your story” and leave it at that, you already took the time to express your opinion instead of simply walking away, the least you can do is explaining why... Otherwise I seriously don’t get why you wasted both of yours and more importantly my time and energies... From the POV of a spoonie reader who barely has the energy to read: 1) Ao3′s Kudos are a life saver that allows you to show your appreciation (even if you are allowed only one as registered user) with only a click (and some times even that click takes so much out of you) instead of relegating you to invisible reader, barely visible number (*coughs*ff.net*coughs*) or forcing you to make a story a favorite/followed

2) Comments are the source of anxiety, because you might want to show support but would they get that or would it sound strange? will the author understand that a a ghsafdgsakdjfh (read: key smash) happened with excitement and love and you’ve no other words to express it? 2.1) also trying to put your support in words when you are in your pj cozily being a blanket burrito and reading from your phone in bed because there’re no more spoon left for the day it’s hard

3) The author asked for R&R, or welcomes comments and constructive criticism. You loved the story enough to spend energies to

point out things that were plain plot hole or downright inconsistency or lose ends, pointing out botched translations from your own mother tongue and offering correction that were not google translated, in ao3 case pointing out lack of some appropriate tags, which would have 1 improved your story’s visibility and 2 allowed the reader to choose whether they wanted to read it or not both points that would have benefit you as author...

Only for the author to react:

- badly with a why are you such a nitpick hadn’t anyone told you that you should just stay silent if you have nothing nice to tell me? - Excuse me you’re the one asking for my opinion not my adoration, I gave you exactly what you asked for, if you cannot handle your work being nitpicked or the holes in your plot being publicly poked then there’re fabulous people called Beta reader who will give you the needed dose of though love in private get one..

- badly with a don’t like don’t read - legit reader’s counter point is I wouldn’t have read it if you had given me a way to know then what I discovered now [personal addendum, on a not that well low energy day it takes me less about 3 mins and half to read 1.5K words don’t came at me on your 1k long story and tell me I could have stopped reading when I noticed it wasn’t that good for me...I was done with it before I could get any warning]

- dismissively because a meet cute clearly is an AU - Bless your heart if you need me to point out to you that there is a difference between an Alternative Universe (AU) and a Canon Divergence and the fact that meet cute is a trope which in fandoms usually implies different circumstances within the fandom’s canon world of the first meeting between the characters in the main relationship but doesn’t automatically include different premises for the character example:

in canon: characters from a magical supernatural fandom one a wizard with magic, one a fighter with superhuman speed and holy weapons, in their first meeting the fighter saved the wizard’s life.

in a meet cute: a wizard and a fighter with superhuman speed and holy weapons meet in the middle of the forest where the fighter was hunting for food failing miserably and the wizard took pity on the fighter and offered to share their dinner, if the fighter dared to step inside the wizard’s home

in a No Power/Human AU meet cute: where there is no magic, one of the two is a barista who uses flirty coffee jokes lines to call the other’s person order, and finally discover they are an accountant so instead they start using math puns to get the accountant’s attention.

Those are all valid stories but as an author don’t came at me believing that just because you mention a trope that is enough to distinguish between the 2° and 3° examples, or that having mentioned the trope gives you the standing to look down at me if I do have my own reasons that you do not know about for wanting to read only stories like the second pitch and get upset but still tell you in a polite way that there are missing tags in your story, especially when you’ve falsely advertise your 3° like pitch as if it was a 2° one and I get upset and let you know about it and do so with the curtesy of signing it with my name rather than leave an guest/anonymous comment

- shrugging off issues with the tags with a Oh but I’m bad at tagging -

then I have 3 things to say to you buddy one) that’s not an excuse if you haven’t learnt how to do it yourself get a beta, get a friend, read more and compare what your story tells with a similar one and how that one is tagged, there’re ways Ignorance is not an excuse;

two) you can’t claim you’re bad at tagging but then refuse to listen when someone is pointing out to you more tags for your story, dud learn how search engines work, searching by tag is basically having a filtered search, the more tags your fit your story the more venues your story can appear in reader’s search for something to read... which means visibility for your work, are you really telling me that you dislike to have that and would prefer less people reading what you post? then sorry but I think you’re doing it wrong and should get a diary instead, not post them on the internet.

addendum: still claiming to be bad at it after having posted over 40 stories and all posted in recent times in the span of a couple of months, just suggest you lack the intelligence to learn how to do things. Which only encourages me to never ever get close to your works, certainly to never promote or share them if not actively discouraging my friends from spending their time on them.

three) and guess what? there is a frikking I'm Bad At Taggingtag for that too!!!

As a reader I might be ranting in this post, but the long effect of those is a growing apathy and increased unwillingness to spend my energies for commenting unless I’d really really really really liked or loved a story, or I have something more than a one liner to share, which while I intellectually know it might be unfair to let the whole pay for the disrespect of few, my own survival instinct is glad I’m not spreading myself even thinner...

truthful disclaimer: in all fairness it has been my experience, that those reactions usually come from authors with already quite few stories or a decent word count out there.

New authors are still very much enthusiastic and happy about even the smallest crumbs of recognition or encouragement, which in return is lovely because it recognise that my own time and energy as reader are worthy, that it does take effort to share an opinion or encouragement or suggestion.

4) The author might never know how that day I posted that single emoji, or two character <3, it was one of those bad days when even opening a small water bottle to swallow down the painkillers was too much, when using a finger to scroll down the page to reach the end of the story had wiped out more energies than I could really afford and yet I still pushed myself to leave a sign that I was there and appreciated their story

5) readers should be allowed to have the “if you thought writing was hard, try commenting other people words” tag... because sometimes especially on older platforms (yes ff.net I’m looking at you) as a reader I can’t find the energies to wipe up something to say so I become a silent invisible reader. And sometimes it’s really that I am able to stand only stories with certain characteristics, personally for example I do not have the emotional fortitude to read more a certain amount of Work In Progress at the same time across multiple fandoms because my brain can’t recall all the details and I might not feel to rereading the story from the beginning every single time there is a new chapter... 6) Maybe it’s because I’m way out of my teens, maybe it’s because even in my teens and before stories were my safe place, my escape, I do not expect things to be factually correct in stories, but I am a logic driven person, I will see those plot holes and I might even poke through 'em if I find your story good enough that I feel it would be a pity not pointing those things out. You cannot tell a classic vampire story (not the twilight kind of sun sparkling vampires but the sun burn me to ashes kind) and have your group of vampires prancing about at noon of a clear summer day without some sort of reason for that to work. I promise you, I’m not picky, I will accept ridiculous reasons like they were standing under and umbrella covered from head to toes and none of their skin was exposed to the sunlight, but do put the effort to give me a reason why I should believe it was intentional, or do not cry and complain if I do decide to point out dude you’ve normal vampires that are sunbathing and did not become piles of ashes that’s not plausible... 7) Stories are just that, something to listen to, they don’t have to have a moral for them to be worthy of being shared, they don’t have to be a mirror of your thoughts, or they could be a mirror of your beliefs, and if I am commenting on them I’m commenting on the story itself not your connection to it. And I do need you to advertise in advance if there’re things that might be triggerish, because what might be just a mental exercise of stepping outside your shoes, if not done might result in me walking into a panic attack while maybe I was just recuperating for one and trying to find comfort or a distraction. While I as a reader cannot know you author and where you come from, unless you want to make an ass of u and me do not assume you know where I am or what path I’m walking in my life as a reader. 8) I despise people telling me what to do, especially if I didn’t ask for an opinion... If someone (who doesn’t have an economical or authorative position over me) demands me to do something the chances I’ll be do it, especially if I was going to do it before, become nil instantaneously. I’ve been running and lurking in writing circles and fanfictions for closer to three decades at the time this is being written, and from the very beginning I found disgusting and deplorable the practice some authors adopted of bargaining reaching certain numbers of comments/kudos in exchange for the next chapter. I can respect an author saying I don’t want to get this or that, but the final result is that most likely I would walk away without commenting even if it would have been a story I would have otherwise supported. There’re few authors I do know personally, at least superficially through other channels, that have this kind of disclaimers and I still comment. But that’s because I have an appreciation and will to support the person themselves who also happened to be authors.

#long post #LLF inspired #LLF Comment Project related #comments and feedbacks #personal rant #listing differences #between what I write and what I believe #between what is fic and what is reality #between writer and reader mentality #between writing the stories you want to read and exorcism writing #talked about with a pinch of humour #ok maybe dark humour #have I spent hours and probably more spoon on this than it was healthy?#probably so #but it was worth it #or so i hope

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myaekingheart · 5 years ago

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You’ve Got Kudos

Written for Day 1 of the Kakashi Lounge Discord Server's September Event. Prompts: Fanfic Writer!Kakashi | Social Disaster | Modern AU | Roommates/Neighbors

[Read on AO3] Pairing: Kakashi x Rei (OC) Rating: Teen and Up @the-kakashi-lounge-blog

Kakashi has a dirty little secret and it's in the form of an AO3 account. No one is allowed to know that he writes Icha Icha fanfiction--especially not his library tech neighbor Rei. (Standalone companion piece to The Scarecrow and the Bell, Modern/College AU)

Kakashi kicked off his shoes at the front door and slumped into his favorite chair. Tutoring wasn’t necessarily his favorite thing in the world but it looked good on resumes and put a little extra cash in his pockets, so he supposed he could tolerate it for a little while longer. If only his students hadn’t been quite so insufferable, that is.

If anything, tutoring reminded Kakashi how much he hated underclassmen. His three protegees were all naïve freshman whose energy stores had yet to drain. Naruto was enthusiastic but slow on the uptake and it was hard to get him to properly focus. Sakura had potential but she was far too engrossed in her Instagram rivalry with fellow student Ino Yamanaka to make any real progress. And Sasuke was constantly brooding, there not by choice but rather because his professor threatened to flunk him if he didn’t seek outside help.

Perhaps it would’ve been smarter to book them each separate appointments but with the way everyone’s schedules worked out, it was easier to just create one big study group. It was more efficient that way, anyway. Kakashi much preferred to kill three birds with one stone than chip away at his sanity little by little. And so every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, Kakashi trudged to the library to pore over used textbooks and incomprehensible scribbles in an attempt to explain simple concepts to brains that could not understand. This was fine. He didn’t need a social life anyway.

Kakashi rubbed his tired eyes and checked the time. It was 5:30pm. He had no idea what he was going to do for dinner, nor did he really care. Sighing, he reached for his laptop and went straight to his email. At the very top of his inbox was a notification from Archive of Our Own: Comment on Icha Icha Bloodline. Kakashi’s heart jolted. In the solace of his apartment, this was his one saving grace: fanfiction.

He admittedly felt a little ridiculous about the whole thing. What college guy not only wrote fanfiction, but for romance novels at that? He knew exactly how his taste in literature appeared. So few people truly understood the nuance and artistry of the Icha Icha books, writing it off as just cheap porn. Those books, however, gave Kakashi exactly the reprieve he needed. Within their pages, he could disappear from the stress of everyday life to instead revel in the throes of a dramatic fictional romance. His love for this series knew no bounds. His heart ached to share it with someone but if college had taught Kakahsi anything, it was that people never really change and are more than willing to judge you the minute you express any personal interests. High School: The Sequel, if you will. And so Kakashi had come to learn that there were only ever two places where he was safe to unapologetically indulge in his favorite series: within the comfort of his own home and on the internet.

Fanfiction was never his original intention. Rather, it was the end result of a long string of unfortunate circumstances. The latest book had ended with the heroine caught between two very tempting suitors, a cliffhanger of epic proportions which left Kakashi itching for a resolution. A few months after publication, the author, Jiraiya, passed away, taking his secrets for the series’ finale with him.

Kakashi had tried so hard not to think about it but the lack of closure ate away at him. He needed a valuable outlet through which to ramble, a way to confide in someone as invested in the series as he was. For a moment, he had considered joining a book club but all of his attempts failed. The only clubs that ever focused on books like these were run by sexually frustrated middle-aged women who sneered at the mere thought of letting a man into their circle. On recommendation from a friend, he turned to the campus library community for help but was met with nothing short of disaster, which thus introduced the second point of contention: Rei.

The library check-in desk was notoriously run by volunteers, most of which were majoring in library science themselves. One such volunteer was Rei Natsuki, a junior with fiery hair and a chronic resting bitch face. It wasn’t that Kakashi didn’t like her, necessarily. Actually, every time he saw her he got this horrifying fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach that insisted he was about to throw up. He felt as if her eyes were on him constantly, studying his every move. This fact only furthered his gratitude for lumping together all of his tutoring appointments. The less time he spent in the library, the less often he would have to see her.

Not that she was necessarily easy to avoid. Just his luck, she lived three doors down from him in the same off-campus apartment complex. At least if he timed things just right, he could avoid running into her in the hallway. Their mutual existence was like a very carefully choreographed dance on perilous terrain. They were constantly at risk of colliding with one another, a harrowing and horrifying fate.

Their first encounter was in the fall of his freshman year when he snuck into the erotic fiction section searching for the Icha Icha books. As he skimmed the titles, he felt a pair of mossy eyes burning holes into his back like a cryptid whose domain has been intruded upon. When Kakashi turned around, he caught her peering around the edge of the bookshelf. Her expression was one of harsh focus and concern. “Looking for something?” she asked. For someone so small—she was roughly a foot shorter than he was—she was certainly terrifying.

Kakashi’s face turned beet red, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “No, not particularly!” he exclaimed. “Just looking around!”

“Hrmph” Rei huffed, unconvinced. “Well, if you need anything, I’ll be right over there” she pointed to the help desk at the front of the library. An older woman, one of the librarians, winked at her across the room and Rei’s face turned bright red. Without another word, she scurried off back to her station, grumbling under her breath. Once gone, Kakashi sighed and leaned back against the shelf. All of the books directly behind him tumbled to the ground with a loud thud. Rei immediately whipped around to glare at him but by then, he had already dove into the nearest study room. Frustrated, Rei stomped over to assess the damage and begin reorganizing the shelves. Kakashi apologized to the group he interrupted before booking it out of the building. It was in that moment that he officially decided: from that point onward, Icha Icha would remain his dirty little secret. Literally.

And thus came along the internet. At least there, hiding behind his computer screen, he could retain some sense of anonymity. He could disguise himself with a pen name much like wearing a mask. No one needed to know who he was. He pored over various forums, reading but never interacting. As refreshing as it was to find a sense of community amid other Icha Icha fans, his joy quickly faded when he realized one fatal flaw: no one knew what they were talking about. They all misinterpreted the characters, the relationships, the actions the heroine took to get to this point. Perhaps Jiraiya’s novels were too nuanced. Perhaps there was no hope for him after all. It was then, deep into a Reddit thread, that it dawned on him: the horrifying promise of writing fanfiction.

At first, Kakashi refused. He would not stoop so low. The harder he resisted, however, the more appealing the idea slowly became. At least in this way, he could help people to better understand these stories in a way that he was familiar with. Not that he was an avid writer himself but he hoped he was familiar enough with the conventions of fiction to understand how it was done. As if running on autopilot, he ventured to Archive of Our Own and created an account under the pseud “CopyNin.”

His fanfiction, Icha Icha Bloodline, introduced dramatic new themes and conflicts to the story he loved, expanding on the love triangle with a depth and sincerity that he hoped would make Jiraiya proud. It hadn’t gotten many hits yet, but that just made every kudos and comment feel that much heavier. As his cursor hovered over his inbox now, he almost questioned whether he even wanted to know. Every shared thought had the capacity to make or break his motivation. But if he didn’t look, he wouldn’t be able to contain himself. He needed to know. He pulled up the latest comment and his heart leapt into his throat. It was from LittleBell.

LittleBell was, for lack of a better word, iconic amid the Icha Icha fandom. They were one of the first writers Kakashi had encountered when he first considered fanfiction as a possibility. Their name appeared in dozens of forum posts, attached to both praise and criticism alike. By the time Kakashi looked into them himself, they had already written 100,000 words worth of fic with the longest piece nearing 100 chapters. It was clear why they were so popular. The cadence of their sentences, their detailed characterization, and their dynamic plot points all made Kakashi’s heart sing. He could only hope to one day be as great a writer as they were.

Kakashi had lurked through fifteen chapters before, in a fit of sleep-drunken gumption, he had decided to leave LittleBell a comment. It was short and sweet and afterward, Kakashi groaned into his pillow second-guessing every sentence, but he awoke to an encouraging response that firmly cemented the allure of writing a fic himself. And now here he was, faced with a comment from them on his own work. How could he ever prepare himself for something so huge? He instinctually expected scathing criticism. Your characterization sucks. You’re writing them all too flat. Her suitors would never say XYZ or do ABC. Have you even read the books? This is trash. Kakashi’s hands shook as he tried to shove those negative thoughts out of his mind. LittleBell had been so kind before so, realistically, why would their response be any different? Kakashi scratched the back of his head, knowing that the longer he waited, the more maddening this was going to become. Without another moment’s hesitation, he forced himself to view the comment.

This was so great! I love the way you write these characters—I can tell you have a really deep understanding of the heroine, especially. It’s so refreshing to read a fic that not only retains the romance of the originals but also emphasizes it in a way that’s super meaningful rather than cheesy. My favorite part was the scene where she’s fixing his watch. “It’s really an exquisite watch. Such a shame that it’s stopped working.” “I guess that just means that we’ll have to stay in this moment forever” “What will everyone else say? They’ll get tired of waiting.” “Let them wait. I’m always late to everything anyway. What’s another eternity?” My heart! You can really tell just how much he loves her, and it makes that love triangle all the more tense and heartbreaking! You’re really just doing an incredible job with this and I can’t wait to read more!”

Kakashi’s cheeks burned as he buried his face in his hands. It was all he could do to hide the grin on his face. Not that anyone was there to tease him for it. Pakkun was fast asleep on the couch and likely wouldn’t have cared anyway. Alone in his apartment, Kakashi was exploding. To think that someone so talented and renowned within the fandom not only noticed his work but enjoyed it was mind-blowing. This was a high he would surely be riding for the rest of the week, if not the rest of the semester. Nothing could be better than this.

Once the debilitating excitement wore down a bit, Kakashi was then stuck with the battle of writing a response. He knew there were some in the community who considered responding a controversial topic—something about trying to increase your comment count—but Kakashi enjoyed replying to every single person who took the time to say something nice. And this was certainly something very nice. How could he possibly put into words his overwhelming gratitude? He had no clue. Kakashi stewed over the prospect for a solid ten minutes before his growling stomach urged him to hurry up. He had completely forgotten he was hungry but now his body was not going to let him forget. He considered stepping away and replying later, after he had time to chew it over, but then quickly shoved away the thought. He couldn’t afford to put this on the backburner at the risk of forgetting about it entirely. No, he needed to do this now.

Kakashi typed, paused, considered, then backspaced and typed again. When he was finally at least mildly pleased with his response, he sucked in a deep breath and pressed Comment.

Huffing in relief, Kakashi stretched out and leaned his head back against his chair. All that was left to do now was wait. Would they even respond back? He didn’t know. Sometimes a comment began a whole conversation, other times it was a singular instance like a comet in the night sky.

But for now, he was going to try not to dwell on it. He received LittleBell’s praise, and if they were to respond back then so be it. It was all up to fate now. Kakashi slipped on his shoes, shoved his phone, wallet, and keys into his pocket, and headed out. As he locked his apartment, he heard without listening as a door down the hall creaked open. The sound reached his ears but his brain did not register what it was until it was too late. Turning around, he abruptly bumped into her.

A gasp fell from Rei’s lips as she collided with Kakashi’s chest. Her half-open backpack swung on her shoulder, spilling its contents onto the floor. “S-sorry about that!” he croaked, clearing his throat. Kakashi’s hands shook as he leaned down to help gather her belongings, all the while fearing her wrath. Among the used textbooks and stuffed notebooks was a green paperback with a big prohibition sign on the cover. The little bell charm attached to Rei’s keychain jingled and automatically Kakashi was punched in the gut with a realization of Pavlovian proportions. Little Bell.

“I-I’m sorry…what was that…?” Rei stammered and suddenly Kakashi realized he had, in fact, spoken aloud. Her voice, in response, was so much quieter than he had ever thought she was capable of—filled with the striking fear of being vulnerably and intrinsically known. Unmasked.

Kakashi’s eyes widened as he shuffled to gather as many of her books as he could manage. “I-I didn’t know you liked the Icha Icha books” he murmured. He could hardly make eye contact as he handed her back her things.

“Yeah…” she said, slowly accepting them, “They’re, uh…they’re my favorite.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Kakashi chuckled nervously and replied, “Mine, too.”

She wasn’t sure what it was about him but in that moment, a sickening feeling filled her chest, a nauseating suspicion that she couldn’t shake. There was really only way to confirm whether or not those suspicions were correct. At the risk of looking like an idiot, she cleared her throat then and said, “You know, that’s a really exquisite watch.” Kakashi froze, his eyes gently skating down to his wrist. He wasn’t wearing a watch. His heart pounded in his chest. Rei bit her lip, dropped her eyes to the floor. “It’s, uh, it’s a shame it’s stopped working.”

Kakashi’s mind was reeling. None of this felt real. Suddenly Rei was a completely different person to him now. He saw her not as the terrifying, impatient, and indirect girl from the library but the extremely talented, encouraging, yet perhaps unfortunately shy writer that he had spent so much time idolizing. If only he had known of the bond they secretly shared over the past few months. He could hardly fight the grin on his face as he murmured back, “Then I guess we’ll just have to stay in this moment forever.”

Rei’s cheeks burned as she hugged her books to her chest. She could feel the laughter rising up in the back of her throat—this was so ridiculous, and yet at the same time this was everything she had ever wanted. If only Kakashi had truly known how much she had suppressed over the years, since they first met in the library. The way the old librarian encouraged her to speak to him when she caught him perusing her favorite books. The way she’d hide out in her apartment whenever he left for class, watching from the window too scared to approach. The way she channeled all of her unrequited love and inner turmoil into the very story she now knew he idolized. She felt so strange and vulnerable but also for the first time truly seen. It was the most bizarre and lovely sensation.

She had no idea how long they actually stood there in the hallway like that, reveling in this newfound connection, but all too soon reality suddenly hit her. “D-do you have somewhere you’re supposed to be? I don’t want you to be late!” she exclaimed.

Kakashi, however, still entranced, shook his head and replied, “Let them wait. I’m always late to everything anyway.” Rei brushed the long bangs back out of her face, completely incapable of stifling her laughter. Kakashi joined her—the breadth of his smile, the bravado of his voice, the way his eyes squinted when he laughed, all were enough to make her weak in the knees. “Are you hungry?” he then asked. “I was just about to get something to eat. You should come with me.”

Sliding her books back into her backpack, Rei smiled and replied, “I would love that.” Swinging her bag back over her shoulder, she walked alongside him down the hallway. Their fingers itched to interlock, their hearts pounding out of their chests. He opened the door for her and together they stepped out into the autumn air. Nothing else mattered. In that moment, all that existed was them: CopyNin and LittleBell.

#kakashi hatake #rei natsuki #the scarecrow and the bell #naruto #naruto oc #fanfiction #one shot #modern au #kakashi lounge blog #server event

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butyouvealwaysbeenthecaretaker · 4 years ago

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Sort of related to that, but the newest Tales of the City on Netflix is just so hilariously earnest and po-faced I can’t handle it.

I’m a huge fan of the books, but I only tuned in because I thought a narrative about a trans man possibly coming out as a gay post-transition was an interesting one to see.

And it’s dreadful, it sort of functions like a tumblr educational post. The way that the cis gay men around him are supportively neutral about his exploration process and positive about him coming out, the way that his cis girlfriend who has just agreed to an open relationship earnestly talks about how she misses being seen as a lesbian, it’s...you know, there is a fantastic movie to be made about this story, but you have to treat your characters as people rather than ideological widgets in which everyone is behaving correctly.

It’s queer-utopian to the degree of being actively unrealistic. Now, realistic doesn’t have to mean horrible. But the show just has everything just working out for the characters the way it’s supposed to, and it just doesn’t read as sincere. I didn’t see a story I could relate to.

~*~

A really good comparison point is actually Jake’s introduction in Michael Tolliver Lives, the book in which the character is introduced. Michael Tolliver is the author’s stand-in-self-insert who he’s been writing since 1970-something in a series of like, 7 books; he’s a HIV+ gay man and widower. Unique for the TOTC series, this story is written in the first person from Michael’s perspective.

Michael picks Jake up at a bar, they hook up, and afterwards stay friends and Jake becomes a series regular.

You’ve got Michael’s inner monologue of like, being worried that he’s going to mess up somehow and hurt Jake’s feelings, which reads as legit to me - he knows this isn’t as simple as a tumblr post about inclusion. And you’ve also got Michael making this strong connection between Jake’s transness and his own HIV+ status. Another guy at the gay bar outs Jake nastily to Michael when they’re in the loo; and it reminds Michael of the era in which people did that about him, when being HIV+ meant being a pariah. Michael thinks about how attracted he is to Jake, not only physically but also to his confidence, wondering how often he does this and knowing he is probably scared.

Maupin wrote the first trans character in american literature as far as we’re aware; he doesn’t always get it spot on, but his heavily autobiographical books always come from a place of inner truth and personal experience.

Like, I don’t want trauma porn or to see a character like Jake - my fave trans man in literature! not that there are many to choose from - harmed on screen, but I also don’t want this bland pollyanna-ish utopianism, especially when the original source handles this scene so well. I want complexity - I want conflict. Conflict doesn’t need to mean anger or violence, but it does need characters with fully-realised inner lives like...Jake and this random guy going home together, and the experience not being a simple one for either of them. It doesn’t need to show shame or abuse to be realistic, but it does need to be surprising or a moment of discovery, perhaps discovering something unexpected, or something that changes a person or is mixed, rather than just - and it was all OK. How often do trans people have sex with a stranger and the experience is one where “...but they supported and validated my gender identity, and that’s all I really needed, so I had a great time!” is the total reality of the experience.

And ditto with things like, the girlfriend’s response being so even-handely “I want to support him, but I miss being seen as a lesbian and I’m not sure how I feel about this being an open relationship” like, get angry, girl! Or, repress it. Or throw yourself into supportiveness as a cover for how you’re feeling. Or get a new girlfriend and have some proper poly drama. Or throw something at him, or throw him out, or endure it politely, or say no. Don’t just behave the way you’re supposed to in a single tell-not-show dialogue scene. Humans are messy! The conflict between what a person says they want and what they actually want is a ripe source for storytelling! What if the girlfriend has the worst possible response in the world, while knowing that it’s unethical and unkind, and her story is about trying to reconcile those two parts of her experience? I’d watch that.

(Case in point, I really love the protagonist’s wife in Victim (1961) - she’s a fantastic character, really nailing this middle ground where she doesn’t want to cause harm to her closeted husband, and she isn’t depicted as some kind of cludgel to beat the gay character for being destructively gay; but she’s still strong, about her own need to be in a real, mutual relationship, about feeling deceived. Perhaps the best line of dialogue in the film is hers, something like “I’m a woman, not a life raft, and I want to be loved for myself”. It’s fantastic writing, maintaining empathy for its closeted character in a way that’s radical for the period but also holding empathy for this wife as well, who quite rightly wants more from her life than to be a life-raft or a savior figure or a beard for this messy guy. idk how a 1961 movie arguing for gay rights has more compassion and understanding of the “ally spouse having a hard time with new information” character than a full 2010s series focused on queer people of all kinds)

#the queer tag #the representation tag

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quagmireisadora · 5 years ago

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[Jonghyun / Taemin] After the Fire

Prompt: A is a struggling writer going through a creative block, until B literally crashes into their life, claiming that they are a modern-day muse. Rating: R-ish(?) Warnings: some explicit descriptions Length: ~10,000

Summary: Drawn to danger, I burned my own house down.

(Written as part of the Winter of SHINee fic fest. Please go support all the entries there)

------

“... we thank you for your manuscript and applaud your efforts in completing another book. Unfortunately, it is not quite in the vein of what we are looking for. Please stay in touch for…”

In Jonghyun’s eyes, there is only one way to construe the letter—your stuff isn't sexy enough.

He knows the standards the publication house upholds. When he’d first applied to write for them, presenting a short story full of elucidated gasps and pants and whatnot: he’d done his research. The other writers and their works are miles apart from what he could ever produce. Those books are too salacious, too irreverent for him to match.

So, he knows there is a yardstick, and that he is required to be faithful to it, if he must help retain their astronomically high readership.

Honestly, though… the only reason Jonghyun writes erotic literature is because it is easy money.

Coming straight out of college, he first tried his hand at working for obscure webzines. That was a very weird, isolating experience. His colleagues were constantly embroiled in intellectual and cultural debates, the likes of which a man of his upbringing could never participate in—the elegance of noir films, the chaos of punk history, the artful French New Wave. Not only did these subjects evolve outside the barriers he grew up between, the webzines’ subscribers were largely foreigners, rendering a monolinguistic man like him… well. Useless.

Following this, he’d done a stint at small, virtually unknown publications. He’d written largely ignored thought pieces for national papers. He’d even submitted the less embarrassing specimens of his attempted poetry to the Metropolitan office of which, none were imprinted on subway doors. Yet.

To the interested employer, his CV reads like a grocery list of jobs: I did everything I possibly could with my mediocre talent, just so I could earn a living. And he doesn't mind that—encourages that thought, in fact. It is Jonghyun's earnest belief that only by downplaying his past professional experiences will he ever get a step ahead, climb a rung higher. It is also Jonghyun's earnest belief that dream jobs do not exist and, in this economy at least, settling is a good idea when you have qualifications as meaningless as his.

So no, he doesn't turn any work down. Nothing is beneath him. And that attitude has led him here—to writing cheap erotica for easy money.

Except, Jonghyun hasn't a single erotic bone in his body.

He is a man, most certainly. Red-blooded as they come. But something about writing down the act, about describing it in the most colourful and drawn-out details... femininity must surely be a prerequisite, he thinks. To notice the way that things look or sound or feel or taste in those short moments. To recreate that passion, that ecstasy, that urgency with paragraph upon paragraph of meticulous and explicit narration: one must need a very observative mind. Or a hyperactive imagination. Because something that lasts just a few minutes from his perspective, can only be recreated with such intensity if it were a woman on the other side of the pen.

So no, Jonghyun doesn't do sexy. Despite having penned three short novels, all with the reluctant perusal of internet porn, he doesn’t do sexy. He doesn’t do softcore, he doesn’t do taboo or wild or… anything, really. He just isn't capable of indelicacy like that. He reasons he can probably try romantic, but that’s not what this specific job entails, does it? No, and the letter is good evidence of that, he realises, stowing his last manuscript away for recycling.

Where sexual depravity is concerned, Jonghyun is running on empty. And if things don't change soon, his bank account will too.

------

His mother doesn't know, of course. She thinks her poor son, her youngest baby, is so deeply mired in the nine-to-five that he doesn't even have time to visit these days. Writing is time-consuming. Writing entire novels, even more so. He doesn’t tell her what his job is, though. He keeps it vague. I’m working at an office. I’m working for a big company. I’m working in a building on Saemunan-ro.

As common a name as Kim Jonghyun is, a pseudonym is useful in many ways, he realises. He doesn’t get strange calls from distant relatives, demanding what the hell does he think he’s doing, while ignoring the fact that they went looking for erotica in the first place. He doesn’t have his young cousins approach him with was that really you, hyung? or can we get an early copy of your next one? His friends and ex-associates don’t have a clue. He would like to keep it that way: Minho already gives him a hard time about growing into an old shut-in, if he had the faintest idea of what was going on behind those closed doors and drawn curtains… Minho would no longer be a friend, Jonghyun wagers with shame.

Even so, the question of inspired writing—if he can call it that—still remains. Rather, the question of how he will pay next month’s rent, how he will settle the stack of overdue power and internet and water bills, still remains. Seoul is an expensive city to live in by oneself, and he cannot move back under the same roof as his mother and sister, not with a scandalous job like this.

At this point he has no way of stimulating his mind without resorting to stealing from other writers.

And so, the idea of a fan-meeting event is a sort of lifeline. He figures it could help if people show appreciation for his work: even if those people are wild-eyed and pimple-faced oily young men who should be ashamed of themselves, his morality yells wordlessly. But he is no one to judge. And if they prove to be a motivation, if they can help him get out of his block, then all the morality in the world can go to hell.

The event isn’t as clandestine as he imagines it to be, either. Outside the venue is a board yelling out a “SHIN YUN BOK PUBLICATION AUTHORS’ CONVENTION”. The doors are wide open. The sound of chatter, the smell of food, the murmur of excitement, all floats out to the lobby just outside.

When he enters, his face obscured by a surgical mask and a large pair of sunglasses, the place is packed. A man is on stage, calling out polite directions for crowd control. Jonghyun recognises him as his employer. Or at least, he is the guy who interviewed him over a grainy skype call late one night. He self-consciously checks his disguise and walks deeper into the fray.

A semi-circle of tables is arranged around the hall, each nominated to a writer. Upon studying the occupied seats, Jonghyun’s premise is solidified when he realises eight out of ten appear to be women. Somehow, this information impresses him.

When he ducks under the ropes and is stopped by a security guard, he points at the only empty table in wordless explanation. Some awkwardness ensues: a request for ID, a weary denial on the basis that pseudonyms aren’t on any ID, a quick consultation by text message, an unenthusiastic “OK, sir. This way, please.” Soon after, Jonghyun has taken his place and assumes the target of many pairs of staring eyes in the room. Some point and snicker, some watch him awestruck, some even take photos. Selcas! Like he is some sort of celebrity! He feels uneasy and oddly vulnerable, fidgeting with his sunglasses as they threaten to slip on the sweat beading his face.

But when the doors are finally shut and the event declared open, Jonghyun’s jealousy soars.

There are lengthy, winding lines of people waiting to speak to nearly all the other writers--but not him. No one approaches him. Not for the first ten minutes, not for the next half hour. In spite of all the staring from before, no one wants to speak with him. No one is interested in getting his signature.

It is only now, at such a place and such a time, that a series of paranoid questions fills his head. Does anyone read his books? Does anybody like them? Is he not popular? Is his work insignificant, even in circles like these?

If the number of people dying to speak with the others is anything to go by… then no. Jonghyun is not in the least bit popular.

He overhears his neighbour chuckle to say things like, of course there is a sequel coming out or yes, I based that character on myself. There are squeals, there are gasps, there is enough veneration to drown Jonghyun in self-pity. Suddenly, he wishes for that love and admiration. He wishes someone would ask him interesting questions and expect fascinating answers; dote on him just the way they dote on the rest of the panel.

His jealousy is poisonous enough that it spreads through his blood. His eyes burn with it, his pulse throbs against it, he feels it bristle in and out of his nostrils with every breath. His sweat begins to sting. His solitude starts to prick. His confidence dwindles to nearly nothing. The weight of envy makes him slide lower and lower into his seat. He plays with his marker and acts nonchalant. Acts like he is unaffected. But in truth he feels like crying. He feels like going home. He feels like quitting--

When his latest book is suddenly slammed onto the table, he yells and jumps a foot off his seat. Eyes turn to him again, this time with thinly veiled distaste rather than disinterest. He looks up at his assailant to find a lanky young man donning fashionable sunglasses and equally fashionable clothes.

“Sign, please,” the guy says in a tone that borders on demanding.

------

What surprises Jonghyun isn’t the fact that he has a “fan” in someone like Lee Taemin, as he introduces himself later. It is more astonishing to him that other people immediately follow his example and accost Jonghyun with copies of his work—some that look well used and dog-eared to the point that he is afraid to touch them. More and more readers who claim to love his writing flock over, while this Taemin character stands by. Silent, watchful, critical.

As he doles out autograph after rushed autograph, Jonghyun can’t for the life of him understand how the situation reversed itself in the blink of an eye.

“Uh… thank you?” he expresses uncertain gratitude. “I was. Surprised.”

“Mm hmm, so what do you want to do next?” the guy counters, folding up the sleeves of his baggy tee-shirt. The crowds have long dissipated. Security has rounded up all the stragglers, even the rowdy ones trying to get too close to that overly popular writer who went by the penname of Eonsook. But no one seems bothered by Taemin. No one cares that he is still here, still engaging in lazy conversation, going at his own pace. Everything about this is so peculiar. Everything is the opposite of his expectations.

“Well, I was about to go home and eat dinner, so—”

“I meant,” an exasperated look berates him. “What do you want to do for your next project?”

There is no answer for that. Jonghyun doesn’t plan these things out. He sits in front of the screen and starts to pour things onto it until he realises none of it is usable. Then he gives up. Rinse, repeat.

But he is expected to answer now. He is expected to say something rooted in a fully formed thought. He is expected to answer this man, this person who appeared out of nowhere and somehow managed to single-handedly create the interest Jonghyun was looking forward to. So, is there also an expected answer? Is there a right and a wrong response? Should he take the question as a cue to say something else, something scripted for such interactions? He doesn’t know.

He settles for a vague, “Uhm, is there anything in particular that Taemin ssi likes to read?” If he has learnt something from his time writing about politics, it is this: the best answer to a difficult question is another question.

An indifferent shrug replies. “Don’t really care. As long as there’s sex in it.”

He’d make a great politician, Jonghyun thinks as he starts to gather his things. “Well. I’m sure you’ll find plenty to satisfy you, then,” he gestures around them at the nearly vacated hall.

The man on the stage waves to him, he waves back. They will probably speak on the phone later on, and Jonghyun will bombard him with questions.

“But I like what you write,” Taemin continues, drawing is attention back. Physically holding his chin and turning his face so they are looking at each other again. “I want you to write more. Much more. A series!” there is a hint of excitement on those puffy lips.

Jonghyun knows not to aggravate people like him. People who are probably more dangerous than they appear to be. He takes a cautious step back. “I… I wish I could, sir. But you see—”

“I’ll pay you to do it.” A sure motion pulls an expensive-looking wallet out. A wad of cash is counted before nearly all of it is set onto the table. “An advance. I’ll give you three times that when you’ve finished the first draft. How about it?”

He stares at the fan of ten thousand won notes. Rent, he reminds himself. You must pay rent by the end of next week. But what the hell is he going to write?! “Sir, I’m… I’m really very sorry. I don’t have any plans to write the next book and. And I’m not even sure what to write so—”

“I’ll help with that,” Taemin insists. “You need ideas, I’ll give you all the ideas you need. I’ll… I’ll be your muse,” he decides.

Jonghyun stares for a long uneasy moment. Where is security and why aren’t they doing anything? he wonders. He takes another step to back away from the weird man. But the money is right there, perfect bright green rectangles that seem to have come fresh out of the mint. The overlapping portraits of Sejong the Great are all pleading with him to be pocketed. Just say yes! the king is shouting out, even in that placid gaze. You don’t have to follow through, just take the money and run! He can’t find you, anyway!

No. That would be disingenuous. That wouldn’t be right. No matter how desperate his situation, Jonghyun would never resort to thievery. He shakes his head and stays his hand, making no move to accept the money.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you, Taemin ssi,” he bows and rushes off.

------

Their story begins and ends at Namdaemun.

She looks at its sombre face, artillery fire still marking some of its masonry and disrupting the course of the story. Their story. It is the gate that reaches out for a hug, she thinks when a cold wind picks up and threatens to swoop her shivering self away. It is the gate that offers an embrace, arms angling out from its stiff middle, like a father consoling his sad and broken child. How odd it looked in its place. How quaint, to be the only survivor of its own story. No more kings roam under its elegant archway. No more guards train their arrows from the pagoda. No more tigers rustle nearby under the cover of trees, desperate to find a meal.

This gate… this thing. It shouldn't be here. But someone has shown it their kindness and tended to it; fed it with mortar and concrete and newly painted timber. Someone has seen fit to breathe new life into it.

Their story begins and ends here.

She met him once, then many times, upon the tufts of grass framing Namdaemun. She met him and with every meeting the distance between them diminished from feet to inches to barely anything. She met him, met all of him, met every place on him with every place on herself. His hands would smell of spice. Of coal and heat and rain… perhaps he tended to a garden in their time apart. He had the gentlest hands. When he touched her, they felt like lamps against her skin. His warmth would intoxicate her.

Maybe he was made of fire, she would wonder in the hours they lay next to each other, breath stuttering and pulse racing. Maybe he was a jinn.

“You’re not small enough to fit in a lamp,” she would tease him when they'd stumble over each other.

In her loneliness, she’d dream of him, floating on clouds made of cotton. She'd imagine him traveling from land to unknown land and sea to unending sea. She would imagine him soaring, his skin burnished and his eyes like bronze.

But he is long gone, now. He has left her side and his hands warm someone else's days. She is the survivor of her own story. She is a stiff gate looking for someone to embrace, someone to comfort. She endures, just as Namdaemun endures. They stay and they wait, the gate and her, in the hope that someday there will be a finale to their respective stories.

And then they will breathe a unified sigh of relief.

------

Jonghyun supposes it would’ve been wise to expect a second meeting.

He is still shocked when the time comes: a buzz from downstairs, a murmured excuse about routine maintenance, a knock on the door that sounds far too eager to be just pest control.

When he opens the door to find the familiar lanky frame, he panics. There are no more disguises obscuring the distance between them now. Each man is plainly visible to the other. Jonghyun feels caught. Trapped, like a wild animal hunted until metal teeth closed around his leg. He frantically searches for something to hide behind, forgetting that he could simply shut the door again.

The creepy man named Lee Taemin invites himself in. He saunters casually, ambling the length of the hallway, looking around the room and humming, appraising it, measuring it. Measuring Jonghyun, who is still shocked and unable to react in a way that protects him.

“Wh-what’re you—?!” he begins when some of the shock has worn off.

“You don’t make a lot of money, do you?” Taemin cuts him off. “Why don’t you accept my offer? I’ll pay you plenty. More than you’ve probably ever seen. Then you can move out of this dump.” Even as he says this, he runs an appreciative hand over a row of books. “I can help you realise all your dreams, you know?”

“How did you even find me?!” Jonghyun counters.

“Does it matter?” the other drawls, shaking his head in exasperation. He swings his arms around himself as he walks, and when his palms meet, he lets them clap together. Like he’s out on a relaxing stroll in the park. Everything about the setting is preposterous. “I tracked you down, now I’m here, and I’m giving you a second chance. Isn’t that what’s important?”

He stares, trying to figure out this puzzle of a human being. What is this guy? How is he so at ease right now? What is this game he’s playing and why? Why with Jonghyun, of all people? Does everything out of his mouth sound like that? Like a simple fairy tale? I’ll do this, then you do this, then we’ll live happily ever after. Ridiculous!

He’s only ever seen people like that on dramas. Badly written and poorly acted dramas.

“Please leave,” Jonghyun requests, maintaining a formal tone despite all the peculiarity of the setup. “Or I'll call the police.”

Taemin clicks his tongue. “Not until you answer me.”

“Sir, I can’t be bought for no reason.”

“But I’m giving you a reason,” Taemin points out as if the concept is too difficult for Jonghyun to understand. Which it is. “I pay you, you write for me. I like what you write, I pay you to do more. It’s like…” he gestures, standing in the middle of the room, his stance oddly graceful and formidable at the same time. “Like when a king enjoyed an artist of his court and promised his patronage,” he illustrates. “That’s what we’ll be like.”

The smile on his face is a perfect representation of a magician’s. Maybe he is something of a trickster, Jonghyun thinks. Maybe he likes to put on a show and confuse people.

“The publication house already pays me,” he informs.

“After you finish the book,” he is challenged. It isn’t a lie, but how does this guy even know?1 “And only proportional to the sales. I’ll pay you regardless. In fact,” Taemin points. “I want you to write these books especially for me. My eyes only.”

So that’s it? Jonghyun wonders. Just a rich kid feeding his own kinks? He scoffs and rakes through his hair, sitting down at his desk to think.

He decides to consider it, because yes, he needs the money. Yes, he wants to stop living in fear of sleeping hungry. Yes, he doesn’t want to be destitute at the age of thirty-one, before he’s even had a real relationship, let alone marry and have kids.

But can he really uphold his end of a deal like that? Can he really write what this guy is expecting him to write?

“I’m not good at… at sexy things,” he finally declares, motioning with his hands as if to show they were empty. “I have to work very hard at it. I can’t do it the way the rest of the authors do, and—” he sighs, remembering the way crazed readers had flocked to everyone else’s tables. Remembering his sales numbers, and the words of the manager of the obscure bookstore as he complained about having to lug all the unsold copies back into storage.

Trash, he’d called them.

“Really, I’m not even sure why you came to me, when someone like… I don’t know. Eonsook? She’s the better choice, clearly.”

Taemin walks closer, his lips pursed like he is thinking of a convincing argument. Maybe he is, from the way his eyes are so focused and bright. There is an unbreakable determination in his every movement. He crouches in front of Jonghyun, sighing as he looks up.

“Your first book,” he begins. “A story about a man with a delusion. That he is in love with a woman. They fight, then they grow close together. And then, the man is cured through therapy. But,” he clicks his fingers. “His delusion has been passed to the woman. Brilliant idea,” he compliments. “Excellent writing. And yeah, sure, the sex stuff left a lot to be desired but…” he shrugs. “I liked the story. I liked that there was more to look forward to than just two people going at it. And you wrote to tell us that story, not to satisfy my needs, I could see that,” he assures. “So why not do more of that?”

Jonghyun gives a soft laugh despite himself. “Because that book sold less than a hundred copies. And the feedback was dismal—”

“Fuck the feedback,” Taemin shakes his head, a frown creasing his features. He looks young; too young to be involved in disreputable matters like this. Or… maybe at the perfect age to waste his time on such prurient endeavours. “Fuck what any of them think. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“And you do?” Jonghyun doesn’t mean to be so standoffish but he cannot help it. Here is a stranger, coming out of nowhere, to validate him and say nice things about his pathetic attempts at writing. Here is someone trying to convince him that sales don’t matter, popularity doesn’t matter, even the adoration of the readers doesn’t matter. Then what does? Jonghyun confronts with a scowl. What does this guy know?

Taemin chuckles. “All I know is this. I like everything you write.”

------

“This world is built on supply and demand,” Taemin explains.

He’s still here, hours later. By Jonghyun’s benevolence, of course. They are sitting on the floor, a laptop with a blank word document between them. The cursor is blinking… blinking incessantly. It taunts with each flicker.

Tell your story, Taemin said to him. Tell your story. Write it all down. Whatever you’re thinking of. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as your put it down in words.

Easy to say. Because try as he might, he doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t even have the shadow of a beginning, forget the middle and the end. There is no story in his mind, no words waiting at his fingertips.

This is a waste of time.

Taemin continues regardless. “The readers of this kind of stuff... their lives are filled with disappointment. With reality. They want the impossible: sultry encounters, beautiful getaways, improbable scenarios. You see?” he signals like his words are shedding light on abstruse philosophical concepts. “They want what they can’t have. And writers like Eonsook understand that. They supply that demand. That's why she’s always making bestsellers.”

Jonghyun considers this for a moment, seeing some truth in those claims. He takes a look around his own apartment, eyes roving over the small desk and small sofa and small kitchen. It is a liveable space, he reckons. It is better than a half-basement, or a slum with toxic asbestos roofing and poor access. But he is aware that in the bigger picture, he is still poor. He is confined. He is restricted. He is at the bottom of a heavy and insurmountable hill.

Disaffection comes easily to people like him. And short of being on the wrong side of the law, there is only one way to be at ease with his circumstances.

To pretend.

“But you? You fuck everything up,” Taemin carries on, amusement in his features. “You take that supply-demand model and turn it on its head. You say, I decide what I'll write. I decide what I produce. This is my art, not my bread. This is more than a paycheck for me. This is more than a popularity contest for me. That's what I see you think, and…” he shakes his head, chuckling as he reclines on his palms. “I gotta say, I find that really ballsy.”

A small balloon of pride inflates Jonghyun’s chest at the words, to his own surprise. He shifts and clears his throat. “Th-that’s all well and fine, but… but it doesn’t help that no one will read my stories.”

“Tell me something,” the other contests. “Why did you start writing in the first place? And—” he holds up a finger between them. “Don’t tell me it’s for the money. You could do anything and earn money. Why this specifically?”

“W-well, because… because what else am I going to do with a major in—?”

“No,” another shake of the head stops him. “No. Don’t answer from up here,” Taemin taps his temple. “This isn’t about rationality. This is about how you feel. About why you feel that way. Give me the answer in here,” he reaches forward and pokes a finger into the centre of Jonghyun’s chest.

He stares at the perfectly shaped fingernail, at the faint pink that dissipates into flesh below the joint. Why does he write? What compels him to scribble on stray pieces of paper? What makes him put his thoughts down on phone notes? What is it that surges in his chest when he’s in the shower, when he’s about to go to sleep, when he’s listening to a beautifully sad song for the first time? What makes him write?

“I… I have a lot to say,” he concludes. It feels like an admission of guilt—freeing. Splitting the restraints he’d been struggling against for… perhaps, years. It is like a large weight has come off his shoulders and now he can stand up straight. Now he can float off the ground. Now he can fly. He sighs and closes his eyes. “I have a lot to say. About… everything. And I—” he shakes his head, looks up from the finger, glances at the blank screen, turns his attention to the face of someone who is listening. Someone who is here and who does not appear to be in any hurry to leave.

“I really want someone to listen.”

With a pleased smirk, Taemin tilts his head and nods. “So start talking.”

------

He wonders what sounds he would hear, if he were up on the moon.

Would he hear the distant roll of waves? The rushing and ebbing of tides, their froth effervescent in the shell of his ears, their folding and retreating as sharp as the feeling of sand between his toes. Would he hear the occasional beep of a passing space shuttle? Would he see the face of another human in the window of the craft as it zooms past, their hands mirroring a wave and their faces reflecting each other's smiles?

What would he hear in that vacuum?

Would he hear the patter of his heartbeat, like water dribbling off a tin roof to roll along the eaves and fall against leaves, touch the ground, seep into the earth and become lost? Would he hear it speeding and softening like the tides, waxing and waning like the moon, repeating itself over and over, spinning like the earth does, like the stars do, like this universe does? Or would he feel an urgency in his lungs, the frenzy to drink in as much breath as he could, to gather as much oxygen in each inhale and retain it until his sight shook and his hearing went dissonant and he realised that he could hear nothing on the moon?

Nothing?

Maybe it would be hope. Maybe he would hear the sound of unfiltered sunlight hitting his skin. Maybe he would hear the whisper of a solar wind playing with his hair. Maybe he would hear his smile, his happiness, his joy even in solitude like that. Maybe he would hear something like that. Maybe it would be melodious to his ears, maybe he would dance to it, on the ashen rigoleth, the dead and cracked surface of the moon. Maybe he would float from crater to crater and find himself repeating circles, large ellipses that never ended. No beginning and no end. Maybe he would hear the most perfect sounds that ever existed. Maybe he would hear the sonorous representation of heaven.

Maybe the moon is full of music.

------

Jonghyun stretches his arms and arches his back, rolling his neck tiredly. The light outside his windows has dimmed by a large degree. The sun has gone down hours ago, without his noticing. He blinks and feels around himself to reach for a light switch. An afterimage of the laptop screen remains in his vision for a while as he stands on complaining legs and ankles. A grumble in his stomach alerts him of the time. Dinner time.

“Taemin ssi…?” he calls out, rubbing his eyes. “Taemin—”

It takes him a moment to realise he is alone. “Eh?” he scratches his cheek, trying to recall the sound of the door opening and shutting. He can’t tell how long it has been since the other left. There are no traces of his visit, no discarded teacups, no dirty plates with crumbs, nothing. He checks the bedroom, the bathroom, just to be sure. But it’s true: he has been a bad host.

Jonghyun really has been doing nothing but writing.

Searching for his phone to type out an apology, he realises belatedly that he doesn’t have a contact saved under “Lee Taemin.” With a repentant pout, he hums to himself. Next time, he promises himself. I’ll make it up to him next time.

When he’s settled down in front of his laptop again, this time with a steaming bowl of kal-guksu, he makes a choked sound at how much he has typed. Scrolling through page upon page of a very coherent-looking storyline, a reverberating surprise runs its course through him. Did he really do all this? Was that guy really serious about all that stuff? Has his inspiration finally returned to him, after all this time, all these years?

A muse… he feels the hint of a smile playing under his cheeks. He has a muse.

“That… isn’t that something imaginary?” Minho asks him when he excitedly gushes about the encounter. “Like, something that old men used to think up so they could make paintings and all that?”

“You’re just looking for an excuse to call me old,” Jonghyun dismisses. They’re lying on Minho’s carpet, listening to music. The sun is streaming through tall slider doors, and the usual sound of traffic is absent on a Sunday morning like this. Even the shadows look blue, their hue fluid and sparkling like light bouncing off of water. He feels calm, he feels like he is cradled in a hammock. As they relax side-by-side and read off their phones, there is a plot swirling in the back of Jonghyun’s mind. It buzzes and stirs, waiting to break out and lay itself down in orderly lines and sentences. He nurses it, pets its back, scratches it between its ears. He gives it a name.

But it can wait.

“Look at this,” he scrolls through a namuwiki article on the Muses, holding it out for the other to see. “It says this famous novelist from America calls his bowling trophy a muse. Wah…! He’s written so many famous books!”

“He’s old, too,” Minho snorts before he’s swatted at by an annoyed Jonghyun. “OK, OK!” he defends. “OK. I get it. You have a muse. So, is she hot?” he grins and rolls onto his elbows, a happy glimmer in his large eyes. “Does she pose for you? Do you get to take her on dates? How does it work?”

“It’s a guy,” Jonghyun frowns.

“Really?” Minho hums, the slightest disenchantment pulling at his lips. “But it says here that muses are supposed to be beautiful women. Look,” he wrests the phone away from his friend and goes to the image section of the article.

His point is proven by several old and colourful depictions of elegantly posed women, loose garments draped over their voluptuous fronts. There is no hint of an awkward lanky male form in dark and brooding clothes that blend him into his bleak surroundings. The women’s expressions are calm and filled with wisdom, unlike Taemin’s youthful fervour. The only feature that is barely reminiscent of the young man are the dark, mystical eyes.

Something inside Jonghyun grows uneasy.

“I mean…” he shrugs, hoping to give an explanation. He doesn’t have one, not at that moment. He doesn’t know how to defend his experience. All he knows is a name, some very sound advice, and the promise of money… money he hasn’t yet received, mind. He realises he is dealing with a stranger, after all. That if he isn’t careful, his prefatory suspicions of Taemin being a dangerous guy might still come true.

“Look, why don’t I introduce the two of you when he visits again?” he offers as justification, trying to push the issue aside. “You’ll like him, he’s got an... entertaining sort of personality, you’ll see—”

“I have a better idea,” Minho rejects the response. “Why don’t you just let me read one of your books, eh? I searched for your name and nothing comes up, you know? Are you really getting published at all? Or are they just taking you for a ride and stealing your work—?”

“Let’s just,” Jonghyun holds his hands up between them. He feels alarmed at the turn their conversation has taken. “Look. Let’s talk about this later, OK?”

“Hyung…” Minho makes an exasperated face, but he’s a good friend. His words are rooted in concern. He slowly settles back onto the floor, giving up on his argument, intertwining their legs. The soothing sounds from his music system take over once again.

What remains is Jonghyun’s fear of losing a dear friend.

------

“Who are you, really?” he shoots his misgivings the first chance he gets.

It has been many weeks since their last meeting. He has been progressively furthering the new book, or whatever it turns out to be in the end. What first sat as an idea in his scribbled notes has grown tall and strong. He now has chapters, and multiple plotlines that diverge from and converge on each other. He has dialogues, he has beats, he has imagery, he has descriptions. He has woven all the ends to make one whole, one complete mass, one continuous flow. Things are coming together, and Jonghyun is amazed at his own progress.

But his gratitude doesn’t dilute his distrust.

As soon as he barges into the apartment, Taemin demands to read through whatever there is so far. For a long time, he sits reposed on the sofa: silent for once, interest wavering only when he is addressed.

“Huh?”

“Are you just some rich chaebol kid looking to spend his dad’s money? Is this… just fun for you?” Jonghyun expounds on the interrogation. There is some insecurity in his tone, some residual lack of confidence from previous encounters that have left him wounded. Even he can tell. But he continues, unabashed in his self-preservation. “All this… this muse stuff. What’s in it for you?”

“I told you,” Taemin offers an apathetic shrug. “I like your writing.”

“I thought you like books with lots of sex,” Jonghyun frowns and counters, pointing at the tablet in the other’s hold. “I don’t have any of that in there.”

“Are you planning on keeping it that way?”

“Well, I wasn’t really going to, but—wait, no, listen to me,” he is nearly distracted, and the momentary look of triumph on Taemin’s face leaves him flustered. “I need to know who you are. I need to know why you’re doing this, and I need to know now,” he places his ultimatum. “Or I’m not writing another word.”

Taemin sits up and releases a slow exhale. His gaze is amused. It roves over his host, appraising him like a teacher would a child on his first day of school.

“What if I don’t tell you?” he posits. It’s not a challenge. His tone is chatty, conversational. As if he’s asking, what if cars could fly. He leans forward and smiles that magician smile again. “What will it change, if you know? Is it going to fix your life? Is it going to rid you of all your problems? Is the world going to make sense?” he motions with his hands. “Of course not. So why do you want to know?”

“Because—!” Jonghyun wants to say it will sate his curiosity, but he can’t admit that. Something about that feels like a confession. He can’t speak his mind like that.

“Look, I like that you’re curious,” Taemin reads his mind anyway, still smiling. “I like that you want to learn about things you don’t understand. I think that’s important for a writer. But I think what’s more important is figuring out what the real question is.”

He blinks with confusion. “The real question…?” he shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re writing this thing,” the other waves the tablet. “And you’ve advanced really far into the storyline. Things are getting exciting, characters are finally starting to become full people I can be invested in. I can’t put this book down even if the house was burning,” he compliments. “But there’s something missing. And I can’t tell what it is, except that it exists. In there,” another poke into Jonghyun’s ribcage. “Maybe the question you should be asking then, is what is missing? What else do you need? What else is there for you to find?”

A clearing of the throat, a shift of the seat. Jonghyun won’t acknowledge it, but the words resonate with him.

Missing. Something is missing. Something needs to be found. Something is waiting to be discovered. Something that he requires to complete this story… or maybe complete himself. Something that once sat in an empty slot in his chest must be recovered. He doesn’t mean for the thought to be so profound. But it is that very same profoundness that makes him believe it’s probably true. Something is missing inside him. Something is missing from his life. Something is missing from his world. And he needs to find it.

“Will you help me look?” he entreats his muse.

A magnanimous stretch of the arms replies. “It’s what I’m here for,” Taemin grins and falls back onto the cushions, continuing to read.

------

They stand outside the apartment block and Jonghyun is still not sure about this.

“Look, I really don’t think—” he starts to beseech, but Taemin silences him with a wave of his hand. He clicks on one of the call buttons and a ring starts to go, only raising the panic in Jonghyun’s gut.

“Just meet with her,” the other persuades, rational as always.

When someone answers on the other side of the line, it’s as if his entire body freezes until he is nudged. “U-uhh… yes. M-my name is uh… I mean. That is—”

“Is this a prank call?” the woman asks with anger in her voice.

Another nudge shakes his senses up. “N-no…!” Jonghyun insists. “Uhm, we—you and I. We work for the same company. M-miss Eonsook.”

A long pause. Some rustling of cloth. Some whispered conversation in the background. Then the woman’s voice returns. “OK, come on up,” she finally acquiesces before a loud buzz swings the front door open.

“Go!” Taemin hisses at him, grinning wide under the dark sunglasses that have become his signature.

The building isn’t much different from Jonghyun’s own apartment block, but there is something lighter about everything. It feels… nicer. There are planters with pretty flowers along the corridor. The lifts are clean and fully functional. The walls are devoid of posters and advertisements. TV sets can be heard outside some of the doors, as can the whistle of pressure cookers and the nagging of mothers. The atmosphere is homely, welcoming. He doesn’t feel like he’s intruding on anything, so he continues to walk in confidently.

He reads the numbers on each unit as he passes by, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings and wishing Taemin were accompanying him.

When he’s at the door he was looking for, he rings the bell and waits.

The woman who answers him is somewhat recognizable. He remembers seeing the straight jet-black hair, the round jaw, the parrot-hooked nose, the no-nonsense stare. Even if he has never before glimpsed her puffy lips or heard her soft voice, he remembers her from the fan-meeting—and possibly from other occasions, when they bumped into each other at the publication office.

Nobody can tell she is one of the most popular writers in the country.

“Ah, hello,” he bows low and his sunglasses slip off his face to clatter to the ground. He scrambles to put them back on, but simply pockets the disguise when he notices the turn in her mouth. “M-my name is—”

“You must be the person who writes as Grapefruit,” she guesses correctly. Her diction holds a soft lisp. Barely there, unlike Minho’s often baby-like pronunciations. He blushes and nods at the floor in response to the question.

“Come in,” she invites him, the grille door swinging outwards.

Other than the ordinary-looking furnishings, her home is full of photos. As he pulls the surgical mask to his chin and wanders through the apartment, Jonghyun cannot help but study them all, turn by careful turn. All over the walls she has displayed pictures of herself, her family, her friends, and another woman. A sister, he guesses at first, before correcting himself when his eyes go to a shockingly intimate polaroid.

He doesn’t realize he is staring until he hears his host pointedly clear her throat.

“Some juice?” Eonsook offers the glass on a tray. He accepts and stands awkwardly for a few minutes, shifting from foot to foot.

“Y-you have a very nice place—” he begins.

“So,” Eonsook cuts him off, showing him a seat. “How can I help?”

“H-help?” he blinks, his thoughts clouded.

She raises her eyebrows, wets her lips, digs her teeth into the lower one. “It’s a polite way of asking why you’re here,” she clarifies. He can tell there is laughter waiting to bounce out of her throat. In everything she does, there is an underlying strain of confidence. She exudes it in waves that come off her and lap at his own chest, nearly pushing him back with their force.

“R-right! Yes, of course,” he jumbles with the glass in his hold, looking around for a moment before accepting the proffered seat. “I—I came to ask you for… for advice.”

She follows his example and sinks into an armchair, crossing her legs and watching him for a moment. A long and entertained moment. “Oh?”

“Y-yes…” he insists. “You see. I’m—I’m currently working on this book, and. And I’m at this part that I need to research before I write it. So…”

“What kind of part?” her interest is immediate.

He tries to think of a way to describe it, nervously scratching the back of his neck and fumbling with the collar of his tee shirt. He feels unreasonably nervous, cognizant of the sweat beginning to stream down his back. “W-well…” he tries.

“Is it a sexy part?” she asks.

“N-not really.”

“Hmm, I guessed as much,” she leans back into her chair. “I’ve read your work. You’re not much of an erotic writer, are you, Grapefruit ssi?” she sums him up with narrowed eyes. And yet, there isn’t any sign of malice in her observation. He glance is approving, in fact. Admiring. “Your stories are very different. Emotional. They’re for a very… cerebral audience. Is that always your intent?” she asks with some fascination in her gaze.

He blinks up at the ceiling, thinking of a genuine answer, not wanting to disappoint her for some nameless reason.

“No,” he concedes after a while. “I think it’s just… because of the kind of person I am. I think it requires me falling in love first before… before my characters fall in love.” He runs a finger over the rim of his condensate-covered glass, nodding contemplatively for a moment. “W-what about you?” he asks. “What is your intent? When you write, I mean.”

She hums, crossing her arms across her front. “Intent…” she hisses a breath in. “There doesn’t always have to be one, you know?” she says conversationally. “Like you said, we can feel very strongly about something, and then write about it. Tell a story around it. I think that’s possible,” she accepts. And when she smiles, he feels an odd sense of solidarity with her.

“What… what does Eonsook ssi feel strongly about?”

The woman smirks. “You were staring at her just now,” comes the simply reply. Accompanying it is the smooth motion of a hand coming up to support her chin, a ring glinting on its third finger.

Jonghyun bumbles an apology.

“There is nothing else I feel as strongly about,” she reveals. “There is no one I love as much, no one I care about as much, no one who matters to me as much. And so,” she holds out a hand between them. “I write about her. About us. I suppose…” she finishes with a grin, a clever gleam nestled in her eyes. “I suppose you can say she’s my muse.”

“A muse…!” Jonghyun’s heart runs on a treadmill at the words. “Do you think…” he begins, shifting forward in his seat. She mirrors the movement. “Do you think you could teach me? How you find the courage to tell your stories?” he requests.

“Courage?” Eonsook chuckles. “It doesn’t take courage to make people happy, Grapefruit ssi,” she shakes her head. “Because that is what we do. We ultimately make people happy with our work. They read it, they smile, they feel good. Maybe they forget about it after some time. Maybe some of it stays with them for years. Who knows?” she shrugs. “As long as we get them to smile.”

He feels awe at that. “As long as they smile…” he nods again, this time in understanding.

------

With every jump of his hips, he is filled with a murder of crows that flutter to the far edges of his body—to the villages settled in his fingertips and the townships developed in his toenails. With every jump of his hips the leaves inside him quiver from the force, as birds take to the skies between his stomach and lungs.

When they travel, when they journey through him, his sighs tell the tale of that journey. They sing like bards, reciting how the crows travel carrying messages tied to their feet. The sighs paint pictures of beaks pecking at his outer edges, his boundaries, his geographical territories. With every jump of his hips he is breaking those boundaries, violating the treaties that hold those borders sacred. With every jump, he is less self-contained, less of an uncontested dominion.

He secedes. He surrenders his independence. He lets himself be taken captive by the thrum of the man below him. Inside him.

With every jump of his hips, he abdicates the throne of his identity. He makes the other king. Gives his crown to another head. And the crows carry news of this shift in power to all the lands that were once under his reign. They carry the news, propelled by the sighs, released at every breath, every hitch, every gasp. Every jump.

In his own kingdom, he is now a pauper.

To have meaning, to be defined by a name and description—all this no longer applies to him. The other man has changed his definition. The other man has made him… not him. But if he is not himself, who is he? If he is not who he was born as, if he is no longer the man he introduced himself as, who is he? What is his name, now? What can he call himself? How will he present himself to strangers, if he is a stranger to his own self? If he looked himself up online, what would the results be? Would they just become strange unreadable symbols?

If he is not himself, then he does not exist: or, at least… this is what he has always thought to be true.

But now his hips jump, and his voice breaks, and he calls out a name that doesn’t belong to him. With every jump, he becomes a blurry existence.

------

They grow close, Eonsook and Jonghyun. They become friends.

She talks to him often, sometimes on the phone, other times over dinner. On a second visit to her apartment, he learns the other woman from the photos is Gwiboon, who talks a mile a minute and laughs like an erupting volcano. The two of them accept Jonghyun like he has always belonged in their life, always had a place in their home and their hearts. They are kind to him. They are kinder than most others have been.

Perhaps because there is nothing to hide from them. He doesn't have to lie about what he does for a living, doesn't have to make up stories about how he spends his free time. He doesn't have to shut his doors and draw his curtains with them. There is nothing to be ashamed of, in their company.

It's freeing.

Jonghyun continues to write, faster and longer than ever before. He writes like he breathes. He enjoys how uninhibited it makes him feel. He finds himself feeling more and more confident about this story, even going back to the rejected manuscript and making edits with a red marker. He meets Taemin at a café and spends most of the time scribbling in a notepad as they hide from other patrons in a corner booth.

With every page he writes, a mass of pride grows in his ribcage.

“So, what now?” Taemin asks him one afternoon, having finished the latest draft and giving it his seal of approval. “Where does the story go from here?”

“Hmm...” Jonghyun nurses a cup of coffee. It is early in the morning. He has been organising his books and wardrobe and even his thoughts while the other read. He has been carefully making his way through all that needs to be settled—in his writing and outside it.

“I could write some more about the way the characters feel. You know, build more plot buffer. Or,” he gives half a shrug. “I could. Resolve it in a certain way.”

“A certain way,” Taemin raises an eyebrow. “What way?”

“Well. They could. I don't know. Fall in love, and—” the other is vehemently shaking his head before Jonghyun even finishes his sentence. “What? Why not?!”

“Too forced,” Taemin disapproves. “It would just be pandering to your readers, when the story doesn’t naturally flow that way. Consider everything that’s happened. There is no justification for them falling in love. All they've done is meet a few times and exchange... banter.”

“Sometimes that's enough!” Jonghyun defends, then softens. “Is... is it not?”

“You tell me.”

“No, you tell me!” Jonghyun insists. “Is it not enough for them to know each other? To enjoy the company? To... to feel comfortable with each other? That should be enough sometimes, right? Wouldn't that be enough for you?”

“Is that the real question—?”

“Yes! Yes, it is!” Jonghyun shouts, and as he does, he is painfully aware of the fact that this is not how he had planned for this conversation to ensue. He is conscious of the fact that he has made it a confrontation rather than keeping it within the bounds of an emotional exchange. There is a feeling of being put under an unannounced spotlight, its glare harsh against his face. He breathes hard, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter before him, doubling over in preparation for the rest of his episode.

“Yes, it is,” he repeats in a quieter, gentler tone. When he straightens up, he stares at the other with pleading eyes.

“What am I to you?” he repeats with some desperation.

Taemin looks satisfied at the question, like he has been waiting a long time for it to emerge. He remains relaxed despite the friction, despite the anxiety in his host. He continues to smile like an illusionist, continues to watch like a judge. “Before I answer that,” he begins in a calm, collected voice. “And I will answer it. But before I do, I need to you to tell me first: what am I to you?”

The reaction enrages him. “No,” Jonghyun warns. “No. Enough games. Enough running around in circles. You’re never honest with me. You only talk about this… this shit!” he angrily motions at the tablet the other had been reading from. “You can’t avoid this anymore. You have to answer me now.” He holds a hand up between them and counts. “Who are you? Why are you helping me? What do I mean to you?”

“Hmm,” Taemin rocks back and forth. “You really want me to tell you?”

Jonghyun makes wide, aggravated motions. “Who else will—?!”

“You want me,” Taemin clarifies. “To tell you. Who I am,” he raises his eyebrows. “You really don’t know? Have you really not known? All this time?”

“That’s why I’m asking—!”

“No, you’re not,” the protest is cut off. “You’re asking because other people are asking: what does he do in there all day, who is he with, who is this muse he’s talking about all of a sudden. You’re asking because you need to give them an answer. An answer that isn’t really the answer,” the corner of Taemin’s lip turns up. “Isn’t it?”

“Wh-what…?” Jonghyun shakes his head, the hair on his arms standing on end.

Taemin skips off his stool, meanders around the counter, advances on him.

Jonghyun’s breath sounds like an elasticized gong. His inhales are like rubber bands, stretching on for hours and hours. He is buzzing, like he sits inside something alive. Inside a heart and the lights decorating Namdaemun at night are made of lamps that glow soft and warm as if someone is holding him in an embrace and showering him with solace while their eyes are speaking to him in a different tongue in a speech of a foreign land where jinn live and grant wishes and there is nothing to see for miles except murders of crows carrying messages on their feet telling the world that the empire has fallen the world is coming to an end and the—

------

Mapo bridge.

It talks to him. It asks how he is, if he’s eaten yet. It tells him to turn his head up and look at the blue sky once. It tells him it loves him. It tells him that the brightest moments in his life are yet to come.

Jonghyun cries hard enough that his body shakes from the force. Minho stands very close, looking worried and reaching out for a hug. But he is told to wait. Not yet. He is told to wait, Jonghyun will need him soon.

Words are everything he is. Words are his life and soul. His bone and sinew. His drifting days and sleepless nights. Words have created him, penned him down—not the other way around. They have built him up, bound his loose pages and given him a spine. They have made him Kim Jonghyun. They have made him a writer, a poet, an artist. They have made him what he is. And he would never have realised this, were it not for Taemin.

Were it not for himself.

“I write for myself,” he claims to the sad and bloated waters of the Han, knowing the other is listening. Somewhere. From within the crevasses of his mind, Taemin is listening. “I write for myself.” It is a heavy claim to make. It is heavy as lead. It is tied to Jonghyun's feet as he trains to run his ink across a coastline. The claim is heavy enough to need lugging around on his hipbone. It is heavy, it is full. Like an earthen pot spilling its contents.

His face is drenched when he speaks those hefty words, when he acknowledges them. He sobs and his fingers tighten on the rails of the bridge, the place he would often visit when he felt sad and alone. But he isn’t alone. Minho is here for him. Eonsook and Gwiboon wait in a car nearby. And Taemin.

Taemin exists in the beats of his pulse.

Behind him, traffic swishes past. In front of him, the river hushes his crying. “I write for myself,” he lets go of the full pot and watches it splash, watches its shards rock a little on the ground, after they've separated from the whole.

많이 힘들었구나

He touches the words of the bridge and nearly answers out loud. He nearly says yes. Yes. It was tiring. It was terrifyingly easy to give up on my dreams. He rocks a little in place and finally Minho gathers him into a tight hold, stroking circles on his back.

It was awful, Jonghyun wants to say. But I found him. I found myself. I found contentment. I found it. And now I can walk away from you saying yes. Yes, it was tiring. It was hard. But now my breath comes easily. My heart beats easily. My life runs easily. I am alive. I am free. I am happy.

I love myself.

#jongtae #long fic #shinee

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tangyyyy · 5 years ago

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Triangle and bullshit

Taking part in every dramas inherent to this fandom is not in my habits, I must admit it. Generally, I don't agree with the majority view. Why? I don't really know... I already asked myself the question without really finding any answer that totally suits me. Do I have different logics because I'm older than the average age of the fandom? Perhaps my opinions, steeped in French culture, do not match the cultural majority of the fandom? I really don't know. The fact remains that I often disagree with the majority opinion and that more often than not, I force to shut myself up. Unwilling to give anything to chew to people who spend their time complaining, questioning everything, most of the time, I keep what I think for myselfn just sharing my views with fandom friends who, without necessarily sharing my opinions, can themselves be open-minded and less radical than some in the tag. Anyway, seeing the increasing criticism and, above all, the more or less hateful messages directly addressed to the Skam France team, I feel the need to explain myself. Completely selfish approach, it has no other goal than to bring out what I have in mind, nothing else. Afterwards, I will no longer take part in this sterile and somewhat childish "debate". The vox populi (aka the majority opinion of the fandom) seems to reject the idea of a love triangle. Small parenthesis... This rejection is so massive, so extreme, that it's impossible for me to forget the underlying narrow-minded morality that seems to create it. I don't judge you ! Myself, at the start of the season, I was one of those who prayed not to be entitled to yet another love triangle. What I regret is the little thought shown by the fandom now that the event they feared has happened. The love triangle... Let's talk about it. Love triangle is a dramatic scheme widely used since time immemorial. The literature (western or otherwise) of the past three millennias testifies without controversy to this dimension of archetypal universality of the love triangle. I won't cite all the books, films and series that deal with love triangles, it would be endless. Why does this dramatic pattern come up all the time? But because these triangles can give rise, among the protagonists, to a palette of feelings, each more interesting than the other. Jealousy, humiliation, betrayal, guilt, feeling like a traitor, being dishonest, hurting someone... And guess what? All this... This is love too! To believe in a love without cloud, without wound, without misunderstandings, excuse me, but I find that a little... Naive. Youy think I'm cynical? No no, I sincerely believe in pure and eternal love. I don't turn a blind eye to the difficulties experienced by couples to achieve this, quite simply. In short.. As unpleasant and painful as it is, the experience of the triangle can be a powerful growth lever for the characters involved. Betrayal has enormous potential value on us. It denounces an identity flaw and at the same time authorizes a process of quest for identity, which will succeed or not, depending on what the characters decide to do with it. If a triangle comes into our life, on our own or someone else's act, it has a purpose. It becomes the revealing mirror of our unconscious. You don't like relationships based on triangles? That's too bad, The majority of interactions between humans is based on triangular issues. (One of the three people may very well be imaginary, a fantasy. The triangle may very well not be romantic but can take place into family (Freud and his Oedipus)). The problem in this fandom is the poverty of meaning that the fans seem to add to the love triangle of this season 5. Exemple: “Arthur cheats the nice Alexia with the bad Noée, it's not good, it does nothing for the story”. Or even without a personal value judgment... “Arthur hesitates between Alexia and Noée, it's silly.” WTF? But if we stick to this vision of things, necessarily that no intrigue is worth exploring. Through this intrigue, instead of grumbling and rejecting it, how about considering its potential? OKAY! Ok I know! You did't want to see a love triangle. Neither did I. But once we have said that, once we have expressed our dissatisfaction, we should perhaps think of moving on to something else, right? I only see posts that ramble, that always say the same thing, it's kinda annoying, really...

We have no choice, we aren't decision makers. The writers decided to write the story this way. Well. We can have reservations, but that won't change anything, so go ahead, right? Or else, you know what? You can also make the choice to stop watching Skam France or even to shut up... Yes, yes, I assure you, it's possible! I say all this while finally, for me, in this season 5, there is no love triangle. Let me explain... For me, there is a love triangle only if there is real hesitation, if one of the three protagonists is really attracted to the other two, may not be in the same way but in any case with the same power. Is this the case here? No! Arthur is not in love with Noée! Arthur is clearly in love with Alexia, it shows, it feels. Maybe I'm wrong but for me, there is no doubt. For a love triangle to work, the outcome must be uncertain. There, we know very well that Arthur never thought of becoming a couple with Noée. So no, for me, there is NO love triangle, Arthur is not attracted (lovingly speaking) by Noée. Okay... Okay, but he kissed her, right?! Yeah right... But there is kiss and kiss, right? I know many will disagree with me. I know it and I expose myself, by giving my opinion, to many outraged reactions but I want to say it anyway ... (My blog is not important enough to receive haters anyway :P) I don't think Arthur really cheated on Alexia. Is kissing cheating? Everyone discuss about it, often sticking firmly to their positions. The debate rages between those for whom the kiss wreaks havoc in the couple with a strong taste of cheating, and those for whom kissing remains harmless and is not adulterous. the notion of cheating remains at the discretion of each. In my opinion, a kiss can be considered as cheating if it's leaded by attraction, by desire. In the case of Arthur and Noée, it wasn't really the case I think. Maybe yes on Noée's side but certainly not on Arthur's side! And it's Arthur who "cheats", not Noée. This kiss came to fill a moment of interstellar emptiness. We all know these voids. These moments, often silent, which follow great confidences, when people find themselves in a state of great vulnerability, an intense fragility, where we could die of embarassment or fear. So yes, at that time, Arthur and Noée kissed. It wasn't desire but simple reassurance. Let's face it, kissing someone, touching one another lips, it's a feeling that can make you forget everything. An intimate gesture that comforts, that warms. Did you know? In some cultures, friends may very well kiss on the mouth without this being considered a loving gesture. So ok, that was bullshit. Instead of kissing Noée, Arthur would have done better to burst into tears, to give her a hug or even to make a mental breakdown, that would have meant the same thing (at least for me) but would have been much more politically correct.It would have less shocked very young fans who still believe in the love of fairy tales...

But... Ok, I take a step aside, I take a step back (come, try, do like me, you'll see, it's pretty easy actually!). For this paragraph, I will consider this kiss as cheating... An infidelity can speak of many other things than disaffection. It can be linked to a problem in the couple: loss of communication, concern for the other, desire, estrangement from the two partners, conflicts ... It can also respond to a very personal problem. Kissing Noée, Arthur didn't mean to say: "Noée je t'aime", or "I don't love Alexia anymore." or even "That's it, I hesitate between two girls now!". No! Perhaps this "cheating" simply meant "I'm lost", "There is a problem between Alexia and me, we no longer understand each other. ", " I'm scared.". By kissing Noée, Arthur expresses his doubts to the spectator, he lets go under the pressure of being perfect on both sides. He shows himself to be human. And yes! Before being the perfect boyfriend, Arthur is a human. Anyway! Love is worth living, it is a feeling of intense lightness, of absolute happiness. But one cannot ignore all the pains which can gravitate around this love. It's not magic. All that to say that I will continue to follow Skam France season 5 with great happiness. Ok, they did not go in the direction I wanted but... This is also why I watch series, films, that I read books. To be surprised. If I want to control all the stories, I write them, it's that simple. I do not agree with everything that the writers put in place (the treatment of Alexia's caracter disappoints me a lot so far for example) but I won't flood the social networks with my own disappointment and my hateful comments. Trust me, I have a lot better to do with my free time. So, in short: Take a deep breath, try to step aside, get out of your own representations and you'll see, the Skam France experience is worth living.

#Skam France #Now I shut myself again #I said everything I needed #Don't make me talk about Alexia please #Relaxxxx guys !#Oh and I swear... I never cheated on anyone ^^#I know I can sound bitchy sometimes

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ruoyeming · 5 years ago

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My Top Ten Anime, a chaotic list

This was so hecking difficult, I’m gonna have to do some ‘honourable mentions’ for ones I can’t bring myself to leave out. This list is based entirely on my personal feelings, not an objective assessment of what are logically the best anime. There also may be mild spoilers at points because I can’t control myself. Doing this in quarantine cause I looove ranting about things I like.

10) Attack On Titan

This was the first anime I ever watched, and it blew my mind a bit tbh. The music is iconic, and the animation is great as well. It might have been a bit harrowing for my first experience with anime, but I absolutely loved the story. It’s set in a world where titans (man eating giants) have driven the dregs of humanity to live within giant stone walls. There’s a group of humans trying to research titans, kill them, and protect humanity, and the main character decides to join them after a titan breaks through one of the walls and his mother is eaten. It’s one of those where you think you know everything and suddenly the world gets turned upside down by a new discovery. All the puzzle pieces start fitting together the longer you watch, and you find out that everything going on is much bigger than what it originally seemed (government conspiracy time lads). The plot twists are unpredictable (for me at least) and devastating, and the emotion this series evokes is awesome - you can FEEL the sheer desperation of the characters, their rage and despair as they fight again and again against a seemingly unending enemy. Despite almost every battle being a suicide mission and despite too many losses, the characters keep going out of the human need to survive and protect.

10/10 for brutality and gore, but also theme of hope.

9) Naruto

A founding father of anime. Surprisingly not one of the first I watched, in fact it took me a few years to start. It’s set in a feudal Japan where ninjas are the defenders and servers of the people, and different villages have different ninja styles. Naruto is a young boy with a dangerous spirit sealed inside him which has caused him to be shunned by society (even though it’s not his fault??), and he wants to become a ninja. First off I’m a sucker for the Naruto archetype: dumbass, cocky, obnoxious, but kind and loyal too. Years of solitude and ostracisation as a child mean that Naruto desperately wants people to acknowledge him, and he intends to become the Hokage to prove himself. There’s a huge range of characters and villains, all with cool ninjutsus and different philosophies. Friendship, power, and determination are some of the main themes and it makes me so proud to see my son *COUGH* Naruto progressing and learning from his mistakes. It IS a long boi though and I haven’t even finished Shippuden yet, but I think Naruto captures the essence of shounen anime and is a great underdog story. Manga is lit too.

10/10 for cool battles and great characters.

8) Psycho Pass

One of the earlier anime I watched, and it became an instant favourite for the way it makes you question morality. It’s set in a kinda dystopian future Japan, where a technology called the Sibyl System checks people’s mental state and determines their ‘crime coefficient’ - how likely they are to commit a crime. The main character is a young woman who joins the police and begins to realise that blindly following this system is perhaps not the best way to go about things. For example, they have special guns that automatically kill people whose crime coefficients are over a certain level, but she soon proves that you can easily lower someone’s coefficient by talking them down and negotiating instead of killing them off immediately. It’s got great drama, great government conspiracy, compelling villains, and some really badass characters. It pushes the question of what is right or wrong, and how far technology should go when it comes to justice.

10/10 for sociological debate and horror elements.

7) One Punch Man

OPM is an anime that stands out for me, partially for mocking the tropes of battle anime, and partially for the uniqueness of the main character’s predicament. It’s set in Japan where heroes and villains exist, and the protagonist is a man called Saitama who gained superstrength after doing 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, 100 squats, and a 10K run every day. However he’s become so strong that he can defeat every enemy with a single punch. Nothing is a challenge for him anymore so he becomes depressed and unfulfilled; he’s still a good man who helps people, but he feels he’s missing something from his life. A cyborg called Genos makes Saitama his master, determined to learn his ways and they become friends. It’s one of the first anime that made me laugh out loud; it’s funny and entertaining, but also shows us that power is not equal to happiness.

10/10 for moral lessons and good jokes.

6) Tanaka-kun is Always Listless

The only slice of life anime on this list and not very well known, however it has a special place in my heart. The main character Tanaka is a boy who dozes off constantly and acts exhausted when awake; he loves expending as little energy as possible. His best friend Ohta looks out for him and essentially makes sure he doesn’t get lost/ be late/die on a daily basis, including carrying him when he just falls asleep sometimes. Although Tanaka seems uncaring, it’s shown that friendship isn’t a bother to him, and he realises that he actually relies on his friends despite saying he likes being left in peace. His friends all have great personalities, my personal faves are a tough gangster girl who’s rude to everyone EXCEPT her adorable loli girlfriend, and a popular girl who’s trying too hard to fit in and starts to become more herself after befriending Tanaka. All the characters share one brain cell, and it’s genuinely a funny anime - I’ve burst out laughing watching it a few times. Also Tanaka and Ohta are extremely shippable if you want to go down that route; it’s said several times in the series that they’re like an old married couple.

10/10 for wholesomeness and comedy.

5) Ouran High School Host Club

Another lighthearted show, probably the anime that’s made me laugh the most out of any. It’s set at an academy for rich-as-heck kids, and there’s a ‘Host Club’ where all the girls go to drink tea with a group of handsome boys. There’s the cunning Kyouka, prankster identical twins Hikaru and Kaoru, stoic Mori, adorable Honey, and princely but obnoxious Tamaki. Haruhi, a working-class scholarship student who is mistaken for a boy, accidentally breaks a precious vase and is forced by the host club to join them to pay off her debt. The group of boys realise fairly quickly that haruhi is a girl, but she becomes a popular host amongst the girls (LOVE the secret lesbian vibes) so they keep up the charade. I think I have a weakness for groups that share one brain cell because aside from Kyouka, they’re all idiots. I also love how flexible the show is with ideas of gender and sexuality despite being a slightly older anime. The daily antics of the host club combined with their personalities is a recipe for comedy, and they’re all lovable in their own ways.

10/10 for characters, drama, and comedy; it’s well-paced too.

4) Bungou Stray Dogs

Set in an alternate modern Japan where some people have secret abilities that can be activated, this anime became an obsession when I first watched it. The cast of characters is amazing and the villains are awesome too. Atsushi is an orphan who discovers he can turn into a powerful tiger, and is hired by the Armed Detective Agency, a small organisation of powerful individuals who fight crime. NEED I SAY ANY MORE?? Many of the main characters share names with famous Japanese authors such as Osamu Dazai and Ryūnosuke Akutagawa which is really cool and something that might add to the story more if I had an understanding of Japanese literature. Anyways the main character Atsushi is kind of a wimp at first (understandably because the world of ability-users is actually terrifying), but he learns to stand up for himself and use his ability to save people. The show’s mixing of dark and comedic tones is perfect to me; one moment a character is off his head on mushrooms and the next Atsushi’s leg is brutally sliced off in a back alley fight (it regenerates later no worries). The plot is really cool and full of intrigue, and eventually you get the whole ‘Usually we’re sworn enemies but we’re forced to become allies in the face of a greater evil’ thing and it’s great! Turns out our main guy and our main bad guy are actually a pretty powerful and efficient team, hoho??

10/10 for supernatural detectives being super cool.

3) Yuri!!! on Ice

Y’all already know what��s going on. Ice skating, emotional breakthroughs, gay shit, HIT ME WITH IT. The story follows Yuri Katsuki, an insecure figure skater trying to regain his confidence, and his self-appointed coach Viktor Nikiforov. Viktor is enthusiastic in helping Yuri train, and Yuri has been a big fan of Viktor since his childhood *throws pillow across the room*. Yuri becomes determined to, quote, “surpass Viktor’s wildest imagination”, and they end up agreeing - through a series of convoluted events - to get married if Yuri wins gold at the olympics (I think it’s the olympics??). Either fuckin way this series has angst, humour, cuteness, and god DAMN did I get invested. When Yuri was doing his free skate my own heart was beating harder than it did when I finished a 10K. Love the vibes and also it’s the closest to full healthy gay representation that I’ve seen in anime for a while. Not much more I can say, but do I really need to say more???

10/10 for GAY and MY HEART

2) Kimetsu No Yaiba (Demon Slayer)

Ok this one’s kind of a cheat cause I’ve read the manga as well which is way ahead of the anime, but FUCC. It takes place in the Taisho Era in Japan (begins 1912), where Demons exist who eat people. Tanjiro Kamado’s family is killed by a demon one night and his sister Nezuko is turned into a demon - but it is soon discovered she’s different to other demons, and can restrain herself. Tanjiro joins the Demon Slayer Corps to try and track down a cure for his sister, while proving that demons are not inherently evil. I LOVE Tanjiro as a main character because he values kindness over everything else, not forgiving demons for their sins but recognising they are tormented creatures, trying to give them peace before they die. All demons were once human - a fact that only Tanjiro seems to remember when fighting them. He’s patient, gentle, and determined - hotheaded and brash sometimes, but he has this vibe that just makes people become his friend/respect him even if they don’t intend to. He befriends two other slayers - Inosuke, an absolutely feral Best Boy who was raised by wild boars, and Zenitsu, a cowardly but ultimately loyal guy. This trio works really well together and Tanjiro is a great protagonist. Don’t even get me STARTED on the music and animation. Impeccable. Kamado Tanjiro No Uta makes me cry every time I hear it, and the water/fire effects used to show the metaphorical way the swords move like the elements takes my breath away.

10/10 for morals, music and animation.

1) Mob Psycho 100

Where the fuck do I start here. This anime is so unique in its style, story, and characters that I think it will always be my favourite. It follows Shigeo Kageyama (nicknamed Mob cause that’s what they call extras and background characters in Japan), a plain boy with incredible psychic powers that explode when his emotions are too high. Over time he’s learned to suppress his emotions, causing him to become socially inept and emotionally withdrawn. His (fake) psychic ‘master’, Reigen, uses him to make money exorcising spirits, making Mob believe that it’s for ‘training’. Mob appears naive at times, but he is so simply kind to people that it makes my heart hurt. Unlike many of the egomaniac psychics that Mob comes across, he recognises that without powers, he is just an ordinary boy. Mob’s greatest power isn’t his OP psychic abilities, but his power to show people they can change, that he can change. He forgives (and eventually befriends) people who have tried to kill him. Redemption and empathy are big themes here and they’re done really well.

The other characters are so well rounded and are also given time to grow, including Reigen - at first he’s a seemingly manipulative sleazebag, but later you see that he is a genuinely good man who has taught Mob many lessons and helped him grow up. This is a core message - Mob’s ability to change is due to support from his friends, not purely his own desire - people need other people!

This is also one of the true rarities in anime where the second season is absolutely just as good (if not better!) than the first one. The music is unique to the show, the ops for both seasons get me litty, the animation is incredible, the jokes are great and although it’s not all about big-ass fights, when we do get a big-ass fight it’s so fucking cool. The fight sequences are beautifully animated and visually stunning. MP100 makes me laugh, cry like an actual baby, and want to become a better person. Idk I could literally write pages on it like the big nerd I am but that’s all I’ll do for now.

10/10 for literally everything.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS

Given : about a boy who joins a band which helps him work through his trauma. Lovely healthy gay representation and themes of healing.

Samurai Champloo : ragtag trio consisting of two samurai - one lowkey feral and does breakdancing, the other lofty and withdrawn - and a bold young girl. Themes of friendship and journeys. I simp for the lofty samurai.

Cowboy Bebop: jazzy music, bounty hunters in space, 90s anime WHAT MORE COULD U WANT. Yet another group of characters that share a single brain cell. Love it.

#anime review #anime recommendation

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thebaronmunchausen · 5 years ago

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Like most of you writers, I got my start as a writer in the campus press, first in high school, then in college. And, like most of my contemporaries I dreamed of a career in journalism—writing for the national newspapers and magazines, since, in those days, there was only print journalism. Creative writing programs, and even creative writing courses didn’t exist.

UST, my alma mater, offered a degree in Journalism (with course offerings which included the new fields of Advertising and Public Relations). In the same faculty (the Faculty of Philosophy & Letters, or Philets), which taught Journalism, it also offered a Bachelor of Philosophy (with course offerings which included many Literature subjects). I chose Philosophy even if I had no idea what profession a degree in Philosophy prepared one for, mainly because I wanted to take all those Literature courses.

In high school, while writing for and eventually editing The Paulinian, I began to contribute feature articles to several national magazines (all unfortunately short-lived). As a sophomore in college, while writing for and eventually editing The Varsitarian, I wrote a weekly column in the youth section of the “Manila Chronicle”; and as a senior, I became Editor of the youth section of the “Weekly Graphic”. So, when I graduated from college, I considered myself a professional journalist.

But what I really wanted to be was a writer of short stories, and, of course, to win a Palanca. This didn’t come easily to me. It was essays that I wrote, and the Palanca Awards then did not yet include the essay category. My best friend had already won a Palanca for her poetry while still an undergraduate. But I hadn’t even published a story! And when she was invited to be part of the first Writers’ Workshop in Silliman, and I wasn’t, I was devastated.

When my first short story was published, I was 25, married and a mother. When I won my first Palanca, my husband had accepted a job with UNICEF, and we were living in Beirut. The news got to me in a letter from my mother, sent via diplomatic pouch by UNICEF in Manila. Tony was out of the country, and my oldest daughter was in school. So the only one I could share my big news with was my second daughter, Anna, who was around 4 years old. I said to her: “Anna, guess what, I won a prize for my story—I got 3rd prize.” She thought about that for a moment, and then, she said, “Gee, Ma, you have to try harder next time.”

I have another favorite Palanca memory. It happened in this very room on Palanca Night. I was here with my husband, Tony. Either he or I had served as judge for one of the categories. A young man came up to greet us—it was the late Luis Katigbak, still an undergraduate in the UP’s Creative Writing Program then. He looked rather self -conscious in his dark suit. I had only ever seen him in t-shirts and jeans, so I almost didn’t recognize him. We congratulated him for his prize, and he shook our hands, gave us a wide smile, and a little bow. After he had left us, Tony said to me, “That’s the look and the swagger of a writer who has just won his first Palanca. Recognize it?”

And every Palanca night since, I have seen that look and that swagger in some of the young writers in attendance. But now and again, I wonder: how long will this last? The question I’m asking is not long will the Palanca Awards last, but how long will writers keep on wanting and trying to produce the kind of writing that wins a Palanca award?

Why am I asking this question? We all know that in the different branches of the country’s biggest bookstore chain, what few shelves are devoted to books are not occupied by literary titles written by Filipino writers. Of course, these days, the question that follows naturally on that one is: but what do we mean by that term “literary title”?

A few months ago, at a meeting of the Board of Trustees of the Book Development Association of the Philippines (BDAP), I heard another term used for the first time: “hard literature.” I learned that, in the publishing world, the term has replaced the earlier term, “serious literature.” As a writer, and a reader, my own definition of “serious literature” is literature that is carefully crafted, literature that seeks to explore ideas which the writer feels strongly about, literature that is written, not just to share experiences, but to offer insights about its subject. In other words, literature which has a chance of winning a Palanca award.

But at that meeting I am referring to, the speaker (himself a very successful local publisher, who happens to be here tonight, and who has given me permission to mention his name—Mr. Jun Matias of Precious Pages and Lampara) made a pitch for Filipino publishers to be more open—not just to “hard literature”—but to all forms writing. There is so much of it being produced now, he said, so many young people wanting to share their stories, and so many people wanting to read them, that publishers who choose to continue to ignore it, or “judge” it—by which he meant, look down on it—run the risk of being left behind. This made me sit up.

Jun then showed us a brief video of one of his authors—a Wattpad writer—arriving for a “meetup.” This writer’s fans were so numerous that they had to open another room to accommodate them. When she arrived, she was received like a rock star—with screams and shrieks and wild applause. And she looked the part too—young and slim with straight long hair, her face partly hidden by huge shades.

Another publisher later told me that her company has been in an arrangement with Wattpad since 2014, to turn selected Wattpad novels into print novels. One of these, “She’s Dating a Gangster” by Bianca Bernardino became, not just an National Bookstore bestseller, but the first Wattpad novel to be turned into a movie (by Star Cinema, with Kathryn Bernardo and Daniel Padilla in the lead roles).

This publisher also informed me that their most popular writer, Jonaxx, is so big that the company has created an imprint just for her. Her real name is Jonah Mae Panen Pacala; she’s 28 years old and a pre-school teacher from Cagayan de Oro. According to her fan page she is the first Filipina Wattpad author to gain 1 million followers. Last year, that figure went up to 2.7M+. And her fans are so fiercely devoted to her that they object to her novels’ being changed in any way, including correcting grammar and syntax. “Mapapansin Kaya?” the first of her books to be published, had a print run of 40,000. Seven of her books have been published so far. Since she joined Wattpad in 2012, she has published 32 novels. (That was a year ago. Perhaps she has since produced more.)

Actually, my initial reaction to the Wattpad phenomenon when I first heard of it was astonishment. I had no idea that so many people wanted to write fiction. But why not? Looking back on my own teen years… didn’t I, too, want to write stories?

I began writing stories because I loved reading them. I’m talking about novels like “Little Women” and “Anne of Green Gables” and “Daddy Long Legs;” and later, the Nancy Drew series and the Beverly Gray series—what today are called “YA novels.” My world was a small one. My parents were conservative and kept me at home most of the time. To use a hoary cliché, reading books opened doors for me, doors into other, larger, worlds.

When I first tried to write stories, I was a pre-teen. I simply wanted to imitate the stories I had read. The heroines in those stories had adventures; they fell in love. And they wanted to be writers! They became my role models. My writing—like my reading—was not so much for self-expression or sharing with others. It was a form of escape, an escape from a life I considered boring and humdrum.

But I outgrew those stories. There was something predictable in their plots, and in their characters, principally, the little orphan girl, neglected and deprived of love, but gifted with a vivid imagination. After various mishaps, some painful, sone hilarious, she transforms into a strong-minded, large-hearted, confident, accomplished, and lovely young woman; and of course finds a young man worthy of her.

So, I moved on to Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters, to Mark Twain and Harper Lee and Charles Dickens. I discovered Nick Joaquin and Kerima Polotan and Carmen Guerrero Nakpil. I realized I was no longer reading just for escape. Without fully realizing what I was looking for, I just knew I was looking for something else, for something more.

My writing began to change as well. I showed my new essays and stories to my English teachers and the school paper adviser. When they edited these, or wrote comments on the margins, I did not take this as an infringement on my freedom. Neither did any of my classmates, by the way. We took it as an effort to help us become better writers. And we were grateful. (Which is I find it difficult to understand why, today, some beginning writers are averse to being edited.)

Anyway, this whole process simply meant that I was growing up as a person. And that I was developing as a writer.

Today, I ask myself: if the Net had existed when I was a teen-ager, and had it been possible to post my scribblings on an app like Wattpad, without the benefit of comments or suggestions from teachers or more experienced writers; had I acquired a huge following, and my stories been turned into printed books, which would sell copies in the hundreds of thousands… if these things had happened to me, would I have chosen to stop writing girlish romances, and moved on to other subjects, and other ways of writing? What would have been the reason for doing so?

It has occurred to me that this may well be the situation some of the Wattpad writers find themselves in. They’re already successful. What else do they need to do? In particular, why do they need to go to college and study writing?

Actually, I know people—some of them, writers—who believe that one does not have to get a degree in creative writing to become a writer. And that is certainly true. National Artists Nick Joaquin, NVM Gonzalez, Francisco Arcellana didn’t have degrees in Creative Writing. National Artists Bienvnido Lumbera, Virgilio Almario, and Frankie Sionil Jose don’t have degrees in creative writing. And, as I said earlier, neither do I.

The establishment of Creative Writing as an academic discipline is relatively new (unlike the B.A. in Fine Arts and the B.A. in Music, which have been around for more than a century). But I’m not quite sure why anyone would discourage young writers from wanting to get degrees in creative writing.

The myth seems to be that a formal education in writing will “destroy” your natural, instinctive talent. And, perhaps, there ARE some teachers out there whose methods may, in fact, have a negative effect on their students. But doesn’t this happen in all fields, be they the arts, the natural sciences, or the social sciences? There are good teachers and bad teachers; there are teachers whom some students find inspiring while others find them boring.

I tell my students that, at some point, they should become pro-active and choose the mentor they feel is the best suited to their own temperaments, someone they admire and trust and feel they can work with. Such a mentor cannot harm them; in fact, he or she, is more likely to be a great help to them.

I’ve said this often before: writing is a profession like any other. One trains to become a professional. It is accepted as natural that people in the other arts, like painting or sculpture should wish to enroll in a College of Fine Arts, and musicians should wish to enter a Conservatory of Music. And, certainly in the visual arts and in music, the more highly skilled you are, the bigger your chances of selling your works via the great international auction houses or doing solo performances to the accompaniment of great symphony orchestras. Why should it be any different for literature?

Of course writers who don’t want to get a university education don’t have to get it. But if they’re serious about making writing their career—if they wish to be professional writers—they need some form of training, even if it be self-training. All training requires hard work, but this kind of training—self-training—even more so.

One learns any skill, first, by imitating those who know how to do it. Even child prodigies—like Tiger Woods, who was playing golf when he was two years old—took golf lessons, from his father, first of all. Even gifted musicians—like the band Queen and its brilliant front man Freddie Mercury—have acknowledged the influence on their work of other rock stars, whom they respected, and whose music they spent time studying: Elvis Presley, David Bowie, Jimi Hendrix.

When the UST Center for Creative Writing invited Ely Buendia to speak at a forum on song writing, I asked him what he thought had led to the Eraser Heads’ great success. He said he didn’t know, but he also told me that he had admired many other musicians, had studied them, and tried to incorporate those influences into his music. He mentioned, in particular, Elvis Presley (who, in turn, had been influenced by African American blues, southern country music, and gospel music). And he mentioned our own folk songs, which he said he had also studied.

To return to what I was saying earlier: what would be the incentive of the phenomenally popular and commercially successful Wattpad writer to raise the level of her writing skills, and take on concerns larger than first love or first heartbreak?

Actually, I know someone who has done just that. Perhaps some of you will recognize the name Charmaine M. Lasar. She’s a 20-year-old Wattpad writer, who won the Carlos Palanca award for the novel in Filipino in 2015. She has been quoted to the effect that she joined the Palanca literary contest because she “wanted to refute the idea that only garbage comes out of Wattpad.” But she also added that, in writing her 35,000-word novel, Toto-O, which she claims to have written in just one month, she “consciously deviated from her Wattpad writing style, which is looser and more carefree,” and opted to write something that was “medyo malalim” in terms of language.” Also, its plot has nothing to do with young love or heartbreak.

The novel was published in 2016 by JumpMedia. And last year, Maine was accepted by the UP Institute of Creative Writing as a writing fellow for its National Writers Workshop. I met her there, and she told me she was considering saving up to enroll for a Creative Writing degree. I salute her, and I salute the Palanca Awards for giving her the recognition she earned.

Her crossover is proof that the two worlds—the world of pop fiction and the world of hard literature—are not mutually exclusive.

Back in 1999, after retiring from government service, my husband (who, in one of his earlier incarnations, had also been a poet, an essayist , and a journalist), set up a small publishing company that he ran pretty much by himself. He had in mind two lines: information books, and literature. But when he found out how small the print run of most literary titles was, he was shocked. Why, he asked me, would I go to all that trouble and use up all that time to write a novel or a collection of short stories or essays, if only a thousand people were going to read me?

He was determined to publish books that would appeal to larger audiences, and he decided that the way to do that was to produce short, light, nonfiction books, targetting readers in their 20s and 30s; books which would be accessible, without losing their literary quality. Many of the writers he published were first-time authors, like Vlad Gonzalez, Carljoe Javier, Rica Bolipata Santos; but he also published writers who already had something of a name, like Marivi Soliven Blanco, and Luis Katigbak; and award-winning writers like Butch Dalisay, Vince Groyon, and Chris Martinez. The award winners were not averse to trying their hand at writing that would have a more popular appeal.

Milflores books did well in terms of sales. A few did exceptionally well. And some of the Miflores books also won awards, like Rica Bolipata Santos’ “Love, Desire, Children, Etc.,” which won the Madrigal Gonzalez Best First Book Award.

Today, we have Visprint Publishing, which is doing something similar, but on a much larger scale. Some of the writers whom Nida Ramirez publishes are actually academics, like Chuckberry Pascual, Joselito Delos Reyes, and John Jack Wigley. All three have written “hard literature.” All have won awards for their writing. But Nida has chosen to publish their lighter work. Visprint books are small, inexpensive, light, humorous. Nida has also published the speculative fiction of Eliza Victoria and the graphic fiction of Manix Abrera. Actually, none of Visprint’s titles are sleepers. And some have won literary awards too. In fact, in 2015, Visprint received a National Book Award as Publisher of the Year, a prize which goes to the publisher with the biggest number of winning titles for that year.

So Visprint would seem to represent the happy bridge between the commercially successful book and the artistically lauded book, proving, yet again, that these are not incompatible.

In that sense, this is actually a very exciting time for writers. There have never been so many choices available, including what would have been mind-boggling for me and my contemporaries: self-publishing online.

Before making those choices, though, writers need to figure out a few things. First, what kind of books do they want to write? Second, what kind of writers do they want to be, or think they can be? Third, do they mainly want to entertain readers, or to challenge them intellectually, or to influence them politically? Do they want to make as much money as they can? Or do they want to write in the best way they know how? Or do they want to try and do both? And, finally, how do they want their books distributed—by commercial publishers? by academic publishing houses? by themselves, on line and in small expos?

These choices will be determined by what they believe the function of literature is in a country like ours, at the time in which we live, and what role they want to play in it as writers.

Because I am a writer who is also a publisher, I understand the need to be commercially viable. But, as an educator, I also believe that public service is an important responsibility of the publishing industry. And this means recognizing that expanding the market for books is important, not just for bigger profits, but because more educated citizens make more mature citizens—an indispensable element for any experiment in democracy, like ours.

In concrete terms, this means: on the one hand, accepting the level at which most of our reading public is—what it’s willing to read, what it enjoys reading—and, on the other hand, committing at least a part of the resources available to producing books which will upgrade standards and tastes.

Personally, I remain committed to writing in the best way I know how, no matter how small the audience for this kind of writing might be. Because I feel that literature of this sort—“hard literature,” if you will --serves its own purpose.

In another essay, I wrote about this, and perhaps you will allow me to quote from it: “Writers of all generations have tried to define that purpose. But there are periods in our history when it becomes startlingly clear. The period we live in today, in this country, is one of them—one of those periods when events, both natural and man-made, conspire to drain one of all hope that better times lie ahead."

I mentioned the book, "Sonoran Desert Summer," by John Alcock, professor of Zoology at Arizona State University, where he describes June in the desert as "the month of almost no hope for all living creatures, with the temperature at 102 degrees, rainfall at two-tenths of an inch, and a wind that has removed almost every hint of moisture from the desert world."

He calls it "a time for hanging on, enduring, letting the days pass."

And then, he describes how, suddenly… "from the boulders on the still shaded lower slope of Usery Mountain comes a song, the clear, descending trill of a canyon wren. Loud, defiant, and encouraging, it announces a survivor... (The bird) bounds from rock to rock, at perfect ease in its home in the desert.’’

Sometimes I think that this might be the reason we do it, the reason we keep on writing. This is our song, “defiant and encouraging.”

As writers, we all know that we must stay the course, most particularly in bleak times such as those that confront us now. We will not necessarily agree on what we are called upon to do, but we will do it according to our best lights. We will observe, we will record, we will protest. Above all, we will remember. And we will endure.

Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo

*Speech delivered during the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards, November 8, 2019, at the Manila Peninsula, where the author was Guest of Honor and received the Dangal ng Lahi Award

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profanetools · 5 years ago

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what draws/drew you to the tes series? most of your thoughts on characters and lore seem to be based on your rewritten universe and in general, it seems like you don’t care for the existing lore of tes/morrowind. i’m just curious if there’s a particular reason that you’re attached to the tes universe conceptually as opposed to taking your rewritten/headcanoned tes worldbuilding and applying them instead to an original story/universe that would inherently be more to your tastes from the beginning

i meant to answer this this morning (i received this at 6am) and i apologise for the delay but this deserve a full response. i apologise for the meandering nature of this reply.

i think this is a fair question but two things deserve to be considered:

1. what is ‘lore’?

2. what does being a fan of a series entail?

regarding the first question, i have just an atrocious memory for facts and figures. i regularly forget what is commonly considered ‘common knowledge’ amongst lore buffs; largely because lore buffs pride themselves on remembering facts - something i am just not skilled at. i forget the fiction beyond the general details and end up making shit up based on a presumption that turns out to be wrong - that’s something that happens all the time. it’s a demoralising experience to be constantly corrected on what is assumed to be common knowledge - even though i fail to actually retain that information 9 times out of 10 - so i largely post with warnings like ‘this isn’t canon compliant!’ because I can’t really be doing with being correct on minutiae when that isn’t the point of what i’m trying to express.

what i am trying to explain - badly - is that lore is often reduced to a recollection of facts without really a depth of understanding of other aspects of the fiction. for example, i think the strength of a lot of RPGs in particular is that it actively invites the viewer to contribute and complete the fiction by creating their own characters and narratives using the skeleton of the world. RPGs are not a fictional narrative with one authority figure - an auteur in cinematic terms - dictating how things go (no matter what MK tells himself, lmao). that is as important as the history established (through second hand accoutns, no less) of the fiction. the player completes the lore with their own interpretation of events; it is not a one sided view of things. furthermore, i think people tend to view lore as a collection of facts and fail to acknowledge the themes and emotional ressonance that a selection of incomplete second hand accounts may possess. i am a big fan of the lore in so much as the first council is about themes of loss, themes of tragedy, themes of compromise, and what that entails, politically, and an exploration of betrayal and trying to do the best while under threat, while besieged by enemies, with the looming threat of colonisation and conquest by enemies is at one’s door. i adore the themes of Morrowind - i adore the dreamlike narrative, i adore the questioning one is invited to do as a player when playing the game. i adore how much agency it gives you in figuring out an ending to the question it poses - are you nerevar? are you more than your past life? what does it mean to be ‘nerevar incarnate’? have you risen to standard? have you defied it?

i am a fan of the fiction. perhaps i am not a fan of the lore in so much as it is a set of facts but certainly, regarding morrowind i am a fan in how much it invites the reader to give their own input and contribution and really that is in large part what i am offering here. my own input and contribution. in fairness, this is based on the backbone of other headcanons others more knowledgable annd well versed in the facts have provided, but part of the reason i talk about the lore in the way i do is because i just do not think the actual facts of the fiction are not necessarily the most important thing. i think the feeling and the mood and the sense of mystery and the general ambience is as important to the lore. and perhaps i do not capture that mystery in my writing but i certainly try and capture that sense of tragedy at least.

referring to question two now:

2. what does being a fan of a series entail?

this isn’t the first time i have been asked ‘why don’t i make my own original universe?’. i used to be a big fan of the star wars series and i used to engage in a similar way; inventing my own AUs, playing fast and loose with canon, ignoring what i didn’t like, and so on. because ultimately, and this ties in with question 1, i think we have a tendency to try and... since the creation of copyright and the idea of writing as Property of One Author, we look down upon interpretations and perceptions of existing universes, we ask, ‘dude you have so many ideas why can’t you make your own universe?’ and creative response to existing fictional works has been discouraged because of copyright infringement, and it has been lowered to a secondary realm of fiction-making, fanfiction. there is a certain level of judgement there, in that fanfiction is almost certainly low literature, and that is unfair because previously there have been several creative responses to fictional unverses, taking elements of the fiction and completely ditching others and spinning them their own way, Arthurian legend perhaps being the most well known example in literature written in English, but hardly the only one.

what I am trying to express is what I am doing is not actually that novel, i am taking and choosing elements i like to create my own thing, and perhaps yes i will pick and choose and write my own novel from it, but why must i have to? is it not enough to exist in the same universe? is it not enought to grapple with the same themes, the same underlying ideas, about what it means to be mortal or not, what it means to be loyal or not, how much does a betrayal cost? even if i am working under my own framework that rejects some bullshit writing, why should i have tocreate my own universe, when there are so many references buried deep to different historical events in-universe, why should i have to extrapolate that? how the fuck do i explain Lorkhan outside of the context of the elder scrolls? why should i have to do that?

i think in part some of this comes from a lack of confidence in my own worldbuilding, if i am honest, i don’t know if i would be able to create a fully fleshed out world beyond some silly idealistic commie fantasy. a lot of my characters are an extension of me and lean in a certain way and i don’t know if i’d be able to create more than a personal story and i don’t knwo if i’d be able to create a whole world. in part that’s why i rely on fanfction. because it does that work for me and i can just focus on the parts i like.

but also like. i can enjoy the fiction thematically - and i adore morrowind, thematically, and i try to replicate that, thematically - without paying fervent attention to the facts. and the fact that i create what seem like to be whole fictional world offshoots does not mean i should translate that to an original setting.

i hope this answer isn’t too confusing and that this answer has clarfied some things for you anon.

#Anonymous

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p-and-p-admin · 6 years ago

Photo

Interview given to The Severus Snape and Hermione Granger Shipping Fan Group. (sharing here Admin approved)

https://www.facebook.com/groups/199718373383293/ Hello CRMediaGal and welcome to Behind the Quill, thank-you for letting us get to know you a little better.

Many of our members will know your Unquestionable Love series.

We’re grateful you can spend some time with us today.

Okay, so let's jump into it!

What’s the story behind your pen name?

CR is an abbreviation for “cracked rendition” and that comes from the excerpt from a poem I’ve loved since I was young. Years ago, to help put myself through art college, I did web design on the side and called my little company Cracked Rendition Designs. When I created my pen name, I combined all of these elements together to make CRMediaGal (for some illogical reason I thought it was a solid name at the time lol) and, to this day, I still think about changing my pen name altogether. I figure it’s too late for that now, though.

Which Harry Potter character do you identify with the most?

Luna Lovegood. I wish I’d had her self-assurance and confidence in who she is at that age but, that aside, I identify with how she’s a bit of a loner, an oddball, and tends to be left out (or does until she finds her Hogwarts friends). I’ve really struggled with being an outsider most of my life, so it’s comforting to see that representation in literature but through a young woman who possesses the self-confidence people like myself often lack.

Do you have a favourite genre to read?

I tend to love period dramas, so a lot of the classic novels are my favourites (i.e. Austen, Henry James, etceteras).

Do you have a favourite “classic” novel?

The Portrait of a Lady is one of my favourite novels. I reread it every couple of years.

At what age did you start writing?

I’ve been writing since I was very little, so probably seven, eight, nine-ish? I used to be much more of an artist/sketcher than a writer, so I’d make up stories and write and sketch and staple them together all day long lol.

How did you get into writing fanfiction?

After watching Deathly Hallows: Part 2 at the cinema in 2011. Severus Snape’s death hit me hard all over again (I hadn’t read the last book in a few years), and I decided that I desperately needed to change that for myself lol. Unquestionable Love is the first fanfic (SSHG) I ever wrote and it’s become an ongoing series, so I’m grateful to have gotten the “spark” to write fanfic from somewhere around that time. I decided in 2011 to try my hand at “fleshing out” my little Snape family that had been mucking about in my head for much longer than that.

What's the best theme you've ever come across in a fic? Is it a theme represented in your own works?

I’m a total sucker for the brooding, self-loathing male who thinks himself unworthy of love and redemption and the sunshine, kick-arse lady, aka Centre of His World, who loves him back to life. #GimmeMorePleaseandThankYou

What fandoms are you involved in other than Harry Potter?

I’ve written fics for Star Wars (ReyBen/Reylo is another one of my favourite ships outside of SSHG), The Hobbit (Thranduil/Tauriel), and Les Miserables (Enjonine).

If you could make one change to canon, what would it be? Do you have a favourite piece of fanon?

Severus Snape’s death (he’s NOT dead! #nope #denial4ever).

My favourite piece of fanon is probably Severus being Draco’s godfather. Regardless of where it originated from, I’m all for it.

Do you listen to music when you write or do you prefer quiet?

I used to need complete solitude and quiet to write, but nowadays I can write with some instrumental music playing in the background. It depends on where my headspace is at.

What are your favourite fanfictions of all time?

I don’t read much fanfic anymore, as it’s hard enough for me to find time for my own writing…but off the top of my head, I’d probably have to go with a “classic” - The Tattered Man (SSHG) by Aurette. It’s gutting and heart-wrenching and doesn’t have a happy ending, but it’s a hauntingly beautiful piece that stays with you.

Are you a plotter or a pantser? How does that affect your writing process?

I’m somewhere in the middle. I tend to plot out certain points I want to hit from chapter to chapter (if it’s a multi-chapter fic and heavy on plot, for instance), but writing is an organic process and I enjoy allowing my muse to surprise me as well.

What is your writing genre of choice?

A good mixture of Angst and Fluff (and nearly always with a HEA!)

Which of your stories are you most proud of? Why?

I’m proud of all my stories for different reasons, mainly technical milestones I was able to achieve with the writing or the emotional attachments I had to them at the time that I wrote them.

If I had to choose one (or two because I gotta cheat here haha!), I’d go with either Unto Their Own (SSHG) because the subject matter was so dark and took me to places mentally that were very tough for me to navigate (the fact that I finished that fic is an achievement for me because it could have very well been abandoned at various points in the story); or Unquestionable Love (SSHG), both the original and the series as a whole, because that story has my heart entirely invested in it. That precious family means everything to me and the story, from beginning to present, is my headcanon for the SSHG pairing. I really can’t see them any other way, though I’ve written other stories where their lives turn out quite differently.

Did it unfold as you imagined it or did you find the unexpected cropped up as you wrote? What did you learn from writing it?

Sticking with Unquestionable Love here, the original story came together mostly as expected, though there were a couple darker turns the fic was supposed to take that I didn’t have the heart--or the stamina, I suppose--to end up developing.

One of my dear OCs/one of the daughters was supposed to die at one point in the story and I realised that doing so would have ultimately changed Severus’s fate, as well as the entire course of the storyline. (There is just no way that UL!Severus would survive the death of one of his children, so I guess I’m no JK Rowling or any other esteemed writer who can just ruthlessly kill off their characters haha!) I’ve learned through writing this series that I can tackle subject matters that are very emotionally tough for me and that’s a good feeling.

I’ve also learned that I have something to say, even if it’s not much heard or well-liked, and that that still makes my storytelling worthy of being out there in the fandomverse; or, at least, I try to remind myself that it’s okay to exist.

How personal is the story to you, and do you think that made it harder or easier to write?

It’s intensely personal in some respects and those aspects are difficult for me to discuss. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ready to talk about them in depth, but I will say a couple scenes in the latter half of Unquestionable Love were incredibly trying to write due to personal experience. I pushed through those moments, though, and I think that, because of that therapeutic exercise, I’m able to tackle other tough subjects in my stories more easily.

What books or authors have influenced you? How do you think that shows in your writing?

I admire various writers, mainly for the love of the language that’s reflected in their writing styles. Anne Rice immediately comes to mind. If I had an ounce of her talent, I’d write with so much confidence lol. I don’t think writers like her necessarily affect my writing style, but they’re certainly people I aspire to write more like.

Do people in your everyday life know you write fanfiction?

Only more recently. I haven’t really allowed any of them to read my work, as so much of it is deeply personal, but just being upfront with my closest friends and family has been a nice development.

How true for you is the notion of “writing for yourself”?

I think this is something, as a fic writer, that’s essential. However, I’m also of the mindset that fandom is about community, and fanfic writers want to engage with their audiences. We want to feel less alone in these wacky and often times complicated scenarios we put our characters through, and we want people to respond to them...hopefully, with a positive reaction.

That’s what it’s all about--interaction--and it can be rather heartbreaking, as a writer, when you don’t receive engagement because maybe your headcanons or takes on characters aren’t popular or are considered outside of the ‘norm’.

For me, I find it too crippling anymore to continue sharing my stories with the fandoms I love when they’re met with silence or hate. There’s nothing more soul crushing than just being dismissed or disliked or not accepted...and that’s why I’ve chosen to post my stories privately (for now, at least).

How important is it for you to interact with your audience? How do you engage with them? Just at the point of publishing? Through social media?

It’s pretty essential to me to be able to engage with readers. I absolutely love it and I wish it happened more often haha. I used to run polls and interact with readers on my fanfiction.net and AO3 accounts (both now inactive) and through my still active Tumblr account (http://crmediagal.tumblr.com/ ). I now have my own website - www.crmediagal.com - where I can fully control the flames and negativity.

It may be temporary but, so far, it’s working out pretty well. It’s made my readership a lot smaller but, at least, I know the people who are there genuinely want to read more of my work and won’t leave me hate comments. That’s so comforting and encouraging.

What would you most like your readers to take away with them when they've finished your stories?

A powerful message of some kind...remembrance...perhaps, suggest one or two of them to other readers and shippers out there.

That’s the only way our stories survive, really.

What is the best advice you’ve received about writing?

That you need to protect your “voice”, no matter how unpopular it may be, and that there is no one else who writes like you and that you should take pride in that.

I try to remind myself of these important pointers when I’m feeling particularly down about my storytelling abilities.

What do you do when you hit writer’s block?

Watch my favourite films or television shows to help re-spark my creativity. I come back to the writing when it ‘speaks’ to me. I no longer press myself to push out writing because, more often than not, the result is going to get tossed and reworked anyhow.

Has anything in real life trickled down into your writing?

Yes, certain experiences and people I’ve encountered in my life have definitely wound up in some of my stories.

Many of my OCs in different stories are examples of that.

Do you have any stories in the works? Can you give us a teaser?

I’m working on a new SSHG story that’s based off of a fun prompt from a dear, long-time reader.

It will start posting at my website - www.crmediagal.com - in the coming weeks/months, so if anyone would like access to it, you can contact me there.

Here’s a short excerpt:

Cradling his head in his hand, Severus stomped to his front door and opened it a crack, jostling the handle loud enough that it caught three people’s attention, the woman firstly before the others.

“What’s the bloody idea?” he snarled, shouting above them.

Each individual—two wizards and one witch—went mute and turned to stare from the neighbouring sidewalk.

“I’ll have you know that this is a quiet street! And I was sleeping!” When the guests next door to him, who were just towing the property line and about to get themselves knocked out, offered no response, he prodded, grinding his teeth together,

“Are you daft, you fools? Do you not comprehend? HEY!”

The two gentlemen, who appeared to be fresh out of Hogwarts—or maybe they hadn’t gotten that far in their magical studies, judging by the stupidity on their expressions—startled and nodded in unison.

“Yes, sir!”

“Oh, my...” the witch, in turn, murmured, seemingly more to herself than anyone else.

Severus identified her vacant, open-mouthed expression at once: she recognised him. As of yet, he had little recollection as to who she might be and didn’t give a damn. He kicked his door open the rest of the way with his boot, jostling the three near trespassers backward a few more paces, and stalked down his steps and onto his sidewalk.

That was when he finally understood the reason behind all of the commotion: one of the branches to the old oak tree that shielded his stoop, and had been there since the earliest days he could recall of his childhood, had crashed onto the pavement, cracking the sidewalk in half.

A part of his iron fence, too, had crumbled under the weight of the broken branch, and there was an assortment of boxes, some severely banged up, scattered across his property.

“What the...? That’s my tree you idiots hit! And my bleedin’ fence...!”

“I - I’m sorry, sir,” stammered the witch with wildly curly hair and worrisome brown eyes, hastily stepping forward to intervene.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how this happened—”Severus turned his glare on her.

“And who are you?” The seemingly thirty-something woman blushed to her roots, which he couldn’t account for, until she spoke in a faint, insecure whisper,

“Um, Hermione, sir... Hermione Weasley. Oh, gosh, I mean, I - I was Hermione Weasley until...” She cleared her throat and attempted to reintroduce herself, flushing in such a manner that it flaunted dainty-looking freckles that dotted her cheeks and nose. Had she always had those? Severus couldn’t remember.

“Oh, bother! It’s Hermione Granger, Professor. Surely, you...you remember me?”Severus went as rigid as a column.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake...” he blurted aloud before he could stop himself. Hermione blinked, taken aback.

“I’m sorry?”Severus’s shock morphed into a tight-fitting sneer.

“I thought I was done with the lot of you.”

Any words of encouragement to other writers?

Try not to get too discouraged by lack of reviews or not making the recommendations lists. Keep persevering and know that someone out there, even if it’s just one reader, will love what you have to share with the world.

Thanks for spending some time with us today CRMediaGal, we’ve enjoyed getting to know you.

#fanfiction #fanfic #pro snape #snamione #sevmione #snanger #hermione #hermione granger #snape #severus snape #snape community #writing

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beyondthecosmicvoid · 6 years ago

Text

Afterword of First Book of Dune, "Dune"

“I knew Frank Herbert for more than thirty-eight years. He was a magnificent human being, a man of great honor and distinction, and the most interesting person at any gathering, drawing listeners around him like a magnet. To say he was an intellectual giant would be an understatement, since he seemed to contain all of the knowledge of the universe in his marvelous mind. He was my father, and I loved him deeply. Nonetheless, a son’s journey to understand the legendary author was not always a smooth one, as I described in my biography of him, Dreamer of Dune. Growing up in Frank Herbert’s household, I did not understand his need for absolute silence so that he could concentrate, the intense desire he had to complete his important writing projects, or the confidence he had that one day his writing would be a success, despite the steady stream of rejections that he received. To my young eyes, the characters he created in Dune and his other stories were the children of his mind, and they competed with me for his affections. In the years it took him to write his magnum opus, he spent more time with Paul Atreides than he did with me. Dad’s study was off-limits to me, to my sister Penny, and to my brother Bruce. In those days, only my mother Beverly really understood Dad’s complexities. Ultimately, it was through her love for him, and the love he gave back to her, that I came to see the nurturing, loving side of the man. By that time I was in my mid-twenties, having rebelled against his exacting ways for years. When I finally saw the soul of my father and began to appreciate him for the care he gave my mother when she was terminally ill, he and I became the best of friends. He helped me with my own writing career by showing me what editors wanted to see in books; he taught me how to construct interesting characters, how to build suspense, how to keep readers turning the pages. After perusing an early draft of Sidney’s Comet (which would become my first published novel), he marked up several pages and then wrote me this note: “These pages…show how editing tightens the story. Go now and do likewise.” It was his way of telling me that he could open the door for me and let me peek through, but I would have to complete the immense labors involved with writing myself. Beverly Herbert was the window into Frank Herbert’s soul. He shared that reality with millions of readers when he wrote a loving, three-page tribute to her at the end of Chapterhouse: Dune, describing their life together. His writing companion and intellectual equal, she suggested the title for that book, and she died in 1984 while he was writing it. Earlier in Dune, Frank Herbert had modeled Lady Jessica Atreides after Beverly Herbert, with her dignified, gentle ways of influence, and even her prescient abilities, which my mother actually possessed. He also wrote of “Lady Jessica’s latent (prophetic) abilities,” and in this he was describing my mother, thinking of all the amazing paranormal feats she had accomplished in her lifetime. In an endearing tone, he often referred to her as his “white witch,” or good witch. Similarly, throughout the Dune series, he described the heroic Bene Gesserit women as “witches.” Dune is the most admired science fiction novel ever written and has sold tens of millions of copies all over the world, in more than twenty languages. It is to science fiction what the Lord of the Rings trilogy is to fantasy, the most highly regarded, respected works in their respective genres. Of course, Dune is not just science fiction. It includes strong elements of fantasy and contains so many important layers beneath the story line that it has become a mainstream classic. As one dimension of this, just look at the cover on the book in your hands, the quiet dignity expressed in the artwork. The novel was first published in hardcover in 1965 by Chilton Books, best known for their immense auto-repair novels. No other publisher would touch the book, in part because of the length of the manuscript. They felt it was far too long at 215,000 words, when most novels of the day were only a quarter to a third that length. Dune would require immense printing costs and a high hardcover price for the time, in excess of five dollars. No science fiction novel had ever commanded a retail price that high. Publishers also expressed concern about the complexity of the novel and all of the new, exotic words that the author introduced in the beginning, which tended to slow the story down. One editor said that he could not get through the first hundred pages without becoming confused and irritated. Another said that he might be making a huge mistake in turning the book down, but he did so anyway. Initial sales of the book were slow, but Frank Herbert’s science fiction–writing peers and readers recognized the genius of the work from the beginning, awarding it the coveted Nebula and Hugo awards for best novel of the year. It was featured in The Whole Earth Catalog and began to receive excellent reviews, including one from the New York Times. A groundswell of support was building. In 1969, Frank Herbert published the first sequel, Dune Messiah, in which he warned about the dangers of following a charismatic leader and showed the dark side of Paul Atreides. Many fans didn’t understand this message, because they didn’t want to see their superhero brought down from his pedestal. Still, the book sold well, and so did its predecessor. Looking back at Dune, it is clear that Dad laid the seeds of the troublesome direction he intended to take with his hero, but a lot of readers didn’t want to see it. John W. Campbell, the editor of Analog who made many useful suggestions when Dune was being serialized, did not like Dune Messiah because of this Paul Atreides issue. Having studied politics carefully, my father believed that heroes made mistakes…mistakes that were simplified by the number of people who followed such leaders slavishly. In a foreshadowing epigraph, Frank Herbert wrote in Dune: “Remember, we speak now of the Muad’Dib who ordered battle drums made from his enemies’ skins, the Muad’Dib who denied the conventions of his ducal past with a wave of the hand, saying merely: ‘I am the Kwisatz Haderach. That is reason enough.’” And in a dramatic scene, as Liet-Kynes lay dying in the desert, he remembered the long-ago words of his own father: “No more terrible disaster could befall your people than for them to fall into the hands of a Hero.” By the early 1970s, sales of Dune began to accelerate, largely because the novel was heralded as an environmental handbook, warning about the dangers of destroying the Earth’s finite resources. Frank Herbert spoke to more than 30,000 people at the first Earth Day in Philadelphia, and he toured the country, speaking to enthusiastic college audiences. The environmental movement was sweeping the nation, and Dad rode the crest of the wave, a breathtaking trip. When he published Children of Dune in 1976, it became a runaway bestseller, hitting every important list in the country. Children of Dune was the first science fiction novel to become a New York Times bestseller in both hardcover and paperback, and sales reached into the millions. After that, other science fiction writers began to have their own bestsellers, but Frank Herbert was the first to obtain such a high level of readership; he brought science fiction out of the ghetto of literature. By 1979, Dune itself had sold more than 10 million copies, and sales kept climbing. In early 1985, shortly after David Lynch’s movie Dune was released, the paperback version of the novel reached #1 on the New York Times bestseller list. This was a phenomenal accomplishment, occurring twenty years after its first publication, and sales remain brisk today. * * * In 1957, Dad flew to the Oregon coast to write a magazine article about a U.S. Department of Agriculture project there, in which the government had successfully planted poverty grasses on the crests of sand dunes, to keep them from inundating highways. He intended to call the article “They Stopped the Moving Sands,” but soon realized that he had a much bigger story on his hands. Frank Herbert’s life experiences are layered into the pages of the Dune series, combined with an eclectic assortment of fascinating ideas that sprang from his researches. Among other things, the Dune universe is a spiritual melting pot, a far future in which religious beliefs have combined into interesting forms. Discerning readers will recognize Buddhism, Sufi Mysticism and other Islamic belief systems, Catholicism, Protestantism, Judaism, and Hinduism. In the San Francisco Bay Area, my father even knew Zen Master Alan Watts, who lived on an old ferryboat. Dad drew on a variety of religious influences, without adhering to any one of them. Consistent with this, the stated purpose of the Commission of Ecumenical Translators, as described in an appendix to Dune, was to eliminate arguments between religions, each of which claimed to have “the one and only revelation.” When he was a boy, eight of Dad’s Irish Catholic aunts tried to force Catholicism on him, but he resisted. Instead, this became the genesis of the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood. This fictional organization would claim it did not believe in organized religion, but the sisters were spiritual nonetheless. Both my father and mother were like that as well. During the 1950s, Frank Herbert was a political speechwriter and publicity writer for U.S. senatorial and congressional candidates. In that decade, he also journeyed twice to Mexico with his family, where he studied desert conditions and crop cycles, and was subjected unwittingly to the effects of a hallucinogenic drug. All of those experiences, and a great deal from his childhood, found their way onto the pages of Dune. The novel became as complex and multilayered as Frank Herbert himself. As I said in Dreamer of Dune, the characters in Dune fit mythological archetypes. Paul is the hero prince on a quest who weds the daughter of a “king” (he marries Princess Irulan, whose father is the Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV). Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam is a witch mother archetype, while Paul’s sister Alia is a virgin witch, and Pardot Kynes is the wise old man of Dune mythology. Beast Rabban Harkonnen, though evil and aggressive, is essentially a fool. For the names of heroes, Frank Herbert selected from Greek mythology and other mythological bases. The Greek House Atreus, upon which House Atreides in Dune was based, was the ill-fated family of kings Menelaus and Agamemnon. A heroic family, it was beset by tragic flaws and burdened with a curse pronounced against it by Thyestes. This foreshadows the troubles Frank Herbert had in mind for the Atreides family. The evil Harkonnens of Dune are related to the Atreides by blood, so when they assassinate Paul’s father Duke Leto, it is kinsmen against kinsmen, similar to what occurred in the household of Agamemnon when he was murdered by his wife Clytemnestra. Dune is a modern-day conglomeration of familiar myths, a tale in which great sandworms guard a precious treasure of melange, the geriatric spice that represents, among other things, the finite resource of oil. The planet Arrakis features immense, ferocious worms that are like dragons of lore, with “great teeth” and a “bellows breath of cinnamon.” This resembles the myth described by an unknown English poet in Beowulf, the compelling tale of a fearsome fire dragon who guarded a great treasure hoard in a lair under cliffs, at the edge of the sea. The desert of Frank Herbert’s classic novel is a vast ocean of sand, with giant worms diving into the depths, the mysterious and unrevealed domain of Shai-hulud. Dune tops are like the crests of waves, and there are powerful sandstorms out there, creating extreme danger. On Arrakis, life is said to emanate from the Maker (Shai-hulud) in the desert-sea; similarly all life on Earth is believed to have evolved from our oceans. Frank Herbert drew parallels, used spectacular metaphors, and extrapolated present conditions into world systems that seem entirely alien at first blush. But close examination reveals they aren’t so different from systems we know…and the book characters of his imagination are not so different from people familiar to us. Paul Atreides (who is the messianic “Muad’Dib” to the Fremen) resembles Lawrence of Arabia (T. E. Lawrence), a British citizen who led Arab forces in a successful desert revolt against the Turks during World War I. Lawrence employed guerrilla tactics to destroy enemy forces and communication lines, and came close to becoming a messiah figure for the Arabs. This historical event led Frank Herbert to consider the possibility of an outsider leading native forces against the morally corrupt occupiers of a desert world, in the process becoming a godlike figure to them. One time I asked my father if he identified with any of the characters in his stories, and to my surprise he said it was Stilgar, the rugged leader of the Fremen. I had been thinking of Dad more as the dignified, honorable Duke Leto, or the heroic, swashbuckling Paul, or the loyal Duncan Idaho. Mulling this over, I realized Stilgar was the equivalent of a Native American chief in Dune—a person who represented and defended time-honored ways that did not harm the ecology of the planet. Frank Herbert was that, and a great deal more. As a child, he had known a Native American who hinted that he had been banished from his tribe, a man named Indian Henry who taught my father some of the ways of his people, including fishing, the identification of edible and medicinal plants in the forest, and how to find red ants and protein-rich grub worms for food. When he set up the desert planet of Arrakis and the galactic empire encompassing it, Frank Herbert pitted western culture against primitive culture and gave the nod to the latter. In Dune he wrote, “Polish comes from the cities; wisdom from the desert.” (Later, in his mainstream novel Soul Catcher, he would do something similar and would favor old ways over modern ways). Like the nomadic Bedouins of the Arabian plateau, the Fremen live an admirable, isolated existence, separated from civilization by vast stretches of desert. The Fremen take psychedelic drugs during religious rites, like the Navajo Indians of North America. And like the Jews, the Fremen have been persecuted, driven to hide from authorities and survive away from their homeland. Both Jews and Fremen expect to be led to the promised land by a messiah. The words and names in Dune are from many tongues, including Navajo, Latin, Chakobsa (a language found in the Caucasus), the Nahuatl dialect of the Aztecs, Greek, Persian, East Indian, Russian, Turkish, Finnish, Old English, and, of course, Arabic. In Children of Dune, Leto II allowed sandtrout to attach themselves to his body, and this was based in part upon my father’s own experiences as a boy growing up in Washington State, when he rolled up his trousers and waded into a stream or lake, permitting leeches to attach themselves to his legs. The legendary life of the divine superhero Muad’Dib is based on themes found in a variety of religious faiths. Frank Herbert even used lore and bits of information from the people of the Gobi Desert in Asia, the Kalahari Desert in Southwest Africa, and the aborigines of the Australian Outback. For centuries such people have survived on very small amounts of water, in environments where water is a more precious resource than gold. The Butlerian Jihad, occurring ten thousand years before the events described in Dune, was a war against thinking machines who at one time had cruelly enslaved humans. For this reason, computers were eventually made illegal by humans, as decreed in the Orange Catholic Bible: “Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind.” The roots of the jihad went back to individuals my parents knew, to my mother’s grandfather Cooper Landis and to our family friend Ralph Slattery, both of whom abhorred machines. Still, there are computers in the Dune universe, long after the jihad. As the series unfolds, it is revealed that the Bene Gesserits have secret computers to keep track of their breeding records. And the Mentats of Dune, capable of supreme logic, are “human computers.” In large part these human calculators were based upon my father’s paternal grandmother, Mary Stanley, an illiterate Kentucky hill-woman who performed incredible mathematical calculations in her head. Mentats were the precursors of Star Trek’s Spock, First Officer of the starship Enterprise…and Frank Herbert described the dangers of thinking machines back in the 1960s, years before Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator movies ...

By the time we complete those stories, there will be a wealth of Dune novels, along with the 1984 movie directed by David Lynch and two television miniseries—“Frank Herbert’s Dune” and “Frank Herbert’s Children of Dune”—both produced by Richard Rubinstein. We envision other projects in the future, but all of them must measure up to the lofty standard that my father established with his own novels. When all of the good stories have been told, the series will end. But that will not really be a conclusion, because we can always go back to Dune itself and read it again and again, ” -Brian Herbert

This shows the appreciation that Brian had for his father. Many fans are still on the fence regarding Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson continuation of Frank’s work. Some think some of their sequels and prequels are good while others think their attempt to expand on the Dune lore is a failed attempt and don’t believe they have based their works on Frank Herbert’s alleged unfinished manuscripts. I fall somewhere in the middle. There are things I like from the Dune Expanded Universe and other things that I could care less about. Nevertheless, I love that Brian Herbert has continued with his father’s passion and is currently working with director Denis Villeneuve and others to bring his father’s vision on the big and small screens and stay loyal to it.

#frank herbert #dune #brian herbert

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