#from the bowels of the draft folder

[seenashwrite]

Fic Writer Interview Thingy.

I was tagged by the awesomesauce @waywardjoy who knows I hate chains but also knows that my love for talking about myself [humbly] will win out every damn time. Writers I can think of off the top o’ my head are tagged below [minus Joy, who’s already done it], if y’all wanna throw this in your hopper as a standby post. Good Qs, all!

1. What inspires your work most? (The show it is based on, the actor who portrays a certain character, maybe the character itself? It could even be an experience.)

What appears on screen & the words in the script are the primary sources. Secondary sources would be what the writers/showrunner/actors say in interviews or whatnot. [I say secondary because their intent may’ve been way different, but that doesn’t matter, the end product is what it is.]

2. What is your favorite fandom to write for?

Well, I’ve stuck with SPN for a year of prep time and [as of last month!] a year of writing weekly about it [minus recent zombieitis delay ::sigh::] so we’ll give it the crown. It’s a challenging exercise, writing around someone else’s creation(s) with the goal of accuracy in portrayal/plot integration. I dig it. 

3. Which perspective do you prefer writing in? (First-person, second-person, third-person)

First & third; second works my nerves both to read & to write. 

4. Do you prefer writing reader fics or OCs?

Both, if one considers first-person to be “reader insert”.  I’ve said elsewhere I wish the whole “Y/N” thing should die in a tire fire, it is incredibly distracting. If a reader’s pretending this is them & are willing to accept traits described that aren’t actually, y’know, them, then why not just write in first person? It confuzzles me, though I ain’t dying on that hill. So, if a Nash Tale is written in first-person, y’all go on & mentally insert “Y/N” if that’s what turns your crank. [I will say, major kudos to whomever developed the name replacer add-on, I have had many laughs inputting things like “Smegma” and “Your Mom” on more than one occasion]

5. Do you prefer writing longer works or one shots?

See, now, I think a one-and-done can be a long mammajammer. If this Q means more like drabbles, well.... Those more often than not seem to devolve into longer journeys than I originally intended, but I’m starting to amass a tidy little pile of quickies. 

6. Do you take requests?

Eh. Sure. Depends on the subject matter, though - I’d make a list of stuff I won’t do, but I don’t get enough requests for it to matter. I any event, I’d make no promises for when I’d finish it. For now, I’d prefer to send out the call if I wanted peeps to send ‘em in vs. unsoliciteds. But hell, if it’s a killer idea & you know my style & think I’d do it justice? Bring it on. 

7. Do you enjoy getting random Asks?

---> Dear Nash  <---

8. What inspires the names for OCs (or extra character names) in your works? Do you pick them from real life or just select them at random? A mix?

This required major thinking cap & cooked my noodle... Well, when I do name them; I often don’t. ;)  Honestly, it’s just what fits - does it jibe with the rest of their family’s names? With the setting? The time period? [my hatiest-hate for seeing crazily spelled, “modern” names in families with names like, say, I dunno, Henry and John and Mary and Samuel and Dean and Sam knows no bounds; triple-score if it’s set in the past and they’re named Mickayeluh ::eye roll::] Long story short: yes, I put thought into it, and yes, sometimes I associate it with people I know/am acquainted with/aware of who happen to have things in common with the character. 

9. If your story(ies) have OCs, are their appearances based on real people or celebrities? If so, who?

[Sorry, this tickled me, and I can’t not.... :::whispers:::: Celebrities *are* real people... my assumption is O.P. meant persons writer knows vs. celebs]

In my mind, they may be based in/on celebs, but I don’t wanna trample on reader imagination. I’ve ponied up a couple names/images to peeps off-the-books/off-site regarding Andrew, Mose & Jane in Top of the World, and the midwife & Burt in The Midwife, and the agent in The Lore You Know. I think that’s all. So if ya wanna know, hey, okay, holler & I’ll tell you what’s in my mind’s eye.

Specifically in cases of something that can be reader insert - and I’ve talked about this elsewhere - I make a conscious effort to not pigeonhole the reader so they can actually imagine themselves as the protagonist. If I mention specifics - such as hair length, or height for instance - there’s a reason for the plot or for the character arc as related to the plot. People can/will typically let a couple middle-of-the-road things go & still be able to picture themselves. I don’t describe skin color or eye shape or whatever, because life’s a crayon box & pictures that are drawn in only one hue/range are bone-achingly boring. 

I don’t want/need a cookie for that; it takes minimal effort on my part to execute but gives a maximum enjoyment for persons who aren’t 22-year-old lily white Barbie dolls with flowing blonde hair or buxom brunettes with legs for days, et al, while still allowing the rest to picture themselves without missing out on anything. So, y’know, why wouldn’t I? I try not to waste time describing anything at length that has no bearing on the plot, and that includes character appearance.  /rant

Jane is the most I’ve described, and even then I’m kinda slow-playing it vs. a big ol’ chunk of tips-to-toes details. For her, it’s more about the family members she favors, in both looks & mannerisms, but she’s got plenty of her own quirks.       

10. How long have you been writing fanfiction?

I got roped into writing 2 lil’ “Smallville” things a bazillionty years ago, I actually found them on FFnet awhile back & they aren’t terribly bad, I’m surprised to say. But as far as digging in hardcore? Like I say - R&D started a little over 2 years ago, I think, and last month was the 1 year anniversary of Top of the World. Which was meant to be an exercise for me & a damn gesture for a friend. And was the only thing I planned on writing.  #famous last words

And welp, on that note....

*~* See Nash Write : Master  *~*  See Nash Write : Mobile *~*

@impandagrl  @castielhasthetardis  @jalove-wecallhimdean  @kathaswings   @just-another-busy-fangirl  @amanda-teaches  @fanforfanatic   @idreamofhazel  @itswitchcraft-not-googlemaps  @impala-dreamer @roxy-davenport  @blackcaptainrogers   @carryonmycobaltangel  @klaineaholic  @helvonasche  @zepppie  @littlegreenplasticsoldier  @emilywritesaboutdean  @butiaintgonnaloveem  @wheresthekillswitch  @lipstickandwhiskey   @pinknerdpanda  @hannahindie  @impalaimagining  @katymacsupernatural  @wideawakeandwriting  @mrswhozeewhatsis   @salvachester  @wildlifepixie  @deanssweetheart23  @kittenofdoomage  @chelsea072498  @salvachester  @iwantthedean  @whispersandwhiskerburn  @atc74  @abbessolute  

[sio-writes]

Word Game!

I was tagged by @menagerie-of-monsters and my words were: steam, night, gray, and smart

I tag @vaya-writes, @kamaria-sweet-writes, and @kinomiakai with the words string, color, bath, and fright :>

This got a little lengthy, so I’m throwing it under a cut!

Steam: I dug into my early drafts of Botanist’s Guide and found this Kri perspective hiding in the back. Context: Cassie is very drunk and threw up earlier in the scene, so she’s in the shower while Kri babysits.

Night - This is an old oneshot I lost the passion for halfway through, so it’s been collecting dust in my WIP folder, lol

“Some day, huh?” Her nervous laugh echoes off the tile.

Please, stars above, strike me down so I don’t have to endure this torture.

“I suppose,” I say, teeth clamping down on my lower lip. My whole body is on fire. With Cassie speaking to me, every inappropriate image I had banished a moment ago returns in full force.

“I’d really appreciate you not, uh, telling anyone about this,” she says, and I hear her open a bottle. The bathroom is flooded with the scent of artificial lavender, and I am heavily debating ripping off my legs so they do not betray me by walking right into that smell.

“Why,” I try to sound conversational and wind up sounding angry. “Would I ever do that?”

She pauses. “I dunno, to embarrass me?”

I am doing just fine embarrassing myself right now, thank you.

“I do not need to do that,” is all I can manage.

Either in blessing or curse, Cassie does not respond. She opens another bottle, and a third after that, overwhelming my scent receptors. It's all lavender. I am reminded of the scent of her hair, the notes of soap on her skin, this must be the source.

Slowly, quietly, I take a deep inhale, wanting to sink into the scent, but the soap mingles with the steam and my brain unhelpfully provides me with the image of Cassie drenched head to toe. She's lathering her body with soap and I am behind her, pressing my face into her soaked brown curls and taking another long, slow inhale.

This is not helping. You are doing the opposite of helping, Khri'asxu.

Think, you lovesick idiot, so you can prepare for what’s next. She’s going to shut off the water, and humans dry themselves with terrycloth that she hung on that rod by the shower. I can keep my eyes closed for that as well, and I can take deeper breaths once the scent of her soap is gone. She will likely change into the clothes she set out earlier, and then—

The water shuts off.

“Kri?” Her voice sounds small and unsure, and I want to hold her.

I can only make out a small note of question. “Hm?”

“I’m sorry for all this, you deserve better.”

I frown. Always out of left field, with her. “I’m unsure what you mean.”

“A better friend, a better coworker, one who doesn’t throw up on you.”

My dearest cousin,

I write you this letter wishing you well, but also in haste and desperation. Over the past few weeks it has come to my attention that an otherworldly presence has made its home in, well, my home. The doors have been slamming in their frames, glassware rattles and falls from the cabinets, ghostly laughter echoes down the halls, and there is a horrid draft persistent throughout the whole manor. At first I believed the spirit to be my late husband, Edgar, but recent events have shifted my position.

I have narrowly escaped multiple instances of bodily injury of broken windows and falling portraits, each case more severe than the last, by quick wit and excellent timing. But I know my luck will run out eventually. I fear this presence, whatever it is, wishes me dead or at the very least out of its way. 

I'd hoped that given your…proclivities towards the macabre and demonic, that you may exorcize this demon back to the bowels of Hell. I've set up all the necessary precautions, crucifixes and sage and the like. I've also sent all but the essential waitstaff away for the month, and provided you with an allowance so you may purchase whatever materials you require.

You cannot begin to imagine my thanks for undertaking this project. I will sleep much better at night knowing the manor rests in your care.

Your cousin,

    Maude

The carriage drops you off in front of Becker Estate, a gorgeous two-story mansion at the top of a hill. The manor is red brick and timber, surrounded on all sides by thick, lush forest, the only estate for miles around. Your cousin has been Lady of the House for little more than a year, marrying into the Becker family at the age of twenty-four. She's a flighty sort of woman, prone to fainting spells and nervous fits, so you nearly wrote off her letter entirely, attributing it to grief and her anxieties over living alone in such a large estate. 

But something felt off. Maude was prone to hysteria, but she wouldn't write to you if she felt these occurrences were a simple trick of the mind. She wouldn't give you a month's allowance to do whatever you wished if this were a simple hindrance. So you decided it worth your time to at least visit the estate.

Gray - This is a touch of writing I did for my DND character. In the campaign she picked of a Belt of Dwarvenkind that acts as armor, but also gives the wearer a full beard. The beard makes her think of her late husband, who died when they were relatively young.

"I imagine you'd get quite the kick out of this. Probably even steal the belt from me so you wouldn't have to comb out your beard every morning."

Phyra opens her eyes and looks up at her reflection again. She's still not used to the gray hair, the new wrinkles. Smile lines and crow's feet, forehead lines and sagging skin. It all happened so fast, she hadn't been thinking. She wouldn't take it back, not in a thousand years, but she wished the spell had taken something else of hers. Running a hand over her wizened face, she bites back tears. "We were supposed to do this together."

Smart - I had to dig for a good quote that I hadn’t published already. This bit of Naruto fic has been sitting in my drive for years:

“Didn’t you cheat off me in Iruka’s class for that spelling test and we failed?”

“You failed,” Gaara corrected, lifting his chin. “You just dragged me down with you. It was a learning experience for both of us. I learned I need to pick someone smarter to cheat off of. You learned not to be a dumbass.”

[shadowsong26fic]

This is a darling I’m probably going to have to kill (I’m not sure it quite fits with the rest of the fic?) but I like at least some of what I have going here so I figured I’d share it!

context is for the weak, lol also this is a very rough draft and probably a little disjointed as a result especially in the second half.

Even if Sypha hadn’t given her directions, Lisa would have known from the moment she opened the door that this room was Adrian’s. It wasn’t a room he’d used before, but it was so--so characteristic of her son. She didn’t have the enhanced senses he shared with his father, but she could still almost taste him in the air.

It was maybe half the size of Vlad’s study, but rather than being buried deep in the bowels of the castle, Adrian’s room hugged the curve of the tower’s outer wall, with one wall dominated by a large window, complete with curtains he could draw if he wanted to shut out natural light. Most of the other walls were filled with half-empty bookshelves, as if Adrian was still curating and making selections for what he wanted in here instead of the main library.

Which, in fact, he probably was.

There was a fireplace in the corner, with a couple of half-charred logs still in it that were probably good for another night or two; a couch sat next to it, with a pillow and a slightly-rumpled blanket, like someone had slept there just last night; a small table next to the couch held a half-finished book and an empty glass that had probably held wine.

Adrian’s desk was across from the fireplace, where it could take best advantage of the light from the window. It was covered with more books, and papers, jumbled together in the same sort of mess that, not so long ago, an adolescent with limbs still a little too long for grace had insisted was perfectly organized chaos.

That same chaos was a little tempered now, she thought, by adulthood.

And sorrow.

It felt like the room was holding its breath, like its master had just stepped out for a moment, or an hour, and hadn’t spent weeks near death, just down the hall.

She took a breath of her own and stepped inside, trying to make as little impact as possible.

She made her way quickly over to the desk, and paused, examining the papers without touching them.

Some of it was writing, notes and half-formed plans or to-do lists, along with a leather notebook that felt like it might be a journal, which she left untouched.

But most of the papers were drawings--Adrian had always loved to draw--of building plans for the village, repairs and improvements to the castle and the Belmont manor and Hold; portraits of Trevor and Sypha from various angles; some of Greta and a few of the village children.

And, half-hidden by a folder, a few sketches of her and Vlad. Unfinished, mostly, but the one on top reminded her so much of the drawing he’d made for her locket, years ago…

She put a hand to her mouth, and then to her heart, and let out a quiet breath, before pulling out her folded letter and sliding it, carefully, under that particular stack of drawings.

He’ll know it’s there at a glance, I’m sure, she thought. And…like Sypha said, when he’s ready…it will be waiting for him.

It felt like running away.

It hadn’t, in that roadside inn so many months ago, when she and Vlad had first made the decision to stay away. And the reasons were the same.

But there was a difference, she thought, between choosing not to come, and coming and choosing to leave again.

Lisa had never liked running away. Even when it was the right thing to do.

I hope you’ll forgive us one day, my sweet boy, she thought.

And then she took one more moment to look around the room, to memorize it and how it felt, before turning and walking out, quickly, before she could change her mind.

Vlad was waiting, just outside the door, a huge, comforting presence even when he couldn’t speak.

As she had so many times over the past few weeks, she buried her hand in the thick fur at his neck.

“We should go,” she said softly. “While it’s still dark enough for you to travel.”

He didn’t disagree, rising to all four feet in one fluid motion.

She had said goodbye to Adrian’s companions last night, telling them she planned to leave early the next morning and might not see them. She hadn’t specified ‘before dawn,’ but she thought that would be all right.

“You know, I was thinking,” she said, as they made their way down the corridor, towards the wide formal staircase that would take them to the main hall. As much to distract herself from the ache in her heart as because there were--practical questions to consider. Of where they might go next.

He made a faint whuff noise, halfway between an acknowledgement and a question; he might have hummed, if he were in his usual shape.

“Is Styria on our way?”

He stopped, looked at her.

She smiled. “Just a thought. You mentioned you wanted to see a little more of what they were up to. And I…I think I’d like to meet them. Your Isaac and Hector. If you think it would be safe.”

He didn’t answer--couldn’t, technically, but he could certainly make strong opinions known, even without his voice.

Instead, he just started walking again. Thinking it over.

What they do and what I do is--very different. But I think we could learn from one another nonetheless. And I’ve never been one to scorn a chance to learn something, however strange.

Besides, my love, I would like to meet these two extraordinary young men. These humans you kept so close to you, even in the depths of your madness.

It was…comfortable. Familiar. Walking by his side like this, considering where they would go next, with Adrian asleep upstairs, safely on the road to recovery.

She hoped--she hoped her boy was all right, living with the ghosts of the lives they had built together.

But he wasn’t alone. Nor was she, nor Vlad. And someday--someday, perhaps, she would come back to this castle openly.

[It had hurt, more than she’d expected. Coming back, and now leaving again. Not just the cowardice of it, not just seeing her boy so ill. Something she couldn’t quite put into words. Something that had been leaking, a little bit, at the base of her heart, from the moment she had seen the damaged towers rising over the forest from the road.

But at the same time, as the main entrance of the castle shut behind them with a definitive thud, she found herself glad she’d done it. Not just to save her boy, not just to meet the people who would love him for the rest of their natural lives, but that she’d found her own closure. The kind she hoped Adrian was close to, even if he hadn’t found it yet.

The pain was still there--grief didn’t vanish in an instant, and there were still unanswered questions. An unopened letter, sitting on a desk in a study that held its breath.

But for the first time since her death, she found a kind of peace. She was ready, really ready, in a way she now knew she hadn’t been six months before, to move on and build her second life.

Even if she still hoped it might lead her back here someday.

Lisa and Vlad Tepes walked away from the castle that had once been their home, disappearing into the pre-dawn mist an hour before the sun rose on Belmont village.]

[jfleurcannon]

oh fuck. a hysterectomy story.

just so i don't have to go through explaining. please visit links and read up if you are interested, i simplified it AF and wiki'd the source, otherwise, this is legit not the place for you. i talk about things, life, whatnot, and my life is fucking bullshit sometimes.

endometriosis

adenomysosis

fibromyalgia - i'm not even gonna get into this one. because, as the doctor who diagnosed me said, 'not many people believe in this one, so maybe don't say that you have it out loud.' but chalk that guy up for chronic musculoskeletal & joint pain in my wrists, arms, shoulders, back, butt, and knees. but 🤫.

i'm sure y'all know wtf depression and anxiety are, i see those #bellletstalk tags. it's been with me for years, since i guess the chronic pain started. i got my period and wondered why the fuck i was the only one who got sick, like sick. fainting, knocking over a mannequin display at the eddie bauer at fairview mall (you're welcome, sisters), passing out at school and having to be carried out by julie (thank you, sister), missing so many activities and things i wanted to do but couldn't. having 'jenn's always sick anyways' thrown in my face by a childhood friend, being made to feel bad about pain and not wanting to be in the mood, having to cancel plans last minute because of pending pain, side effects from meds i'm taking that make me sick, but not quite as sick as the original problem - so i deal. like i deal with it all. [like a warrior. i have held my pain like the damn death star. my uterus is the death star. except that time i carried and birthed a baby, and then it was fucking AWESOME!] typically it's bottom shelf paper bag internalized. and for years my solution was to therapy it out, or shove the feels down hard so i developed massive GI issues, or maybe that is the endo, who the fuck knows. fast forward years of therapy and a shit ton of medication and three suicide attempts, the final one being in 2007. i was hospitalized for the final attempt at sunnybrook's mental health ward. the F ward, i shit you not. i felt like girl intrurrupted, but there was no winona or angelina. there was a pam and a joan. no padded room, but i couldn't leave to go outside for the first week. that was fucked up.

pain is pain, and although i am a fan of ja-rule, pain has never equaled love to me. it has only left me with an overwhelming hate for parts of my life, that were always plagued by illness, pain, and brewing depressive state. i would get sick for long, long periods of time and there would be no reason for it. had i known then what i had (endo, adeno, fibro, MFGT's) it would have made sense. two of the three are auto-immune diseases. i get a cold, and i really get it. i lose my voice, and it's gone for months.

the only fast thing i've done is labour and delivery. it might seem strange to put the birth of my child in the pain category, however the story will explain why in a mo. i arrived at the hospital at 10am at 2cm dilated, upon exam by a nurse i pushed and my water broke, i was put in a wheelchair and brought to wait for a L&D room, outside the exam room and in the tiny hallway, there my insides tore open, quite literally, nerve damage, and rapid labour. i screamed and screamed and was told to wait while they got things ready. i mean. i thought i was dying. why was this happening so fast? my husband came back up as i was being brought into the room (i think, some details are fuzzy). i was examined by a doctor and was at 10cm. it hadn't been more than 10 minutes since i had arrived. i remember things moving too quickly for me and i was very panicked that something was wrong. i remember being told the boy's heartbeat was becoming compromised and we needed to get him out. options included a C-section, forceps, or the vacuum. all terrified me as i literally was without ANY pain management. we opted for the vacuum and they offered me laughing gas as a super sad knife-in-the-back compromise. i took it, but the hell? AT THAT VERY MOMENT I WANTED THE SWEET, SWEET NECTAR OF THE ALL POWERFUL EPIDURAL! four pushes with the vacuum on and the boy was born, at 10:35am. in 35 minutes i arrived at the hospital had my baby, like whatevs, and held him while being stitched up. naturally there were stitches. i can't even with that pain. OMG. people say you won't remember the labour pain and that 'it'll just go away when you see your perfect baby', you know what? they lied to your face, or they had an epidural, or they didn't experience rapid labour. 2-10 in 5 minutes. they did not teach me that in L&D class. i wanted ice chips, and the tub, and the playlist of music, and maybe a pelvic roll or two on the ball, but no, miles wanted his entrance to be dramatic and fast and it was nothing less than that.

any and all of the things i've battled have stayed with me like wearing a cloak, all day everyday i feel pain, whether it's physical, mental, emotional, or otherwise, i feel it. i can't see it but i fucking feel it. with diagnosis always come the waiting game of endless specialists, tests, interventions by way of oral medication, physical therapy, walking epidurals, suppositories in my ass or vag, chiropractor visits, along with visits to acupuncture, massage, GP, GYNE, and psychologists.

after a thirty year battle, and almost one year of keeping this in my drafts folder, i finally have felt an end to my endometriosis and adenomyosis pain. a hysterectomy and final excision of endo from nerve clusters fused together because of it, i can breathe. i can breathe clearly and without a constant fear of nausea, hot flashes, bizarre mood swings because of the menopausal state the IUD was causing, and chronic pelvic/back/low abdomen/bowel pain. i still have a 44 year old body and permanent nerve damage from rapid labour and negligence from a past surgeon, but holy hot hell it's nice to not want to punch people in the face for asking you how you feel. i know that's not a normal reaction to that question. i get that. however, as someone who has suffered from chronic pain her whole adult life, it is the hardest question to answer honestly. how you feel sometimes is like shit, or crap, or a god damn mess, or you just don't want to talk, especially to that person but you can't say it. so you answer, 'fine', 'great', or 'living the dream'. is the honest answer the best answer? it may not be, but it's the one with the least amount of follow up questions or lengthy conversation to follow. i love things, and flowers, and coffee, and white wine, and my man friend, and my kid, and my family, and a handful of others - but for the most part i would honestly prefer not to talk to anyone about anything. it's all the same conversation anyway. and i'm tired. tired of listening. tired of talking/hearing my own voice. tired of noise. in need of quiet and calm. my one year surgery anniversary is coming up and i'm looking forward to it. i have never looked forward to a post surgery anything because those have always led to more surgeries. but the doctor from brazil with the 'small hands' did the job this time. removed the death star and its accompanying bullshit organs (tubes and cervix) and we are good to go now. she works again, without pain 😉

surgeries for endometriosis & adenomyosis

2006 - laser laparoscopic discovery of endo

2009 - stage IV endo excision via laparoscopy

2015 - laser laparoscopic removal of endo & appendectomy

2016 - endo excision via laparoscopy

2019 - full hysterectomy (minus ovaries) and extensive endo excision on nerve clusters fused together

[victorineb]

Five Second Rule

I was digging through my drafts folder and found this random, mostly finished little ficlet. So I polished it up and present you with some random Hannigram.

Hannibal greatly enjoyed the times when he got to linger in the bowels of the FBI as he was today, leaning over a lightly putrefied body with contained fascination as Jack’s forensic team fussed around him. Admittedly, much of that enjoyment came from the fact that Will was generally nearby and often endearingly vulnerable in this environment, but even when Jack dragged Will away to his office – which he had done just ten minutes ago – Hannibal still took great pleasure in the chance to brush up on his understanding of the FBI’s inner workings. Indeed, he had spent a very entertaining forty-five minutes discussing the use of turmeric in fingerprint identification with Mr Price, the knowledge of which already had Hannibal both rethinking his post-kill clean up routine and considering whether he had anything in his freezer that might work well in a curry. Something delicate and fragrant, to go with the flank of that appalling parking attendant from the previous week, who had been sadly lacking in either quality.

It was, therefore, with pleasant images of arranging his next tableau – something involving flowers, perhaps, for Will – thronging in his head that Hannibal followed behind Price, Zeller and Ms. Katz as they made their way to the break room, having decided that they would make no further progress in the case without “choking down a disgusting amount of sugar,” according to Ms. Katz. Hannibal had nowhere pressing to be, after all, and would happily wait the whole afternoon in order to see Will again once he was released from Jack’s clutches.

That thought might have given Hannibal pause on any other day. However, just at the moment it crossed his mind, he happened to witness the greatest atrocity of his life.

“Oops, butterfingers!” Ms Katz trilled, as a glazed, rainbow-sprinkled doughnut slipped her grasp and landed on the floor, sprinkles down. And then Hannibal watched in fascinated horror as she bent to retrieve the soiled pastry, blew on it and, shrugging, said the words that struck disgust into Hannibal’s very soul.

“Five second rule!”

And then she ate it.

Hannibal had to leave the room. He wasn't sure he could trust himself not to vomit otherwise.

Will caught up with him later in his lecture hall, where Hannibal was restoring inner harmony by rearranging the library of his mind palace. He had developed his own shelving system – the Dewey Decimal was hardly up to scratch – and was replacing some volumes of poetry when the smell of aged paper was joined by the ever-welcome scent of Will’s presence. Hannibal opened his eyes to find the profiler regarding him with a mildly concerned expression, perhaps discomfited by Hannibal’s apparent lapse into a vegetative state. Hannibal had yet to introduce Will to his palace, though of course versions of him already resided in many of its rooms.

“Hello Will,” Hannibal said, assuming a placid and affable tone in order to reassure his friend that he was perfectly well.

Will, somewhat worryingly, was not fooled, his magnificent brows drawing together in concern. Hannibal automatically catalogued the expression for future commitment to paper. He would have to find several hours soon to do so: his mental file of unrecorded images of Will was becoming somewhat unwieldy. Perhaps one day he would be able to coax Will to pose for him in the flesh. Perhaps in nothing but the flesh, his beautiful form freed from all that frumpy, everyman plaid, the firm, strong plains of his muscles exposed for Hannibal’s perusal…

“Is something wrong, Doctor?” Will asked, pulling Hannibal from his reverie, his tone brusque as ever but tinged with genuine care, the presence of which caused something to tighten painfully in Hannibal's chest. He sighed and decided it could do no harm to inform Will of his friend’s unhygienic crassness. Will would likely brush it off as perfectly acceptable behaviour, causing a little tarnish to his appeal that Hannibal would be rather grateful of at that moment.

“Will, have you ever heard of something called the ‘Five Second Rule’?” Hannibal asked, unable to keep his mouth from twisting into a slight moue.

Will looked up at him in surprise and then slapped his hand across his eyes. “Please tell me Bev did not do that in front of you,” he groaned.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, amused by Will’s apparent embarrassment.

“I'm afraid to say she did,” he said, gently despite his stomach lurching slightly at the thought. “You do not approve?”

“Doctor, I live with a pack of dogs. Do you really think I would eat anything that had come into contact with my floor?” Will grinned and Hannibal's breath hitched. “And I'm pretty certain I clean my floor more than most people, present company excluded.” Hannibal's heart skipped a beat. “I keep telling Bev she needs to stop, it's a really filthy habit.”

And then, well, there really was nothing for it but to close the gap between them and kiss Will, firm and sure and with just the slightest brush of tongue to really get the point across.

“Hannibal!” Will pulled back and Hannibal reflected ruefully that he would have preferred the first time Will addressed him by his first name not to have been with such shock in his tone.

“I must apologise, Will. That was not how I had planned…” he trailed off as Will’s eyes snapped up to his.

“Plan? What plan? There was a plan?” Will asked, his eyebrows threatening to detach completely from his head and rocket skywards.

Ah yes, the plan. The one in which Hannibal would – with the help of Will’s rapidly worsening encephalitis – break the empath, frame him and imprison him, to be kept under lock and key until the time might come when Hannibal wished to play with Will’s brain once more. The plan which, Hannibal now realised, he had not thought through with his usual precision, because it would be inconvenient to have to visit the BSHCI every time he wished to kiss Will. The plan which would now have to be abandoned completely because there was little… there was absolutely no chance Hannibal was not going to keep kissing Will, now that he had started. Kissing and, with any luck, much, much more. Assuming Will would let him, that is.

Will, who had pulled back but not out of Hannibal’s embrace.

Will, who was looking up at Hannibal from beneath those ridiculous, beautiful lashes.

Will, who was very definitely smirking and leaning in close to whisper in his doctor's ear, “Well, Hannibal, it seems you don't have a problem with all filthy things.”

And it was true because, as they soon found out, there were some things Hannibal was very happy to eat off the floor, even after they’d been there much longer than five seconds.

[thecheeverfillesseniorthesis]

The Cheever Files The Cheever Files Adventures of a Senior Thesis.  Secondary blog of @midlife-stoodent.

D-1

Had to jump the count a few days because my Senior thesis is due TODAY.  I had the due date in my planner as Sunday.  

I am nearly finished with it.  I turned in my thesis and subclaims into my prof via email, then when I got started, I used the same and wrote out my own words beneath my subclaims (I changed their type to BOLD to keep them separate).  It worked!  I am able to maintain an outline!  I tend to scatter ideas…

I am not asking for an extension.  I have asked for them all term and I simply need to get this done.  I am 10 pages in, I have three sublaims left to do, and it’s not due until 11:59PM tonight.

THIS WILL HAPPEN.

I work best when dealing with absolute fear.  Don’t follow my example.   #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspo#spring2016#ELNM#seniorthesis 5 notes

D-5

The struggle is very real.  Still receiving instruction from my prof on my thesis.

At least my tense is correct.

BTW, I work better under pressure.  Spending an entire term on a paper has yet to work for me.

LISTENING TO:  Our Lady Peace #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspo#spring2016#ELNM#seniorthesis 3 notes

D-7.  Senior Thesis is due this week. Thankfully I am off of work, so that’s one less thing to worry about.

My digital project is completed (first picture) and that has been uploaded.  I am still (yes, still) working on my thesis and subclaims.  I emailed a correction back to my prof this afternoon, once I hone my thesis she will get to my subclaims.

Tomorrow I have to drop off my paperwork for my Service Learning, and take the TB test.  I don’t know if all of this is going to get done before the end of the term, but that professor has given us an option if we weren’t able to solidify our service learning before the term ended.  

I think 60 coffee pods should last me until the end of the week?  Last term I went through 80 in a week and a half, and this term is way harder.  I may need more… #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspo#spring2016#ELNM#Seniorthesis#starbucks 3 notes

D-15.  Rough Draft final draft, if that makes sense.  I am truly blessed to have an amazing advisor/professor who gave us an extension (read: mercy) to turn it in for our rough draft workshop.  I have until 6AM tomorrow morning to get this uploaded. **weeps with gratefulness**

Did I ever mention the size of my Senior Thesis class?  There’s myself, and two other ladies.  One of the many benefits of attending a small, private university.

I admit, I did the usual “check-out” in the middle of the term, where I was watching You Tube videos instead of writing.  Then today, when the module for Week 8 comes out, we get the admonishment to not check out.  

I am reeling myself back in.  

Sumikko guroshi page flags for for ultimate win!

LISTENING TO:  The Cure Disintegration #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspo#spring2016#ELNM#seniorthesis#sumikkoguroshi#obviouslyilovemycoffee 4 notes

D-18

Rough draft time.  Have my most excellent feedback from my professor to help, as well as my own lightbulb moment.  All I need now is the time to get it written.  She did extend the due date for us, which I absolutely love because our drafts go into a workshop for final editing.  

I miscalculated my vacation time from work, it’s next week, and I should have asked for this week, or even the rest of the month off.

Oh well.  It will get done.

LISTENING TO:  Morrissey’s Viva Hate #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspo#spring2016#ELNM#seniorthesis 1 note

D-25.  25 days left to go.

Along with my essay, I also have to complete a digital assignment as part of my grade to add to my portfolio.  Ovid’s Metamorphoses arrived via Amazon Student Prime today.  Yes, Ovid + Cheever=Digital Project.  It’s going to be awesome.

Still trying to raise my thesis from the bowels of hell.  I was going to discuss the agency of the various rooms used in “A Country Husband” but I realized I needed to narrow that focus, so I am doing the agency of living rooms in the text.  Of course, it throws my rough draft right out the window…

I love my Starbucks cup. #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspo#spring2016#ELNM#seniorthesis#metamorphoses#starbucks#seemyfilofax? 7 notes

My First Draft is turned in, a minute past my self-imposed deadline of 5AM. I am so thankful my boss let me leave work two hours early so I could go home, nap, and finish this madness.  I am not good at first drafts…a final copy I can do, but first drafts?  My mind is still a jumble of thoughts and quotes.

After I uploaded my draft, I found an article on John Cheever that said he isn’t taught in schools anymore, if he ever really was.  I find that to be a big old shame because the man is brilliant.  Needless to say, even though I had already turned in my draft, I am now determined to make my paper a testament to his literary greatness.  The man should be taught in schools, students are really missing out.

I am going to sleep the sleep of a student who has been burning the candle at both ends, what with full-time work and three classes to deal with.   #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspo#spring2016#ELNM#seniorthesis 1 note

Literary TheoryLiterary Theory Senior ThesisLiterary TheorySenior Thesis 4/22/16:  Over the course of my academic career (so far, it’s only been what, two years?) I have learned working with a printout of a text is much easier for annotating than with a book.  I have absolutely no shame in destroying a book in the name of essay writing, but there is less guilt with using a printout.  This is my copy of “A Country Husband”, the first and second pages.  Yeah, I use Midori stickers to mark important transitions within the text.

I have also learned to SAVE. MY. NOTES from previous classes.  Last term, I took Literary Theory, and I need to apply a theoretical lens to my thesis.  It is times like these I am glad I am so anal about my notes, as my notebook from Lit Theory is divided by the different theories.  

The rough draft is due next week, already I have the very familiar pangs of self-doubt.  Maybe I am placing too much pressure on myself, but this paper is a reflection of me and my scholarship.  In no way do I want to come off as pedestrian, but that is my largest fear moving forward. #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspo#spring2016#ELNM#seniorthesis 2 notes

Senior Thesis, Week 4:  Way back when I took Literary Analysis (from the same professor) I kept all of the writing “hacks” she gave us.  I printed them all up and tucked them away into a file folder.  Turns out she’s using them for this class as well.  Don’t know if the drawing belongs to her, but it still makes me laugh.  Funny, two years ago when I took Literary Analysis I was very self-conscious of my essay-writing.  Now it doesn’t phase me at all.  

I am reading Cheever’s “Letters”…the man is hilarious, dark and so right-on with his discriptions of humanity.  There’s an entire section entitled “The Suburbs”, from when he moved his family out of the city to upstate NY.  The passage I highlighted tickles me, but I have to wonder:  how often do we look at the belongings of others to remind us of who we are and where we came from?

My schedule for the upcoming week.  My days off are Thursday and Friday, so I begin the fresh week there.  Today (Monday) I register for Summer.  I have to be at work by 230PM and other than continuing my Cheever reading I have my two other classes.  

WRITE EVERY DAY.  

Our rough draft is due next week, so this is our instruction. #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspp#spring2016#ELNM#seniorthesis 7 notes

Got my Prospectus/Annotated Bibliography done, several hours before I was scheduled to turn it in, so that’s over.

This week we will be working on our Digital Project/Digital Presence, so we get a break from writing.  Doesn’t mean the fun stops, I still have two other classes to maintain.  Above is my weekly calendar, I use it as well as my Ardium Academic planner.  My “weekend” is on Thursday/Friday, which is why the dates are wonky.

As for Digital Presence, I really am not worried about it.  I cleaned up my social media when I was accepted to uni because I knew there would be a time where I had to do the exact same thing, so I just wiped a whole bunch of accounts.   #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studysop#spring2016#ELNM#Seniorthesis 3 notes

Prospectus and Annotated Bibliography Work:

This is the current time.  Not too bad, as I don’t get home from work until after 11PM, but my eyes are getting tired.  I’m indulging in a large mug of black tea, having consumed enough coffee over the course of the day to sink a ship.

I have spent this past week reading and researching.  I carry a book or an article with me at all times, because you never know when you are going to have a moment to catch up on some reading.  I had a few minutes while at the gas station the other day, so I read a few paragraphs.  

You do what you have to do to get it done.  :)

My beat up Writer’s Reference book, a university requirement.  

No, I don’t have to work tomorrow (sarcasm).

I have my annotations completed, but I need to edit them to make sure all of the commas are in the right place.  I am almost finished with the prospectus part.

I did, however, make sure Word was functional on my iPad and the entire project was accessible.  WIN.  Now I can finish this up at work tomorrow.

It’s due at 11:59 Monday night.   #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspo#spring2016#ELNM#seniorthesis 21 notes

Day 2:  Well, technically I am still running on the original post, but in reality we have passed midnight.  Welcome to 2:15AM.

Week 2 is the Prospectus and Annotated Bibliography portion of Senior Thesis.  I took notes of the instructions and WON on three academic sources.  I need 5 total, including the original text.  I could hug my WR 323 instructor right now, because I have become a master of Google Scholar and our library’s online search engine.  

I leave this post with a picture of my stapler.  This little honey has the capacity of stapling 40 pages at once, and for someone who simply cannot read and retain electronically, this has been a great investment.  Oh, and all of the printer ink and paper I stocked up on last term.   #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspo#LIT498#spring2016#ELNM#seniorthesis

Day 1:  Amazon Student Prime and Sunday delivery for the win.  My books came today! I never had a book for “A Country Husband”, all I ever had was a .pdf.  I will say, annotating on a copy is a lot easier than in a book.  So, I printed out another.  

The term just began a week ago, and for that first week we had to turn in an annotated page from two papers we have written during our academic career here at Marylhurst.  “Desireè’s Baby” by Chopin was my other choice, but I was sold on Cheever from the beginning. #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspo#spring2016#LIT498#seniorthesis#ELNM 2 notes A Digital Accounting of my Adventures with my Senior Thesis. @midlife-stoodent here.  I am an English Literature and New Media major, and welcome to my Senior Thesis studyblr.  Check out my main blog for more studyblr goodness.

I decided to chronicle my path of the Senior Thesis to create a digital footprint of the process.  Obviously, my Thesis is on John Cheever, his short story “The Country Husband” to be exact.  I chose Cheever because his stories about the middle class intrigue me.  

So!  Lets get this started!  I will be following the usual #studyblr format. #thecheeverfiles#studyblr#studyspo#spring2016#LIT498#seniorthesis#ELNM 1 note

[seenashwrite]

You’re The Worst.

Well, I imagine the end to said “friendship”, not because this isn’t some inappropriate, boundary-crossing grade school shenanigans [it is], or because it isn’t something one would do to their friends [it isn’t, it truly, truly isn’t], nay. 

No, *I* imagine our “friendship” would come to an end because they are hunters who are poised & ready for the other shoe to drop at any moment, part of which entails keeping guns under pillows, ergo I’d be shot right smack in the face. 

I can see the obit now....  In lieu of flowers, the former friends... light acquaintances, really... of the deceased request you call up the person(s) to whom you’ve trusted to hold your spare key & thank them for not being an utter shitbird. Or take them a pie. Pie is *always* an acceptable substitute.

This Imagination Sanitation was sponsored by snark. Snark: day or night, your call, it’s a dietary staple. Please ingest responsibly.

Find an “Imagine” that needs a stern-yet-snarky talking-to?   ◄◄◄ Dazzle me ►►► 

*~* Imagination Sanitation + Other Satirical Sundry Master Post *~*

See Nash (actually) Write:

*~* Main Master List *~* Mobile Master List *~*

Wanna be tagged? Need to be removed? Check this out first to see which of my three tag lists you’d like to be part of / removed from - then hit me up!

Quickie Nash Note: This was in the bowels of the draft folder, and I am almost certain someone shot it to me because of the lack of link to the original, but am going blank on who, and [sigh] ‘twould appear I didn’t make a note. So if it’s you, holler so I can hat-tip you. No one will know. It’s under the cut. It’ll be all sneaky-like.  Already got it set-up, even, see?

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h/t to @emilywritesaboutdean