#like he's total trash. i mean complete garbage. an absolute dumpster fire

[doctorbobkelso]

I didn’t ask for this bad Kelso meta that is at best tangentially related to the lighthearted thing you put it on in the first place, please get out of my notifications

[wrathofthestag]

It’ll Be Fun

People, I’ve been so preoccupied with the wonderful Check, Please fandom, writing CP fics, and general American politics-based depression (GOD!) that I completely forgot it was the one year anniversary of the first real Hannigram fic that I wrote.  This was written on January 18, 2016 and it was my first long-ish fic.  My writing for Hannigram was so new, it wasn’t even posted on this Tumblr-- it was only on AO3.  So, to remember nice things (instead of the impending dumpster fire that is today) here is my first Hannibal fic.  Forgive the voices, it was totally a Hannigram newbie work, but here is my eldest child.

Summary: “Help me fix this boat engine,” he said. “It'll be fun,” he said... Hannibal gets roped into helping Will repair a boat engine, all in the name of coupledom. For @devereauxsdisease  This entire thing was inspired by one photo. This photo:

“Supporting your mate with their hobbies is what most couples do, you know.”

“We are not like most couples, Will.”

“How many times have I gone to the opera with you?” Will asked with an eyebrow raised.

Hannibal sat at the edge of their bed, pretending to try to count on one hand.

“That damn Wagner one was five hours long, Hannibal. FIVE HOURS.”

Hannibal was about to respond something along of the lines of how Will had seemed to actually enjoy it but seeing him look so divine in their bed, the covers pulled up to his waist, shirtless, holding a cup of coffee, hair adorably mussed, he knew he’d have to give in and not challenge him on this.

“I’m not asking you to eat a fast food hamburger, for Christ’s sake. I’m just asking you to come and spend time with me in the garage. I have this old motor I picked up last week, and I’m excited about working on it. We need to do more things together--”

Hannibal opened his mouth to speak and instantly Will jumped in, “And sex doesn’t count.”

Hannibal closed his mouth and slightly pursed his lips.

Will added, “I mean, that’s not what I mean. Of course it counts, it counts. I love it. You know I love being with you, but I just feel we should do more things that don’t involve sex or food or murder -- or all of your things.”

Hannibal sat on the edge of the bed looking at Will, looking at him.

“It’ll be fun.” Will parted his lips and bit his bottom one, looking at Hannibal while slightly tilting his head, sweetly holding his coffee mug closer to his face. Victory was his, he could tell.

“I suppose I could assist you. It could be very educational…I am sure you are well aware that I do not have any clothes appropriate to work in.”

Will smirked and said, “Too bad the murder suit is out of commission. You can wear some of my old clothes. They might be snug but I certainly won’t complain.”

Hannibal’s lips quirked slightly as he leaned over to take Will’s mug for a sip of his coffee.

+++

After breakfast, Hannibal walked upstairs to change into an old pair of Will’s jeans that he left for him on the bed. They were stained with oil and smelled like some sort of mineral solvent. Hannibal looked at himself in the mirror and sighed as he put on Will’s denim shirt. Encephalitis was sitting on the floor of the bedroom as Hannibal changed, and tilted her head to the left upon seeing the final effect.

“Yes, I quite agree with you Encephalitis. This is absolutely not the Sunday attire of my preference.” He then headed downstairs to the garage.

+++

Will was already down in their garage with various tools and mechanical flotsam and jetsam spread out on a workbench. Attached precariously to a dolly, and suspended into a large plastic garbage can filled with water was a rusty, greasy, dirty boat motor. Their home was far enough away from any neighbors that Will felt comfortable leaving the garage door opened most of the time – much to Hannibal’s chagrin.

When Hannibal entered the garage the first thing he did was assess the state of the “motor” that was before him. Rubbish. It looked quite at home in the trash bin, in fact. He wasn’t a mechanical expert by any means, but he knew garbage when he saw it.

Then his eyes wandered over to Will who was wearing some grey track pants and an old white t-shirt with a hole about the size of a dime, over his right clavicle. Hannibal immediately wanted to put his tongue through the hole and lick Will’s clavicle. While Hannibal loved dressing up Will, there was something nostalgic and particularly alluring about rugged, Wolf Trap Will. Will was already in the middle of explaining something, but Hannibal was still fixated on that damn hole.

Will noticing, loudly cleared his throat. A smile spread across his face as he continued, “So, as I was saying I have this rigged so that the motor is in the water and any oil that may spill will not land on the concrete floor. You should always have your boat motor in water when you try to run it. Do you know why?”

Hannibal looked at Will and responded with a sigh, “I imagine so that it won’t harm the engine when it starts, and the fumes will become trapped in the water?”

“Yes! Good. You should never run an engine out of water. It could damage it. Good job!”

Hannibal feeling petulant gave an over-the-top smile, which Will chose to ignore -- or pretended to ignore -- and continued, “We need to figure out why it's not firing. See all of that grime? It needs to be cleaned out. Here, come closer and look.”

Hannibal stood behind Will with his head peering over Will’s right shoulder looking down toward the motor. He could smell the oil on Will’s t-shirt and slowly pressed in closer.

Will felt Hannibal’s nearby heat, and tried to tamp down the desire starting to build deep in his stomach. Hannibal’s breath grazed his neck, and Will forced himself to refocus on the task at hand. 

“O.K., so the weight of the head spinning is what should keep it going. This motor won't fire, and if it won't fire, it won't work. Right?”

Hannibal lowered his chin onto Will’s shoulder, “Oh, yes. The head.”

Will rolled his eyes with a smile and huff and continued, “This is an 8.8 Mariner motor. It's so old you have to crank it. And you can see it hasn't been touched in several years.”

“That sounds like a terrible fate, Will. Not being touched.”

Will turned his head to glare at Hannibal and said, “If you aren’t going to take this seriously and really try, then you can just go back inside.”

Hannibal cleared his throat, feigning mock composure. “Yes, you are right. I am here because I agreed. It would be quite rude of me to not try and instead bend you over this table, slowly pull down your exercise pants with my teeth, while I run my hand from your lower back down to your ankles, and then rise to take you again and again until you are completely spent and satiated. Quite rude.”

Will looked at Hannibal, with his mouth completely agape, then pulled himself back into the moment shaking his head and grabbing a large wrench from the workbench. Hannibal, clearly pleased with himself, folded his arms and stood back to watch Will work.

“First let's take the bolts off the motor cover. I have my nut -- uh, the nut -- loosened. Once that’s done, then we take the…head off the spindle.”

Hannibal said, “Yes, I see. By all means take the head, Will.”

Trying to ignore Hannibal’s innuendos, Will frowned and continued working. Hannibal watched Will’s forearm flex and began to wonder really, why are they here in that dirty garage instead of up in their bedroom enjoying a proper Sunday?

“Once the bolts are off, you give it a good whack so that this top part just pops off. Here…” and he handed the wrench to Hannibal.

“Very well.” Hannibal gingerly grabbed the wrench and start working on the remaining nuts and bolts. Will felt out of danger from falling for Hannibal’s seductive ways, and got back into his boat motor mind space.

“Now if you look down and notice the thickness of the shaft...” Damn it, Will thought. “Uh...when the shaft comes down and taps the plug…" Will lost his train of thought, "I'll try to move it up and down and see if we get a spark.”

“I’d be more than happy to help you move the shaft up and down, Will.” Hannibal was practically giggling – if Hannibal had the capacity to giggle. At this point, Will just laughed and shook his head.

“I make this too easy for you, don’t I?”

“I apologize. You’re right, Will. Let me help you with this.”

+++

They continued to work for half-an-hour or so, chatting a bit about their plans for the week: a stop at the new artisanal butcher shop that just opened so Hannibal can critique it, Encephalitis has an appointment for her rabies vaccine at the vet, there's dry cleaning to be picked up -– and it all feels so domestic to Will. Domestic and normal, which are words Will would never think to associate with their relationship.

Will stops and takes in all of Hannibal, looking him up and down: holey jeans sitting tightly on his hips, shirt newly smeared with oil and dirt, hands full of grease, hair gloriously and haphazardly out of place. Will is so smitten and suddenly filled with so much happiness. 

He handed Hannibal a canister and said, “Here, spray some of this contact cleaner in between the gears and we should be just about done.”

Hannibal let out a slight, nearly inaudible, sigh of relief that Will catches.

“Are you kidding me?”

“About what?”

“You can’t wait to get out of here, can you? Damn it, Hannibal. I thought you were having fun doing this with me.”

“Will, I am here. With you. Helping you, just as you asked.”

“But I want you to want to be here. I want you to want to do this!”

“Why would I want to do this?” Hannibal calmly asked pointing to the motor. “Yes, I want to be with you but I have little interest in working on this motor, which in my opinion looks to be garbage. I doubt you will get it to run, Will.”

“Honest to Pete!” Will grabbed a greasy rag from the workbench, and wiped down the top of the motor cover as he yelled, “Well, you will be happy to hear that you don’t have to be here much longer.” 

Whether it was intentional or not, Will was not quite sure, he threw the rag and it is suddenly on top of Hannibal’s head. Hannibal pulled it off slowly, without saying a word. He simply looked at Will, with a grease-smeared face and proceeded to fold the rag and put it in his front pocket as if it were a pocket square.

Rather than make Will laugh, Hannibal’s action made Will even more exasperated. He turned back to the motor, making sure the spark plugs are tight puts the cover back on and said, “I’ll crank it a couple times and see what happens. Just stand out of the way,” and he shoos Hannibal motioning for him to step back. Hannibal stands far behind Will to watch.

Will wrapped a cord around the top of the motor and pulled back hard. Once, nothing happens. Twice, again nothing. Just as he’s about to go for a third, Hannibal leaned in to offer to try and Will ended up hitting Hannibal with this elbow causing him to lose his balance and start to stumble back. Instinctively, Will turned around quickly and tried to catch Hannibal, pulling the motor and the garbage can down with him spilling water and oil over the entire garage floor, Hannibal, and himself.

Will was on his ass, the can and motor barely missing his legs. His legs and entire torso are drenched. Hannibal is flat on his back, staring up at the garage ceiling, as dirty motor water gently flows around him heading toward the slope and drain in the floor.

The two stay put for a moment, stunned at the turn of events while Encephalitis barks loudly at them. Will turns slowly and looks toward Hannibal, still supine.

“Spend time with me...” Hannibal said in a slightly mocking tone, “It’ll be fun...”

Will looked at Hannibal and can’t stop himself from laughing. “Here lies Count Hannibal Lecter, VIII,” he says.

He rolled onto all fours and crawled over to Hannibal, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Hannibal, who up until that moment was still staring at the ceiling, looked into Will’s eyes and with a look of mirth, pulled Will down onto the wet ground next to him, turning on his side, cupping his face with both hands pressing a strong open mouthed kiss onto Will’s lips.

Their mouths quickly searched for deeper contact; tongues caressing desperately. Hands grasping and unzipping, pulling and pushing. Will pulled away long enough to murmur into Hannibal’s mouth, “Spend time with me. It’ll be fun.”

So much for doing things together that don’t involve sex.

+++

Hannibal was sitting on the floor leaning against the workbench, hair completely disheveled and damp, his shirt unbuttoned. He couldn’t button it even if he tried, Will made sure of it. Those buttons never stood a chance. Will was sprawled next to him wearing nothing but his track pants, and has his head on Hannibal’s lap. He was gingerly touching his scraped and bloody knees through the rips of his track pants.

“This stings, you know. I think I have fabric burns.”

“Mmm…I’ll clean your knees when we go back inside. We should -- go back inside. I will run you a bath.” Hannibal carded his hands through Will’s hair. “I believe you have grease in your hair.”

“That’ll happen. Hazard of the hobby, I suppose…” Will squeezed Hannibal’s inner thigh, and turned his head to look up at him. “So, thanks.”

“There’s no need, Will. I’m the one that should be thanking you for wanting to include me more in all aspects of your life, even the most mundane,” he said with a smile while Will gently slapped Hannibal’s thigh.

Hannibal added, “I’m sorry I was difficult about it.”

“I know this,” Will said as he gestured toward the entire garage, “isn’t really your thing, so I appreciate you tried.”

Hannibal leaned down just as Will stretched up toward him and they kissed each other gently on the lips. Will then pressed himself upright, stood and offered Hannibal a hand.

As they walked inside the house, with Encephalitis trotting behind them, Will realized that they are, for all intents and purposes, a fairly normal couple. They are there for each other during good and bad, they care for one another when they are sick or down, they support each other in most things -- even if they don’t want to be there 100% (FIVE HOURS, HANNIBAL) and for that he is grateful.

And if he ever says they need to do more things together that don’t include sex, Hannibal has every right to kick him in the ass.

[michael-radi-the-glamorous-life]

Shut That Window 'Cause...

…it’s getting DRAFTY IN HERE!!

Yes, okay, I hate myself just a little bit for that one too. But I thought it was cute. Anywho…

Today I want to talk about the [grueling] process that is drafting. And I don’t mean in a graphic design sense (drawing is not a strength of mine). I mean it more in the sense of: sitting down to write a thing that you’ve been thinking about for a long time and have really wanted to write but haven’t had the time and/or motivation to do so but you’ve finally found the time or at least have now cleaned the entire apartment four times and done your taxes and solved world hunger so I guess now there’s nothing left to do but actually write the thing which you should want to write anyway since it’s your passion and you chose to do this with your life so why are you stalling oh wait Facebook is calling and oh look that rhymed and so I can get into a pointless argument with someone whose face I can’t see instead of forcing terrible first draft dialogue on unwitting characters oh wait they blocked me so I guess I really do have to write now. Darn.

You know. That kind of a sense.

Not Perfect. Just Written.

Facebook memories are a blessing and a curse - we all know this. And this week was no exception. I was so ready to discuss some other topics of absolute brilliance today (come back at a later date to find out if those topics really exist!), but then my FB memories on Wednesday reminded me of a little post that said this:

"First drafts don't have to be perfect. They just have to be written."

And then suddenly I was like, “um, rude, FB.” Because let’s be honest about it - this quote is spot on. First drafts are garbage. Actually, no. They’re worse than garbage. They are a dumpster fire that has burnt out and left heaps of trash ash (TM!…although not entirely sure what I’d do with that…) which are being used as cake flour by a coven of gnarly bridge trolls.

Clearly, first drafts and I have a complicated relationship.

The big problem is that in order to create something wonderful, you have to have that gut-wrenchingly awful first draft as your foundation. And it hurts to make that happen. Creating art is baring your soul, and when your soul at the end of a first draft looks like Dorian Gray’s painting after he’s taken a billion drugs and committed murder…well, it can be a little discouraging. And people don’t talk about this enough.

It’s embarrassing and definitely not fun, but the shameful aspect of a terrible first draft can be tempered if we all actually talk about how awful they are or have been or can be. They are a necessary step. There is nothing to feel ashamed about.

Totally Organic, Non-Processed Verbiage

Yeah…not a thing. Let’s talk about the drafting process, shall we?

I know that, so far, I’ve been discussing only first drafts, but the drafting process never really changes much throughout a show’s developmental life. Of course first drafts are harder because you’re staring at a blank paper or screen with nothing but your jumbles of thoughts, notes, outlines, storyboards, etc. as your foundation. But in the end, to write each subsequent draft we have to go back through the same process.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the process of drafting recently as I’ve sat down to work on some edits of The King’s Legacy for my production this summer. These edits are based off both my own personal thoughts on things in the script that I would like to find a solution for and a conversation with the show’s director. When you’re unhappy with parts of your writing and have lots of potential solutions swirling around in your head - wishing you knew which was going to be the best idea - it’s always fantastic to have a collaborator of some kind to speak with and help point you in a direction. This meeting definitely helped me in that regard.

But did I then run home and start writing with my fresh new ideas and energy???

Ha! Nope. I did immediately make notes of everything we discussed and wrote out a list of things I need to do, but it was more than a week before I actually started writing.

“Well, Michael, that’s just laziness and procrastination.” Actually, it isn’t. Let me lay out my process for you.

*Note: I know I joked in the opening about the procrastination part of it, which is totally real, but there actually is value to not writing immediately. Ideas often need time to percolate and develop.

My Personal Insanity:

Here we go. Even writing out this process makes me anxious!

Have an idea.

Determine whether or not I like the idea.

Imagine how the idea could function in the piece or as a piece itself.

Determine it could work, and actively decide to do nothing about it for a stretch of time.

Continue to think about the idea and its possibilities.

Decide on possibilities that make sense to me.

Decide which of those possibilities excite me.

Jot a few notes down in my phone.

Continue to not write, but think over the ideas in more complexity and detail.

Make the decision that it is time to write the idea.

Make time in my schedule.

Do everything else I’ve been procrastinating on when that day and time arrive.

Get mad at myself for not writing.

Start to hate the idea. Then like it again. Then get excited again.

Schedule another time.

While waiting for that time to arrive, write down more notes and draft an outline, whilst I most certainly should have been doing other things.

At the new scheduled time, be frustrated because I’m excited but also being thrown off by the blank page and am drinking way too much coffee and tea.

Write the most basic and bare amount that I possibly can in the time I allotted myself.

Sigh with relief that I have broken the seal and finally put pen to paper.

Come back at every opportunity in my schedule to let the rest of the first draft pour out of me without editing and without judgement (a skill that must be practiced constantly).

Have a first draft completed that I am proud of and love but hate, so I therefore put it away for anywhere between a day and a week before I even think about it again, let alone look at it to begin the editing process.

Sound exhausting? You betcha!

“What Did I Tell You About That Window?”

"ALWAYS KEEP IT OPEN!"  -- Hook

So what’s my point? Well, I guess I have a few.

Not only is a first draft not going to be perfect, but it’s going to be pretty rough. And that’s okay. It should be! And we need them. Brilliance does not just fall out onto the page, it must be crafted.

You’re never done drafting, and every draft is a process. I love that we use the term Final Draft to describe our “finished” scripts, because they’re never really finished. It’s just the last draft we created before the show became frozen. Because, let’s remember, scripts don’t just fall out of people into that final form, but are drafted and re-drafted and re-drafted until someone eventually tells us “Stop! I’m going to produce and/or license this version now and you need to be done. Step away from the computer.”

To write takes courage, every time. Some drafts are fun and some are not, but it’s important to remember that we need them to get to the good stuff. So, happy drafting, mes amis!