#money isn't skill

[professionalnooneatall]

"Life is about 'passing,' now. In a way it always was. Passing for a Red Stater. Passing for straight. Passing for whatever the majority was. Passing for an ally to an angry and violent minority so they don't physically attack you."

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[bookwyrminspiration]

I hate how whenever there's someone on the internet who's found their niche of something they're good at, you open the comments and so many are asking them to start a business around it. you make good looking food? when are you opening a restaurant/making a cookbook? you're a talented seamstress/crocheter/knitter? when are you making patterns/opening a shop/etc. those are very different skill sets and levels of effort! can't people have skills and hobbies in peace instead of trying to monetize them it's so exhausting

[ratinthevoid]

evil now

[ashintheairlikesnow]

every once in a while, I read some smut. I know, shocking, right? In any case, I recently saw a book rec that had as its basic synopsis "A billionaire keeps a harem of supernatural creatures - an omega wolf shifter, a kelpie, a vampire, an incubus, a siren, a fey, and a 'vessel' (a human that stores magic and you have to... fuck it out of them to use it, I guess?). Brodie is sent undercover as the harem's medic to discover the billionaire's secrets".

This seems promising. Nsfwhump, paranormal funtimes, weird shit galore, count me IN.

And then... the whole book kind of skims over the nsfwhump entirely. Hell, there's barely any actual real whump! It was terribly disappointing and I was honestly so interested. The POV is primarily the Brodie man, but it switches off with Red, the wolf shifter, who considering he has been kept locked up for literal years, has almost no trauma as a result of this? Only two of the creatures even seem to have much at all.

I was kind of deflated by the end because I really wanted more build up to get me to care about the characters, and was interested in seeing their emotional/physical trauma play out as Brodie worked to rescue them. But you don't get to see all that much of it at all, and it feels like the plot breezes past you so fast you're struggling to keep up with how everything happens so quickly.

So now I'm just sitting here like... well damn it, why throw such a promising premise at me and then run away from it as fast as you can?

On the other hand, it inspired me to create a siren OC that I'm working out details of with @redwingedwhump as far as figuring out where I would want to go with the concept. I found "captive siren who isn't allowed to sing" wildly interesting, another concept that is just sort of touched on but it does sound like the siren will get his own book at some point. I just. I want him to feel more pain and if I cannot get pain from this story, I will make up a new OC and give that one the pain instead.

[nerdyfangirlingbooks]

I've had a stupid merlin au idea stuck in my head for days now and I know I'll never get around to writing it the way I want it written but I kinda wanna try anyway even though I am 100% of the target audience

[unrealcosima]

Marwin qué metiche 🔪🔪🔪🔪

[sailing-ever-west]

in my sanji era (waiting tables at my job even though that's not really what my job is supposed to be and im grumpy about it)

[medicinemane]

My stomach sounds like some manner of beast right now, just kind of "mhhhrmmhhbbhh"ing, like some sort of creature snuffling and grumbling

[miidama]

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[holdens-second-official]

I was so excited when I heard Test your Metal was coming back, I'm so disappointed why does it suck so bad now

[sowhatnotcreative]

"You have to respect my opinion!" Scrote why? You literally just stated false information that you could easily disprove with a less than 5 minute google, and your "just a opinion" actively puts people at risk of actual harm.

[citrine-elephant]

is it cringe that half life made me want to attempt to study physics?

[carcharsaur]

it’s funny to me that the only reason I want to get into art again is to do self indulgent oc things and I feel bad about that for some reason even though it’s probably the best reason someone could have

[fshoulders]

Thought I didn't have anything to add here, but then I pondered. I do have something to add about "what I assume my teachers were trying to teach me with the classics".

I'm not a secondary school English teacher, but I've played one in the past: I used to substitute-teach English at the private high school where I myself matriculated around the time of Jurassic Park. I've taught classes on Great Expectations, Jane Eyre, Henry IV Part...mumble, the Iliad, the Ramayana, Their Eyes Were Watching God (if you didn't get taught that as a classic, go enjoy it now, oh my word).... Lots of stuff. And one time, I taught a class on why we take English class.

It was at the end of my first and longest stint as a substitute, when the head of the English department had broken her arm in twelventy places so I ended up teaching 3 or 4 sections of Junior English for several weeks. We'd started and finished Their Eyes Were Watching God, and moved on to something else, and by then I knew I loved these kids. Which was a shock: when I was their age, I was a misanthropic little paladin and did not like most of my peers. But high school juniors (16-17 years old) are whip-smart, but not yet cocky with it like seniors. They like to have fun, but they're easier to get to quiet down and think seriously than sophomores. However, after those weeks, I felt like even the kids who were best at English class -- who did the reading and raised their hands and weren't afraid to make wild, beautiful connections -- didn't really know why they were there.

So I asked their Regular Teacher if I could take one class period in each class and just do a group discusssion about what English class is for. Because the vibe I was getting off them was 'so I have English grades to use to get into college with'. I had 'em write down their answers anonymously to "What is English Class For?"

They handed their answers in, and I read 'em out. And we talked about their answers, and then we talked about my answers. They had some answers I hadn't thought of. And some of my own answers I didn't have to bring up, because that class already had! A lot of them knew they needed to learn to write well, for instance. We talked about the different kind of things they might want to write besides college essays and eventual job 'deliverables'. (I seem to recall telling them that even if they never wanted to try to write original fiction, that didn't mean cribbing techniques off the 'masters' couldn't make their fanfic better. I know I am a dork, but they laughed!) Some of them talked about a sort of cultural acquisition: getting to know exactly the sort of 'great books' and liberal arts touchstones that were getting beaten up in those screenshots at the top of the thread.

But I think maybe one kid in one of the classes, if that, wrote down the thing I really wanted them to take with 'em out of English class -- English class teaches you how to read more skillfully.

And some of the texts they practice reading on are texts they wouldn't have chosen, which makes them surly. (It sure made me surly in middle and high school.) Some of them are difficult to read. But reading is a skill, like any other. Even if they hadn't wanted to read Jane Eyre, or A River Runs Through It, or Elizabeth Bishop's poetry, or Toni Cade Bambara's short fiction, they could use those texts to improve their facility to read deeply, closely, and well. Then they could apply that facility to any text they wanted to read. For academic ambition, for pleasure or self-improvement or curiosity, or to keep up with a crush. And much of that skill is even transferable, out of the English language, out of the written word! They could read into and under horror movies, political ads, rap lyrics, art films, video games! They could notice and name the biases in the things they read, or read the context around a story the way this whole beautiful thread above did with Huckleberry Finn.

Reading deeply and critically is an underrated skill. We don't talk about it enough, we don't practice it enough, and maybe we don't even know when we're supposed to be learning it. Maybe the screenshotted people had terrible teachers who never made it clear that art isn't endorsement, that we can read against the past but still understand it, or indeed why they were sitting in that classroom at all. If you don't hand the student a scalpel, maybe this is what you get: a reader who stared at each book like the outside of a frog and took nothing away but the fact it reeked of formaldehyde. Maybe it's just a series of bad jokes!

But come, for Muses' sake let us sit upon the ground, and tell mad stories of why we hate Gatsby's guts. (With supporting evidence from the text.) Tell me whether you think the narrator of Wuthering Heights wants you to approve of Kathy and Heathcliff's relationship, and why you think that! Is he manipulating you to feel a certain way? What language feels manipulative, or engages you more with one character's emotions than another's? What do you think Jim thinks of Huck in this chapter, and why do you think that? Which racism do you think is the character's, and which is the author's? How do you tease that out?

English Class: You can bear that book a grudge for the rest of your life, but learning a lot from it today is the best revenge.