#nonfiction could be a good compromise

[toerrishumansodontbeone]

me: I dont even like christianity, cannot tolerate a single christian thought, imagery or sentence uttered in my vicinity,

my downloads folder rn:

[lord-squiggletits]

One of my least favorite parts of how JRO wrote Optimus is that he wanted so badly to continue his dark and gritty world building making the Autobots problematic, but evidently couldn't reconcile this with Optimus being a Heroic Paragon, so instead he leaned way too hard into "oh Prowl was the one who did this and it was behind Optimus' back" which if anything I think makes Optimus look worse, not better. Because then it's like, okay I know Optimus trusted Prowl a lot as his friend but you CANNOT TELL ME that over the course of 4 million years, Optimus as the leader of the Autobot army who literally would have access to 99.9% of all the records they produce, would never notice or question where some of these odd/inconsistent details were pointing. It just seems really inconsistent with how a real military would actually function, especially regarding Optimus' character, who is incredibly thorough and responsible and wouldn't neglect to keep up with all the details of his army.

Hell, Optimus knows who the Wreckers are and had them on call for tricky operations when he needed them (Stormbringer) so he's literally not at all ignorant of/averse to the use of special wartime units composed of dubious individuals. He's the fucking commander of an entire army, of course he knows that War Is Hell (TM) and no one's hands are clean. That's not even getting into all the stuff he got up to in phase 2/3, I mean everything from the annexation of Earth to OP breaking humans out of prison against Council orders shows that Optimus is no stranger to immoral and/or unlawful means.

It also leads to a lot of annoying fanon where people write Optimus (sometimes unintentionally, sometimes not) as like some sort of ignorant fool who's unaware of the machinations of his own army or has some sort of naiveté of "b-but we can't use bad tactics against the enemy! I would never condone the use of morally gray means in war!" No, IDW Optimus knows perfectly well all of the bullshit he's enacted/condoned for the sake of trying to win the war. Some stuff is definitely out of character for him and was only machinated because of Prowl, but I think this fandom REALLY underestimates Optimus' personal agency/responsibility as the commander of a whole ass army and ESPECIALLY underestimates Optimus' capacity to condone morally gray Bullshit Of War while still being a good person individually as well as, comparatively, the lesser evil compared to Megatron/the Decepticons.

Anyways what I'm saying is JRO may be a good writer but he's really hesitant to make Optimus morally gray and does some asspulls sometimes to justify most of the bad things the Autobots did as "Optimus just didn't know," and since the majority of the IDW1 fandom only reads JRO's stuff they go running with this premise of ignorant/uninformed Optimus when there's evidence elsewhere in canon to show that Optimus is, in fact, very highly aware of the bullshit he's allowed "for the greater good" and the only stuff he was "unaware of" was the stuff he would literally never agree to the ethics of, like bombing innocent neutrals disguised as Decepticons to get them to join the Autobots.

[thebookcases]

My Rating: 2/5 Stars

I always feel bad when I dislike a book that by most metrics is perfectly fine.

Must Love Books by Shauna Robinson is a contemporary fiction book about a woman named Nora who once dreamed of working with books but is now burnt out and underappreciated in her dead-end job at a small nonfiction publisher. When her pay is cut and she's left unable to afford her bills, she decides to pick up a freelancing job to make ends meet...at a rival publisher. And to make matters worse, she's beginning to fall for Andrew Santos, an author who she must convince to sign a book deal...but which publisher should she push him towards?

Reading the description you'd be tempted to think this is a romance novel, but it's really not. While the relationship development is a major factor, the true story centers Nora as she tries (and often fails) to figure out where her life is going.

I enjoyed Shauna Robinson's sophomore book, The Banned Bookshop of Maggie Banks, and I empathize heavily with any book loving introverted character that finds themself stuck in their job, unsure what they're doing with their life (aka, just Me in 2022), so I was expecting to, if not love this book, then to really enjoy it.

Sadly, I just couldn't get into this one. Nora is a well written character, with very real and human struggles, but unfortunately I really didn't enjoy my time with her. I found her choices frustrating; not in a fun to watch way, but in a "cringing from second hand embarrassment/anxiety" way. The "liar revealed" plot is one that can be tricky to pull off, and it unfortunately didn't work for me here.

*The next few paragraphs contain very minor spoilers, scroll to the last paragraph to avoid*

There were also a few little story structure things that betray this as a debut novel. For instance, at roughly the fifty percent mark, the book suddenly starts discussing some serious mental health issues without mentioning at any point prior to this that Nora is dealing with anything more serious than burnout. I wouldn't say that these flaws would be enough to detract from your enjoyment if you're otherwise having a good time, but since I was already growing frustrated with the book due to personal taste reasons, they were very noticeable to me.

I was actually so frustrated by the whole "dancing around the truth and trying to avoid getting caught" portion of the book in the middle that I switched from audio to ebook so I could start skimming up until her secret is found out (which, of course, also doubles as the third act breakup) and read about how she handles that situation. I normally don't skim books, but I was at a point where I didn't want to keep reading, but also didn't want to DNF it, so I compromised by skimming *just until* I was interested again. I did find the direction that Nora went after her secret is revealed to be satisfying, though the ending did feel a bit abrupt.

*Minor Spoiler section over, you may continue here:*

Despite my low rating, I do think this is a good book for what it is, and I would recommend it to readers who enjoy contemporary fiction and contemporary romance. The 2/5 stars is much more a reflection of how much I personally did/didn't enjoy the book rather than of its quality. Still, I can't help but feel that every aspect of this book-- from feeling directionless in your life/career to the whiteness of publishing/the literary canon to the potentially unprofessional but oh-so-alluring romance-- was all executed better in The Banned Bookshop of Maggie Banks, so if you're looking for a relatable millennial protagonist in a story about books and booklovers, I'd recommend you read that instead.

[datura-tea]

Tell us more about Gabe please, he's so cute!

well if you insist :)

he's the youngest of three - his older brothers are michael (mikey; a mechanic who's responsible for the town's water filter and the like) and raphael (pael; the town doctor and general surgeon)

a grade-a nerd who loves reading! he will read whatever he could get his hands on, but he loves nonfiction books and technical books the most. moz always brings him books whenever she comes home

he once read the dictionary cover to cover. consequently, he has a large vocabulary

he's a quiet, thoughtful dude who likes to keep to himself. only really socializes with moz, her family, and his brothers and cousins. doesn't have a lot of close friends, but can put on a friendly face for his repair shop customers

doesn't like violence, but will help defend his town if needed. weapon of choice is a pistol and his father's balisong

has a really nice singing voice. when it's his turn at the karaoke machine, everyone listens. he always used to sing to moz :)

he was a short kid, but got a growth spurt - he's 5'11" tall and was quite lanky as a teen, but has since filled out as an adult

didn't know he was bisexual until after moz told him that she was bisexual, not because of any internalized bullshit but because the thought of being with anyone other than moz was so alien... he's since experimented with other people and realized what he likes

is absolutely not good at flirting but he is so charming and sincere in his interest that you can't help but fall in love with him

speaking of love, he and moz were head over heels for each other, but ultimately they wanted different things out of life - moz wanted to explore the wide wild wasteland and see what was out there, and gabe wanted to stay in town, where it was relatively safe, and eventually start a family once they were older. it was a mismatch, and neither of them wanted to stand down or compromise. it's why they broke up the first time

wow this got long so that's all for now!!! thank you for asking about gabe, i've only had him for a month but i love him a lot :')

[iceeericeee]

A Birthday? In This Economy?

This oneshot is for @matxhstixkers. Happy birthday bestie!!!

(Also, so sorry if this is ooc, I haven’t seen Good Omens in a hot sec lololol) (also, I made up a random last name cos I don’t know what urs actually is fjdjdjs)

It was quiet in the bookshop, until Aziraphale burst through the door and started frantically scanning his mini calendar he kept on his desk. Apparently, he hadn't noticed Crowley lounging on his armchair, and who was now lying on the floor because he had fallen out from Aziraphale’s loud entrance.

"Angel, what's going on? Does it have something to do with heaven?"

His eyes finally landing on a specific date, he replied to Crowley, "Oh no, nothing that terrible. It's just... it's someone's birthday today, someone special, and I had forgotten."

“Well, what do you propose we do about it, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know… I had been thinking maybe we could pop over, and wish him a happy birthday!”

“Right, yeah. We should just waltz on over, unannounced, to tell some random human that they’re getting older. Fantastic, Angel.”

“But it’s not just someone random, Crowley! His great-grandmother was a dear friend of mine, back when heaven had an assignment for me across the pond. The Smith family is very important to me.”

“Oh, well now, that’s different.”

“Don’t be so sarcastic, dear.”

He raised his hands in defense.

“Anyway, I need to get him a gift, something special. Something he’d really like.”

“How about we get him a book, eh? If you somehow know him, then there’s a pretty darn good chance he’s likes books.” Crowley suggested.

Aziraphale bristled a bit at the idea. “You aren’t suggesting giving him one of my books, are you?”

“No, Angel. I’m saying we get him a brand new book.”

He settled a bit at that. “Oh, well, that’s a good idea then. What do you think he’d like? Should we get him something nonfiction? Or maybe something more fantastical?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one who knows him, not me!”

They scratched the idea, and thought some more.

———

Aziraphale’s head popped up. “What if we got him a video game? All the kids nowadays love that sort of thing, don’t they?”

Crowley shrugged. “Yeah, sure. But what game would he want?”

He thought for a moment. “Oh! What about that newer one! ‘Fourteen days’, I think?”

“You mean ‘Fortnite’?”

Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, that’s the one!”

“No. It’s… how do I say this. It’s not exactly, new, anymore.”

“What do you mean? It came out only 7 years ago.”

Crowey sighed. “Look, Angel. These humans move fast. Like, ridiculously fast. Seven years ago to them might as well be a hundred years ago.”

———

“Aziraphale, we’re not getting anywhere. Why don’t we compromise.”

He paused at that. “Well, alright. What did you have in mind?”

“How about, we send a card, yeah? A nice, simple, card. We’ll sign it, maybe put a bit of cash inside.”

He slowly nodded. “I guess.”

“Then we’ve come to an agreement.” With a small wave of his hand, a small, cheesy, happy birthday card and envelope appeared. With a flourish, Crowley wrote out a short happy birthday wish, and handed the card to Aziraphale. He, instead of something small, wrote out a long note, with more thoughtful undertones.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and there appeared a large sum of money — in pounds, of course.

“Nono, Angel. He’s American, remember?”

“Ohh yes. Thank you, dear boy.” And with another snap, it turned into American dollars.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a sunny Tuesday morning when Charlie’s mother has a strange feeling, the need to check the mail, even though it wasn’t due to come until midday. And when she opened the mailbox, there, sitting neatly in the very middle, was a letter addressed to the birthday boy. But, strangely, it had no return address. There weren’t even any stamps.

You can imagine, then, the surprise on Charlie’s face when he not only saw it, but also the excitement when he opened the wonderful card. The card in which he promptly hung up on his wall, displayed for him to see every morning.

[tryst-art-archive]

March 2012: Dead Ten Years (Draft 1)

This is both a nonfiction personal essay about me, my creative process, and my stepping away from art in 2009, and a Khra-nicles prequel/side story about Unge. It was done for a fiction class, but I'd already established a habit of telling true stories about me while pretending they were fiction.

I'll talk about this a little more in one of the upcoming posts, but in March 2012 I briefly returned to dA and tried to resume drawing and creating as I had done when I was a teen. It would not last.

------Text Follows------>

            I have always sat down for tea with my characters, sipping away in the café of my mind where we chat about their lives and their futures and their thoughts and their dreams. Before I decided I was too terrible an artist to wield a pencil, I entered these teatime meetings by drawing my characters endlessly: profile, three-quarters view, face-forward  stare, hands and arms and legs and feet and limbs, limbs, limbs, and a raging expression here or a joyous one there or an image of melancholy or remorse or fear or shock or thrill, and then the most important scenes from each of their lives until finally I went back and did the whole thing over again, pages of history notes sacrificed to the characters’ forms, their lines obfuscating the words.

            For a time, starting around 2009, I ceased drawing any of them at all, convinced that the only worthy endeavor was to create new characters, explore new realms, run away from the world I’d been building since 2005 and the pantheon of characters Mare and I had birthed in the primordial soup of our friendship, all to attain a kind of writing I didn’t particularly enjoy. Somehow, every character following that so thoroughly drawn tribe fell flat, pancakes on a cold griddle. Proportionally, my sense of frustration grew, and I slowly became convinced I wasn’t good for much but long strings of actions, play-by-plays of capture the flag, and roaming introspections that blended Eastern and Western in a way that my peers did not like.

            And then, in a fit of desperation, unable to conceive of a single new plot or personality, I wrote about Arren, andI felt reborn. It seemed to me then that my mistake all along had been to deny the characters I’d had tea with everyday of my life for four years. Quietly, I began to draw.

            Unge S. Chickt stood at her window overlooking the city of P’tak from its opulent heart. Xev had been dead for ten years.

            It was 0 A.K., the age-turning year following the death of the Demon Kifer, and Unge could hardly get used to the ideaJust the fact that the Demon was dead was nigh-impossible to adjust to after his reign of terror—thousands of years of civilization burning under his sanguine gaze ending all at once, demarcated by a change in calendar. Only the Elementals who were as old as Khra itself remembered a time before the Demon.

            It had also been a year since Unge had met the hero who had slain Kifer: Arren Minetelle, a petite Fox Raeth with ice blue eyes wrapped in the blood crimson of a Ranger’s cloak. At the time, the girl had pep, a raging fire in her spirit that did not compromise, and a conviction that hers was the right path, the just one. She appeared, determined to slay Kifer, armed with knowledge from Rhawen, and prepared to risk it all. Unge sent her to Nassab in search of an artifact the girl had called the Demon’s Eye and did not see her again until the Battle at the Elemental Fields. There, Unge had joined her forces—IMDP—with the Elementals’ and the Rangers’ in order to defeat Kifer and his army. Arren appeared amidst the fray, her left eye gone, replaced with a desiccated, angry orb. Unge had naught to do but watch as the girl grappled with Kifer, tearing out the massive, glowing red stone that occupied his left socket. The Demon had screamed, his voice reaching an unearthly pitch of terror, and from Arren’s eye the desiccated thing leapt out with an angry hiss, falling into Kifer’s now empty socket. All at once, the Demon exploded into dust.

            After the battle, Arren was nowhere to be found, and the Ranger’s Head was dead. Though Raeth celebrated Kifer’s death—such celebration Unge had never before seen—terror seized the Rangers’ ranks, chickens without heads. And then Arren returned, slogging out of the northern forests and stumbling westward to the Rangers’ Headquarters. The Rangers, the country’s populace, even the Elementals, demanded that she be the new Head, this woman who had killed the world’s great evil. Yet she stood before them, her left socket still a ragged hole, the edges of the bone cracked, the skin scarring, and she said no.

            Garron Baylinthe became the Head, and Unge should have been happy about that. The man was a native of P’tak, born and bred in the city’s love for technology, though woefully filled with its distrust of magic, too. Still, this should have been fortuitous for Unge, placing her and her city in a less precarious position with the rest of the nation. All the same, the moment filled her with an odd foreboding, and before long she found herself contacting Arren, asking one thing: Watch the Rangers. Become a double agent.

            Miraculously, the hero had agreed.

            In some sense, I suppose, you could almost frame my understanding of my characters as a psychosis. As I was, by and large, depressed and suicidal between the ages of ten and nineteen, I developed a habit of consulting my characters. I would sit in the shower—I would have been fourteen or fifteen at the time—and, feeling thoroughly sorry for myself for no good reason, I would conjure up an image of Kriamiss or Pain, and I would imagine them embracing me, lending me their strength through simple contact.

            This evolved, as such things do, such that, in the middle of high school, I would walk through the halls feeling them behind me—imaginary friends though it only occurs to me now to name it so—and it would be a simple matter to draw strength from them in that way. And, again, the whole affair evolved, as the fact of being single began to chafe, such that the characters became ideals, promising that, oh, if only they were real, they’d certainly love me because clearly no one else would.

            There’s something shameful in that memory, an embarrassment lurking around the roots of the heart, and yet when I think how, after I’d abandoned them all, I brushed closer to death than I ever had before, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps the trade-off was fair.

            Unge had never trusted the Rangers. They were, to her mind, a dangerous lot. Their Head was also Raeth’s Head, and while he was elected by the Raethian populace at large, Unge couldn’t help but wonder if the system could be rigged. Even when she was younger, breasts barely formed and yet already yearning for a greater purpose, the fact that the Rangers were Raeth’s only police force, its only military filled her with dread, fear, and something acid like bile. Where was the safety on that gun? Suppose, just suppose, that the Rangers ever went astray? Just suppose that they lost sight of their purpose, lost sight of their limits, lost sight of Raeth’s needs. What then? Who would be there to stop them? The Elementals didn’t bother themselves about Raethian business. The Mages were a scattered group of farmers’ helpers and wandering midwives. There was no one else.

            For a long time, Unge struggled with that thought. Even when she set out from Nitemaer, determined to see the country in full, that sense of Ranger Danger followed her, with no feasible solution in tow. None, until Xev.

            Twenty years ago, Xev said, “You’re right about this Ranger thing. We gotta do something ‘bout it.” Xev was from N’zik, a small city surrounded by desert to one side and jungle to the other, previously the capital of an ancient Dragonfolk civilization, and now just one of the four Raethian settlements that could be properly called cities, one for each point of the compass. Unge was not terribly impressed with the southern city, though the use of sandstone was lovely.

            “I know, but what’s there to do?” Unge was perhaps twenty at the time, a traveler for only two years who’d nonetheless done away with the decadent fabrics and elaborate constructions of Nitemaer’s garb in favor of the simple leather and cotton to be found in most Raethian villages. “I’ve been thinking about this for years, and still I don’t know.”

            “No ideas?” Xev, a Dog Raeth all of sleek Labrador blacks and dewy brown eyes, melted over the arm of his chair. He seemed impossibly long, arms trailing across the floor, toes delicately brushing the ground, and yet he was still, somehow, in proportion.

            “Well.” She paused, turning the thoughts over in her mind. “If you’ve got one organization in charge of everything, that’s a problem. But what if you had two?”

            He raised an eyebrow. “Two?”

            “Say you’ve got the Rangers, just as they are, but then you make, like, a second Rangers— ‘cept call them something else obviously—“

            “Obviously.”

            “—Well then you task the second group with not only defending the peace and all that stuff, but also with keeping an eye on the Rangers. Then you go to the Rangers and say, ‘Hey, keep an eye on the new guys.’ So now you’d have double the police force and both would be making sure the other one didn’t slip up and go evil on us all.”

            Xev smiled and reached out to touch Unge’s tawny hair. “Well why not do that then?”

            Unge blinked, and one of her canine ears twitched. “Well, I mean, that’s not something I can do.”

            Xev merely shook his head and offered her his hand.

            Within a year the foundations of IMDP had been laid, and the year after that, they began recruiting. Five years after that conversation, IMDP was complete with secret agents, a business front to hide behind, and the cooperation of P’tak’s local government. The time had not seemed prudent to reveal themselves to the Rangers—much more effective to merely spy on them for now, until IMDP was of equal strength at least—and so the organization remained in shadow, its business front slowly elevating it until its letters stood atop a skyscraper right at the heart of P’tak, among the richest of the rich.

            And then Xev died.

            Here is something else about the characters and me. Nearly all of them are some part of myself, magnified over and over until perhaps you couldn’t tell they were ever me at all. Yet the fact remains that they are magnifications, and if you really, truly wanted, you could trace back their lineage. Kriamiss was a wish fulfillment fantasy on steroids, and forever and again, in the present, it is always a struggle to determine how to reduce an angsty enchanter-healer-angel-thing back into a person without upsetting the tender chronology of his entire story arc, of which Unge S. Chickt is but a small part. And so you have to look again and see what else they stole from you. By which I mean, from me. For Kriamiss it is the angst. Specifically, the angst that flies in the face of all the talent, all the ability, all the good fortune, and all the love that has ever and will ever be showered upon his foolish, morose head. His is a suburban ennui in a place that has no suburbs—though obviously I have suburbs, roiling in my blood the way a tar pit might bubble. Arren Minetelle, great savior of not only Raeth but all of Khra—the world’s hero, defeating its personification of evil—has what in common with a girl from [town], Massachusetts who can barely handle a stubbed toe, never mind ripping her own eye out— twice? For that you should look to Arren’s motives. Here is a woman whose cause is so just and so righteous that surely she must be the hero, surely she has saved us all, and yet she hunts down Kifer not because it is the right thing to do—so many had tried and failed over the thousands of years of his life—but because he killed the man she loved, a Ranger called Rusek who believed in due process. Arren enters in on a quest for revenge first—an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind—and on a quest for justice second, and therefore Arren is a cross-section of should and is, and if I don’t have that in common with her, then I don’t know myself.

            But perhaps you don’t know these people, though now you must know Unge, and I’ve mentioned Xev, but as he is borne of M[...]’s consciousness, not my own, I cannot tell you about him. I can tell you about Unge, but I think you will find it anticlimactic.

            Unge is among the oldest of the bunch. I drew her before anime styling crept, poorly, into my artist’s hand. I drew her before there was a Khra or a Kriamiss or an Arren, at a time when M[...] and I were only just acquaintances who shared a school bus. Unge came out of Neopets.com, out of a time when anthropomorphic animals were new and exciting to me so that I took to drawing gelerts—strange, dog-like things—in skirts with big, lavender eyes—a terrible sight to behold. When I “adopted” a gelert someone had named Ungeschickt, the name disappointed me. I therefore had to make Ungeschickt – quickly shortened to Unge for all intents, dues, and purposes – into the most badass of motherfuckers. And so, the first picture of Unge, ever, presented her as a femme fatale in a pink miniskirt and pearls, thoughtfully gesturing with her bloodied dagger. In this way, Unge was born of my love of 007, only to transmogrify, upon her entry into Khra, into a desire for a better world.

            A knock, followed by Tarrin Carithelle, Rien Carithelle, and Arren Minetelle, all but Rien looking stoic. Unge turned, forty years of espionage squeezed into a business suit, forty years of aggressive gaiety etched into her face. “Hello, my darlings.”

            Tarrin and Arren sketched stiff salutes, each in their own style, and Tarrin pretended that she was not awed by Raeth’s Very Own Hero. Rien beamed, unfazed by the world’s goings ons, mind still tangling with gears and levers and electricity.

            “What did Rhawen say?” Unge asked, settling into the plush chair behind her desk and gesturing for the trio to settle themselves where they saw fit.

            Tarrin snorted, mouth opening to snarl about the peculiar woman, but Rien cut her off. “She doesn’t want to see anyone besides Arren right now.” The tiny girl adjusted her glasses. “Though she did like the things we brought her. Especially the mechanical pencils. Completely taken with them.”

            Unge rolled a pen on her desk. “But we don’t get to know where to find her?”

            “No,” Arren said, a stone slab dropping. Her youth frightened Unge, sometimes. The ghastly eye socket, the runs in her face, deep-set, that made her look like marble, the ice blue of her remaining eye—just ice now—her hand never straying far from her sword’s pommel (a sword only allowed by P’tak’s strict ban on selling guns outside the city and the centuries-long lack of trade between Raeth and Nassab, though that wouldn’t last much longer if Unge had anything to do with it).

            “No?” The pen rolled off of Unge’s desk.

            Tarrin grumbled but held her tongue.

            “Rhawen is not in a position to be as helpful as she’d like, and to that end it is better for her if as few people know her location as possible.” Arren allowed herself a sigh and continued, “I had thought that enabling you to go to her directly might not be asking too much, but Rhawen is adamant on this point. She is…”

            “Yes, what is she?” Unge snapped, frustration surprising both her and the three women before her.

            “Unge?” Rien squeaked. Unge shook her head.

            One of the lines in Arren’s brow softened. “Rhawen is something of the world. Old. She has her reasons.”

            “Well I’d feel a lot fuckin’ better about it if she’d just give us straight goddamn answers,” Tarrin growled.

            The brow line reasserted itself. “Perhaps you should just get better at riddles then,” Arren said.

            Unge pondered for a moment. She’d been working with Rhawen before Arren had killed Kifer, but the woman had never opened up to Unge the way she had to Arren, and even that was a chilly connection.

            A wave of fatigue washed over her, and she missed Xev.

            “Well thank you for trying, my lovelies,” Unge said, feeling herself sink onto her desk. “I suppose we’ll just do things the way we always have. We’ll wait.” Xev wouldn’t have tolerated this waiting. He’d have been tracking right up to Rhawen’s house and demanding answers, all with a pleasant smile.

            One of the oddities of the internet is that every individual’s idea of it is discrete, separate from every other individual’s idea of it. My internet is different from yours is different from Steve’s is different from your little cousin’s even though we all can and do talk about the internet as if it were one thing—one place—when, in fact, it is a thousand tiny microcosms. My internet was a place for outsiders to hide and feel less alone. I spent time on Neopets, constructing, building, proposing characters and web pages and drawings and later yammering on to deviantArt and then role playing with M[...] on AIM—all day, every day, talking around the character’s conversations as if we were at some sort of party—and on and on and on, until between M[...] and I, we had produced an entire world filled with faces I knew and loved in a way I could not know or love the people around me because reality would never be anything but disappointing. (And so there it is.)

            But what is odd is that when we left that world, all the other fictions out there were never enough for me either. So it was disappointing reality, disappointing fiction, and then before you know it, you’re what feels like a lifetime away from those socially reclusive days, and you find yourself starting to submerge yourself in all those old habits right back over again. And what’s more, M[...] is too, though the methods are slightly different. Why, after abandoning deviantArt four years ago, have we returned to it, just as she graduates from [college]? Why, four years after I set aside Khra, the KriamBook, the Pupcat Riley Story, the Asher Concept, and Arren’s Tale, have I found myself inexorably drawn towards them, fed up and disgusted with everything else that droops out of my pen, just when I’m meant to be serious about my work, my career, my life, and the future? What has caused us to come full circle, and why am I the only one of us twain questioning it?

            Xev died on a mission of first contact.

            Unge harbored two great dreams. The first: fix the Raethian judicial and political system to better prevent corruption. The second: re-establish diplomatic ties with Nassab and undo the political damage caused by the Great War, a thousand or so years ago. The trouble with this latter goal was, first and foremost, that a Human of Nassab would always kill and Raethian on sight, and most Raethians wouldn’t behave a whole lot more nobly. Oh, naturally, illegal trading had always occurred between the two continents—P’tak’s technological wealth was drawn directly from that fact—but Unge desired open trade. Raethian society was ruled by magic—the fact of the Elementals on the continent ensured that—and Nassab, left without easy access to magic, had turned to technology. And Unge wanted both. Nitemaer was one of the few places that mixed them, and that mentality ran deep in Unge.

            It was only natural that—observing the black market ships sailing between Bollen on Nassab and P’tak on Raeth—Unge determined that IMDP would certainly engage in some trading of its own and once begun, found their dealings with Bollen went well. Unge then thought to expand. To that end, she sent Xev to northern Nassab, and when he returned, he was merely a head in a box, a note pinned to the outside: “No Dogs.”

            Unge shook the cobwebs from her mind. Tarrin and Rien had left, returning to their respective departments. Arren remained, sipping water and looking over Unge’s view of P’tak. Unge, at her side, pointed out through the city’s haze to where the ocean was just barely visible. “One of these days, that’s gonna be all boats all the time.” She smirked. “You won’t be the only Raethian to scoot around Nassab.”

            Arren nodded, remaining eye closed. “Rhawen asked a favor of me.”

            “Oh?”

            From a pouch on her hip, Arren removed a small letter, some tiny object weighing down one of the envelope’s corners. It was sealed with orange wax—an odd choice—the imprint of what looked to be a dragon in flight squashed into the pumpkin color. An extinct animal for an ancient woman who didn’t look a day over twenty-five, apparently knew everything there was to know, and then refused to tell you. Why not dragons?

            Unge took it to the desk and broke the seal. Alongside the letter, Rhawen had inserted a pendant matching the seal impressed into the wax—one of those extinct dragons in flight. Unge ran her thumb over it, unsure of its connotation, though remembering that Rhawen wore one such pendant. She glanced at Arren, a question in her eyes, but Arren did not meet her gaze, sipping her glass of water instead.

            Unge settled into her chair and read the letter.

            Allow me just one more moment of your time, before you read Rhawen’s letter, before you decide if all this time spent poring over a day in Unge’s life and the musings of her author—her technical, real author, not Rhawen, the Narrator, who is the voice who tells these stories—was wasted.

            Purpose applies to all of these situations. I don’t know what your life was like in 2001 or 2002, but I know what mine was like, and for all the material fortune in the world, I was nonetheless struck with a deep-seated misery that I couldn’t explain, and really I still can’t, at least not in a way that feels authentic. I was filled with guilt over this feeling—“There are children starving in Africa!”—and  yet the feeling persisted until I became jealous of the starving children because at least they knew why they were miserable. It’s no surprise then that the characters I birthed were universally sad, universally restless, and universally struck with tepid misfortunes which, in theory, should be world-shattering, and yet in application remained ineffective. Kriamiss’s mother dies when he is fifteen, and he flees his home, finds the father that abandoned them and that man dies too, and then when he finds someone to love in the world, she kills him, and it isn’t until he’s been dead five hundred years that he has a second chance—to save the world, to become whole. My inability to feel anything at a degree less than acutely became his saga of misfortunes—too many to be useful, narrative-wise, but just enough to try to justify feeling the way I did.

            So why feel so acutely? It’s hard to say. Do you blame a chemical imbalance; do you blame a spoiled upbringing; do you blame an inherent, genetic sensitivity, or do you perhaps put it down to some sort of flaw, a lack of the “right stuff”? I’m not sure; it’s all too far away to say anything concrete about. The memory is unreliable, the heart is unreliable, the mind is unreliable, even the evidence of the eyes is unreliable, because all is perception. In the present time, however, let us put it all down to purpose. There was purpose when we created, there was a loss of purpose when we stopped, and now we seek out purpose again—and so the whole world, the whole array of characters, have returned, because they cannot exist without us.

            And how about Kriamiss or Unge? Why is it that every character I create is alone, at the end of the day, always by themselves, contained within the space of their own bodies, isolated? I am alone when I am with people; I am alone when I am not. Solitude, then purpose. We—the characters and me—travel alone and look for something to do. Something meaningful. Save the world, that’s always good, or maybe just improving it will do. Always with the epic narrative, always with the complete saga, and always with the search for purpose and the inescapable solitude.

            I reiterate: the characters are me.

Unge—

            Some twenty years ago, I sat on a café veranda in N’zik, and I watched a young Dog Raeth with tawny hair and a full bosom chitter and laugh with another young Dog Raeth, this one a sea of blacks and browns constructed into a long, lithe, lingering body. They laughed with one another, at one another, at themselves, caught in what I shall call puppy love. I saw, at that time, their histories and their present, and while I have never been known to predict the future, everything I could sense about them suggested that they were bound for greater things. When, ten years ago, one of the two passed from this world on to Ahrk, I knew of this too, and I thought for a long time about how to make things right.

            What answer can I give you? Arren sought out her own, and I supported her, and now, even with all the knowledge a mortal can be allowed, I find myself regretting. There lies Kifer, dead, and is not one girl’s youth worth the safety of thousands? But still the regret persists.

            I digress.

            You have a dream.

            The Dragonfolk are waning, but their presence is still felt and revered in the northern climes of Nassab. Southern Nassab is, generally, filled with hatred for their once-oppressors, but in the north the sentiment is less present, the sins more forgiven, and so a Dragonfolk token can go a long way. Therefore, please find enclosed the symbol of the Dragonfolk; may it earn you passage to those places closed off to all but the eldest. I will only ask that you do not use it to go to the Verde Isles.

            With these thoughts in mind, I wish you well and tell you now that Xev died wishing for you.

Rhawen E. Fox

            Unge choked and found, through her sobs, that Arren stood at her shoulder, merely holding it. The younger woman maintained that spot, one worn hand acknowledging Unge’s pain for the half hour it took the older woman to regain herself, her gaiety washed away by a ten-year-old memory of a dead man.

            When Unge had subsided, Arren took herself to the other side of the desk and sat down. She folded her arms on the black, sanitized wood, her posture suddenly more like the girl she should have been. Eyes hard on Unge, she said, “I’ve known tears like that.”

            Unge nodded. “Xev was—he made this. All of this. Just by saying it was possible. Just ‘You can do it, Unge.’ This can be done. And then it was. That was all it took. He said I could do it, so I did.” Her breath rattled. “How do you come back from that? How do you answer for that death?”

            Arren took her hand and gave it a squeeze. Unge could feel every crease, every callous in the hero’s hand. Here was where her sword had worn itself a home and here at the finger tips the place for her bow. These tiny cuts for every hour of traveling from one Raethian coast to the other and these weathered folds for every night spent alone beneath the stars forming a web to catch demons. Arren’s nails were dirty, but in spite of the usage written across her hands, Unge could see where once the delicate shape of a genteel woman’s glove may have fit, and Unge’s own palm felt suddenly fat and chubby in the grasp of one so conflictingly worked.

            Arren withdrew, her whole self drawn back up into the raw eye socket, sucked behind a glacial mask. She stood, saying, “The Rangers will miss me momentarily. Baylinthe’s put his son and Brue Nadir as his top officers. Most of the men are terrified of Brue, which leaves me and the boy to see that morale stays up.”

            Unge closed her eyes, nodding her understanding, but found Arren leaning in when she’d opened them again.

            “The boy. Maroc Baylinthe. He might be trouble.”

            There seemed something more she wanted to say, and Unge prompted her—“How so?”—but Arren shook her head and stepped away. “It may just be me. The men love him.” A tightness around her mouth suggested a deeper trouble, but Arren shook it off. “No, it is nothing. He is a Ranger, after all.” With that, Arren saluted, said her farewells, and whisked out of the room, just a red cloak disappearing behind metal doors.

            Unge considered the disappearing cloak and fingered the pendant. She laughed. “Dragonfolk symbols and the great hero feels compassion? Oh dear.” She’d have to have someone look deeper into these Baylinthes. Arren wasn’t the most intuitive of ladies, but Unge wasn’t about to dismiss her discomfit out of hand. The Rangers had completely failed to exhibit corruption, these past ten years. Perhaps now was the time?

            Unge left her chair, pendant still in hand, and returned to her favorite spot, staring out over the city—her city—where she contemplated reconciling the half-animal Raethians to their long-lost cousins, the Humans of Nassab.

[ohhoneato]

Hey ya'll! I've had my writing commissions open for a while, but I wanted to reiterate that I have them open.

As much as I like working Uber, Ubereats and now Lyft, what I really want to do with my life has always been to write. And with how long I have to be out on the road to earn enough money for bills, I haven't had much time to write.

This is why I keep my commissions open. Getting a commission could mean that my bills get paid and I get a day of rest along with it.

I've also realized, I haven't really specified what I'm willing to write. I don't have many limits, I can write fighting scenes, passionate sex scenes, emotional death scenes, etc... long or short, any characters. If you'd like an OC story, just tell me a bit about them and I'll be on my way with it, so I can properly write them. I do fanfiction, original content, nonfiction if you're into that, poetry. You can request first, second or third person. I'm quite versatile.

And I've posted a few of my writings on here before, though they're short, I believe they give a good measure of some of what I'm capable of.

I'm willing to discuss pricing depending on length and content. Only limit I have on sexuality is an age limit, please don't ask me to write underage porn, I will block and report you. Everything else is pretty much free game. (I'd also like to mention that if you are planning on publicly sharing the writing I make for you, I'd rather not write about a real person in compromising situations. That'd be really creepy for them to possibly find someday, keep your kinks to yourself when it comes to real life people please.)

My cashapp is $beanthestring, please feel free to message me with requests!

[mickmundy]

a masterpost of some of my sniper headcanons! just some of my personal thoughts on his character and things he'd like, dislike, hobbies, etc!

while he prefers nonfiction, he also enjoys reading fiction and poetry. he used to read all of his mom's old books cover to cover and there would almost always be a book stashed somewhere outside that he could read between chores (or if/when he had a minute to himself).... thrashed paperback books shoved under hay bales or left to fade in the sun in the back of his old man's truckbed etc...

enjoys old movies and does Not shy away from romances, dramas, etc. he has memories of staying up late with his mom and watching them or listening to radio serials with her. they just Hit The Spot for him and while its maybe not something he'd Openly Admit, he's definitely not ashamed of it!

he loves the ocean. loves to surf, is an incredible swimmer. never really sought the ocean out but once he visited he was like Ohhh I Love This. is fascinated by marine life and learning about it! can hold his breath for a really long time too. sniping/shooting breathing control practice, y'know!

very knowledgeable about medicine. my love for medic/sniper aside, i think it only makes practical sense that he'd have a pretty extensive knowledge of herbs, remedies and medicines that he could easily craft/make/use on himself! he'd also know how to suture and dress wounds. he survived on his own for a long time before medic and his medigun came along, after all!

made money in his youth between jobs at being a pretty good taxidermist. big game hunting was an easy and fun hobby to do and his knowledge and appreciation for animals led him to being interested in the preservation of them. still enjoys doing it now too!

has a surprising(?) lack of knowledge about vehicles. knows where to shoot to sabotage them, but little about the upkeep of his own. knows he should just let engineer look at his van and fix her up, but his home is very personal to him so that is not something that comes easy!

doesn't like asking for help. was raised Not to ask for help, "because you're only as capable as you teach yourself to be". if you do help him, he'll thank you and genuinely mean it, but he won't go out of his way to ask you for assistance unless it's something minor or he's Extremely desperate.

would literally you rather see him naked than have an emotionally-compromising conversation with you. you'll see his whole tacklebox before he tells you how he's really feeling!

despite his stoic/silent nature, he is not very... emotionally mature. has trouble articulating his feelings. this does not mean he's devoid of them by any means! just has trouble getting them out there in a way that would make sense to others. lots of repression lots of internalized things he has to work out... hopefully someday!

enjoys classical, jazz, blues, and country (think Outside of the american genre lmao) music. plays the saxophone along to his cassettes when he has a minute! he has rhythm and is quite good!

he has a collection of kitschy mugs/cups and t-shirts that he'd picked up/somehow just Amassed in his travels... he uses the mugs for planters and other purposes besides drinking, mostly to house the herbs, vegetables and fruits he grows in his van!

installed a rack above the sink in his van that he hooks mugs/planters to and grows his own herbs/veggies/fruits. he does canning, keeps preserves and enjoys keeping his hands busy in a way that's practical and, you know, old habits die hard! he doesn't like to be wasteful.

loves being naked. hates underwear and clothes. if he's in his van he's Probably Naked. loves laying on top of his camper and Basking in the sun totally nude if he can get away with it. infinitely prefers the heat to the cold. he hates the colder bases, but you still won't hear him complain!

no matter how much he "tans", he still has Eternal tanlines from his glasses, glove, watch and hat. the right half of him is a bit more tanned than his left* because of the sun blaring on him when he drives. as someone who does a lot of driving this is just a given to me lol

*i reject the notion that his steering wheel would be on the left side lol. no way he got his van in america... i dont believe that for a second.. i dont Care what the canon model says... s;dlkfsd!

is a very clean person. being a survivalist doesn't allow for poor hygiene! getting dirty on the job is just the reality of it; he doesn't mind, but he'll never turn down a hot shower and a fresh change of clothes! wounds, clothes, and body should always be clean when possible.

likes clutter, hates messes. i don't think he's a hoarder but i enjoy the idea of him hanging on to Some stuff. tries to tell himself that everything he owns has Practical Purpose bc he was raised to believe its not worth keeping if it doesn't, but some things he just Enjoys keeping around!

one of the most flattering things you could do for him would be to make him a home-cooked meal. it isn't a gesture he would take lightly! he'd appreciate it a lot, no matter how good or bad it was. personal things like this go a long way with him!

absolutely Not a lightweight. enjoys having drinks after a long shift at work, but his days of getting sloppy are pretty much behind him. enjoys a couple of beers on a quiet night where he can hang out with his owl and decompress.

loves to grill and cook! baking not so much, but he's still decently savvy at it. used to bake with his mom so it's sometimes still a bit of an emotional sore spot. typically makes jams, jellies, sauces, marinades and whatnot with his preserves for meat he cooks.

greatly enjoys birdwatching and knows a myriad of animal calls. has an old worn beat to shit birdwatching/flora/fauna pocket book that he keeps in his back pocket when he goes Out so that he can mark off species he's seen!

adores horses. loves to ride them, take care of them. can stay on one no matter how much it bucks. also has a soft spot for sheep and chickens, too. i think as someone who lives off of the land he just has great appreciation for everything animals can do for people!

can understand quite a few languages from traveling, but doesn't know how to speak them fluently. he did like surprising spy with some... colorful french after letting the other mercenary think he was an illiterate bushman for a couple months, though!

[millennialgrandma]

October Wrap Up

Ok, but where in the ever-loving hell did October go? Between the continued house hunt (entering month 7 of this endeavor), work, and unexpectedly busy weekends this month, I feel like I didn't read as much as I wanted to - and I definitely didn't write as much as I wanted to.

Things I Wrote

Look at me, a non-writer, still sort of writing things. Somehow every single one of my weekends this month ended up filled with other commitments so I didn't really get much of any writing done. The untitled 8th-year dreomione remains at a sad 1,200 words, but I have managed to flesh out the timeline and finish mapping defining moments so...there's that.

I might also...be working...on another lil sumthin sumthin...based on the hilariously embarrassing events known forevermore as Naked Presentation Day™.

Things I Read

Would you look at that! Another month where I failed to pick up even one single traditional book. In my meager defense, I have no defense outside of reading some larger fanfics. The internet besties and I finally finished our group-therapyread of Broken. I also read a couple of the parts of the Wait and Hope universe. So between that and WIPs I'm following, I'll just say that a bitch has been emotionally compromised all month long.

This month the internet besties decided we should read some shorter fics together in addition to the longer fics we're doing. As a result, Smut with Friends™ was born. I kicked us off by reading fate and plans to the class and we've read a handful of the Delightful Descent chapters to each other as well. Additionally, we've started doing birthday reads! Missed Connections was for the incomparable queen TLW and the TwilightToMidnight works were read for my little ray of sunshine, Deni.

Fiction:

NonFiction:

Fanfiction:

Complete: (approx. 495k words)

Husband Size by @senlinyu (dramione, M, 4.2k)

Seven Minutes in Hell(ishly Frigid Water) by @echoesofmyfootsteps (dramione, E, 3.3k)

Wait and Hope by @mightbewriting (dramione, M, 94.9k)

Do You Feel It Too? by @viridianatnight (dramione, E, 3.7k)

Rule number one (Chpt. 7) by @veelantina (dramione, E, 2.8k)

Broken by @inadaze22 (dramione, E, 297k)

Sight and Seeing by @mightbewriting (theo/blaise, M, 34k)

Reread: fate and plans by @senlinyu; embedded NSFW art by @elithien (dramione, E, 5.5k)

Arctic Wolf by @sodamnradd (dramione, M, 4.4k)

Missed Connections by @unseenlibrarian (dramione, T, 8k)

A Friendly Wager by @monsterleadmehome; embedded NSFW by @adra-art (dramione, E, 5.7k)

Harry Potter and The Grey Sweatpants Agenda by @im-a-monster-fucking-princess (hansy, E, 3.3k)

Blast from the Past reread: Lock The Door by TwilightToMidnight (dramione, M, 4k)

Blast from the Past reread: Veela And The Perils Of Losing Control by TwilightToMidnight (dramione, M, 5k)

Strangers by @roseharpermaxwell (dramione, M, 3k)

A Delightful Descent into Depravity by @heyjude19-writing, @mightbewriting, and @niffizzle (various pairings, E, 16k)

WIPs: (approx. 95.1k words)

Measure of a Man by @inadaze22 - Chapters 31-33 (dramione, E, 40k)

for the best by @hawthornewhisperer - Chapters 3-7 (dramione, M, 15.5k)

A Season For Setting Fires by @mightbewriting - Chapter 12 (dramione, E, 2.8k)

Let the Dark In by @senlinyuwrites - Chapters 6 & 7 (dramione, M, 10.4k)

Good by @lovesbitca8 - Chapters 1-4 (dramione, E, 26.4k) - only Chpt. 4 is new, but let's be real, who could read the update without rereading the prior chapters? Not me, that's for fucking sure.

Things I'm Currently Reading (Heading into November)

Well, here I am again, reading too many things. Obviously I have not started any of the traditional books I mentioned in August. My friend sent me Eowyn Ivey's The Snow Child which sounds like a lovely book to curl up with in November. The internet besties and I are having too much fun reading to each other, so now that we're done with Broken we've picked up Ina's Anchors in a Storm for group read (we're also reading for the best and Let the Dark In together, but those are captured above under WIPs). I'm continuing to read The Disappearances of Draco Malfoy as it is recorded. Lady Vengeance is read at the whims of @they-call-me-megs. I am 7 chapters in to Beginning and End and I haven't had a chance to pick it back up for a few weeks, which is absolutely killing me. And...I think that's it? Good god, it better be it.

[ms-m-astrologer]

Transiting Venus through Cancer

Since I have the time, I thought I'd do a separate post on Venus' entry into Cancer. (It also has been the nonfiction equivalent of a merciless plot bunny.) I'm going to look at her main "areas," then conclude with some words about kicking the transit up a notch.

The Arts

Cancer is a very traditional and sentimental sign, therefore for the next 25 days we can expect a greater appreciation for traditional art forms. In the US, that might be Norman Rockwell paintings (scoff not, check out 1964's "The Problem We All Live With"), Motown songs, older movies - anything that scratches the nostalgia itch, and makes us feel good. Some people may have the opportunity to invest in art (but see "Money" below). If you make art, this is more of an "incubation" stage in the creative process. You'll have some wondrously imaginative ideas to play with, if you're quiet long enough to get them.

Beauty

Well, bosoms. Cancer rules the chest. This may be the time you finally toss out that ratty old brassiere for something a little prettier. Again, we're going to be more conservative under this transit, perhaps checking out some styles from bygone days. (Ms M loves the 1940s, herself, and wishes she had the figure for the 1910s.) We'll want to beautify our homes, with an eye to comfort as well - think a nice snugly crocheted afghan, or some flowers from the garden.

Money

Oh, my goodness, can this sign penny-pinch. Clutching and grasping the coins with both claws, Cancer can out-miser Capricorn when motivated. If we spend money at all, it's going to be on food, security, and the home. And maybe our moms. This is a good time to save, especially since Venus moving through Leo will see us spending more on entertainment.

Relationships

In Cancer, Venus has a tendency to marry the partner's family and not just the partner. There's the need for tribal approval of the chosen one. We want to settle down and cohabit with the partner - Cancer is also a very fertile sign, so if you don't want kids right now (or ever) you need to take precautions. Another possibility with Venus in Cancer is the chance to mend familial relationships. Show some TLC to your tribe.

Kicking it up a notch

Most of the time, Venus transits are limited to having pleasant or unpleasant days. She's more of a "trigger" for what the outer planets are up to. So let's look at those days when she's mixing it up with Saturn etc.:

Between June 12-15, Venus will sextile both Ceres and Uranus in Taurus, but also square Chiron/Aries and inconjunct Saturn Rx/Aquarius.

Since Venus rules Taurus, no doubt these days will amp up the "Venus" parts of Taurus. Given Ceres' association with Cancer, we can probably think of it as a mutual reception, too. This could be a fantastic opportunity for grounding and centering work. It won't be easy, though. The square to Chiron shows some wounds that need to be healed, while the inconjunct from Saturn may indicate some pressure from "the greater good" to deny yourself. We are all slowly coming to the realization that everyone deserves a bare minimum of food and shelter - guaranteed; all you have to do to earn it is wake up in the morning. If you have important placements between 12-15 degrees of any sign (like Ms M's Ascendant at 13+ degrees Scorpio) you'll feel this one particularly strongly.

Between June 20-24, Venus will be trine Pallas Athene and Neptune in Pisces (both of whom are about to station retrograde) - but also opposite Pluto Rx/Capricorn and square Eris/Aries.

Again we have the good mixed in with the bad. And that is one difficult "bad," essentially a cardinal t-square involving Venus opposite Pluto, with Eris square both of them. This isn't a new situation; something comes up which we've failed to deal with in the past. Ms M immediately thinks of the so called "Q Anon" dolts in the US, who continually threaten violent overthrow - which is also known as treason - and who seem to get a free pass. In our personal lives, this can manifest as fighting between partners and/or family members, over some issue(s) where compromise seems impossible. The trine to Neptune offers us some guidance, perhaps by getting in touch with the Divine Feminine - while the trine to Pallas Athene can help with diplomacy (and possibly making some great Art out of the conflict). Placements between 23-27 degrees will get the brunt of the pressure here.

Finally - any transit of Venus is based on your natal Venus position.

Because of natal Venus...

We take action with transiting Venus...

Resulting in effects to the houses ruled by Venus in our natal chart (the ones with Taurus or Libra on the cusp)

My Venus/Taurus/6th House, in other words, is the basis for whatever happens to me during Venus transits - right now, that's through Cancer, and my 8th and 9th Houses - with the effects of that transit coming to my 7th House (Taurus cusp) and 12th House (Libra cusp).

[clumsyclifford]

I think u said that you’d still like some more prompts, so #89 “I noticed” with either muke or malum pls ♥️

well i asked pairing bot and it said muke, so there you go. thank you @allsassnoclass for helping me Establish The Setting of this fic. by which i mean Providing The Setting For Me. a gift to us all, that hazel

also as resident walking advertisement for @calumsclifford‘s fics i am contractually obliged to redirect you to her bookstore fic which is an absolute delight

read on ao3

-

Nothing hits quite like the atmosphere of a bookstore.

Shelves of books, racks of vinyls, displays advertising “Staff Picks” — the allure of the local bookstore will never not work magic on Luke. Even the pop music trickling down from the built-in ceiling speakers is charming, rather than annoying.

“Okay, go find your book,” Ashton says. “I’m gonna go in the nonfiction section if you need me.”

“Sure thing, old man,” Luke says. 

Ashton scoffs. “I like nonfiction. If that makes me an old man, then so be it.”

“Hey, I’m not judging.”

“You are judging so hard, and I don’t even care. I’m going to go browse autobiographies and I’m going to fucking like it.” With this final word, Ashton marches in the direction of the nonfiction books. Luke watches him, smirking, until he vanishes into the shelves, and then he makes for the young adult section on the other side of the shop. If this book is going to be anywhere, it’ll be there.

As always, he’s immediately drawn off-course.

The staff picks catch his eye. Normally Luke breezes past them, but this time he spies a cover he actually recognises: Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, a book he’d read only a few months ago. As his gaze shifts lower, it catches on the note underneath the book, identifying the name of the staff member whose recommendation he’s enjoying: Michael. Next to his name is a short note about his choice. Luke steps closer to read it.

Philosophy and boys in love. And a general distaste for wearing shoes. What else do you need?

Luke smiles and reaches for the book. He’s already read it and he has a copy at home; he’s not going to buy the copy, but it’s nice to hold it in his hands anyway, flip through the pages and feel the air shift as he does.

“Good choice,” says an unfamiliar voice. Luke lifts his head and almost drops the book.

Woah. Cute boy alert. Extremely cute boy red alert. The levels of cute on this boy are enough to make Luke want to call Ashton over for backup. He’s terrible with cute boys, especially cute boys that also look really cool like this one, with bright red hair and a pierced eyebrow and a Nirvana t-shirt. Add that to the fact that he evidently has some degree of good taste in literature, considering he’s just complimented Luke’s selection, and Luke is flailing out of his depth.

In the deeply awkward pause before Luke remembers he’s supposed to say something to Cute Boy, his gaze travels to the nametag pinned to Cute Boy’s shirt. MICHAEL, it announces in block letters, and Luke puts two and two together.

“Oh, you too,” Luke says, which is a surprisingly coherent thing to say. All things considered it could have gone a lot worse. Which it then proceeds to do. “You’re the Michael who picked this? I guess? You — your nametag says Michael, so— I was just assuming. Which I know you’re not supposed to do because it makes an ass out of you and me, but since you said it was a good choice…”

Michael slowly smiles. “Yeah, I’m the Michael. You are?”

An easy question. Thank fuck. “Luke. I’m Luke.”

Michael hums and nods at the book. “Have you read it?”

Luke tries to take a discreet deep breath. “Yeah, I did. A few months ago. I might be due for a reread.”

“Well, it’s one of my favourites,” Michael comments. “So I’ll always be on the side of an Ari and Dante reread.”

“Yeah,” Luke says, nodding like this makes perfect sense. It does, but God, he doesn’t have to nod like a crazy person. “Yeah. Good point.” Then, directly contradicting this concurrence, he sets the book back down on the display. “I’ve got this at home, though. I’m actually here for a different book.”

“Oh, perfect,” says Michael, straightening up. “Then I can do my real job. What can I help you find?”

Luke does not need help finding this book, but he would be a complete idiot to refuse the help of Cute Bookstore Employee Michael. “Uh, The Cursed Child. I know it came out a while ago but I just haven’t had the chance to get it and I really wanted to get it from a bookstore, rather than online, you know?”

Michael brightens. “Oh, I can definitely find that for you. Follow.” He gestures, and Luke falls into step with him as they make for the young adult shelves, completing Luke’s aborted mission from earlier. “You want my opinion on the book, or you want it to remain a complete mystery?”

“You’ve read it? Are you a Harry Potter fan?” Luke asks, far too eagerly. Sheepish, he bites his lip, sneaking a glance at Michael to see him smile. “Uh, sorry. I’m— I really like Harry Potter, like, a lot.”

“I noticed,” Michael says, nodding at Luke, who glances down at himself. 

“Oh,” he says, chuckling at his Deathly Hallows shirt. “I honestly didn’t do that on purpose. I wasn’t thinking about it at all.”

“Your subconscious enabling your love of Harry Potter, clearly,” Michael says. “Yeah, I like it. Not my favourite series, but it’s good. I mostly only read Cursed Child because I was bored, but—” He breaks off. “Sorry. Won’t spoil it.”

Luke grapples with himself. On the one hand, he is the most averse to spoilers of anyone he’s ever met. If it’s a book he’s looking forward to reading, he will ban all family and friends from even discussing it in his presence, lest their opinions on it taint his before he’s able to read it and draw his own conclusions. And this isn’t just any book; it’s Cursed Child, the long-awaited spin-off, the first official continuation of the Harry Potter ‘verse in years. No, he doesn’t want Michael’s opinion on it. He doesn’t want anyone’s opinions. He hasn’t even read the summary for the book on Goodreads. The more blind Luke goes into this, the better.

On the other hand, though.

Well, on the other hand, Michael is a cute boy who’s offering to talk to Luke about a book.

As a compromise, Luke says, “Honestly, I would really like to know your thoughts, but not until I’ve finished reading it.”

Michael glances over at him as they slow to a stop in front of one of the shelves. There’s a smile playing at his lips, a slight raise to his eyebrows, like he’s pleasantly surprised by something Luke’s done. What that thing might be, Luke has no idea. “Okay,” says Michael. “That’s fair. How about I give you my number, and when you finish reading it you can call or text and we can discuss it then?”

Luke blinks. Then blinks again. Is Michael flirting with him? He must be, but at the same time there’s absolutely no way.

And — wait. Does Michael think Luke was flirting with him? Was Luke? Not intentionally, but that’s only because he doesn’t know how to flirt and he’s fucking awful at it. Somehow, he’s managed to unintentionally flirt his way into getting Michael’s number.

Woah. Bookstores really are magical.

“Yeah, yes, that sounds great,” Luke says, clumsily digging out his phone. He unlocks it and passes it to Michael, who has an amused look on his face. “We could, um…get coffee or something?”

“Works for me,” Michael says. While he enters his number into Luke’s phone, Luke turns to the shelf. His attention immediately snags on his target: a block of bright yellow covers. Luke tugs at one, freeing it from its siblings, and brushes a reverent hand over the brand new dust jacket. 

“I mean, say what you will, but it sure is a pretty fucking book,” he says, kind of to himself.

Michael chuckles. “Yeah. The second-prettiest thing in this bookstore, maybe.”

For the second time, Luke almost drops the book in his hands. Instead he tightens his grip on it, looks up at Michael, and steels all his courage to say, “First being you, right?”

The smile on Michael’s face is worth the risk of embarrassment, Luke quickly realises. And this, he senses, had clearly been the right thing to say. Michael hands Luke’s phone back to him an says, “I’m going to let you have the last word, because I think you’re cute and that was unexpectedly smooth. If you need me, I’ll be around, probably doing work that will be less important than anything you will have to say to me.”

Luke feels a blush colour his cheeks, but if Michael notices he doesn’t say anything. With a wave and what looks like a halfway bow, he backs out of the aisle, and Luke watches him until he veers off and disappears from view.

Everything from entering this bookstore onward feels like a fever dream. Luke glances down at his phone screen, and when he sees how Michael’s entered his name — Michael (The Real Cursed Child) — the giggle of disbelief building in his throat quickly turns to a laugh. If it is a fever dream, Luke hopes it never, ever ends.

[randomnumbers751650]

Long, unedited text in which I rant about comparative mythology, Joseph Campbell and his monomyth,

Back in 2012 I wanted to improve my fiction writing (and writing in general, because in spite of nuances, themes and audience, writing a fiction and a nonfiction piece shouldn’t be that different) and thus I picked a few writing manuals. Many of them cited the Hero’s Journey, and how important it became for writers – after all Star Wars used and it worked. I believe most of the people reading this like Star Wars, or at least has neutral feelings about it, but one thing that cannot be denied is that became a juggernaut of popular culture.

So I bought a copy of the Portuguese translation of The Hero of a Thousand Faces and I fell in love with the style. Campbell had a great way with words and the translation was top notch. For those unaware, The Hero of a Thousand Faces proposes that there is a universal pattern in humanity’s mythologies that involves a person (usually a man) that went out into a journey far away from his home, faced many obstacles, both external and internal, and returned triumphant with a prize, the Grail or the Elixir of Life, back to his home. Campbell’s strength is that he managed to systematize so many different sources into a single cohesive narrative.

At the time I was impressed and decided to study more and write in an interdisciplinary research with economics – by writing an article on how the entrepreneur replaces the mythical hero in today’s capitalism. I had to stop the project in order to focus on more urgent matters (my thesis), but now that I finished I can finally return to this pet project of mine.

If you might have seen previous posts, I ended up having a dismal view of economics. It’s a morally and spiritually failed “science” (I have in my drafts a post on arts and I’m going to rant another day about it). Reading all these books on comparative mythology is so fun because it allows me for a moment to forget I have a degree in economics.

Until I started to realize there was something wrong.

My research had indicated that Campbell and others (such as Mircea Eliade and Carl Gust Jung, who had been on of Campbell’s main influences) weren’t very well respected in academia. At first I thought “fine”, because I’m used to interact with economists who can be considered “heterodox” and I have academic literature that I could use to make my point, besides the fact my colleagues were interested in what I was doing.

The problem is that this massive narrative of the Hero’s Journey/monomyth is an attempt to generalize pretty wide categories, like mythology, into one single model of explanation, it worked because it became a prescription, giving the writer a tool to create a story in a factory-like pace. It has checkboxes that can be filled, professional writers have made it widely available.

But I started to realize his entire understanding of mythology is problematic. First the basics: Campbell ignores when myths don’t fit his scheme. This is fruit of his Jungian influences, who claim that humanity has a collective unconsciousness, that manifest through masks and archetypes. This is the essence of the Persona games (and to a smaller extent of the Fate games) – “I am the Shadow the true self”. So any deviation from the monomyth can be justified by being a faulty translation of the collective unconsciousness.

This is the kind of thing that Karl Popper warned about, when he proposed the “falseability” hypothesis, to demarcate scientific knowledge. The collective unconsciousness isn’t a scientific proposition because it can be falsified. It cannot be observed and it cannot be refuted, because someone who subscribe to this doctrine will always have an explanation to explain why it wasn’t observed. In spite of falseability isn’t favored by philosophers of science anymore, it remains an important piece of the history of philosophy and he aimed his attack on psychoanalysis of Freud and Jung – and, while they helped psychology in the beginning, they’re like what Pythagoras is to math. They were both surpassed by modern science and they are studied more as pieces of history than serious theorists.

But this isn’t the worst. All the three main authors on myths were quite conservatives in the sense of almost being fascists – sometimes dropping the ‘almost’. Some members of the alt-right even look up to them as some sort of “academic’ justification. Not to mention anti-Semitic. Jung had disagreement with Freud and Freud noticed his anti-Semitism. Eliade was a proud supporter of the Iron Guard, a Romanian fascist organization that organized pogroms and wanted to topple the Romanian government. Later Eliade became an ambassador at Salazar’s Fascist Portugal, writing it was a government guided by the love of God. Campbell, with his hero worship, was dangerously close to the ur-fascism described by Umberto Eco (please read here, you won’t regret https://www.pegc.us/archive/Articles/eco_ur-fascism.pdf).

“If you browse in the shelves that, in American bookstores, are labeled as New Age, you can find there even Saint Augustine who, as far as I know, was not a fascist. But combining Saint Augustine and Stonehenge – that is a symptom of Ur-Fascism.”

Campbell did that a lot. He considered the Bible gospels and Gnostic gospels to be on the same level. Any serious student, that is not operating under New Age beliefs and other frivolous theories like the one that says Jesus went to India, will know there’s a difference between them (even Eliade was sure to stress the difference).

But Campbell cared nothing for it. He disliked the “semitic” religions for corrupting the mythic imagination (which is the source of his anti-Semitism), especially Judaism. When I showed him describing the Japanese tea ceremony to a friend who’s minoring in Japanese studies, she wrote “I’m impressed, he’s somehow managed to out-purple prose the original Japanese”. So, it’s also full of orientalism, treating the East as the mystical Other, something for “daring” Westerners to discover and distillate.

What disturbed…no, “disturbed” isn’t the word that I need in the moment, but what made me feel uncomfortable is that, in spite of all his talk of spirituality, the impression I had of Power of Myth is that I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more materialist than him. Not even Karl Marx, founder of the Historical Materialism, was as materialist as Campbell.

At one point in the book, he was asked if he believed in anything and he gave a dismissive reply and said “I want to get experiences.” A man who studied all the myths of the world available, apparently didn’t believe in anything. Is that what spiritual maturity is? A continuous flux of experiences? Being taken by some sort of shamanistic wind like a floating plastic bag?

In nowhere in the interview he talked about virtues. In rebellion with his Catholic childhood, he said that we should go to the confessionary and say “God, I’ve been such a good boy”. Any cursory reading of the Gospel would say otherwise. Wasn’t this exactly Pharisee’s prayer in Luke 18:9-14? While the wasn’t the publican, who went with humility and asked for forgiveness, the one who walked out with an experience? And not only in Christianity, since in Tibetan Buddhism, a tulpa is something you have to kill, not foster like an imaginary friend like in some internet circles, contamined with this obsession with experiences.

The way I came to see Joseph Campbell as a man who was so stuck in his own world that nothing could move him out of it. All he wanted to do was this big experience, but in the end it’s as wide as the ocean, but shallow as a puddle. Even when Campbell speaks about having a “cosmic consciousness”, all that New Age jargon, claiming it’s about people discovering they’re not the center of the universe, it’s still so…self-servicing. It addresses a crowd so obsessed with experiences, but wants nothing to do with anything that requires compromise. He quotes the Hindu concept of maya, that life is an illusion, but I wonder how right he is about it.

I want to share this critique, by a researcher in comic studies: “We do not remember The Night Gwen Stacy Died because Gwen’s death reminds us of our own mortality, ‘the destiny of Everyman’, but because the story exposes the fragility of Spider-Man reader’s fantasies. Even icons can die.”

The exposition of the fragility of myths, especially the Hero’s Journey, never happens in Campbell’s work. It never talks about the potential of myths hindering entire societies, causing strife and causing people who can’t fit to become outcasts. Not even the cruel ones, like the Aztec death cult is treated as sublime, ignoring the fact that the Aztec neighbors helped to Spanish because they had enough of the Aztec myth.

I have changed my article. While I will still write on the hero entrepreneur, I’ll take a more critical view. The focus of the entrepreneur as an individual has many issues, because it ignores the role of public investment (necessary for high risk enterprises, like going to the moon or creating touch screens) and it treats with contempt the worked wage. Cambpell also treated with contempt the “masses”, who cannot be “heroes”. The theory on the entrepreneur is the same, treating the entrepreneur as a hero and the waged workers as lowlifes who have nothing to do, but to work, obey and be paid – to the point it feels like some economists treat strikes as crimes worse than murder. Not only that, but they can exploit the worker (see a book named “Do what you love and other lies about success and happiness”, it could be replaced with “Follow your bliss…”).

Campbell wrote in a time that there was no Wikipedia. So his book was the introduction of myths to a lot of people. It helped it was well-written. He considering his approach apolitical, but it’s clear that’s it’s not exactly like that (though this is a reason why Jordan Peterson failed to become the next Campbell, since he’s also a Jungian scholar, but he tried to become a conservative guru and this was his downfall). And, nowadays, Campbell is still inevitable in the circles that his themes matter, unlike Freud and Jung. Read it, but be aware of its problems, because it has already influenced what you consume.

[criticalrolo]

19, 27, and 37 for iris? :0

19. Hobbies

Iris makes her own tea blends! She looks after an herb garden at home and over the years has spent time experimenting with what she likes the best and growing her own herbs. She grows things like peppermint, fennel, coriander, rosehip, chamomile, and lavender. 

She also is a big reader, although she mainly focuses on nonfiction books. She’s very interested in the theory behind why magic works and how to manipulate magic to work for himself, so she does her own research in her free time since she finds it enjoyable. 

She also plays the french horn and the piano. The french horn was a compromise wth her mother and grandmother, who wanted her to play the flute while she wanted to learn euphonium. French horn felt like a middle ground as long as she kept up with the piano. 

27. What’s their family like? Who’s in it? What’s their relationship with them?

Lorai Covenridge (Mother): Lorai is her closest relative for sure. They’ve been through a lot together, so they both feel protective over the other. However, there’s been a growing distance between them ever since Lorai married Iris’s stepfather and started buckling a bit under the pressure from her extended family to maintain Proper Appearances. Iris feels like she needs to succeed and appear Fine all the time to make her mother feel like she hasn’t failed in the eyes of her own family, but she also can sense that there is so much unsaid between the two of them. Iris wishes she could speak more freely with Lorai without feeling like she’ll break her about things like Her Father, how She Feels, and how Lorai has been drinking more frequently as Iris gets older. 

Reuben Cahlir (Father): (redacted) 

Iris doesn’t want anything to do with him, but also wants to know what the fuck he’s up to nowadays. Hasn’t heard from him since she was 12. 

Noren O’Cain (Step Father): Iris thinks he is truly the most bland man she’s ever met. He’s nice enough, sure, but there’s enough that they’ve never spoken about that Iris thinks of him more as Some Guy Who Lives In My House 

Kaitir Covenridge (Aunt) and Marrielle Covenridge (Grandmother): Iris lives her life to impress these people. Kaitir is a Paladin who went to Aelwynn Academy and Marrielle is an influential socialite who has had her fingers in politics, the fashion industry, etc. for decades. After her mother caught so much flack for marrying Reuben, seeing how that turned out, and then the judgmental worry when she married another human man, Iris’s life revolves pretty firmly around keeping herself in the Convenridge’s good graces.

37. Do they have any phobias?

Iris is scared of fire, specifically getting caught in one. She also gets uneasy around Authority Figures and feels the need to Impress in pretty much every way possible. 

[walriding]

–   CHARACTER STUDY.

LAYER 001 :    THE OUTSIDE.

NAME  :        Miles Luis Upshur Ramírez

EYE   COLOUR  :     dark brown

HAIR   STYLE   /   COLOUR  :      thick and curly, usually carefully styled and maintained. black -- dyed more often than not to cover somewhat premature graying. 

HEIGHT  :      5′9″

CLOTHING   STYLE  :    casual / functional for the most part.

BEST   PHYSICAL   FEATURE  :      his smile

LAYER 002 :    THE  INSIDE.

FEARS  :      pre-mount massive: heights, failure in terms of his stories fading into obscurity without anyone caring. post-mount massive: the former + the dark, inescapable spaces, losing control and thereby losing himself, among other general anxieties and paranoias

GUILTY   PLEASURE  :     he usually doesn’t feel guilt over anything that he likes. things like sweets and bubble baths and trendy Starbucks drinks are enjoyed without embarrassment.

BIGGEST   PET   PEEVE  :      willful ignorance in others, especially where injustice is considered. he doesn’t have much tolerance for people who stick their heads in the sand and choose to ignore the problems in the world.

AMBITIONS   FOR   THE   FUTURE  :     take down Murkoff at all costs

LAYER 003 :   THOUGHTS.

FIRST   THOUGHTS   WAKING   UP  :     on the rare nights where he actually sleeps, he’s probably waking up to a bout of sleep paralysis or coming out of a horrific nightmare -- in which case pure panic is the first thing on his mind. otherwise he starts his morning thinking about what he’s going to do for the day -- whether it’s investigating or traveling for the next investigation.

WHAT   THEY   THINK   ABOUT   MOST  :      work, though that’s something of a loose term. he thinks about what his next moves will be in order to work towards his goals, whether that’s something Murkoff related or tied to another story or project.

WHAT   THEY   THINK   ABOUT   BEFORE   BED  :      he doesn’t often sleep in an attempt to stave off the aforementioned nightmares -- plus he doesn’t really need it. but late at night his mind is more apt to wandering to darker places, such as the events of his past and self-criticism for the present.

WHAT   THEY   THINK   THEIR   BEST   QUALITY   IS  :     his moral compass and the fact that he’s unwilling to compromise what he feels to be right.

LAYER 004 :    WHAT’S BETTER ?

SINGLE   OR   GROUP   DATES  :      single. easier to get to know someone that way.

TO   BE   LOVED   OR   RESPECTED  :    respected

BEAUTY   OR   BRAINS  :      brains

DOGS   OR   CATS  :      he says dogs but gets along better with cats, realistically

LAYER 005 :    DO THEY…

LIE  :      only about personal matters

BELIEVE   IN   THEMSELVES  :     he doesn’t know anymore, but tells himself that he does. because if he doesn’t believe in himself at least a little bit, what does he really have left?

BELIEVE   IN   LOVE  :      as a concept, sure -- just not as something that could apply to him in his current state.

WANT   SOMEONE  :      in a perfect world, yes. but in reality, no. well -- deep down he does want someone, even a friend to share some part of his life with, but he’s accepted that he’s unlikely to get that being the way that he is, between the constant moving and Murkoff breathing down his neck and the Walrider. so he’d rather just pretend like he’s fine on his own.

LAYER 006 :    HAVE THEY EVER…

BEEN   ON   STAGE  :      other than for graduation ceremonies, no. he often jokes that he’s a journalist rather than an on-screen reporter for a reason. he suffers no anxiety over public speaking but wouldn’t have the poker face for live interviews and the like.

DONE   DRUGS  :      yes, though nothing that ‘hard.’ he smoked a fair amount of pot in college and might have tried other things at parties here and there but never made habits of them. unless you count standard smoking as drug usage -- a bad habit he hasn’t been able to kick yet.

CHANGED   WHO   THEY   WERE   TO   FIT   IN  :    no. for better or for worse, Miles is always unapologetically himself. of course, he might hide the Walrider thing around most people, but he doesn’t think that counts.

LAYER 007 :    FAVOURITES.

FAVOURITE   COLOURS  :      red, black, earthy browns, gold

FAVOURITE   ANIMAL  :      dogs -- and also cats. deep down he’s a sucker for domesticity and companionship. foxes are cool too, though.

FAVOURITE   BOOK  :      Ten Days in a Mad-House by Nellie Bly. it was one of the things he read early in his college career as part of a journalism course that shaped the kind of reporter he became -- or at least wanted to be. he gravitates more towards nonfiction works than fiction in terms of books and movies.

FAVOURITE   GAME  :      bejeweled or solitaire or neko atsume -- mindless app games, basically. he isn’t a gamer by any means.

LAYER 008 :    AGE.

DAY   THEIR   NEXT   BIRTHDAY   WILL   BE  :     april 13th

HOW   OLD   WILL   THEY   BE  :      by realtime counts he just turned 38 a few weeks ago, so he’ll be 39 next year

LAYER 010 :    FINISH THE SENTENCE.

I LOVE  :      freedom

I FEEL  :      burdened

I HIDE  :      from myself

I MISS  :      better days

I WISH  :      for a good ending

TAGGED BY :   @finalvlog​ TAGGING : @mslangermann, @iscariotsdeputy, @tenebrescxnce, @mauscleum, steal it

[argumentativeessaystudylabnet114]

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5 Steps To Becoming A Professional Writer Successful self-published authors are usually prolific, write inside industrial genres and are at home utilizing social media to market their books. If you need concepts on how to be a successful self-printed writer, check out what worldwide bestseller Adam Croft had to say in an unique interview. The Guardian’s Alison Flood reported on a publishing business deeply divided. So should you're dreaming of making a residing from writing books, notice that you simply completely can do it. Before you are concerned about tips on how to write a nonfiction book that can fund your retirement, sit down and create a long-range imaginative and prescient for a way you'll deepen relationships along with your readers. People who downloaded the free book became conscious of my consulting companies and training packages and finally brought in revenues of over 1 / 4 of 1,000,000 dollars. Does this imply you must surrender your dream of being a profitable creator? Even if your royalty have been only $1 per guide, should you sold 1 million books, then you'd become a millionaire. A typical book writer barely makes greater than minimal wage. You receive an advance and 10% royalties on internet profit from each book. One thing I want to stress is that anybody who's prepared to place in the writing time can earn money writing romance novels. And that is yet one more reason I like writing romance, by the way in which. Once a book is written, as new shops open up, you just publish there and start earning. And you do know what occurred with that e-book, proper? Yeah it’s offered tens of millions of copies and has been made into a major movement picture. Of course not, as a result of you can also make a living writing books--even when you don't promote a single copy. I'm not saying you possibly can't make money from writing books. The likes of John Grisham, Stephen King, and JK Rowling show you possibly can. They don’t pursue their passion to put in writing, and instead spend life their life at a day job they absolutely hate. There are vast quantities of courses, lessons and seminars on writing. Heck, there are 90,000 search results for writing books on Amazon. As an indie creator, you'll be able to self-publish your book on Amazon and when you’re commercially minded and advertising-savvy, there’s an excellent likelihood of producing revenue from book gross sales. Don't be fooled by the outline at this site that promises high-quality paper, good prices, and assembly deadlines. Quite the alternative, students get dangerous high quality papers that often aren't delivered on time. A private assertion must be a short and snappy description, ranging from 50 to 150 phrases. Remember, this isn’t a private essay or a canopy letter. I learn romance novels and research the way to improve my writing skill on this niche on a regular basis. With 30 million dedicated readers, it’s hard not to achieve success on this genre — if you publish frequently, even when you're not the best author to be completely trustworthy. If I had give up at any point along the way, I’d be just another writer that by no means made it. I spent years writing tons of drafts, studying dozens of books, and learning lots of of films. And if there isn’t one, it’s easy to begin one and make new associates. If you request for revision with a 3-hour deadline, for instance, don’t even expect to get compensated as a result of it’s prone to get declined. Academized explains that this is because the quality of the paper could also be compromised because of the small timeframe. If your guide retails at $25 per copy, you would wish to sell at least four,000 copies to break even on a $5,000 advance. Mack Collier, creator of Think Like a Rock Star, estimates that he earned $15.sixty three/hour for writing his guide, working 25 hours per week over a period of 9 months. Another difficult factor is their coverage regarding deadlines. You can’t just get up one morning and say “I’m gonna be a author! ” after which expect the first thing you churn out to go down in history as one of the all-time greats. This perception stops lots of people proper at square one.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

#1yrago America, Compromised: Lawrence Lessig explains corruption in words small enough for the Supreme Court to understand

Lawrence Lessig was once best-known as the special master in the Microsoft Antitrust Case, then he was best known as the co-founder of Creative Commons, then as a fire-breathing corruption fighter: in America, Compromised, a long essay (or short nonfiction book), Lessig proposes as lucid and devastating a theory of corruption as you'll ever find, a theory whose explanatory power makes today's terrifying news cycle make sense -- and a theory that demands action.

For decades, America has been undoing the great work of history's anti-corruption movements, allowing the wealthy to intervene directly in politics, creating political outcomes that increase their wealth -- lather, rinse repeat.

The courts and their ideological backers -- the Chicago School economists who used shitty math to prove that greed is good and that corruption consists solely of direct quid-pro-quo bribery -- have served as enablers and even cheerleaders for this new Gilded Age, celebrating anonymous political cash contributions as a form of speech protected under the First Amendment and arguing that the Framers of the Constitution would have agreed wholeheartedly with them.

Lessig walks a fine line between academic and activist as he rebuts this argument, drawing on the research produced by the fellows at the Edmond J. Safra Center for Ethics, an interdisciplinary corruption-study center he founded at Harvard and then turning to the rhetoric that made him such an inspirational figure in the Free Culture movement.

Lessig lays out the historic case for the Framers' understanding of corruption as a systemic phenomenon, in which the structure of institutions demand that even the best, most moral people sacrifice their principles to thrive (or just survive) -- a conception at long odds with the Chicago School orthodoxy and the think tanks and ruling elites that back it.

From this historic perspective, Lessig painstakingly builds up an argument about how inequality has fueled corruption, which has fueled inequality -- and how the bankrupt ideology of the Chicago School corrupted every institution, forcing each of us to make one tiny compromise after another, until we arrive at the present moment.

Lessig's use of case-studies alternated with broad statistical and political analysis flips back and forth from the microcosmic to the macrocosmic, from individuals and institutions to the whole society and back again, in a story that is as compelling as it is infuriating.

Lessig is well-known for having formulated the "four forces" theory of social change: that the world is moved by markets (what is profitable), norms (what is considered ethical), code (what is technically possible) and laws (what is legal). In his final section, he presents a set of prescriptions touching on all four factors, from the discussions we need to have with one another about these issues (norms) to the tools that would help us hold the powerful to account (code) to the policies that would reverse the damage (laws) to the kinds of businesses and nonprofits that could help us make a better world (markets). In a moment when the monopolism of Big Tech is replicating itself in every sector from energy to aviation to prisons to finance, these prescriptions are both reasonable and compelling.

This is a short book, but it's full of very big ideas. Lessig's dual identities of "scholar" and "activist" have never been so perfectly merged.

America, Compromised [Lawrence Lessig/University of Chicago]

(Image: Joi Ito, CC-BY)

https://boingboing.net/2018/10/22/structural-corruption.html