#ray is my trollop

[respectthepetty]

Just wanna say as SE asian queer man i absolutely LOVE your commentaries for OF, esp. about how Ray is THE SLUT. Can't agree more.

Gracias for the appreciation, Anon! I'm glad you like the brand of chaos I'm delivering daily in my little corner of this universe, but I know I'm wildin' in these tags most of the times.

Honestly, I'm a mess.

Which is why Ray is my fighter trollop.

He is my type of mess.

It makes sense why Sand would continue to drop his guard around Ray because everything about Ray is appealing.

Ray is an aesthetic. Even when he is being a hot ass mess, he is always leaning hard into the "hot ass" portion of the mess.

Because even when he dismissed Sand from his car, he bit his lip and looked down. My man ain't stupid. He knew what he was giving up.

But he is very aware that he can get it right back because he is hot.

All these boys are attractive, but thankfully Khaotung is Ray, and he has a way of using his body that is very enticing.

We see it when he acts drunk, but even when he is just chilling, he is serving a look.

So Khaotung playing Ray is pleasurable since everything about Ray is visually alluring (like that comfy ass looking jacket).

I have a large collection of vinyl records and liquor, so the set designers showing us stacks of books mingled in with bowling pins, random statues, crates of records, glassware, and other objects is gratifying to me because most of the time, the sets are hotel rooms, and they feel like hotel rooms, yet Ray's place and his body language demonstrate that this space is lived in.

But even when Ray wakes up in Sand's apartment, the slight tilt adds to Ray's body language that he is still tipsy (and I won't move past the angle only showing us "POOR" from the shirt).

Because my favorite thing about Ray is he feels real. Not just as a slut character, but as a character with no ulterior motives.

When he is not pleased, he doesn't try to hide it.

If he doesn't like something, his face will tell on him.

So when he likes something, it's obvious.

Even if he is the only one happy about it.

So I do believe him when he says he doesn't care who people sleep with because even though this is about Mew, if Mew isn't sleeping with him, why would he care? Just so he can rub salt in his own wounds? He already sees Top and Mew together every single day. All Ray needs to be concerned about is who is sleeping with him.

And from the way he closed the top on his 90s Mercedes-Benz convertible (A WHOLE FUCKING VIBE!) without breaking contact with Sand proves that if everyone would just mind their business, they, too, would be so confident in their dick game that they could throw up on a guy, insult him, break his wine bottles, ruin his guaranteed sex date, and kick him out of their car blue balled and all,

And get him right back the next week.

Like I wrote - Ray is a hot ass mess.

And that's why I'm Sand's gonna love him.

[fictionadventurer]

I've tried reading Trollope before and it hasn't gone well. "Christmas at Thompson Hall" was pretty eh. I bounced hard off of Rachel Ray and The Warden. The man uses so many words to say not much at all, and it was just way too much effort for something that wasn't grabbing my interest.

Then for Victober, I let myself listen to this Tips for Reading Trollope video. Apparently, the magic word to get me interested was "politics". Also, "he's really good at plot." Love me some politics, and good plotting is a rare skill. I wasn't going to join in the group read (still don't plan to keep up with it), but this inspired me to dig into the first few chapters of The Way We Live Now, and it's going much better so far.

Which surprises me. The video explains that the two types of books Trollope does are "shorter straightforward one-plotline character studies" and "sprawling and complicated ensemble cast with interweaving plotlines". If you'd asked me, I'd have said I'd go for the shorter, simpler story, no question. The Austen-like country family stories. But Trollope's not Austen, so maybe it makes sense that I have more fun watching him tell the kind of stories Austen doesn't tell. The wordy style seems less like teeth-pulling when I know this is just one plotline of many--I can just skim over the top and get the general gist because there's a lot more to get to.

Also, the politics. Usually I like the simple sweet stories about good-hearted people, but every so often I go feral for stories about insane horrible petty people doing crazy things. This is reminding me of all the insane Civil War politics I loved reading about. But it's in England and we're getting the financial world involved, so you've got all the social class stuff making things even crazier. We've got some decent people and some horrible people and they've all got wild plans and major blind spots, and it doesn't matter if the POV characters aren't good or likable because we've got so many people and plotlines. The fun is not necessarily in rooting for anyone, but in watching how all the pieces interact.

Again, there is zero way I'm going to finish this in any kind of timely manner (and I'm not letting myself read much more this month), but it was a fun start, and it's nice to know I might be able to get along with one of the major Victorian authors I'd been missing out on.

[tolive1000lives]

I forgot to post my year in books 2021 so for my own ease of tracking my progress I'll just do that now. My goal for the year was to read 45 books and I surpassed that by reading 51!

Harry Potter (1-7)- J.K Rowling

The Red Queen (2-4)- Victoria Aveyard

American Duchess: A Novel of Consuelo Vanderbilt- Karen Harper

The Snow Queen- Hans Christian Anderson (a reread)

10 Restaurants That Changed America- Paul Freedman

EdwardIV & Elizabeth Woodville: A True Romance- Amy Licence

How To Be A Victorian: A Dawn to Dusk Guide to Victorian Life- Ruth Goodman

The Rocket Man- Ray Bradbury (a reread)

We Hunt the Flame- Hafsah Faizal

Hedda Gabler- Henrik Ibsen

Daughters of the Winter Queen; Four Remarkable Sisters, the Crown of Bohemia, & the Enduring Legacy of Mary Queen of Scots- Nancy Goldstone

We Free the Stars- Hafsah Faizal

The Birth of Venus- Sarah Durant

Sharp Objects- Gillian Flynn

The Bone Witch (1-3)- Rin Chupeco

Early Graves- Thomas H. Cook

Zero Hour- Ray Bradbury (a reread)

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd- Agatha Christie

Crazy Rich Asians- Kevin Kwan

Women & Power: A Manifesto- Mary Beard

Northanger Abbey- Jane Austen

Fullerton Parsonage- Laura Simmons

Marie Antoinette: The Last Queen of France- Evelyne Lever

Pride and Prejudice- Jane Austen (a reread)

Persuasion- Jane Austen (a reread)

Emma- Jane Austen (a reread)

Surfacing- Margaret Atwood

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow- Washington Irving

The Last Castle: The Epic Story of Love, Loss, and American Royalty in the Nation's Largest Home- Denise Kiernan

Sense and Sensibility- Jane Austen (a reread)

Picnic at Hanging Rock- Joan Lindsay

In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler's Berlin- Erik Larson

Lady Susan- Jane Austen (a reread)

The Maidens- Alex Michaelides

Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Northern Ireland- Patrick Raddon Keefe

China Rich Girlfriend- Kevin Kwan

Artemis- Andy Weir

The Way We Live Now- Anthony Trollope

The Winds of War- Herman Wouk

The Taming of the Shrew- William Shakespeare

The Lady of the Rivers- Philippa Gregory

Every year I try to challenge myself beyond just the number read but to also branch out and try to expand my reading life. Not a numerical goal or a percentage or anything, just to make an effort to read beyond my comfort zone. It doesn't always lead me to falling in love with a genre but I have discovered books and authors I was missing out on and broadened my horizons. In 2019 I tried to read more sci-fy, 2020 it was more YA.

In 2021 my challenge was to read more nonfiction and I believe I've succeeded in that goal and actually really enjoyed myself in the process. I'd never read much nonfiction, didn't think it was "for me" but now I think its definitely something I want to integrate more into my reading going forwards!

[67impalaandwhisky]

Destiny Is Heaven Sent

Summary: Knowing Dean Winchester since you were fifteen, you’ve always been pulled in his direction. Always wanting to open up the rattled and broken cage your heart lives in. But when the child you’ve been raising together dies, you find yourself closing up the cage of your heart again. And if destiny has one thing for you, it’s to break you down before bringing you back up.

Characters: Dean x You, Sam, Castiel, Bobby, OFC’s, OMC’s, (Ongoing)

This Series Is Set Through Seasons 1-6 With Knowledge That The Bunker Exists

Rating: 18+

Warnings (Ongoing and Will Be Updated): Grieving, Mentions of Rape and Defilement (As Per A Case), Show Level Violence, Swearing, Smut, Impreg Kink, Blood, Fighting, Drinking, Dean Being Dean, Fluff, Angst, Dom!Dean, Sub!Reader

Warnings For This Chapter: Show Level Violence, Drinking, Swearing

Chapter 7.

It's an odd sensation to have your best friend's hands all over you. It's difficult to get anything done during your morning routine with Dean constantly behind you. 

"De." You murmur as his lips trail over your jawline. His hands squeeze tighter at your sides as he presses his chest to your back while you fix your hair in the mirror of the bathroom.

"Hmm?" He hums quizzically as he presses you closer to his body.

You can smell faint notes of cologne and whisky from his attire and it brings you a sense of calm as you turn to him.

"We have to go gank this ghost." You tell him.

You can hear Sam's feet shuffling impatiently outside of the bathroom as you look up at Dean's handsome face.

His eyes are lighter than usual today, the pretty moss colored flecks in his irises seem to pull you in as he smirks.

"I know we do. I just...I've never had my hands on you like this before. I've never been so close to you. It feels good." He whispers as his hand cups your cheek.

The rough skin of his hand makes your eyes flutter shut and you wish you could just take this day to be with him. Just to talk or to spend time with him but work comes first.

"It does feel good." You agree and his head bows down so his lips can meet yours.

Your lips move together, the kiss passionate and something close to longing as he runs his hands below your t-shirt. 

"Fuck." He whispers against your lips. 

Sam's hand slams on the bathroom door and you're both ripped out of your lustful gaze within seconds.

"Are you guys done fucking?" Sam asks loudly and you snort shoving his older brother away.

Rolling his eyes, Dean fixes his flannel shirt before opening the door.

"Relax Sammy. Not everything is about fucking." Dean says as he hoists the bag of guns onto his shoulder.

Sam stops moving, his head slowly lifts to look at his brother before it tilts.

"E-Excuse me? Not everything is about fucking?" Not a sentence you think would come out of Dean Winchester's mouth.

"You heard me. Candy girl, let's get a move on. I got ghosts to kill!" Dean calls to you and you emerge from the bathroom as you fix your shirt.

He stares at you for a second, the corner of his mouth flickers upwards before he gives a gentle chuckle.

"I want this bastard flamed and burned within the next hour." Dean says to Sammy as he heads for the door.

"Why such a rush?" Sam asks as he scrambles to grab his coffee and follow his brother.

"Because," Dean turns to him from the doorway before meeting your eyes, "He attacked my woman."

The ride in the car to the home of the nefarious ghost was silent. Which you were perfectly fine with. It gave you time to glance at your now boyfriend that you've been in love with since you were just a teenager.

It's so odd. He's pushed you away for so long and you know you have so much that needs to get said between the both of you but you wonder if Dean would be willing to talk about it.

He's so closed off from the world most times that you find yourself thinking that it would be hard for him to open up and tell you any semblance of the truth.

He's kept so much away from you for years. 

You can tell he's in a happy mood by the way his fingers drum against the steering wheel as he listens to his cassette tape. 

The autumn sun hangs high above the car, every so often peppering Dean's face in it's rays. The sun does a glorious job highlighting all of his handsome features. His nose is so perfectly straight, his lips so perfectly shaped and even from the right side of the back seat you begin to count the freckles you can see as always. 

The small smile lines around the corners of his eyes just add to his handsomeness. He looks at your through the rear view mirror and his eyes linger as he stops at a red light. You seemingly become mesmerized by the deep green of his irises likening them to the forest before he sends a wink your way that has your gut fluttering and twitching like a mad man.

"So are you guys dating now?" Sam asks as he rolls down his window.

Dean clears his throat as he focuses on the tar lined road before him. 

You don't want to reply, you want him to. 

Sam looks at you through his mirror and you roll your eyes as he begins to give a devilish smirk.

"Yeah. We are." Dean mumbles and if you weren't in the confines of the car, you probably wouldn't have been able to hear his gentle voice.

"Good. About time." Sam says before sticking his tongue out at you.

"Bitch." Dean says with a chuckle only to hear the natural reply.

"Jerk." Your younger best friend says with a laugh.

With a giggle, you arrive in front of the haunted office of Morley Rosmund.

"Are you okay to go in?" Dean asks as he shuts off the car.

You can't help the chill that runs through your spine as you stare at the decrepit building.

"Yeah. I'll be alright." You reply, mustering up all of your strength.

Last night was a little more frightening than you guess you noticed. He was one angry son of a bitch and you just weren't ready for the sheer amount of anger he was radiating.

He ripped your dress clean off and was stronger than you could have imagined. 

"Just stay with me. Okay?" Dean asks as he opens up his door.

Nodding to him, you open up your door as well before taking in a deep breath. 

Sam wraps his arm around you as you round the back of the car.

"We got your back. You know that." He says in your ear as Dean begins to pull out shotguns.

"I still haven't kicked your ass for leaving me on my own yesterday. Don't tempt me." You tease as you take the sawed off shotgun from your boyfriend's hand and begin to load salt rounds into it.

Sam chuckles as he grabs his own and your eyes drift over to the building once more before swallowing thickly.

Dean swings the door open first. He casually glances behind him to make sure you're okay before stepping over the strewn, decomposing bodies that lay on the floor much like last night. With a grimace, you pick your shirt up to cover your nose before scowling at the dead women on the floor.

"This son of a bitch is disgusting." You hear Dean grunt angrily before he kicks open the office door with his foot.

"I wish we could just burn the building down. Make sure he's outta here for good." Sam mutters as he puts his large hand to the small of your back goading you into the office before him.

You spot your ripped dress on the floor from last night as you step into the office and you shiver at the sight.

Dean notices within a fraction of a second and he's by your side as he kicks the fabric out of sight. 

"Come on, Candy girl." He whispers before pressing his soft lips to your temple and stepping out of the way to explore the shambled office.

Anything of any importance was being piled up in the middle of the room. Anything that was old and leathery. Anything that had a dull shine like a pocket watch Sam found in one of the top drawers of the desk you were forced to sit on last night. Even scraps of different cloth were all in the center of the office.

"What about pictures?" Sam asks as he leans in to look at an old painting.

"What, you think this dead pervert had a hard on for the arts?" Dean asks as he drops a leather briefcase onto the ground beside the pile.

"I don't know. Maybe. Just want to make sure we get everything." Sam mumbles as he continues to search.

"Yeah. I bet he really loved the ducks in a pond painting." Dean says before smashing the glass of the picture frame open.

Your eyes catch something sparkle beneath the woman that lays limp on the desk. It was a whirlwind last night but you managed to remember some things of Morley Rosmund's attire. Like the jewelled beetle that was on the lapel of his trench coat that is now situated beneath the woman's body.

"De. Help me grab this." You instruct him as you point to the pin below the dead woman.

"Oh God." He grumbles as he uses the barrel of his salt gun to lift her up just long enough for you to grab it.

You throw the pin into the pile on the floor before grabbing a hat off of the rack by the door that you remember the ghost was wearing.

Ghosts can be in multiple items and it's better to just get them all to be safe.

Suddenly as your boyfriend pulls open the safe in the corner of the office, your begin to see your breath in the small confines of the room.

"He's coming!" You say quickly as you pull back the hammer of your gun.

Dean holds up what looks to be a deed for the office before throwing it into the pile. 

"Y/N!" Sam yells and you whip around just long enough to see Morley Rosmund behind you.

He gives a gentle smile before you're being thrown over the desk.

You groan loudly as you fall onto your back, your body shivering with dull pain as you lay your head back to the floor.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean curses as he throws gasoline over the contents on the floor.

"You little trollope." The ghost sneers as he wraps his hand around your throat.

You cough loudly, sputtering and whining as you claw at his hand. He picks up off of the floor slowly and you shakily lift your gun before shooting the rock salt into him, earning wisps of his body left behind.

Landing back down on the floor, you cough once more as Sam strikes the matchbook on fire and tosses it into the pile.

As the objects begin to catch fire, your body is thrown back to the wall as Morley reappears screaming furiously with red hot anger.

"Y/N!" Dean yells as he rushes towards you.

With a sharp yelp, you press your head back to the wall before the ghost's body begins to catch fire. 

Being swept up into Dean's arms, you're instantly checked on. His hands press to your face, checking to make sure the ghost didn't inflict too much damage before he disappeared into thin air.

"You okay?" He asks gruffly as you gingerly press your fingers to your throat.

Your eyes flicker over to the burning pile of personal possessions before you nod.

"Yeah. I'm good." You whisper before standing up straight and fixing your jacket.

"That's my girl." He mumbles as he presses his lips to your forehead.

"I need a drink and food. Pronto." You say as Sam grabs the duffel bag full of guns and paraphernalia. 

"A drink? It's like three o'clock?" Sam says as you step over bodies towards the front door.

"A woman after my own heart." Dean calls back to him and you giggle as he opens the door for you.

Knowing the job is done brings a huge weight off of your shoulders. It's not often you can appreciate everything around you when so many monsters and evil live in this world. But now, as you sit with your two favorite boys in this run down bar, the world feels lighter somehow. If only for a few hours, you're okay with that.

Dean has been so tried and true throughout the years and now finally you can call him yours. 

Sam has always been your home. He's always seen to reason and has been a comfort in your hard times. You can always count on him to listen.

So when the food comes and you all dig in, there's something so peaceful with listening to the both laugh as Dean plants his hand on your knee. 

You can take a few hours of comfort and calm before you're thrust back into the monster wielding world.

"Gotta hit the head." Dean says.

He plants a kiss to your hairline before he's up and walking towards the bathroom door.

"It's cute y'know. I'm really happy for you guys. Finally." Sam says before finishing off his beer.

You give him a gentle smile as he lifts his beer bottle.

"I'll go get us another round." He says, scraping his chair back loudly.

You pick at your food in the meantime while being alone. You're achy and albeit a bit sore from the attack but you'll heal in no time.

You can't wait to get back to the bunker and just relax for a few days. Wash your car, read up on things in the vast library.

"Hey there." The foreign voice draws you out of your calm daze. Looking up at the owner of the voice, you tilt your head at his handsome features.

"Noticed you with those two Backstreet Boy wannabes." The man says, taking Dean's seat.

You snort gently before shifting your chair away from him as he smirks. 

"Those wannabes are my best friend and boyfriend." You say as you pick up your beer.

It feels weird to call Dean your boyfriend. A good weird. Like it was always meant to be.

"Wanna see what a real man can do?" The absolute gall of this lanky man is impressive.

You give a gentle laugh as you roll your eyes. 

"Nah. I'm good. Thanks." Your voice is short with him and it seems to ruffle his feathers a bit too quickly.

"Come on, baby. I can show you what a real man's cock looks like." You blanch at his words and try to push your chair back uncomfortably as he catches you by your calf with his hand.

"I said no. Jesus. Fuck off." You bark at him.

His grip gets tighter and you sigh loudly before hearing a loud gruff voice that quakes your chest.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Dean yells from across the bar.

Flinching, you give a quick smile to the man as your boyfriend approaches. 

He is so dead meat.

Destiny Is Heaven Sent Taglist: @roonyxx​, @deans-baby-momma​, @supernatural-love14​, @winchest09​, @flamencodiva, @indecisive20something, @that-one-gay-girl​

Forever Dean Tags: @akshi8278​

Forever Tags: @mariaenchanted​

[madamemarmot]

"Never be made to dance with any man you don't like; and remember that a young lady should always have her own way in a ballroom. She doesn't get much of it anywhere else; does she, my dear?"

Rachel Ray by Anthony Trollope 

[thefairefolk-rp]

Welcome Ray! Your original character Petrichor Starley has been accepted!

OOC Information

Name/Nickname: Ray

Age: 22

Preferred Pronouns: she/her

Timezone: EST

Activity and Availability I have a lot of free time, and i love to invest my time into building my characters. Activity is 8/10 but I’m going to school in may. Then it will be about 6.

Have you read the rules and FAQ? Yes. fairecode

IC INFORMATION

Petrichor Starley | George Blagden

Age: 325 years old

Species: Faerie

Court:  Solitary pooka, clanless.

Occupation: Traveling merchant/potion maker for all ailments

Appearance

Petrichor has round blue eyes with very long eyelashes. Though he sometimes appears dewy from walking everywhere. Because of this, his legs are toned and well built, but not very tan because he wears brown trousers. His face is boyish, with not a lot of facial hair though he possesses stubble. He’s handsome with youth, and his body is toned and muscular from all that he carries from spot to spot. Petrichor always brandishes a smile to encourage customers and friendship and it is rare he isn’t singing a lovely tune. He wears a long tan tunic that is cinched to his waistline with a belt and finished with a brown leather vest. The tunic dips, so some of his chest hair is exposed and the sleeves droop with a wide hem around his hands. Petrichor’s hair is curly, something he takes pride in, and one could run their fingers through his hair easily. It’s neat, with a curl right in the middle of his forehead.

Petrichor is a traveling merchant, which means he carries a great deal on his back when he doesn’t have a cart or when it’s just more convenient. So when he is not carrying a backpack, he walks up straight and free, with confidence in his stride. He has a bit of flamboyant charm to him and therefore leaves a lovely and almost light on air bounce in his step. Petrichor is also a habitually leaning man. He will lean on counters, walls, bars, anything to rest his bones, so he can seem a bit lazy when he does. When Petrichor has been drinking his walk has a stumble to it, but only slightly. He favors his right foot.

Personality

Petrichor is the embodiment of a silver lining. His work makes him happy, and he lives a good life, free to be loyal to none. He spends his days making potions, spending days in town inns or solitary bars where he would sell his wares, drink a bit, sing songs with his lute and maybe find a man to bring to bed if he’s lucky. He doesn’t pay attention to worldly affairs because he feels he simply one faerie, in a big world. He did well in the world too, he felt. Sure, some of his potions were placebos, but most of them were medicinal and he would care for anyone in need be it Seelie or Unseelie or even human. Petrichor is fun loving, and an optimist. He gives great advice and is always willing to listen over a cup of tea. He’s a good cook and an even better recourse finder. Though he is vain and cares about his appearance too much. He doesn’t like to be mocked, and can’t stand people who pick on him and defend himself if need to. But an overall pacifist. Petrichor is a romantic person, who is a killer for a love story. He’s a sucker for a handsome man, and with a drink in him, he becomes an absolute trollop. Petrichor is one single man walking as far as the earth will let him, he sleeps under the stars most of his days and counts them. He feels lonely, but also unattached to the world. He wants someone to share his life with, and to look at the stars with us. He’s very philosophical in his own head but he also does a lot of funky forest drugs.

Background

Down by a little river, a poor farmer woman gave birth to two children. Her husband and love of her life watched as she died, but newborn twins now laid on the soft moss. The farmer was left with two autumn born babies, a boy, and a girl. However, winter was coming and their crops hadn’t done well. And now with their mother gone the father wasn’t sure he could care for both. He made his decision. The next day, after their mother’s funeral, their father went to two places. He left the girl with a caravan of performers and the boy with a group of bandits and gypsies and bounty avoiders. Though they were criminals and nomads, it felt more like a large family. He gained many skills with his time there. Sleight of hand, pickpocketing, bartering, and singing. Not to mention the many, many, instruments.

After growing up and leaving the caravan of bandits, Petrichor knew it was time for him to leave and go his own way.  He was young, but the caravan all chipped in for him to go as their blessing, and he was off. Petrichor took his money, and his skills and enrolled in a school for potions. He found out that academia was harder than it looks, and he struggled with it. But soon he learned and could sell medicinal potions to all. In his youth, he was curious of all things, and often found himself in many troubles solely for his lack of experience. But he was selfish and self-centered. He thought only of himself as he traveled and only how to survive. But as he aged, Petrichor has learned to live happily with himself and to make others happy. Now his goal in life is a simple one. He wants a small permanent home away from the city and in the forest with the animals, with a husband to love. But he is most happy in life to be free and wise and fed.

Para Sample

Petrichor walked the deep forest late at night, a lantern heavy in arm above his head. He’d been following his map and swore town was supposed to be in this direction. The thick canopy of the trees above him nearly slapped him in the face if he left the strayed from the trail. He was tired and wanted to rest but there was nowhere suitable, so he was forced to walk into the night to find a town. But he knew how to stay safe. He whistled a tune as he walked, often bending to pluck a weed or a plant from the ground or a tree and putting it in his pouch. But his feet and whistling stopped when he heard soft tears. “A ghost?” he whispers to himself, turning to the source of the sound. His lamp illuminated the figure of a woman, crying to herself and sitting on a rock. She looked pitiful out here in the night, so Petrichor approached her. When she jumped at his appearance, he held out his arms in defense. “Wait, I’m not going to hurt you! I just want to make sure you’re ok,” he assured the girl. She was blonde, will village clothes on and a campfire in front of her, supplies were all around the campsite.

She sniffed and stood. “Sir, please! I’m a teacher, and I brought my students out here to learn about the stars! But they ran off to play earlier and aren’t back! I’ve looked but they won’t come when I call!” She sobbed, pointing into the deeper forest. “Three babes! They hardly come up to my waist! Please help!” Petrichor smiled softly and took her hands. He led her back to her rock to sit and patted her hand. “I’ll see if I can find any children. You should go back to town and get some help.” The woman nodded and ran in the direction he came, and down the way, he was going. At least a town must be nearby. Petrichor walked into the forest and looked around. He began tracking and noticing three trails. They all seemed to go in nonsense directions but ended up in peculiar places.

One ended at a tree, the other a bunch of bushes, and the last one in an opening of flowers. He scratched his head and stared up at the tree. But he narrowed his eyes when he saw something staring back at him with a toothy grin and mud on its nose. A young boy in a school outfit and a homemade children’s weapon. Petrichor wagged his finger at the boy. “Little Dickens. You scared your teacher to get out of your lessons, didn’t you?” The boy sighed and didn’t hesitate to jump down into Petrichor’s arms. He set him down and picked up his lute. “Staring at the sky is boring with Madame Kart.” He whined. “The sky’s the best teacher there is. It holds many secrets! Now show me where the others are, I’m sure your mother made you something delicious for supper.”  So the boy brought Petrichor to the others, and both were drawn out by the Faerie’s melodies. The children walked in procession behind the man like ducklings, dancing and clapping to his tune all the way into town.

[halleyschoices]

Latest TRR chapter feels (and spoilers)

-it’s a well known fact, that any given time I am prepared to drop a whole lotta diamonds when offered an animal companion. When that animal companion is a corgi, that likelihood skyrockets 😂

-… so I finally have my royal corgi. I named him Ollie and he’s up there as one of my best diamond choices ever. I love him. MC loves him. The media loves him. The entire royal court is gonna love him.

-okay, onto real stuff. This chapter has left me with even more mixed feelings about Madeleine. I have had a feeling for a while that she isn’t the traitor. I think it’s too obvious. But I do believe there is something else going on with her, and we got a few hints at that this chapter, and as a few people have already pointed out it seems to be stemming from pressure, most likely from her family. I wouldn’t be surprised if her family is behind the scandal without her knowing. *eyes Lady Adelaide suspiciously*

I like what she said about Tariq and how hypocritical the slandering of MC in the press has been, and it’s also nice to get the writers acknowledging that it’s a shitty situation and I hope as part of MC eventually clearing her name, we’ll get make some sort of statement or something to call everyone out on the shitty treatment of MC.

So praise to Madeleine for calling out Tariq and the press. But I retracted that praise by the end of the chapter because she really is a heinous bitch. 😡

And I hate seeing Hana get hurt like that. Of course I’m gonna spend diamonds to make her feel better, she’s too lovely! 😭

Totally loving the dynamic beginning to form with Olivia. She’s just great.

As for Penelope, I really don’t think she is the traitor. I don’t know, she may have been framed, or manipulated in some way, but I really don’t think she’s responsible. I’m not sure she really has the motive. Also my corgi likes her and that has to count for something!!!

So, in summary:

Madeleine: still a trollop. May have some family pressures that legit may suck, but she still a trollop nonetheless and I still hate her

The corgi: fabulous, a literal ray of sunshine. My mc cannot wait to show him to Liam

Olivia: the real MVP

Penelope: not guilty.

My wildcard guess at the traitor: Madeleine’s ridiculous Wine Mum, Adelaide.

[je-suis-clarisse]

Uninvited Guest

14TH MARCH 1802. The day stood out to Clarisse du Volde without fail, despite the rancor that Vivian du Volde had inspired in her. Mother and daughter were, quite simply, mortal enemies. They had very few things in common and when she had been on her death bed, Clarisse had come to see her. Frederic had convinced her to do so. Upon entering the room, Clarisse was surprised to see Vivian. The once famed beauty was a shadow of her former self, frail and scarred from smallpox. "Maman," she spoke as she entered the room. "I know I'm dying now. Vivienne the other day, and the f***ing runt today," Vivian scowled at Fred and Clarisse dearly wished to toss her mother outside and watch as a runaway carriage ran her over. She hated this. Hated Fred for convincing her. Hated hospitals and hated Vivian. What few good moments the pair had were able to be counted upon one hand. Painting china, learning to dance, playing the piano, playing dress-up. Beyond that, there was nothing. Clarisse didn't even bother hope for an apology. All the years of abuse and hatred were still there. The young vampiress could read her mother's thoughts with ease. Not to mention she could sense the hatred. It was sharp enough to cut the tension in the room. Standing in the hospital was a misery for the vampire, her sensitive nose picking up every single stench, her ears picking up on the sound of fading heartbeats, and of course, the abuse Vivian was inflicting upon her as she stood there. Even close to death, the woman would not cease her insults. "Do you think your God will appreciate your vile tongue?" Risse asked. "He gave it to me, so he will be used to it by now," Vivian countered saucily and well, Clarisse had to give her that one. She wasn't wrong. Frederic pardoned himself for a moment and left mother and daughter sitting together. Clarisse looked out of the corner of her eye to see Vivian staring at her. Arching up a brow, she looked to Vivian. "Maman, I shall be blunt. You've been a misery all your days. Why are you clinging to life?" "Because what if there is nothing after this?" It was a rare moment of uncertainty and Clarisse moved to the side of the bed, taking hold of her mother's hand. Vivian, surprisingly, didn't snatch it away. "I believe that there is life after this, and I believe you'll see everyone you wish to see. Like Antoinette," she spoke and couldn't help but feel a moment of sympathy as Vivian's eyes filled with tears. There was not a single member of the du Volde family who didn't know who the favorite was. Antoinette had died so young. Part of Vivian had gone with her. Her thoughts were broken by the harsh coughing fit that rattled to Vivian and she met her mother's eyes. She hadn't meant to. END MY LIFE. Vivian was begging. Pleading. She couldn't catch her breath and the doctors couldn't do a thing. She would not bite her. But end her? Very well. Taking the pillow within her hands, she held it down over Vivian's face, finding there was no fight being given. It was a quick process and by the time Frederick returned, Vivian was dead, the pillow returned to its proper position and Clarisse was on her way out the door.   "Good riddance to bad rubbish," she mused as she stepped into her carriage, securing the dark curtains to hide the remaining sun's rays. PRESENT-DAY. CLARISSE'S LIBRARY. FRANCE. Risse had slipped into the massive library of her Paris estate hours prior, her nose (as always) in a book. Dropping onto her favored chaise lounge by the fire, she'd lost herself in the tome and eventually, had dozed off. She was tired and she didn't really know why. But her eyes were heavy and she dozed off. It was quite welcomed. "Look at you, in your gilded towers," a familiar voice spoke and Clarisse looked up with a start. A petite figure dressed in black, her blonde hair loose, an older version of herself stood inches from her, startling her. She looked quite astounding, considering how horrid she'd looked at their last meeting. Marking her place in the book, Clarisse set it aside as she sat up, every hair on the back of her neck standing at attention. "Maman." Eyeing her daughter, Vivian's scowl and snarl had not changed in the one-hundred and ninety-eight years since she had taken her last breath. Bluntly put, she was still a stark raving bitch, and she was here to torment Risse. "Do they make you happy? I don't expect that they do." "How are you even here?" Clarisse asked, shaking her head. "You've been dead for--" "One hundred and ninety-eight years, to be precise. You're evading my question." "As you're evading mine, Maman. But fine. I'll play your game. I'm happy." "You've always been a terrible liar. Just like your father. Unsurprising, given how close you were. You're not happy. You're alone. You have your lovers here and there. But thrice wed and thrice-divorced, is it? You have material things. What you've built is a gilded tower to hide your true feelings. Your loneliness. Your pain. When you die, dear girl, everyone will forget you. Even your 'adopted father' has left you. He's how old?" She continued, circling her daughter and whispering in her ear. "He will outlive you too. And your name won't even be a whisper on his lips. Nor on your Uncle Nik's." "Don't you dare speak of them. They're worth TEN of you." "And yet...he's away. Happy. Living a life you can only aspire to. A life that you are not part of. And with your uncle going to get married, where does that leave you, Clarisse Elisabeth? Ah yes. alone." "I am NOT alone! You hateful b!tch. GET OUT." "Such a temper for such an adorable little girl. You're such a child still. I look at you and I see everything I did wrong. I should have killed you. I tried so hard...but you just wouldn't die!" "Yet it was me, who killed you. Put you out of your misery, if I remember correctly." "Let's see. So many men in your life, you little trollop. Colin, Dorian, Jormund. The three husbands." Vivian cackled, continuing onwards. "And how many lovers? Including that one now? By the way, he's too good for you. A royal of sorts, isn't he? Let us not forget that the Devil himself tired of you and moved on with that Dead Boy. Oh Clarisse, my dear girl, the only thing that spreads easier than your legs is peanut butter."   Clarisse jumped from her seat so quickly, the chair fell down behind her. Vivian's cerulean gaze met her daughters emerald one, and she smirked in that simpering manner, the one that drove Clarisse damn near over the edge. Slamming the woman against the wall, fangs extended fully, her eyes going from their usual tone to a dark crimson one. Snarling, she glared at Vivian. Eschewing any sense of loyalty toward her mother, she was about to sink those sharp little fangs into the fount upon which she found sustenance. Or she might ball her hand into a fist and extract her heart. Did Vivian even have one? "who lives? who dies? who tells your story?" Vivian asked whispering since Clarisse was pressing on her windpipe. The question took her aback and at that moment, Vivian was able to squirm free. Clarisse had always been fond of the song, having heard it on the Hamilton soundtrack, listening to it and hearing Vivian speak the words to taunt her...she shuddered, facing the actuality that when her time came...there would likely be no one to tell her story. She outlived those she cared about. There would be no way to change that. Who lived? She didn't know. Who died? That was easy, she would. And who would tell her story? Even if she wrote it down, there was no one to share it for her. Looking around the townhouse, she hated admitting that Vivian was right; that this and any other home she owned was precisely what she said--a gilded tower where she could hide her feelings. Well, now was as good a time as any to speak something. "Maman, all I've ever wanted was you to love me," Clarisse whispered, as she leaned against the wall, her visage changing back to its normal appearance. "You aren't worthy of it. You are the embodiment of the mistake I made. I hate you because you remind me of myself. I look at you and I see nothing but mistakes. And on the occasions I found I could open my heart to you, you'd do something, say something and I'd be reminded of my hatred. Or you reminded me of your father. You may resemble me, but you are his creature." Vivian snarled coolly. Taking Clarisse's face in her hand, crushing her chin in her firm grip. "Carry the knowledge in your heart that you are unworthy of the love you seek. If your own mother hates the sight of you, why would anyone else want you? You will die alone. And you will be a forgotten grain in the hourglass of time." Before she could respond, Clarisse's eyes popped open and she gasped for air, looking around. She was alone. Her chest heaved up and down and she felt tears rolling down her cheeks. Vivian was wrong. Her friends loved her. Her 'family' wouldn't abandon her. Would they? "and when my time is up? have i done enough? will they tell my story?" Clarisse mused softly, as she sat in the library, reaching her hand out, pinching out the flame of the candle, leaving herself in the darkness, her tears her only companion now. It was just a dream. Just a dream. It wasn't real. Vivian was dead. She was in the crypt. This had been the work on her brain. She was fine. "It's only a matter of time..." Vivian's voice filled the silence once more, sending her youngest child into peals of hysterical sobbing.

[wendynerdwrites]

Recovered Jonsa Fics #5: Petyr the Voyeur

Next on my fic reposts!

Fists.

Rarely does Petyr Baelish make them, but he does now. One hated hand fists his cock, the other is in his mouth to bite down on, so that he isn’t heard.

All of his self-loathing is felt most keenly right now, as he hovers behind bales of hay within the stables of Winterfell. It’s dawn, and the first rays of sunlight shine through just enough to illuminate the scene before him in the second empty stall.

More than anything, he wishes to scream. What hasn’t he given her? He has made her. Her life, as it is, is his creation. Without him, she’d be some lordling’s broodmare. But she is Lady of Winterfell and the Vale. She has a child ruling The Vale, sired by the husband he’d arranged for her. She is the Chief Lady in the Seven Kingdoms, after Queen Daenerys. Thanks to his clever bookkeeping, she has riches despite the harsh winter and wars. Without him, she’d be up to her eyes in debt, recovering from the various wars, famines, and sackings of her domains. She plays her vassals and courtiers like dolls, thanks to the things he’s taught her.

Apparently, he has taught her too much.

Sansa has rejected him repeatedly, despite the fact that he is still Lord of Harrenhal and of a rank to wed her. He has presented her with prospects, gifts, made her every promise. But she refuses him repeatedly.

Long has Petyr dreamt of wedding her in Eddard Stark’s own halls, feasting her before the men Brandon Stark was meant to rule, in more grandeur than either man ever offered Catelyn, having the Stark vassals themselves, Ned’s own men, strip his daughter down for him, lay her upon the bed where Eddard Stark bedded Catelyn Tully for years, all for him to finally, at long last, take what was his.

As he’d told her repeatedly, he’d be a good, proper husband to her. He has no bastards, and he’d sire none. He’d not stray from her bed. After all, why fuck the whores he’s had for years in a random brothel when he could make love to the Tully princess he’d always wanted atop satin sheets and silver furs in the birthright castle of the man who took his first Tully princess from him? He’d make her moan while she wore nothing but the jewels he’d bought her.

She could have all of this and more.

Instead, he finds her here, in a stable stall like a milkmaid, being frantically kissed, groped, and stripped like a milkmaid with stableboy.

But it’s not a stable boy that is with her. It’s not a stable boy with his lips on hers, tongue against hers, hands in her hair and around her waist. Though one might mistake him for one, given his plain clothing. But no, Petyr knows the bastard by now. The bastard backs her up against a wall and pulls his mouth down to her neck as his hands reach for her bodice. When it’s torn open, the bastard’s mouth goes lower, suckling at her rosy-tipped breasts like a famished newborn. Sansa tugs at her sleeves impatiently to free herself from her clothing, as if she cannot stand another second being clothed around him.

Once her upper half is totally free and her gown hangs off of her hips, she pulls Him up to yank off his tunic, his doublet already on the ground. Petyr bites down harder on his fist, not out of lust at the sight of her breasts, but out of anger. The so-called prince’s back ripples with muscle and sinewy, as do his arms. He is not an overpowering collection of veiny, pulsing flesh like many knights, but his form is elegant, sinewy. He had the sort of build Petyr had always wished for.

This so-called prince has everything Petyr has always wished for.

When the “prince” reaches down to undo his breeches, Petyr finds himself craning his neck. If there were any gods with a shred of mercy out there, then, at the very least, the “prince” would have a much, much smaller cock than Petyr. Small enough to make a woman go, “Is it in yet?”

But no, he bloody doesn’t. Petyr has to look back and forth between his own and the prince’s manhood to compare, and he finds that it is hard to tell, at least from his angle. He knows enough, at least, that’s it’s sizeable enough to fill her up well. He bites down on his knuckles, officially hard enough to draw blood.

But he cannot stop pumping himself, despite this. Seeing her glorious head tipped back in ecstasy, her skin flushed, her pretty bosom exposed, her panting with arousal and utter abandon is too much for him.

The prince’s pants drop, and then, oddly enough, so does he. Right to his knees, as if in prayer. His hands go to the sash holding her gown up and his lips go to her lower belly. Sansa’s hands reach back, her fingertips digging into the grooves between the planks of the wooden paneling behind her. Seconds later, her skirts fall to the ground. Petyr realizes with a jolt that this is territory the prince has traversed before. How many times has he had her?

Sansa is down to her stockings and smallclothes now, snowy white linen that speak of an innocence that she doesn’t possess. The bastard yanks the smallclothes off--- not even down her legs, but off. There is a ripping sound. She moans at this.

The bastard’s head blocks that core, precious part of her Petyr has dreamt of for so long. As much as he internally begs the “prince” to move, it is clear from how Sansa’s hand snakes down to clutch at the bastard’s curls that she has other ideas. And she moans his name.

“Joooooooonnnnnnnnnnn….”

Petyr wishes to scream. At least before, when he closed his eyes, he could imagine that her moans thus far were for him. But there is none of that now. And she keeps saying it. In loud, deep moans, in breathy whimpers.

He can see her getting closer, closer to her peak as her breathing deepens and quickens. She comes with a loud cry and a fall forward, her hands landing on her lover’s shoulders to steady herself.

The bastard pulls back a bit, but not enough for Petyr to glimpse her dripping cunny. Her lover looks up at her cheekily. “My my, Madam, it seems that you are utterly undone.”

Petyr is amazed to hear that glum, dull aurochs make a joke. Ned Stark never made jokes, and the bastard, whatever his parentage, was essentially a copy of the man who had raised him.

Sansa grins back, blue eyes gleaming. “Is that so?”

And she pushes him, pushes the “prince” back so he ends up flat on the ground, his cock stiff and prominent.

At last, Petyr sees it: her perfect, red-clad cunny, dripping fluids down her inner thighs. There’s a little protrusion of pink amidst the red hair. All of it framed by perfect, white thighs. Those thighs part as their owner begins straddling the royal hips. She hovers just over the tip of his cock, looks down at him, and says it: “I love you.”

Petyr knows, just knows, that she means it. It is worse than he could have imagined.

“Love you… Love you…” The bastard whimpers. He, like others before him, is at her mercy.

She sinks down onto him, and the look of relief and delight on her face as she does makes Petyr see red. She begins moving her hips, grabs her lover’s hands, and places them on her breasts. The bastard’s thumbs immediately start playing with her rosy nipples. Her hands go to his chest in kind, clutching at the dark hair that covers it. She bucks her hips, cries his name.

Petyr is coming before he even realizes it, his seed squirting out and landing on the yellow straw that serves as his hiding place. Minutes later, it’s apparent by the bastard’s cry that he has spilled his seed within the depths of Sansa Stark’s core.

She grins at this and leans forward to kiss him, to lay her face into the crook of his neck. She takes a deep, sad breath. She says something which catches his attention. Petyr, unable to take anymore, leaves before whatever it is between them is resolved.

Later that day, she takes a meeting with him, and he can take it no longer. He calls her what she is: a slut, a whore, a trollop. A slattern, a strumpet that lets men fuck her in the stables like a barnyard animal. She says nothing as he rails at her and when he is finally done, too out of breath to say anymore, bending over and clutching his chest, she calls for guards. He finds himself outside Winterfell’s gates with all of his things in a collection of carts a few hours later.

Three moons later, an announcement comes to Harrenhal from the Red Keep that Prince Jon of House Targaryen is to wed Sansa of Houses Stark and Arryn, Lady of Winterfell, the Vale, and Warden of the North. The announcement is not accompanied by an invitation.

Petyr looks around the dark, decrepit, burnt walls and realizes that the legends are true: every Lord of Harrenhal is cursed.

[writingguide003-blog]

Here Are Some Of The Strangest Habits Of Some Of The Worlds Greatest Writers

New Post has been published on https://writingguideto.com/must-see/here-are-some-of-the-strangest-habits-of-some-of-the-worlds-greatest-writers/

Here Are Some Of The Strangest Habits Of Some Of The Worlds Greatest Writers

Maya Angelou/Flickr

It would be admitting the obvious to say that writers are, well, odd. Even if you were to take out the obvious manifestations of strangeness — other people who spend all day locked in rooms talking to themselves tend to be there by institutional mandate — you’d still end up looking at a group of people who accept some off-the-wall behavior as a condition of getting their work done.

For those who wonder, “Am I the only one that does this? Am I the only one who is this weird?” — fret not. You’re probably not alone. And you haven’t been alone for a long time. Every week, we interview a contemporary writer who is at the top of the game — and we figure out how they do what they do. Today, we take a look at some of the peculiar writing rhythms of some of history’s greats.

Gertrude Stein needed a cow to write.

Yes, that wasn’t a typo: the great Gertrude Stein set up her writing days so that a cow would have to enter her field of vision as she wrote. This account from a 1934 New Yorker article testifies to her bovine-in-my-line-of-sight requirements:

Ray Bradbury wrote at a typewriter where he had to pay ten cents for every thirty minutes he used it.

He was a Pulitzer Prize winner who wrote a book that, to this day, is required reading for most American high school students. And he did it at a typewriter he didn’t even own!

Maya Angelou rented hotel rooms to write (even though she owned a house) and drank a cup of sherry (even at 6:15 in the morning).

It’s tough to recommend Angelou’s habit of having a cup of wine at any hour to get the juices flowing. But it’s also hard to compete with her credentials: one of the greatest poets, memoirists, and writers of her generation, she earned nominations for the Tony and the Pulitzer and won three Grammys. Here’s how she did it:

Dear Miss Angelou, let us change the sheets. We think they are moldy.

Anthony Trollope wrote 250 words every 15 minutes before going off to a job at the post office.

Anthony Trollope’s writing habit was the precise opposite of catch-as-catch-can: he was scarily disciplined, setting a habit of 250 words every quarter of an hour.

“

Alice Munro structured her writing sessions around the lives of her children — which is what prompted her to write short stories instead of novels, at least at the start of her career.

This will come as much comfort to any writer-parents out there: Alice Munro’s writing habits were shaped by having to take care of three children with little help:

“”

Toni Morrison made a habit of watching the sun rise — and treating that as the signal to start her writing.

Nobel and Pulitzer-prize winning novelist Toni Morrison didn’t think she had a writing habit, other than getting up early. It wasn’t until a friend started her on a discussion of rituals that she realized she had one:

Kurt Vonnegut did pushups and sit-ups as he wrote.

He was most famous for his novel but it was his sixth novel, and was one work among a life filled with productive writing. So how did he do it? While getting in shape, apparently:

“.”

Read more: http://thoughtcatalog.com/

[tolive1000lives]

My goal this year was to read 45 books and so far I’ve read 50! I promised myself that I’d try to read more Nonfiction this year just to branch out a bit and I think I kept that promise and surprised myself by finding quite a few that I really enjoyed! Overall I’m happy with my picks this year though I need to read at least one more because I do NOT want to end my year with The Taming of the Shrew!

Harry Potter (1-7)- JK Rowling

Glass Sword- Victoria Aveyard

American Duchess: A Novel of Consuelo Vanderbilt- Karen Harper

The Snow Queen- Hans Christian Anderson 

King’s Cage- Victoria Aveyard

War Storm- Victoria Aveyard

Ten Restaurants That Changed America- Paul Freedman

Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville: A True Romance- Amy Licence 

How To Be A Victorian: A Dawn to Dusk Guide to Victorian Life- Ruth Goodman 

The Rocket Man- Ray Bradbury (a reread) 

We Hunt The Flame- Hafsah Faizal 

Hedda Garbler- Henrik Ibsen 

Daughters of the Winter Queen: Four Remarkable Sisters, The Crown of Bohemia, and the Enduring Legacy of Mary Queen of Scotts- Nancy Goldstone

We Free The Stars- Hafsah Faizal

The Birth of Venus- Sarah Durant

Sharp Objects- Gillian Flynn

The Bone Witch (1-3)- Rin Chupeco

Early Graves- Thomas H. Cook

Zero Hour- Ray Bradbury (a reread)

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd- Agatha Christie

Crazy Rich Asians- Kevin Kwan

Women & Power: A Manifesto- Mary Beard

Northanger Abbey- Jane Austen

Fullerton Parsonage- Laura Simons

Marie Antoinette: The Last Queen of France- Evelyne Lever

Pride and Prejudice- Jane Austen (a reread) 

Persuasion- Jane Austen (a reread) 

Emma- Jane Austen (a reread) 

Surfacing- Margaret Atwood

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow- Washington Irving

The Last Castle: The Epic Story of Love, Loss, and American Royalty in the Nation’s Largest Home- Denise Kiernan

Sense and Sensibility- Jane Austen (a reread) 

Picnic at Hanging Rock- Joan Lindsay

In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin- Erik Larson

Lady Susan- Jane Austen (a reread) 

The Maidens- Alex Michaelides

Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Northern Ireland- Patrick Radden Keef

China Rich Girlfriend- Kevin Kwan

Artemis- Andy Weir

The Way We Live Now- Anthony Trollope 

The Winds of War- Herman Wouk

The Taming of the Shrew- William Shakespeare

[theadmiringbog]

Many philosophers, from Vice, to Foucault, have proposed that history moves in a tidal rhythm by which a dominant idea exerts its force for a time, then falls away, to be succeeded by a new idea of comparable magnetic power. One of the best expressions of this way of thinking about the past-sometimes called idealism-comes from Emerson:

"Our culture is the predominance of an idea which draws after it this train of cities and institutions. Let us rise into a new idea, and they will disappear."

--

I shall now attempt to describe in sequence the three ideas -- God, nation, and . . . what? the market? the recreational self? -- by which Americans have tried to save themselves from the melancholy that threatens all reflective beings.

--

According to a less generous observer who lived in their own time, the real reason the Puritans left was their misanthropy:

"A Puritan is such a one as loves God with all his soul, but hates his neighbour with all his heart."

--

One of the keywords of reformed Christianity is justification. Derived from the Latin verb justificare -- to judge, to forgive, to vindicate -- it took on a new meaning during the Renaissance from the new technology of printing. Bits of metal type could no more line themselves up into straight margins than Ezekiel's bones could dance. They were dead, inert -- and the compositor had to tap them into alignment with his "justifying" stick. Here was the Puritan image of man: ragged and disordered, out of harmony with his fellows and with himself, unless and until God acts to make him acceptable to his sight.

--

God was visibly at work in nature, too -- in every drought and plague, in every ray of sunlight and every storm. "I bless God," one Massachusetts man said a few months after the earthquake of 1727, for "his late providence the Earth-quake which made me have quick Apprehension of my own Sins and guilt."

--

When you strain to remember a forgotten name, James points out, and find that the harder you work at it the more it seems "jammed," it is only if you "give up the effort" that "the lost name comes sauntering into your mind." This was his metaphoric restatement of what Sibbes intended when he preached that "a holy despaire in ourselves is the ground of true hope."

From here it is a short trip -- the twelfth step for AA, the twelfth sign in Edwards's inventory of the signs of grace -- to the fundamental precept that the only salvation from "despair in ourselves" is service to others. When Puritans insisted in these terms that the self without God is utterly helpless and, indeed, pointless, they were not claiming to have discovered a new truth or a new God.

--

One tires of Samuel Sewall's incessant piety as he writes in his diary that God arranged for him to spill a can of drinking water in bed so he would remember the fragility and brevity of life.

--

Frances Trollope, one of a stream of English visitors who crossed the sea as if on a zoological expedition, split the difference along gender lines between those who thought religion was failing and those who thought it alive and well: "I never saw, or read, of any country," she wrote in 1832, "where religion had so strong a hold upon the women, or a slighter hold upon the men."'

--

Millerites (named for their leader, William Miller) expected the world to end in 1843.

--

Emerson heard that down south one could find Methodists "jumping about on all fours, imitating the barking of dogs & surrounding a tree in which they pretended they had `treed Jesus.”

--

The real nation was to be found not in anything external ("nothing strikes a European traveler in the United States more than the absence of what we would call government or administration") but in the outrushing of the mind by which the American self discovered it had no boundaries and could consume the world and turn it into a nutrient of the imagination.'' I have been calling this exuberant democracy a new religion, but, as Whitman rightly said, "all the religions, old and new," were in it.

--

The lesson of Lincoln's life -- the life he lived, and the life that endures in our national memory -- is that the quest for prosperity is no remedy for melancholy, but that a passion to secure justice by erasing the line that divides those with hope from those without hope can be.

--

If we worry that the presidency has fallen on evil times, it helps to remember that Henry Adams was convinced more than a hundred years ago that "the progress of evolution from President Washington to President Grant, was alone evidence enough to upset Darwin."

If we think the civic fabric is coming apart, it helps to find Emerson saying so a long time ago: "Every man [is] for himself . . . the social sentiments are weak; the sentiment of patriotism is weak; veneration is low ... there is an universal resistance to ties and ligaments once supposed essential to civil society."

Emerson ticks off here just about every sign of civil decay we would be likely to find today in a catalogue of lamentations (as compiled, say, by Amitai Etzioni or Robert Putnam), except that people have dropped out of their bowling leagues in favor of bowling alone.'

--

New stories are also beginning to be told according to the same sequence of enslavement followed by deliverance: for instance, the story of how disabled people are coming out of their long confinement between shame and pity to within hailing distance of dignity, as heralded by the most significant piece of social legislation passed during the Bush administration, the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990."

--

Sixty years ago, the Boys Athletic League of New York conducted a survey of 50,000 children between the ages of six and sixteen on the question, "Who do you think is the most loved man in the world?" In that poll, God finished second to Franklin D. Roosevelt. Last year, I heard a pediatrician remark that over his thirty years of practice the children he treats have become less and less responsive to his standard question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" In the past he got lots of answers following the formula "I want to be like ," with the name of a sports hero, or a scientist, or even a politician filling in the blank. Now he gets a shrug, or an "I dunno," or, sometimes, the name of a TV cartoon character. Nothing, it seems to me, is more alarming than the impoverishment of our children's capacity to imagine the future. Graham Greene once defined melancholy as the "logical belief in a hopeless future." Lionel Trilling once called it "the diminution of belief in human possibility." For us, I think, these definitions hit close to home because life seems, as in the favorite prefix of our post-industrial, post-modern, post-national, post-theistic age, just plain post-.

--

Dwight Macdonald, borrowed from and abbreviated Adorno's argument into the term "masscult," which he found exemplified, in 1960, in the quintessentially American Life Magazine.

"Nine color pages of Renoir paintings," he wrote, are "followed by a picture of a roller-skating horse . . . Just think, nine pages of Renoirs! But that roller-skating horse comes along, and the final impression is that Renoir is talented, but so is the horse."

--

Tocqueville's free individual, which he considered America's gift to the world, becomes the creature he so presciently described -- marooned in a perpetual present, playing alone with its trinkets and baubles. It is especially disheartening to see this process far advanced in a child.

--

Tocqueville's detection of a "strange melancholy in the midst of abundance"

--

While we have gotten very good at deconstructing old stories (the religion that was the subject of my first chapter was one such story; the nationalism that was the subject of the second chapter was another), when it comes to telling new ones, we are blocked.

--

New York Times Magazine seem to think so-as attested by their 1998 election issue, whose cover was emblazoned with a new preamble to the Declaration of Independence, in mock eighteenth-century cursive lettering on a faux parchment background:

We, the relatively unbothered and well off, hold these truths to be self-evident: that Big Government, Big Deficits and Big Tobacco are bad, but that big bathrooms and 4-by-4's are not; that American overseas involvement should be restricted to trade agreements, mutual funds and the visiting of certain beachfront resorts; that markets can take care of themselves as long as they take care of us; that an individual's sex life is nobody's business, though highly entertaining; and that the only rights that really matter are those which indulge the Self.

--

From the comfort of the academy, we look at our past and are quick to say that a culture with too little freedom and too much brutality was a bad culture. But do we have the nerve to say of ourselves that a culture locked in a soul-starving present, in which the highest aspiration for those who can afford to try is to keep the body forever young, is no culture at all?

--

There is much to be said against any scheme of periodization, including my own too-neat division of American history into two phases of coherent belief followed by a third phase of incoherence and nervous waiting. In the first period, Christians seldom agreed on what, exactly, Christianity meant. In the second period, violent conflict was commonplace over the nature and extent of citizenship rights. And the boundary between the two phases -- between Christian symbology and the civil religion -- was never as sharp as I have drawn it.

--

Let me close by recalling that when Emerson felt his fathers' version of Christianity ebbing in the 1830s he tried to discern whether a new faith was coming, and what it might be. He got it right, I think, when he gave up the effort, saying, "all attempts to project and establish a Cultus with new rites and forms, seem to me in vain. Faith makes us, and not we it, and faith makes its own forms."

Meanwhile, he added, in a wonderfully Emersonian contradiction, "let us do what we can to rekindle the smouldering nigh quenched fire on the altar." For those of us engaged as teachers and writers with the history and literature of the United States, I can think of no more noble charge while we wait.

[bookmonsterzero]

2017: April 2-8

Read

161. We Two: Victoria and Albert by Gillian Gill

162. Endurance: Shackleton's Incredible Voyage by Alfred Lansing

163. Born to Run by Christopher McDougall

164. He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope

165. Breadfruit by Célestine Hitiura Vaite

166. Rosalynde; Or, Euphues' Golden Legacy by Thomas Lodge

167. Seiobo There Below by László Krasznahorkai

168. Going to Meet the Man by James Baldwin

Seen

179. The Hittites (2003/Tolga Örnek)

180. Rogue One: A Star Wars Story {2016/Gareth Edwards)

181. U.S. Go Home (1994/Claire Denis)

182. The World According to Garp (1982/George Roy Hill)

183. Before the Rain (1994/Milčo Mančevski)

184. Trance (2013/Danny Boyle)

185. Fry and Laurie Reunited (2010/Mike Reilly)

Heard

Historically speaking, I’m usually a song-and-gone music listener, but to throw a (band name here) wrench into what is otherwise threatening to be another 600 book year, I’ve decided to invest more listening time into full-length albums for a while. I’ll cite my top tracks in an otherwise random selection of musical experiences as I try a bit of everything. 

Sonny Rollins - Saxophone Colossus (St. Thomas)

The Beatles -The Beatles (While My Guitar Gently Weeps)

The Notorious B.I.G. - Ready to Die (Gimme the Loot)

Joy Division - Unknown Pleasures (Shadowplay)

Cab Calloway - Are You Hep To The Jive? (Who's Yehoodi?)

Future Islands - Singles (Seasons)

Aimee Mann - Bachelor No. 2 (Red Vines)

Stevie Wonder - Talking Book (Superstition)

János Starker / LSO - Dvořák: Cello Concerto, Op.104

Dusty Springfield - Dusty In Memphis (Son of a Preacher Man)

The Smiths - The Queen Is Dead (Bigmouth Strikes Again)

Cal Tjader / Stan Getz - Sextet (Liz-Anne)

AC/DC - Back in Black (You Shook Me All Night Long)

The Shins - Oh, Inverted World (New Slang)

Byron Janis / MPO - Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No. 1

Chuck Berry - Chuck Berry Is On Top (Maybellene)

Selena - Amor Prohibido (Bidi Bidi Bom Bom)

Funkadelic - Maggot Brain (Maggot Brain)

Ray Price - Night Life (Night Life)

Burial - Untrue (Ghost Hardware)

Billie Holiday - Billie Holiday Sings (Solitude)

Duran Duran - Rio (Hungry Like the Wolf)

Failoni Orchestra - Schubert: Symphony No. 3

Best reading and viewing experiences in bold, other recommended ones are linked. For albums: ♥ track in (parentheses). ® revisited.

[blogwritetheworld]

From My Desk to Yours with Michael Lydon: Writing a Novel

by Michael Lydon

So you want to write a novel? Well, as the coolly cynical cats in my high school gang used to say, “Better pack a lunch!”

Seriously, writing a novel is a major undertaking, and you may learn, as I learned on my first try at the form, that you’re not cut out for the job—even though a novel is, in essence, a story, and we all read and tell stories every day. A joke sketches a quick story; an anecdote relates a slightly longer one. Then come short stories, ten to thirty pages long, after that novellas, fifty to a hundred pages. Only then do we reach full novel proportions, anywhere between two hundred to eight hundred pages. Taking on such a ginormous task may be a bridge too far for most beginning writers. Don’t let that discourage you however! If you have a novel inside you eager to be born, start writing it today—you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Here’s a suggestion I hope will help you get your pen flying: you don’t have to start on page one! Write a few pages to describe your central character, his or her house, his or her childhood. You can even write an ending. Most of these scribbled efforts may not make it into the novel, not word-for word at least, but the freedom such experiments encourage will surely enrich your story’s subtext.

From that improvisatory suggestion I’ll leap to a more disciplined one: see if you can find your novel’s beginning-to-end arc. Your scribbling may have given you one, two, or a half-dozen detailed scenes; great, they’re your raw material. Now start looking for the framework those scenes will hang on.

Next, why not try to divide your story arc, even if only in your own mind, into writing’s three classic sections: beginning, middle, and end. The beginning introduces the novel’s people and places; the middle describes their conflicts, the end describes how those conflicts get resolved. Yes, I know that sounds boringly cut-and-dried, and many fine novels will never fit this formula, but thinking of your novel in terms of these three immortal chunks will help illuminate the areas of your story that need attention in your next draft.

You still need to get your opening sentences down on paper, the sentences that, you hope, will hook your readers. Sarorah (US) grabbed me with her lively opening portrait of her heroine Charlie:

“Charlie, Charlie,” my dad calls out to me hysterically. I laugh to myself: he probably thinks I ran away again but in reality I was hiding under my bed. He hears my silent giggle and peeks under, his sullen expression turning deadpan when he discovered me. “Charlie why are you hiding, do you know how much of a fright you gave me young lady?" Blah, Blah, and more Blah is all I think to myself while I fish around my head for an excuse…”

That sparky beginning wakes me up! I’ve just got to find out where this lively gal will be going for the next two hundred pages.

The middle of your novel is the meat of your story and probably the longest of the three sections. Here in many tales the “protagonist” faces a trial of some sort, helped (or hindered!) by an array of “supporting characters.” A mid-length novel may have twenty or more named and described characters, and it is of utmost importance that these be as true to life as the writer’s skill and insight permits.  “Novels hinge on well-developed characters,” says the prompt introducing Write the World’s current novel-writing competition. “All the rest of it—the plot, the setting, the language—mean little if the reader doesn’t experience the fictional world through a character who feels real and relatable. The reader must detect a beating heart—feel that human connection—to care about the rest of the story.”

No wiser words have ever been written about the art of writing novels. To succeed as a novelist, a writer must make his or her characters human beings readers can believe in, humans who could be our next-door neighbors, the lady sitting next to us on a bus, the man behind the counter at the hardware store. Some years ago when in bed with the flu, I tried to pass long boring hours reading best-selling detective novels. In one the hero, gets a serious brain injury.

A few hours sleep and he’s back on the case despite a wicked headache. “How is it now?” asks a friend. “Better” says the stoical detective. And went on that same afternoon to solve a major crime.

“Wha..?” said I to myself, “this guy’s not human! Nobody could do all that the writer is making him do! I simply don’t believe it!” And with that, I flipped the book into the wastebasket; I’ve never read a novel by that writer again. Millions of readers may still be reading such thrillers, but I say, “Nonsense! I won’t read novels when I can’t believe the central character is human.”

The best novelists do more than make their central characters believable, they make the novel’s whole world believable. The great English novelist Anthony Trollope prided himself on being able to map each novel’s world, here his fictional county of Barsetshire:

I had it all in mind, its roads and railroads, its towns and parishes, its members of Parliament, and the different hunts that rode over it. I knew all the great lords and their castles, the squires and their parks, the rectors and their churches.... There has been no name given to a fictitious site, which does not represent to me a spot of which I know as though I had lived and wandered there.

With the end of a novel writer and reader say goodbye to each other and to the characters they have come to know and, often, to love. Endings can be comic or sad, noisy or quiet, agitated or calm; what matters most is that the reader closes the book with a sense of satisfied finality. Perhaps the ending I love best of all from the countless books I have read is the end of The “Genius” by Theodore Dreiser. The “Genius” tells the story of Eugene Witla, an adventurous American painter who lurches from one affair to another, from commercial hackwork to great art, from obscurity to fame. After describing such a tumultuous life, Dreiser surprises us by leaving his hero with a hushed ending of unmatched poignancy. In the novel’s last sentences, Dreiser describes Eugene tucking his daughter into bed and stepping outside to look up at the Milky Way:

“Where in all this—in substance,” he thought, rubbing his hand through his hair, “is Angela? Where in substance will be that which is me? What a sweet welter life is—how rich, how tender, how grim, how like a colorful symphony.”

Great art dreams welled up in his soul as he viewed the sparkling deeps of space.

The sound of the wind—how fine it is tonight,” he thought.

Then he went quietly in and closed the door.

About Michael

Michael Lydon is a writer and musician who lives in New York City. Author of many books, among them Rock Folk, Boogie Lightning, Ray Charles: Man and Music, and Writing and Life. A founding editor of Rolling Stone, Lydon has written for many periodicals as well, the Atlantic Monthly, New York Times, and Village Voice. He is also a songwriter and playwright and, with Ellen Mandel, has composed an opera, Passion in Pigskin. A Yale graduate, Lydon is a member of ASCAP, AFofM local 802, and on the faculty of St. John’s University.

[blogwritetheworld]

From My Desk to Yours with Michael Lydon: Using the Collective Voice

by Michael Lydon

Over my second cup of coffee on a recent workday at my desk, I click-clicked my way to Write the World and found, to my delight, that the site’s latest prompt was a challenge for Write-the-Worlders to use the collective voice. The collective voice, as I vaguely knew, meant using “we” as the point of view telling the story, and that “we,” the prompt explained, could be a group of any kind, “a pack of werewolves, a whole town, multiple siblings, a troop, a band, a flock…” You eager WtWers leapt on the device, coming up with many dashing “we’s” to tell dramatic stories. Here’s toastburninglucy’s collective cliffhanger, “The Climb”:

The cold froze through to our bones as we kept on climbing, hearts beating perilously fast under the black of the night sky. Our hands bled as we heaved ourselves up the rock face and we clearly felt the space around our middles where the ropes should have been. We tried not to think about the two of us left at the bottom, but we all did.  

—and Sarah D’s horrific picture of humans battling aliens:

We watched them descend from the sky like a storm. Their black expanse rumbled like thunder and the land cracked like lightening when they landed. We were scared. We were confused. We had never known an entity such as them before. We fought them. We fought them with guns and fists and fiery weapons from hell.

Writers use the collective voice far less often than they use either the first person voice—“I walked to the store”—or the third person voice—“He walked to the store”—both of which are so common as to be nearly invisible.  The second person voice—“You walked to the store”—is also seldom used, but many fine writers use it to grab their readers by the scruff of the neck and pull them into the narrative, as Alexander Solzhenitsyn often does in his powerful The Gulag Archipelago. In the misery of Siberian labor camps, he writes:

You come to realize your own weakness—and therefore you can understand the weakness of others. And be astonished at another’s strength. And to wish to possess it yourself…. You do not hasten to question and you do not hasten to answer. Your eyes do not flash with gladness nor do they darken with grief.

Thanks to the prompt, I continued thinking about the collective voice, and many fine examples soon came to mind. First, the royal “we” that monarchs use when speaking for their subjects, the most famous of these being Queen Victoria’s sniffy (and undoubtedly apocryphal) “We are not amused.” Then the prayer, the “Our Father,” born in Christianity and intoned by people all around the world:

Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, Amen

These bold and ringing words from the United States’ Declaration of Independence stand among the great treasures of America’s national heritage:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

These sad words by James Jones in his magnificent novel, Whistle, define their group as the battle-scarred WWII veterans hoping to heal in a Memphis hospital:

[We returnees] were like a family of orphaned children, split by an epidemic and sent to different care centers. That feeling of an epidemic persisted. The people treated us nicely, and cared for us tenderly, and then hurried to wash their hands after touching us. We were somehow unclean.

In these examples of the collective voice, the “we” steps up boldly and takes over the narrative: “We watched them descend from the sky like a storm.” There is, however, a common form of collective voice, general statement, in which the “we” is silent, nearly invisible. With general statement, a writer asserts a truth of human life to explain events related by the narrative. Anna Karenina’s famous first sentence is a perfect example of the form:

Happy families are all alike; unhappy families are unhappy each in their own way.

There’s no outspoken “we” here, but there is a silent one. Tolstoy’s bold general statement asks us to acknowledge that we know that he’s telling the truth. If we agree that, yes, happy families are all alike, we have become a “we” with the great Russian author.

Likewise, though even more subtly, Dickens slips a general statement into the deadly struggle between Miss Pross and Madame Defarge:

It was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross, with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate, clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor.

Is love always much stronger than hate? Philosophers have debated the question for centuries, but I agree with Dickens that love is the stronger, and if you agree too, then you, me, and Dickens become a we who will struggle to defeat hate as Miss Pross struggled to defeat Madame Defarge.

Anthony Trollope maintains a pace of one or more general statements per page, and though he is not shy about bringing “we” out of its silent role, he never lets it take over the narrative:

It is no doubt very wrong to long after a naughty thing. But nevertheless we all do so....When we confess that we are all sinners, we confess that we all long after naughty things.

Our archdeacon was worldly—who among us is not so?

Theodore Dreiser often uses general statements to suggest the wonder so many of us humans feel when we try to understand the mysteries of daily life:

How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes.

As I read these sentences from Dreiser’s early masterpiece, Sister Carrie, I finished my coffee and turned back to Write the World where, by sheerest accident, this contribution from amalahmed1008 lit up the screen:

We're unsure of who we are And we're unsure of what to say We stand together But separate in our own way Perplexed and confused.

Well, I thought, if Dreiser and amalahmed1008 can agree across a century, we humans are more alike than we might think!

About Michael

Michael Lydon is a writer and musician who lives in New York City. Author of many books, among them Rock Folk, Boogie Lightning, Ray Charles: Man and Music, and Writing and Life. A founding editor of Rolling Stone, Lydon has written for many periodicals as well, the Atlantic Monthly, New York Times, and Village Voice. He is also a songwriter and playwright and, with Ellen Mandel, has composed an opera, Passion in Pigskin. A Yale graduate, Lydon is a member of ASCAP, AFofM local 802, and on the faculty of St. John’s University.