#she won the Pulitzer for this

[artemismatchalatte]

2023 Pinterest 50 Book Reading Challenge

17. Pulitzer Prize Winning Book

Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton

[brightmalcolm]

[chicago-geniza]

[Voiceover] Reader, it was me

[mariasont]

Please, Don't Prove 'Em Right - A.H

a/n: my girl sabrina can do no wrong and i have been listening to this song on repeat since it came out so i just absolutely needed to write a fic about it

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: aaron hotchner is a busy man and he tends to disappoint you by missing important events

warnings: angst (sorry in advance), aaron is like not a great husband, reader is also an imperfect character, reader is a girl boss though

wc: 1.2k

You were in your best dress. More expensive than you'd ever think about buying for yourself, but it had been a gift from Aaron. You had fought him on it, scolding him for spending so much on a dress you were sure to only wear once. But he had insisted, telling you that this opportunity was once in a lifetime and that it would be a sin for it to not be celebrated with a dress that made you shine like a ruby.

He was right, partly, you were shining--glowing, sparkling, glittering--as you moved through the library. It was beautiful, to say the least--all opulence and history that was almost too much to absorb. The marble floors almost seemed to amplify the conversations around you, the clinking of glasses, the swish of overpriced gowns and tuxedos.

Your eyes settled on the tiered desks fitted with bronze reading lamps, now repurposed as a station for hors d'oeuvres and champagne. The circular arrangement of desks, once centered around knowledge, now facilitated hushed gossip and the discreet laughter of society's finest.

You could almost hear what they were thinking: there she is again without her husband, that poor thing always by herself, and your personal favorite—does he even exist?

You wanted to be angry, to scold their prying eyes, for putting their noses into something that had nothing to do with them whatsoever. But could you really blame them? Every event you attended you told the same story--my husband is a busy man with an important job--a line you had grown tired of repeating. 

And that was all true. He devoted most of his time to saving lives--how could you find fault in that? How could you complain to having a husband whose very essence was self-sacrifice and heroism?

This evening was set to be an exception; he was in New York for a case, and the Pulitzer Prize ceremony was not something he would miss. He had given you his word.

You understood his passion for his job, completely, because you held that same passion for your own. You dedicated years of your life to your journalism, investigating corruption at its highest levels. This is exactly how you ended up here tonight, nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for that very work. A Pulitzer Prize.

The term once seemed like a fantastical concept to you, a lofty accolade reserved for the likes of JFK, Bob Dylan, Robert Frost--icons, not someone as ordinary as you. Yet, against all odds, you find yourself among the select few, a nominee for an honor that has only been won by 1,512 individuals since 1917, a fact Spencer had supplied you with.

Someone was speaking to you, saying your name. Almost without thinking, your hand found a flute of champagne, taking a generous sip before turning to face them.

"You look stunning, and a well-deserved congratulations are in order. Everyone back at the office is cheering for you." It was your boss, her stilettos adding inches to her already imposing frame.

The flattery didn't quite mask her usual coldness, it was all too artificial. She wasn't your biggest fan, and she had made that clear from your first day. Still, you mustered a smile and thanked her anyway, taking another sip of champagne, hoping to drown away her nauseating voice.

"It's too bad your husband couldn't be here," she began, and you had to resist the urge to rip out her extensions. "This is an incredible accomplishment, but he's quite the busy man, as you say."

"Yes, he is busy, but he'll be here tonight," you replied, flashing her your best smile as you smoothed the red fabric that suddenly felt too tight. "He's actually here in New York on a case."

"Oh, how great. I can't wait to put a face to the name." You could tell by the look she shot her own husband that she didn't believe a word from your mouth. "Anyway, I have to go speak with an academy representative, but I'll see you and your husband at the ceremony?"

You responded with a nod, not dignifying her with words as she left, her giggles a bitter sound. You hated her. And you were ready to make her eat her words when your husband, who looked absolutely incredibly in a suit, showed up.

But then it was dinner, and you found yourself alone, surrounded by a table of important people whose names you couldn't remember. The seat beside you was empty and suddenly that omnipotent, cloud-nine feeling you had vanished with the time that passed.

The text you sent piled up, feeling a little juvenile, like you were back in high school again getting stood up at prom.

Let me know when you're close!

Is everything going okay?

Call me if you can.

An onslaught of anxious thoughts skyrocketed around your mind as you mechanically chewed the fancy food that only seemed to upset your stomach further. What if something happened? Was he okay? Did the case go wrong? Did he get in a car accident on the way here?

You were a bundle of nerves, gnawing on the inside of your mouth as your heel tapped up and down against the floor. But this wasn't borne from concern for his well-being; deep down, you were certain he was fine. The truth was simpler and sharper: he wasn't coming.

You should have been prepared, should have braced for this, but you were convinced that this time, this occasion would be an exception.

You name was being called, but this time not by someone wanting to extract prying information or stir speculation, no, this time it was carried across the crowed, wrapped in the microphone's static hum.

Your head snapped up, fingers ceasing their fidgeting as you struggled to mask the shock and avoid the gaping, breathless look of a fish out of water.

You had won.

People were clapped, but it seemed far away as you made your way to the stage, hands coming from all directions to offer pats on the back and handshakes of congratulations.

You had won.

Your feet were carrying you up a small set of stairs. You were trying to remember how to walk--left, right, heel, toe. There was a bright light on you now, prompting a slight squint and you worked to keep a smile on your face as you accepted the award.

You had to be dreaming. Had to be. There was no other explanation.

You were on display now, under the intense stage lights. Your body was on autopilot, stepping behind the podium, words flowing out of your mouth--a speech you had rehearsed over and over again in the slim chance that you would win. And here you are.

But the more you spoke the more you seemed to deviate from the script.

You paused, voice catching as you tried your best not to let the tears fall--your makeup was too pristine for smears.

"But tonight, as I accept this honor, I am reminded that while we may seek comfort in the presence of others, our truest strength comes from within." Your eyes dart around the audience, clinging to the slim chance he's there, that he showed up. "It comes from knowing that when we step into the moment, we step in with conviction, with passion, and sometimes, with a singularity that says we are enough."

The final words of your speech hang in the air, a brittle hope that disappears as quickly as it surfaced. He proved them right, and no amount of applause can drown out the sound of your heart breaking just a little.

part 2

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179

[thekidthesuperkid]

Nobody is doing it like Lois Lane. She's a black belt in karate. She was learning how to shoot guns when she was six. She knows a Kryptonian martial art/meditation technique that normally is very dangerous for humans. She was sneaking around trying to get dirt on megalomaniacs and impressing the chief of the Daily Planet when she was fifteen. She won two Pulitzers. She once made a deal with Luthor to save the Daily Planet and in exchange she would have to kill one story about him anytime he chose, but then when he offered to rescind the deal after she saved his daughter she refused the offer because she was offended he thought she would save someone for the sake of getting out of their deal. Then she double crossed him when he decided to cash in on the deal. On her honeymoon she singlehandedly fought an entire cartel to rescue her husband. When asked what she would be the god of she decided to become the God of Integrity. She jumps off bridges to get a ride to work from Superman. Thee woman of all time <3

[vexingwoman]

I was watching an interview of my favorite (male) author. He’s sold about two million copies and won the Pulitzer Prize, along with dozens of other literary awards I’d never even heard of. His novel is getting turned into a mini Netflix series now.

When he was drafting his novel, he had two small children, and his wife was doing the bulk of the domestic work. I wondered if he ever would have reached this level of success without relying on a woman’s unpaid work—if he had been required to do even half the domestic work she did. Then I wondered what level of success his wife could have reached if she had been provided the opportunity to chase her dreams with reckless abandon like her husband.

It just got me thinking about how unfair things still are. How many female prodigies do you ever hear about who were able to manage the bulk of the childcare/house chores on top of their career/passion? How many male prodigies do you ever hear about who were disadvantaged in such a way? The nuclear family is counter to female success.

[feminist-space]

"Wolfe, a reporter with Mississippi Today, a nonprofit, online news outlet, won the Pulitzer for detailing a disturbing $77 million welfare fraud scandal in the nation's second-poorest state, a scandal headlined by Mississippi's most famous athlete, Brett Favre.

The reporting described how, with then-Gov. Phil Bryant in office, Favre and a handful of others scored millions of dollars that were supposed to go to welfare families but were instead used on projects that included a college volleyball facility and a concussion drug company.

Favre's involvement elevated the story into national news, providing fodder for talking heads from Fox News to ESPN. In no time, some people were going to sarcastic extremes over the story, such as shirts that went on sale saying, in all capital letters, "Brett Favre stole money from poor people. Go Bears."

Bryant and Favre both have said they had no idea the money was designated for welfare families.

It was against that backdrop last spring, a month shy of her 29th birthday, that Wolfe won the Pulitzer and celebrated with family, friends and colleagues at Hal & Mal's, a Jackson institution. It was a moment that should have capped the journey on a story Wolfe had been chasing for five years.

Instead, not long after the Pulitzers were announced, the former governor sued Mississippi Today for defamation, setting off a battle that not only soured Wolfe's and Mississippi Today's moment but, more troubling to Wolfe, turned the focus away from the scandal itself.

That's because not only has Bryant's lawsuit not gone away despite Mississippi Today's insistence that its reporting is truthful, but the former governor also recently asked a circuit court to hold Wolfe and the news organization in contempt of court. The governor wants all of Wolfe's notes. He wants her emails. He wants her confidential sources. And the judge has ordered, at the very least, that Wolfe and Co. show him what they've got so he can determine its relevance to the case.

Mississippi Today has called the order "unconstitutional" and appealed to the state supreme court. Either way, Wolfe and her boss, Adam Ganucheau, have said there's no way they're giving up confidential sources. They say they would rather defy the court and face possible jail or, probably more likely, see their news organization get hammered with substantial damages.

What was once a story about poverty, power and Brett Favre, has now become a battle involving the First Amendment."

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Rhiannon Giddens - Way Over Yonder 2023

You're the One is the third solo studio album by American singer-songwriter Rhiannon Giddens, and it received generally positive reviews from critics.

Giddens expressed that she hoped listeners would "just hear American music. Blues, jazz, Cajun, country, gospel, and rock - it's all there. They're fun songs, and I wanted them to have as much of a chance as they could to reach people who might dig them but don't know anything about what I do".

In 2023, the opera Omar, co-written by Giddens and Michael Abels, won the Pulitzer Prize for Music.

"Way Over Yonder" received a total of 46,9% yes votes.

[mias-playground]

Angela Davis and novelist Toni Morrison (1931-2019). Toni released her novel ‘Beloved’ in 1987. Based on the true story of a Black enslaved woman, the book was a Bestseller for 25 weeks and won countless awards including the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. She also became the first Black woman to win the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1993.

[trippingontheescalator]

Which Classic Novel Should You Read Based on Your Fave Snape Pairing

Snily - Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë (1847). Let's see, a low class and abused, brooding Byronic leading man? Check. Madly in love with a woman who ends up marrying a snobbish rich man who looks down on our hero? Check. Obsessed with her even decades after her death? Check, check, and check. Oh, and let's not forget that the child the woman has with her husband shares her eyes. Hm, suspicious.

Snames - Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded by Samuel Richardson (1740). So, as a fellow snames fan, let's be honest with ourselves: all of our fics can be boiled down to "I can change him." We want James to be despicable, inhuman, and cruel to Severus, and then we want James to realize how disgusting he is and grovel at Severus's feet, because we are all basic bitches. So basic that one of the earliest novels in the English language is basically this. Pamela originated this trope.

Snirius - Deep Water by Patricia Highsmith (1957). Snirius fans are unafraid of dark, toxic relationships and unhappy endings, and, well, here's a book for you! Deep Water is about as toxic as you can get. It's about a man who murders his wife's lovers.

Snucius - Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw (1913). Alright, alright, so this isn't a novel, this is a play, but fans of this pairing definitely seem to be into the whole sugar daddy/"I can turn this feral street child into an elegant gentleman" kind of vibe, and this is what this play is all about. Audrey Hepburn is fantastic in the film adaptation My Fair Lady (1964).

Snupin - Bear by Marian Engle (1976). You Canadians are probably like, "What the fuck? Is my OTP a joke to you?" The answer is yes, but that's beside the point. Hear me out. The main character is an archivist who is very bad at relationships and kind of shuns society in general. Like our Snape. She ends up in the Canadian wilderness on an assignment going through a dead person's belongings. Also, this dead person kept a pet bear that our heroine now has to take care of. Our heroine begins to yearn for something wild, our pet bear is a literal bear, but also incredibly pathetic and docile just like Lupin. Anyway, the two fuck. Literally, she fucks a bear. THIS BOOK WON THE GOVERNOR GENERAL'S LITERARY AWARD. THAT'S LIKE CANADA'S PULITZER I THINK. None of you werewolf-fuckers should act shocked and dismayed by this. We all know how you really think Sirius's prank should have gone (in which instead of James rescuing Snape, Moony makes sweet sweet love to him).

Sorry, guys, no Snarry or Snamione. I don't really read those pairings so I can't give an accurate recommendation. But if you've got thoughts, add to this!

[televiewer]

iwtv s3 prediction...

rupaul: category is...interview with the GLAMpire!

queen 1, wearing a hand-knit gown, accessorized with cassettes whose tapes are pulled and cascade around her and a pair of reading glasses: my look is an homage to daniel molloy, and i am giving you the full meltdown-on-live-television FANTASY in these 8-inch pumps

rupaul: now i see why she won the pulitzer!

ross matthews: pultizer? i hardly know her!

queen 2, starting off in an all black look with an ipad over her face. she slowly pulls it down to reveal a pair of shades. as she approaches the end of the runway she does a turn to reveal "i could not prevent it" stoned above her ass: this reveal is inspired by all of the GAG-WORTHY moments armand served us! i chose multiple reveals to acknowledge the multi-facetedness of who armand is

michelle visage: okay maitre!

rupaul: maitre dearest...

michelle visage: no more wire FANGers!

queen 3, dressed in louis' s1 finale outfit. the blood is red glitter.: i decided to take a bit of a risk and go for a more controversial look but i'm hoping it pays off!

guest judge lestat de lioncourt: [does his little pause time telepathy thing] the fabric you chose looks cheap on the runway and the silhouette is all wrong...as unflattering as it is uninspired. you may have brought nerve to this runway but you lack the charisma, uniqueness, and talent to pull it off. i can see the unlined fabric of your sleeve and even in his darkest moments mon cher...the great vampire louis de pointe du lac...would never dress in anything so tasteless. if i could describe this look in one word it would be pedestrian but then again if i saw someone dressed like this promenading down the street i would pity them so deeply i would not even give them the dignity of a second glance. rest assured tonight you will be lip synching for your pathetic mortal life... however a loss may be the more charitable option. [time unpauses] [reads off teleprompter] oh, i would let her slay me any day!

michelle visage: i know that's right!

[artistzjay]

You know what I find really interesting, annoying, and frustrating all at the same time?

How people dumb down characters to make the other characters look good.

Or when they take away all of the bad traits from one character to make that character liked but amplify the other party’s bad qualities or add bad qualities that doesn’t exist.

As in basically making them OCs.

Like how they make a characters in Miraculous Ladybug worse than what they are and how they make Marinette the most amazing person on earth when she literally broke into Adrien’s house multiple times and stalked him on multiple occasions.

Yet the fandom is creating such fiction that will reconstruct the entirety of the show, especially the salt fanfiction, making the class to be such bullies because of Lila, like making Alya some kind of angry, irrational dog or Adrien some kind of really creepy dude, when, in reality, Marinette, actually the creep all because of the chameleon episode.

Is Alya not the best of friends? Yes.

Was Adrien’s advice to Marinette stupid? In my opinion, yes.

Did they make the characters dumb (dumber than usual) in chameleon? Yes.

Marinette is a kid but her classmates around e also children and her crimes are much bigger than their in the show and the fanfic is just making it seem like her crimes are not existent.

Or in DC fanfiction where they make characters like the Green Lantern or The Flash or Superman incredibly dumb or incredibly incompetence for the Bats.

Then, in reality, Hal graduated top of his class and has (what I believe are) a aviation degree and engineering degree, working on extremely complex projects of aircraft, Barry is a forensic chemist and literally works on crime scenes, or Clark who is literally a reporter who won two Pulitzers awards, works at one of the best newspapers in the industry/world, and does amazing work on his stories

And all of them have use their intelligence to defeat their enemies bigger than themselves, but writers just throw it all away to make them complete blundering idiots or just straight up a-holes for Batman and his family.

Just complete disregard for the characters quality in who they are and what they stand for.

[eqt-95]

untitled supercorp excerpt

It was a clever plan. It was so clever Lena was about to pat herself on the back.

Until the cursed wheelie chair whirred across the grated floor and brought the last thing she wanted to see on this or any other depraved planet back into view.

“What are you doing?” Kara asked.

“Going out,” she replied stiffly, adjusting her bag and checking that her scarf was tucked securely into her neckline. She’d only finally extracted the last grains from her last sand-ezvous, and she was not keen to revisit that experience.

“Uh, no you aren’t,” Kara said flatly. It put Lena’s teeth on edge.

“Funny,” Lena began, rounding on the blonde now towering over her by four annoying inches, “I don’t take orders from Supergirl.” “They weren’t orders,” Kara huffed, her arms crossed and stepping between Lena and freedom. Well, sort-of-freedom.

“Then get out of my way.”

“I wouldn’t expect someone so good at holding grudges to be so forgetful,” Kara replied far too smugly.

“I'm fully functioning in that department, thanks.”

“Oh, so then you didn’t forget the Goobs lurking around every corner.”

“Hardly. Now please-”

“We should wait until the next cycle. Until I can go out-”

“That’s eight days away, and in case you bothered to notice, we’ve got just enough amorphous gray goop to last two.”

“Then I’ll go" Kara said, all cheeto-puffed out chest and heroic vibrato. "Solo.”

Lena scowled. “You are incompetent and powerless.”

“Not if you radio the instructions to me.”

“How do you expect me to instruct you to do something I haven’t even seen?”

“I’ll… I can describe it to you.”

“You may have won a Pulitzer, but don’t be so misguided to think it had anything to do with your vivid imagery, Supergirl.”

Kara flinched, her chest deflated, and Lena felt emboldened.

“I’ll take my chances,” Lena said, pushing past Kara. “I’m not risking another setback.”

“Lena-”

“What?” Lena snarled, fingers gripping her sunglasses with a threatening creak.

“Let me.”

“Why?” Lena asked, swinging to face Kara.

“B-because,” Kara stammered.

“Because? That’s why?” Lena scoffed haughtily. “Because, because, because,” she continued, a mocking tone, “Ambiguity is no different than deceit, Supergirl. What is it this time, hm? Can’t trust a Luthor? Can’t risk me sabotaging your heroic return? Can’t-

A chair flying, glass shattering, and a symphony of clanging metal-on-metal interrupted her.

“What the fuck Ka-”

“Because I can’t fix you!” Kara shouted.

Lena blinked, her corporate demeanor stunned by the shards of glass glittering the floor and the seething anger coming from the powerless Kryptonian in front of her. The wheelie chair spun uselessly as a final stack of scrolls tumbled to the ground and spilled across the floor.

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t… You’re not,” Kara began, looking perplexed, disoriented - scared? It did nothing but feed the inferno of loathing Lena felt. “You’re not a gadget or some gizmo or… you’re not me. You can’t be fixed with a sun or a-a lamp. If you get hurt - you could get hurt.”

"You'd get your wish then," Lena replied icily before pushing open the door and stepping into swirling winds of dust and red haze.

[mariasont]

Please, Don't Prove 'Em Right Pt 2 - A.H

a/n: im not quite sure how i feel about this i feel like im really bad with resolutions but practice makes perfect and you all really wanted a part two so here we are i hope you beautiful angels like it:)

also if you commented on the first part which can be found here, i put you on the taglist for this one!

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotcher x fem!reader

summary: is it possible to forgive the man who broke your heart the most?

warnings: angst, creepy man in a parking lot, hurt lots of hurt, idk man i still wouldn't be able to forgive him for this, CURB STOMP

wc: 1.6k

The sound of your stupid heels against the pavement only served to fuel your irritation. A rough patch of asphalt snagged the stem of the shoe, jolting your ankle sharply. With a hiss and a muttered curse, you bent down, yanking off the insufferable things, all the while attempting to block out the thought of the grime that was now undoubtedly coating your skin.

Your stupid dress now dragged against the ground, collecting dirt, and your stupid makeup, once perfect, was now smeared by the tracks of your tears.

"Hey there, pretty lady, why the long face on such a beautiful night?"

The voice came from a man who materialized as if from thin air, towering over you. His clothes were worn, his tie hanging crookedly, and a predatory grin fixed on his face.

You tried to sidestep, your mood souring further, but he mirrored your movements, blocking your path, his eyes examining you with an unsettling sense of familiarity.

"Come on, don't be like that. A girl like you shouldn't be all alone. Let me keep you company."

His words were like oil, slick and unwelcome, making your skin crawl. You clutched your heels tighter, completely prepared to use them as a weapon if necessary. "I'm fine, thanks."

But he wasn't taking the hint, stepping closer, his breath reeking of booze. "No need to be shy. I'll treat you right--,"

This was it. Instead of being known for winning a Pulitzer, you'd be known as the girl who got kidnapped in the parking lot after the ceremony. The cherry on top of the evening.

"I think you're misunderstanding the situation. She's not interested."

The man of the hour. You knight in a suit and fucking tie. The stranger's gaze shifted to him, and for a moment you saw the hesitation, the calculation of a prey assessing whether he can take on his predator. The man finally scoffed--a sound meant to be dismissive, but even he couldn't mask the defeat. With a sneer, he walked away.

You released a pent-up breath, one you hadn't realized you'd been holding.  Aaron turned to you. "Are you alright?"

"Am I alright? You know what fuck off, Aaron." Your words came out laced with a venom that shocked even you, their acrid taste lingering on your tongue. The tears you'd been staving off now flowed freely. You jabbed the certificate into his chest, the paper wrinkling under your fingers. "I won, by the way."

Your turned on your heel, not waiting to see his face. The concrete was frigid under your bare feet, but your pride swallowed any reaction.

"This isn't the place to be alone and without shoes." Aaron's voice followed you.

You came to an abrupt stop, anger bubbling through every surface of your body as you spun around to face him. "Neither is the Pulitzer ceremony where I'm supposed to have a supportive husband."

"I'm so sorry, honey. I got caught up with that case and there was—,"

"Aaron, stop," you cut him off, tears burning the corners of your eyes. "I can't hear more excuses because you know what? I give you excuses all the time, and you take advantage of it. You take advantage of me and the chances I give you. And you just... you just keep letting me down. All I wanted was for you to be here for this one thing. That's it. And you couldn't even do that."

"I messed up, I know," Aaron said, his usual eloquence failing him. "There's no case, no job, no damn good reason for me not to be there. I failed you, and it's not something I can just fix with an I'm sorry, but I am I'm so sorry."

The floodgates open, and you're sobbing. "I hate this. I hate that I want to forgive you. But I can't... I can't because I know you'll do this again. And every time, it chips away at me, at us, until there's nothing left."

"Oh, honey," Aaron says, reaching out, but you shrink away, the space between you filled with more than just air.

"P-Please, don't," you gasp, the tears relentless. "I can't... I just need some space. I'll get my things and stay with my sister, okay?"

You walk away, the knot in your throat growing tighter, the distance between you stretched out and you can feel his eyes on you. You slide into the driver's seat, starting the engine, and glancing in the rearview mirror. Aaron's figure lingers there. A wave of nausea hits you. Isn't it wicked when the very thing you love inflicts the greatest hurt?

The drive home was silent, the stereo left untouched. Your fingers clenched and unclenched around the steering wheel, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths that you couldn't seem to control. The reflection of your tear-streaked face was lost in the blur of streetlights streaking past. Your mind replayed every missed anniversary, every birthday, every empty seat beside you. You were tired of being alone.

Before you knew it, you were sitting in front of your garage. Each movement was a chore--unbuckling the seatbelt, opening the car door, the garage door, and finally the front door.

You stop dead in your tracks, eyes roaming over the living room. Balloons lie strewn about the floor, streamers dangling from the mantel. Almost every surface glimmers with the soft glow from the intermittent flickering of battery-operated candles. Aaron had an insistence on fire safety, which always negated the use of actual candles.

Tears threatened to spill again as you closed the door behind you, your steps leading you down the hallway to the kitchen. A congratulations banner hung over the island, done in Aaron's chicken scratch handwriting but it made your heart give out all the same.

The scent of chrysanthemums, your favorites, wafts through the air before they come into view--large, splendid blooms of pink and yellow cradled in your largest vase. Your hands, trembling, ran over the accompanying card, fingers fumbling to unfold it.

For My Pulitzer Prize Winner,

I realize I'm writing this before the ceremony, maybe I'm jinxing it, but in my heart, I know you will win. I know this not just because of the undeniable quality of your work, but because of the sheer force of will and passion that drives you. You are the greatest thing in my life, and every day, you inspire me to be the best version of myself.

When we first met, you told me your favorite flowers were Chrysanthemums. I remember asking if it was because it was your birth flower, but you shook your head and told me about your favorite story instead. You told me about a book that showed the beauty and strength in being unique, and that sometimes, it takes a bit of time for the world to recognize the splendor of what's different.

This has been your journey—filled with moments of doubt, but ultimately, a triumph of self-belief and talent. You've blossomed in the most extraordinary ways, and tonight, the world sees what I've always seen.

Love, Aaron

Tears speckled the paper as you dabbed at them with your sleeve, trying to clear the blots. Your focus moved to the present, wrapped neatly and sitting beside the flowers. You tugged at the ribbons, unraveling the wrapper paper with deliberate gentleness.

A shaky giggle slips out as you draw out the book. Chrysanthemum by Kevin Henkes. But what really starts the tears isn't the book itself, not, it's the familiar loops and lines of your nine-year-old self's handwriting.

This is my favorite book because it's about being special. I am special too.

This was the copy you had as a little girl, the on you lost. How did he find it? Turning the page, another stifled sob breaks free. The margins are crowded with affectionate notes penned by your family, friends, colleagues, the BAU team, and Aaron.

Fuck.

The door creaked open and clicked shut, and in no time at all, he was standing behind you. He stopped, a few steps away, as if too scared to close the distance and scare you off.

"Did you do this?" Your voice was soft, book clutched to your chest.

The pause stretches on, his breath the only sign of life. "Yes."

You turn to him, searching his eyes. "Why?"

"Why?" Aaron repeats, as if it were a stupid question. "Because I love you."

He takes a cautious step forward, like he's all too aware you're getting that shaky feeling in your stomach that's telling you to run.

"I am so sorry. You have every right to be mad, to be upset with me, and I get it. But I love you, and I want to work on this. It's tearing me apart to see you like this."

"I'm scared, Aaron." You voice breaks. "Scared you're going to do this to me again."

He steps closer, close enough to share the same breath. "I'm scared too," he admits. "But I'm more scared of losing you. I'll prove it. Today and every day after."

The room is still, the only sound the ticking of the clock. You're standing at a crossroads, the kind you read in books and see in moves, the power to forgive or walk away. You watch him, the man who is the love of your life and also the bane of existence, and you see it in his eyes. Something you haven't seen in a long time—fear. Not the fear of consequence, but the fear of loss.

It's a humanly glimpse into the man you fell in love with, the man who you know is still there beneath his layers of work.

"I'll be waiting."

Maybe you could be considered stupid, naive, with no self-respect. Maybe one day you'll curse yourself for not walking away. But maybe, just maybe the man you love will make his way back to you and prove the rest wrong.

regular taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @freyy253

comment taglist: @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @simpingformiddleagedmen @222hwilsss @michasia24 @vsplanet @himboelover @dangerousprincessharleyinhawaii @gibson-g1rl @gghostwriter @lilozg-123 @uranometrias @miley1442111 @welcometothemaraudersspam @ladycaramelswirl @callmekanytime @maxiismp @delusional-4-fake-people

[i-am-aprl]

British journalist Mona Chalabi corrected the framing of the Israel-Gaza war to the Israel-Palestine war when she received a Pulitzer Prize at Columbia University.

In solidarity with the students of New York University facing suspension and arrest for supporting Palestine, she posted a video recorded in October 2023.

In her brief speech, Chalabi emphasised the reluctance of many attending the ceremony to address the Palestine issue. She noted that although she wasn't scheduled to give a speech, she found it necessary due to factual inaccuracies.

The British data journalist, illustrator, and writer of Iraqi descent received the prize for Illustrated Reporting and Commentary from Columbia University President Emeritus Lee Bollinger last October.

On 19 April 2024, she mentioned that she had emailed the President of Columbia in March but had not received a response.

In sharing the video, Chalabi extended her support to student protesters at Columbia University in New York, who organised the Gaza Solidarity Encampment. Over 100 pro-Palestinian protesters were arrested following its organisation.

Several students at Columbia University have also been suspended from the university and its affiliated institutions.

It's noteworthy that Chalabi won the Prize for her striking illustrations, which blend statistical reporting with insightful analysis.

These illustrations provide readers with a deeper understanding of Amazon founder Jeff Bezos's vast wealth and economic influence

[nartml]

To Pimp a Butterfly and 1989: a rant

Listen here, three things about me are that I'm a) white as snow, b) Greek, c) still a minor.

What does this mean? It means that I obviously wasn't raised with hip-hop, and I got into Kendrick Lamar's music pretty late.

As in, early this year.

I've known of him for some time, and the moment I found out he had a Pulitzer prize at some point in late-ish 2023, I decided I had to sit my ass down and pull out Spotify.

Now, as an avid reader of both fanfiction (ao3 raised me) and books [I feel the immense need to clarify that I don't associate myself with mainstream booktok. Capitalism's consumerism has overrun that shit and all I see are the same 20 books being recycled and recommended (a substantial amount of those are Colleen Hoover and her variants). Tropes and spice* are officially the defining factors of whether a book is worth it (*your porn addiction ain't cute) and quantity is heavily prioritized at the expense of quality. Also, diversity who?], I was, for a lack of a better word, hyped.

A Pulitzer prize is nothing to scoff at in general, more so in music, more so in hip-hop.

(Edit: Upon quick reflection, I realize that putting emphasis on hip-hop can come across as coded.

I am in no way, shape, or form trying to undermine hip-hop or say that it's somehow less 'sophisticated' than, for example, classical music. I'm very aware of the amount of skill and technique one needs to write a masterful hip-hop album, and I'm not doubting that there are hip-hop artists out there who are also incredibly deserving of such a prize. I meant it in the sense that I've unfortunately never heard of another hip-hop artist who won a Pulitzer before, which is quite telling.)

That's some huge shit, and I'd be a fool not to be intrigued.

Admittedly, I didn't get on that immediately. For a while I procrastinated, because I wasn't in the mood to hyper-fixate on anything new just yet.

Which of course meant I ended up forgetting about it for a few months, because of course I did.

But then I came across a TikTok that talked about how it was insane that '1989' won the Grammy when To Pimp a Butterfly was right there.

Now, a fourth thing about me is that I don't fuck with Taylor Swift.

And a fifth thing about me is that I'm not baseless in anything that I do, say or feel, and that includes annoyance.

Her immature understanding of activism and feminism leaves a bad taste in my mouth. The way she built up her fan base around this portrayal of her as a relatable girl's girl, her refusal to accept criticism, and always making a victim out of herself (even now when she's in her thirties and is a fucking billionaire) while never using her position of power and privilege for good are all reasons that serve to fuel my dispassionate dislike.

And before any Swifties get on my ass, no, I don't think that "But she's a singer! Why are you expecting so much out of her, she isn't even qualified to speak on XYZ—" is a good enough excuse.

She has always been rich, and now she's a billionaire. There are no ethical billionaires, and that includes her.

Fame is influence is power. Uncle Ben said it all: With great power comes great responsibility.

And let me tell you, I don't see her owning up to that responsibility, especially after all that talk about how she supports women, supports the LGBTQ community, and supports the BLM movement. Has she ever actually put her abundant money where her mouth is?

I've never seen her speak about anything that doesn't immediately concern her.

Don't get me wrong. She's not the only celebrity like this out there. I'm sure there are worse cases. I know it for a fact.

To wrap this segment up before I get even more sidetracked, I'll outright state that I don't hate her, because hating her would by definition mean that I, in some way, actually care about her, and that just sounds exhausting.

Best way to describe me is indifferent, leaning towards distasteful.

She's annoying.

And that's how I feel about both her as a person and her as an artist.

I'm not denying her talent, nor her impact on the industry, nor the fact that she does have good songs that even I like.

A select few, of course, but still.

Apart from those...what? Ten songs? I have never, ever been able to listen to any other song of her's all the way through.

I get bored. They do nothing for me. They sound empty. Hollow. Plastic. Repetitive.

Her lyrics, that are praised by fans for being deep and complex, sound pretty surface level to me.

Not all of them. But I'm a sucker for analysis. A literature nerd. Greek is my native language. I can tell when something's deep and when something wants to be deep.

(Not necessarily including Folklore and Evermore in that category. Her storytelling ability is actually great.)

Her music largely sounds like it wants to be deep.

Most recent example being her latest release, The Tortured Poets Department.

Anyway, back to Kendrick.

My initial plan was to listen to 'DAMN.' first, because that's what he won the Pulitzer for in the first place.

There was a change of plans after that TikTok.

I decided to compare the opening tacks.

I put on Welcome to New York, and predictably, I felt nothing.

The rhythm is dance-y, I suppose. But there's nothing substantial about it. There's nothing exciting about it.

The lyrics are juvenile, and I get it, it's a pop song and she was in her twenties.

Nobody is expecting Shakespeare (no matter how much you scream or kick your feet, the only reason Shakespeare couldn't write Taylor Swift is because he's in another league entirely) or Odysseus Elytis. Nobody is expecting mind-blowing lyricism.

But it's the opening track to an apparently Grammy-worthy album. The very least I'd expect from it would be some additional levels of artistry.

Am I being harsh? Probably. Do I care? No.

Disappointed but unsurprised, I put on Wesley's Theory.

I ascended within the first minute.

Don't get it twisted, I barely understood shit.

Not only am I white, I am also entirely removed from America and its culture as a whole. I don't know what's going on there in y'all's daily lives.

And this was baby's first proper introduction to hip-hop as a whole.

My untrained, white-ass ear barely caught two references. I got what the gist of the song was about, and that's about it.

I had to look up analyses of the track to fully grasp what Kendrick was on about, and even then, there was obviously still a disconnect.

And I expected all of that.

I didn't expect to get hooked on that song within the first listen.

I swear to fuck, the beat is addictive. I swear to fuck, even when I was fighting to understand what the lyrics were referencing, I was having the time of my life.

Even I, an amateur in every sense of the word, could tell that there was depth and there was quality and there was intentional meaning in every line of that song.

It didn't matter that I couldn't understand it. It mattered that I knew it was there. Not because someone told me that was the case. But because it was audible.

I listened to the next track. And the one after that. And the one after that. I had listened to all of the tracks, before I knew it.

And the evident permeance of quality, of substance, carried on throughout the whole album.

It had exactly the type of lyricism I'd expect a Grammy-worthy album to have. It had exactly the amount of artistry I expected a Grammy-worthy album to have.

Even better, it had all the ingredients I expected a timeless album to have.

The poetry Taylor Swift fans insist hides in her discography, I found in plain sight within Kendrick Lamar's.

After meticulously reading the lyrics, I watched video essay after video essay, searched for analysis after analysis on this album, each time understanding the meanings behind it a little better.

Needless to say that the Grammy's are rigged and I love Kendrick Lamar.

Hip-hop is gorgeous.