#technically my teacher read it aloud to us but then later it became the first book i ever bought at a used bokok store <3

[waitingforminjae]

did anyone else read the miraculous journey of edward tulane or was that just me and my fourth grade class

[breaniebree]

Can you share your journey as a writer? How the idea of writing fanfics came into your mind? Do you have other own fiction too? Also how do start a particular fanfic? As in do you make notes, timeline or character sketches and stuff or do you just go ahead and write and then make notes on facts?

What an interesting question -- thank you for asking!  This is literally going to be a novel response (letting you know in advance LOL)

My journey as a writer... I guess I always wrote things down, started as a child when I wrote in a diary and then as I got older I wrote a little poetry, none of it very good (though I wrote a poem when I was twelve to describe the loss I felt when my Nana, my great-grandmother died, and my aunt read it aloud at her funeral).  I wrote a few short stories, just little things, prompts from teachers in school and such and then one day I decided I wanted to write my own story.  But funnily enough, it actually came about through fan fiction.  

I used to love this book series back when I was ten called Trash by Cherie Bennett, and I was completely in love with the characters Chelsey and Nick, and when Jazz claimed that she was pregnant and Nick was the father and it did ended on a cliffhanger and I didn’t have the next book, I remember writing my own version of what happened next -- God, looking back, it was probably terrible, I definitely don’t have it anymore.  Pretty sure the book series isn’t that great looking back at it now, but when I was ten, it was great! LOL.  I also wrote a side story for Demetrius and Karma, so even then I guess I branched off into subplots.  When I was fourteen, I started my own original series, which I am still currently working on and probably will be for the rest of my life if I’m honest -- it’s changed over the years, but the characters and my ultimate goal have stayed the same.

How did writing fanfiction come into mind?  

Well, with Harry Potter, it was because of my friend Chris.  We used to talk on the phone every single night after school for hours on end and after HBP came out and Harry and Ginny were FINALLY together only for him break up with her, I was so livid that I had to wait to find out what happened!  I remember Chris and I debated what would happen in the last book for ages and one day I must have ranted too much because he told me to go write my own story if I didn’t want to wait, so I did.  

I was seventeen and it was Harry Potter and the Prophecy Fulfilled: Which looking back at it now, I think it’s not exactly the greatest story lol and you can definitely see where I’ve improved since then.  After finishing HPPH, I ended up still having different ideas, all Hinny, and went on to write a few one-shots: Almost Too Late and Beautiful Mess.  Then I started writing A Different Beginning, which turned into my Beginning series: A Different Beginning, A New Beginning, Why Don’t We Just Dance?, Life Is Fickle Like That, Graduation Party, and The Reunion.  Those of you who have been reading my fanfiction since the beginning know that I originally posted the above stories on SIYE between 2005 and 2007 and had then completed (except for the second half of Life is Fickle onwards before Deathly Hallows was published).  I didn’t start posting on fanfiction.net until 2008 and only recently on Ao3.  Somewhere in between writing the Beginning Series, I also wrote a few other Hinny one-shots including The Greatest Gift, She Never Lets It Get To Her Heart, I Loved Her First (actually Arthur POV, which I later incorporated into the Beginning Series), The River (which is a standalone but also can be read as part of the Beginning Series), When the Sand Runs Out, and then the mini-series Padfoot’s Advice (Late Night Talks with Padfoot 1 & 2, Padfoot’s Advice, and Secrets from the Past).  Then I wrote the short Hinny/Romione story: The Trouble With Secrets and was inspired to write a Jily series, which I did with Crazy Little Thing Called Love, which could technically be a prequel to the Beginning Series as I kept some of the story similar.  I also wrote a Jily one-shot called Flowers and another Hinny one-shot called I Don’t Like Your Girlfriend.

I didn’t plan on writing any more fanfiction as university became busy, but then in 2017 I started writing these little Missing Moments for Harry and Ginny both before HBP and then during, and then after.  I just sort of compiled them on my computer for a while, wondering if it would turn into a story or not and then the idea came to me one day for A Second Chance after seeing some fan art of a five-year-old-Harry in sunshades and a leather jacket while riding a child’s motorbike next to Sirius in the same outfit and the next thing I knew, this story just pored out of me in February of 2018, I had the first twelve chapters written by March and another five by April.  I started posting the Missing Moments compilation, added a few more things including the Remus and Petunia scene from ASC and kept writing A Second Chance and in May, decided it was time to share it and uploaded the first twelve chapters.  

By the time I realized it was going to be a long one, I knew which characters I would sacrifice and how it would end, but how I was going to get there I still have no idea.  I’m not a writer who methodically plots.  I have a few general bullet points at the end of my current WIP chapter and that’s really it.  I add to it occasionally as I go, but mostly, I just write as I go along.  I can’t tell you how many chapters it will be or how long it will take me to get to the next section because frankly, it’s constantly changes.  I do not write in chronological order, which means I am often writing anywhere between 2-6 chapters at the same time depending on what scene has drawn my attention.  I might write something today that fits in the chapter I am currently working on and then by the time I finish writing other stuff, I realize that it doesn’t really fit there and stick it ahead into the next chapter or ten chapters from now.  I write where my heart takes me and where my creativity flows.  

I rarely ever work on more than one story at the same time, though I did write the short Newtina one-shot for my friend Heather as a Christmas present in 2018.  She requested it and I couldn’t write it, I found it so hard as I like them but it’s not characters I loved enough to write so I did it with a Luna spin-in, which I found helped.  I never take writing requests so this was very different for me, but I think it turned out cute: Say Love, ‘Cause We Got All the Time in the World.  I only recently uploaded it a month or so ago because I found it on my computer LOL.

Do you make notes, timeline or character sketches and stuff or do you just go ahead and write and then make notes on facts?

Once I am into the story, my notes are EXTREMELY detailed.  I do have a time line and separate documents for the following:

Character lists and family trees

General notes on: Political stuff, bills I’ve written, the sacred 28 document I wrote, tattoos mentioned, important dates, moon cycle dates of Remus’ life, classes I’ve invented (what they are about, who teaches them etc), textbook list per school year, notes on each Animagus form and information about their animals, actual time tables I wrote up Monday to Friday for Harry’s third/fourth, and fifth year, details of Zee and Tonks’ engagement rings, history and outline of Dante’s circles of hell with notes on how to incorporate into story, notes on pregnancy, character’s wands, geographic locations of characters, and any other little notes I think are important but don’t belong in the bullet points at the end of my current WIP chapter

History and ancestry of each family (from Harry Potter Lexicon, Pottermore, Harry Potter wiki, and my own personal creations).  This also includes manor information for Potter, Black, Longbottom, Nott, and Malfoy.

Hogwarts lay-out including stuff I’ve added or made up

Ministry of Magic departments and people (known and created)

List of spells (including ones I’ve made up and which chapter and which character introduced it to who)

List and pictures of Sirius’ motorbikes with information on each one

List of Pensieve memories and marauder moments (crossed out which ones I’ve shared already, some are written and waiting to be used and others just a general idea)

Terms and phrases from different languages I’ve used in the past

My playlist of songs I have mentioned in the story

An entire document dedicated to Operation FUVP including a Voldemort timeline which I have now shared in the story itself (also includes when and where each character found the Horcruxes)

A list of some of the recipes I mentioned, and 

I have a 72 page document that is literally just detailed chapter summaries to help me remember what the hell I’ve written LOL (also highlights introductions to new characters in a different font colour to help me find out when people were introduced).

Hope this answers your question -- thank you again for asking!

[the-witch-and-her-husbands]

The Officer In Charge

Days became nights became days.

Gradually, she began to settle into her new home, her new routine.

To her great surprise, the man who was her new Master had treated her with nothing but kindness. She had her own room, fashionable yet comfortable clothes, access to books and television, as much food as she wanted, and more toiletries and cosmetics than a chemist’s shop. She could eat and bathe at will, without having to ask his permission, as long she kept herself clean and presentable. That was one of his rules, as well as making sure she was adequately hydrated and nourished. She was supposed to read for at least an hour a day, but more was tolerated and even encouraged.

The only thing she couldn’t do was leave.

While he was at work, she was expected to take care of a few household chores, but she was hardly Cinderella slaving away at the hearth. She realised after a few days that she would like to be able to learn how to do something, sketch perhaps. When she expressed this to him, he rushed out and purchased boxes of supplies: pastels, paints, pencils, and a large sketchbook. He told her she was free to pursue any interest that might occur to her, she had only to say the word.

It had been approximately two weeks now since she had come to live with him.

As she was washing the dishes that morning, she reflected that he had yet to so much as touch her. Inappropriately, anyway. He would sometimes touch her arm, or her back, or stroke her hair gently. But it was nothing that would be inappropriate if it came from an elderly family member, for example. Strictly careful and platonic.

She remembered how he’d laughed at her during their first day together, when she’d all but leapt out of her skin every time he approached her.

‘Do you think I’m going to rape you?’ A slight frown had crossed his face, to be quickly replaced by a smirk. He’d moved close, so close she could feel his breath on her ear. ‘I have no need to do anything so barbaric. Soon enough, you will be begging me to fuck you.’ And he’d leant back with a satisfied smirk, before changing the subject completely.

‘Do you need anything? I’m leaving in ten minutes.’ His voice came from the main entryway.

She quickly dried her hands before going to see him off at the front door. ‘No, I think I’m good today, Sir.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you though, Sir,’ she added. That was new.

He looked as surprised by her sudden addition as she was. In the moment, it had seemed as natural to her as breathing.

‘I won’t be late.’ He leant forward to gently kiss the corner of her mouth, and then he’d gone out the door.

The rest of the day had passed in a blur. It was a day when she wished she had more chores to occupy her, so she didn’t have to keep thinking about his sudden kiss. It was maddening. Try as she might to distract herself, she kept coming back over and over to how it had felt to have his lips lightly brushing her skin.

‘Get hold of yourself, girl. It was hardly a kiss,’ she’d muttered aloud in disgust at one point.

He was due home soon. She found herself nervous all over again, but it was for a completely different set of reasons. When getting herself ready, she’d taken extra pains with her hair and make-up. Would he even notice, she wondered.

‘Hello, darling.’ He was all smiles to see her kneeling by the door that evening, as she was supposed to be doing when he arrived home. He reached a hand out to help her to her feet. ‘You look very pretty this evening.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’ She was positively glowing from his words of praise. ‘May I bring you a glass of wine?’ He would often have a glass while the evening meal was prepared. Sometimes she cooked, sometimes he did, and sometimes they cooked together. Occasionally, she was allowed to have one as well. ‘Or shall I run you a bath?’ She got down again to help him remove his shoes.

‘Yes, wine would be lovely. And pour yourself a glass as well.’ He smiled down at her while she was kneeling at his feet.

She tried, and failed, to hide her pleased expression. ‘Of course, Sir.’ His shoes were placed into the rack next to the door before she headed straight for the kitchen.

He shrugged off his suit jacket before following her, loosening his tie as he went. 

He wasn’t a bad looking man. In fact he was actually rather handsome, she noted, as she passed him his glass. There was no need to ask him what he wanted, she had his favourite vintage already memorised, as well as the way he took his coffee and what his favourite meals were.

Hazel eyes sparkled from behind his glasses as he took it from her with a nod of thanks.

She found out over dinner that he used to be a professor, and that he played the piano. Sadly, the house did not currently have an instrument. She would have loved to have heard him play. He reckoned that he was only a passable musician, but she believed that he was just being modest.

A sudden idea occurred to her. ‘Sir?’

‘Yes, my dear?’ He took a sip of his wine, face fixed in a pleasant expression as he studied her.

‘Do you think you could teach me to play? If you had a piano, I mean. I…I would love to learn. I’d love for you to teach me.’ She looked down at her hands folded tight in her lap.

‘Teach you, hmm?’ He sounded amused. ‘I suppose I can look for a small upright….’

Her head shot up and she smiled at him with delight. ‘Oh, thank you Sir! I promise I’ll practise every day!’

‘You’d better.’ He got up from his seat to go into the lounge. ‘I can be a very…exacting teacher. If I am going to give you lessons, I expect you to take them seriously. If you are not progressing as you should be because you are slacking, then I will have to discipline you.’ He kissed the top of her head in passing.

She shivered. She knew all too well from the list what that meant. She followed the rules that he had laid out for her, or else there were clear consequences and punishments. So far, she had been good. He hadn’t had to punish her. But she supposed that it was only a matter of time. One of these days she would slip up, and then she’d find herself getting a spanking. She’d never been given one before, not even as a child. The thought made her shiver again.

Once the dishes had been placed into the sink, she went to join him. As was customary, she started to sink down to sit at his feet. His hand on her arm stopped her. She looked up at him, surprised.

‘Sit here.’ He patted the space next to him.

She took it, settling herself carefully into the space. This was new.

‘Relax.’ He smiled, reaching up to play with her hair.

A heavy sigh escaped her, as she released a breath that she didn’t even realise that she was holding. Her senses were on high alert, but his hand in her hair DID feel nice. Instinctively, she found herself leaning into his hand, craving more of that gentle touch.

‘What a good little girl.’ His tone was low, soothing. He continued to card his hand carefully through her tresses.

Yes. To have him touch her like this, she found that she wanted to be his good little girl, indeed.

‘Do you like this?’ he rumbled, still stroking softly.

‘Oh! Yes, Sir.’ She sighed happily, closing her eyes.

‘Good. I want you to make you feel good. I will be firm with you at times, yes, but I can be kind as well. I don’t want to use force, to do the things I want to do to you. I would much rather have a willing little plaything,’ he explained.

‘Yes, Sir.’ She nodded, opening her eyes to look at him. Other than the first few days of their acquaintance, he’d never been deliberately cruel to her. And that was because he was doing his job. Since then, he’d given her no reason to distrust or fear him. Besides, he was her Master now. It was expected that she was going to submit to him sexually sooner or later. At least he wasn’t beating her, torturing her into compliance before getting into her bed uninvited and pressurising her into unwanted acts night after night.

‘Good girl.’ He moved his hand, running his thumb along her cheekbone, before carefully tracing along her jaw.

She wanted to purr aloud from how good it felt. As he caressed her, she released exactly how touch-starved she currently was. This was like offering a small sip from a flask to someone who had crossed a burning desert. It was delicious, and yet not nearly anything like enough.

Would he try to sleep with her that night? It wouldn’t be entirely unwelcome. She was technically still a virgin. He knew that, in one of the more embarrassing interrogations in the beginning. And now he would be the one to deflower her. Like anything, it was mostly the fear of the unknown that made her nervous. Would it hurt? Hopefully he would be gentle with her.

‘Relax.’ He smiled at her again, going back to stroking her hair.

Something of the turmoil of her thoughts must have been visible on her face. She smiled guiltily, fighting the urge to blush. He couldn’t read her mind, after all. There was no way that he could have guessed she was thinking about him bedding her.

He made no further moves on her that night, simply content to comb a hand through her hair as they sat and watched the television together in companionable silence.

Was she relieved? Disappointed? It was difficult to say.

Soon, he had decided that it was time for them to turn into the evening.

‘Sir?’ She turned to give him one last look over her shoulder before she disappeared into her room. Alone.

‘Yes, my dear?’ He leant against the door frame, arms folded over his chest. The dim lighting reflected off of his glasses.

‘Have you…have you ever had a slave before?’ She swallowed over the sudden lump in her throat. Perhaps she was just one of many, nothing particularly special at all. For some inexplicable reason, the thought seemed too painful to bear.

‘No. You are my first. Bonne nuit.’ He smiled faintly as he closed the door behind him.

So she was his first, as he was to be her first. That was welcome news. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about being compared to someone else, and perhaps coming up short. Reassured, she got into bed and got comfortable.

That night, she slid straight into sleep.

[mischiefandspirits]

Voltron Diaries #5 - Of Ticks and Trees

VoltronPals Published on Oct 31, 2029

We learn some stuff, I tease the boys about romance some more, and Lance gets tied to a tree.

The video opened on the group gathered around the dining room table. Most of them were standing behind the chair Lance was sitting in, but Keith was sitting on the table in front of him and Pidge was leaning against it between them.

The camera slowly zoomed in on the three and an instrumental version of “Kiss the Girl” began playing as Lance leaned forwards, saying, “Sounds like the mice did more than you, though.”

“I punched Sendak!”

“Yeah, apparently after I emerged from a coma and shot his arm off.”

“We had a bonding moment. I cradled you in my arms!”

“Nope. Don't remember, didn't happen.”

The screen went black and words began to scroll up, Pidge’s voice reading them aloud. “Warning: these people are all either professionals, geniuses, aliens, idiots, or some combination thereof. Do not try this at home.”

The video cut to the cartoon teacher Allura setting from before, though this time a cartoon Keith sitting at a desk had been added in.

“Welcome back, friends, to Allura’s Space School!” Pidge’s voice announced with faux cheer. “Today’s lesson is…”

A clock appeared on the pull down screen.

“The universal time measurement system!”

A question mark appeared over Keith’s cartoon version’s head as he asked, “What is this and why do I have to be here?”

“It’s a segment for the vlogs where Allura gets to inform the viewers about random space stuff,” Pidge explained as the question mark disappeared. “You’re here because we need a student character. Hunk is too smart, I’m the narrator, and Shiro’s an adult. So that leaves you or Lance and Lance is still pouting over Nyma.”

“I’m eighteen. I’m an adult too.”

“You are? But your in the same grade as Lance and Hunk.”

“I have an early birthday.”

“Huh… well too late to back out now!”

“But -”

“So Allura, how does time measurements work in space?”

“Shouldn’t Coran be doing this? He loves this kind of stuff,” Allura pointed out. “He even used to do learning videos.”

“He did?” Keith asked.

“You know, I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Anyways, Allura, I love Coran, but he can ramble, a lot, sometimes. We might bring him in for the more technical stuff, but you should be able to handle the basics,” Pidge explained.

“Well, alright then. So the smallest, most commonly used time slice is a tick. Ticks are comparable to Earth seconds though our study has shown that ticks are slightly longer.”

“You mean the clock race?” Keith scoffed and his cartoon version’s arms became crossed.

“Precisely! I’d estimate there is approximately 1.6 seconds in a tick.”

“Where are you getting these numbers?”

“The next smallest time slice is a dobosh, which is comparable to an Earth minute. There are forty-nine ticks to a dobosh.

“Next is a varga -”

“Space hour?” Keith said and a speech bubble appeared over his head while teacher Allura looked angry.

“Yes. There is fifty-five doboshes to a varga.”

“What’s a space day? Sixty-seven varga?”

“A quintant is twenty varga. And there are five quintants in a movement.”

“A space week.”

“Are you going to keep interrupting?” Cartoon Allura had her hands on her hips while cartoon Keith turned away.

“I thought that was why I was here.”

“Are students on earth allowed to constantly interrupt their teachers?”

“No, but I’m starting to understand why he got kicked out of the Garrison,” Pidge snorted.

A lightning bolt hit cartoon Keith as a smack sounded and he yelped with pain.

“Now hush unless you have an actual question,” Pidge said. “Allura, the floor’s yours.”

“Thank you. So the next time slice that is used universally are phoebs, which are composed of six movements or thirty quintants.”

“That’s actually exactly like a month.”

“PIDGE!” Cartoon Allura crossed her arms and glared at the ceiling.

“Right, sorry!”

“Next is a deca-phoeb, which is -”

“Ten phoebs?”

Cartoon Allura threw her arms in the air. “That’s it, I’m done!”

Cartoon Keith looked up at the ceiling as Cartoon Allura marched off. “Maybe we should just get Coran next time.”

“Nah, this was great.”

The video cut away to the star room, where Lance, Pidge, and Hunk were lounging. “Hey everyone! I’m back! And the first thing I’d like to say is…” Lance glared at Pidge. “I saw what you put in at the beginning of the last video you little gremlin! What the quiznak was that?”

“So you do remember the bonding moment,” Pidge snickered.

“Well now I do! And there was nothing romantic about it!”

“Uh huh.”

“There wasn’t!”

“But he cradled you in his arms!” Hunk chuckled, holding his arms up like Keith had.

“Hunk you traitor!” Lance whined, slumping against the larger boy. “How could you do this to me?”

“In other news,” Pidge said, shoving the boy off his chair. “It turns out I’m a girl. I mean, I knew I was a girl, but I never told these guys or you all, so yeah. I guess you guys could have looked up my family and found out the truth, but still.”

“Yeah, she had this cute little coming out moment. It was great! Lance freaked out because he was the only one who hadn’t figured it out,” Hunk said, patting her on the back.

“Well excuse me for just taking someone at their word when they say they’re a guy!” Lance huffed as he sat back down. “Let’s talk about something else, like Hunk’s girlfriend!”

Hunk groaned, his hands coming up to cover his face while Pidge laughed.

The video cut to Lance and an unfamiliar yellow alien sitting in some sort of cockpit.

Lance winked at the camera. “Hey everyone, this is Nyma. We’re helping her and her team fix up their spaceship.”

“Who are you talking to?” she asked with a frown.

“Oh, no one really. The other paladins and I just record these videos to share with the people of our homeworld so they can see what we get up to out here.”

“Oh, like reality shows?” she asked, leaning over his shoulder.

“Um, kind of. You guys have reality tv out here?”

“What’s tv?”

“Nevermind. Watch this.” Lance twisted the controls and Nyma slid to the side slightly, laughing and tightening her grip on his seat.

“Woo!” she cheered. Her eyes widened and she pointed at something beyond the camera. “Look, a kinetic spring! Let's land over there. The minerals reflect off the water, making a rainbow.”

He blushed as she pulled her hand back, brushing his shoulder as she went. “Wow. Is there anything you don't know?”

Smiling, Nyma pulled back and tapped at her bracelet. When she turned back to Lance, her eyes landed on the camera and she frowned. She leaned down so her face was next to Lance’s and stage whispered, “Maybe we should turn that off now, don’t you think?”

As he grew redder, he nodded. “Right, later guys!”

The next cut revealed Lance lying on the ground, his hands chained to a tree and his helmet lying next to him. He was glaring up at the camera with a pout.

“Come on, Mullet, just let me go!”

“Calling me names isn’t going to make me go faster, you know.”

“Keith! Buddy! Come on!”

“We both know Pidge would kill us if I didn’t get a picture of this for her to put in a video.”

“KEITH! No one can see this! I’ll kill you if you let her put a picture of this on the web!”

“You don’t scare me.”

“Fine, whatever, just take the picture already! You’re as bad as Nyma!”

“At least I’m not the one tied to a tree. What did you even think she was going to do when you let her tie you to it?”

Lance blushed. “I didn’t le- JUST TAKE THE PICTURE!”

“I’m trying! I just can’t figure out h- Oh.”

“What?”

“N-nothing,” he breathed, his voice betraying barely restrained laughter. “I got the, uh, the pic. Just let m-”

The video cut away to show Pidge alone in the star room.

“This video is dedicated to Keith in gratitude for getting me the most hilarious video of our local flirt being the you-know-whaty idiot he is,” she said, saluting.

“You-know-whaty?” Keith asked from offscreen.

“I can’t actually say what he is while keeping this family friendly,” she said with a shrug. “The point is, this video goes out to you and your inability to use a camera.”

“It’s not my fault you and Hunk didn’t label anything on that Altean camera you fixed up for me.”

“If you had a phone like a normal person you wouldn’t need the alien camera in the first place.”

“I had a phone, I just left it at the shack so Ad-someone couldn’t follow us. Besides, it was a Garrison issued phone. They don’t have cameras.”

Pidge gaped at his apparent place offscreen before throwing her hands in the air. “A Garri- Keith they had those things blocked and monitored like crazy! How would you have been able to do anything on one of those?”

“What would I have to do besides call people?”

Pidge placed her hands over her chest. “Keith, that is the most pure and innocent thing I’ve ever heard. Even Hunk has looked up those videos on his phone a few times.”

There was a moment of silence before the sputtering began. “Wh-what? How do-do you even know-know-nope, nevermind. I don’t want to know. This conversation never happened. I’m too ace for this.”

Pidge laughed as the sound of an automatic door swishing open and closed sounded in the background. She winked at the camera and said, “Until next time, everyone! Voltron, disband!”

Replay?

Quick note: I just wanted to let you guys know that there might be a short break between this chapter and the next. I have something special planned for the eighth(?) chapter and am trying to nail some stuff down for it. I've also been trying to nail down how I want the newest season to work for this since... Well, either you saw the season and can understand what I'm getting at or you haven't so I couldn't tell you anyways. I have a vague idea of what I might do, but if you guys have any ideas, I'd love to hear them. It should only be a week at most delay, but I just wanted to give you guys fair warning.

[anotherdayinchuckletown]

Crossed Wires (Part 2/3)

(A/N:Hey, guys! This chapter took forever and a day for me to complete because the story I had planned out in my head just kept weaving and changing direction on me. My own characters are filthy traitors who don’t listen to me, but that’s okay because it means I’m doing something right.

Anyway, I wanted to thank everyone who left me such lovely comments on the first chapter - here’s a link in case you missed it! - and encouraged me to continue on with this story. Just one more part left, guys! With a hopefully shorter wait period in between next time lmao

If you enjoy it, please like, reblog, and comment! Hearing from you guys is always such a pleasure! Thank you so much for reading!

-Love, Katherine <3)

Summary: Charlie needs a vacation, or maybe at least one well-adjusted role model.

________________________________

For most kids like Charlie Bucket, people like Willy Wonka only come around once in a lifetime. Sometimes passing like a ship in the night, then disappearing for good. Sometimes crashing a jet-propelled elevator through the roof of your home, insulting your family, dragging you along with them to reconcile with their estranged father, then moving you and said family into their massive factory to live forever.

Most likely not the second one, though. Metaphor is not Charlie’s strong suit.

Regardless, it’s his uncanny luck that brings yet another ship to port in his once simple life. That ship contains one Dr. Margot Elizabeth Weber, his austere yet kindly teacher.

Where Wonka and Charlie excel in the theoretical and abstract, she often flounders, much more comfortable in the physical and concrete. After all, concrete is solid and unyielding, unbending once it has formed a pattern.

That is, until Charlie spotted the first break.

He was waiting by the door of his family’s little house in the Chocolate Room at eight fifty-nine that morning. Dr. Weber arrived at nine o'clock—not a minute earlier or later—and crisply knocked on the door three times. He opened it for her, and that was when he noticed the inconsistency. A tiny distortion, as though he were seeing the same pattern through the rippling water of the Everlasting Gobstopper pool.

She was dressed casually, something that he had never seen before. Her normally immaculate hair was pulled haphazardly into a messy ponytail and dark, heavy circles adorned her eyes.

“Dr. Weber?” he blurted out, voice laced with concern. More tactfully, he added, “Er, good morning!”

The young woman blinked slowly at him, eyelids clearly fighting to remain open. “Charlie, this is the four hundred seventy-eighth day that I have worked here. You should no longer be surprised to find me at your door.”

“…Right, sorry. How are you?” Unwilling to correct her on the source of his shock, he gathered up his supplies and joined her outside—in the Chocolate Room, that is. The emerald fields of swudge and the warmth from the heat lamps meant to mimic sunlight often make it easy to forget that they are, in fact, still indoors.

Dr. Weber seemingly pondered his question as they started for their usual spot—a secluded knoll near the base of the chocolate waterfall. “I am very well,” she finally said, spectacularly unconvincing.

From then on, the morning proceeded as usual. Dr. Weber’s zeal for mathematical equilibrium overshadowed her apparent exhaustion and moodiness. And Charlie became too preoccupied with remembering the steps of the quadratic formula to worry over her.

That had been a little over a week ago.

Charlie knows he is perceptive, has known it all his life. No matter how his parents and late grandparents tried to shield him from the full extent of their poverty before meeting Wonka, he was always acutely aware of their hardships. That is why he began shining shoes in his spare time, when his family likely thought he had been off playing with friends. Because he has always been able to tell these things.

Dr. Weber likely thinks that she does an adequate job of hiding how much she fancies Wonka. Luckily for her, Wonka is twice as ignorant as she is obvious. Nearly constantly, Charlie staves off his own secondhand embarrassment as Dr. Weber runs herself ragged tending to Wonka’s every beck and call, stands far closer than necessary, and openly stares at the chocolatier whenever his back is turned. Meanwhile, Wonka carries on with his day, blissfully unaware.

Yet, ever since that day Charlie saw the first crack, Dr. Weber’s pattern has been completely broken. She appears in the same room with him only when it is mandatory. When that happens, she keeps several yards between them and refuses to spare him a glance.

It doesn’t take Charlie long to put the puzzle pieces together.

“What did Mr. Wonka do to you?” he asks her point-blank one day after cornering her in the Coffee Cream Room.

She looks taken aback, having been absorbed in grading assignments and guzzling coffee (her third cup, if the two empty ones next to her are anything to go by). She peers up at him over the frames of her glasses. “Hm?”

“You’ve been awfully cross with him for a few days now,” he clarifies, moving to sit across from her cautiously. Appealing to Dr. Weber’s pathos is tricky business. He needs to apply just the right amount of pressure for her to feel comfortable speaking freely—too much or too little, and his window slams shut.

Dr. Weber focuses back on her work. Wearing a thin veil of nonchalance, she asserts, “I am not sure what you are referring to. I have no complaints against him whatsoever.”

“Then why have you been avoiding him recently?”

His teacher sighs in exasperation, and something in her eyes hardens. “Let him know that he needn’t worry. My productivity has not been affected.”

Charlie winces. He wonders what Wonka could have possibly said or done that would elicit such a strong reaction from someone as composed as Dr. Weber. “Oh, no, nothing like that!” He backpedals, thinking that he may be overplaying his hand here. “In fact, he only ever has good things to say about you! I was just…worried. That’s all.”

To his surprise, she sets down her pen. “I appreciate your concern, but I was sincere when I said I have no complaints.” She frowns, lips pursed with guilt. “You see, when I presented Mr. Wonka with blueprints for his new mixer last week, he made a comment.”

“He didn’t like it?” Charlie asks incredulously.

“No, it’s not that—he loved it. It’s what he said to me after that.” She seemingly braces herself before reciting, “’Eliza, you are as reliable and efficient as a machine’.”

The word “machine” drips with venom from her lips. If it weren’t for her clear contempt for the word, Charlie might be at a loss for the source of her rancor.

Grand and impressive as machines can be, especially here in the factory, they are nothing more than a means to an end. An empty husk for man to impart his will upon. An object to be discarded once they have fulfilled their purpose. Cold and unfeeling.

The way Dr. Weber must now believe Wonka views her.

Charlie can sympathize with her plight. Those couple weeks after he first met Wonka, after his family had been harshly refused access to the factory, he had felt utterly betrayed. The sparkling image of his childhood hero, tarnished in the blink of an eye. Of course, bygones are bygones, and the two of them now have a much more organic relationship. Charlie would go so far as to say Wonka is like a second father to him (as much as the least paternal person on earth can be, that is).

Charlie knows good and well that his mentor is no smooth talker. There is no doubt in his mind that the chocolatier is capable of insulting Dr. Weber, whether intentional or not.

Dr. Weber’s voice breaks him out of his reverie. “In any case,” she says evenly, “I have come to realize that I overreacted.”

“What do you mean?” Charlie tilts his head curiously.

“I am an employee here,” she explains. “I complete tasks…I perform functions…and I leave.” Straightening the papers in front of her, she gathers them into her tote bag. “But I became conceited. Clearly, I assigned myself undue importance—a mistake I shall not be repeating.”

Charlie gapes at her from across the table, disheartened by the sincerity in her words. “That…that’s not true! You are important here, Dr. Weber!” he insists. “And I know Mr. Wonka thinks so, too. Why don’t you see for yourself?”

That earns him a skeptical look. “What are you suggesting? That I broach the subject with him myself?”

“Yes, exactly!”

“Neither I or Mr. Wonka have time to spare over such nonsense.”

“You mean, your thoughts and feelings,” Charlie surmises.

“Yes, as I said, nonsense.” Slinging her bag over her shoulder and pounding back the rest of her coffee, she stands.

Charlie nods wryly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at her. Looking at Wonka and Dr. Weber on any given day is like looking at his own parents through a carnival funhouse mirror, but this is plain ridiculous. “You can’t just let him walk all over you, Dr. Weber. He will, but only if you let him.” He stands as well, only half as gracefully, as his adolescent body continues to adjust to suddenly being nearly six feet tall. “If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll say something for you.”

Dr. Weber spins on her heel to face him, features hardened. “Charlie.” She says his name gently, yet firmly, the way his mother used to when he misbehaved as a little boy. “Again, I appreciate your concern for me, but that is hardly necessary. As your teacher, it would be unseemly to involve you in my personal matters in such a way.” She starts for the exit, discarding her empty cups on the way. “As it stands, I’ve already said too much.”

Charlie trails her into the hallway. Time for one last Hail Mary. “Technically speaking, we’re not in a lesson right now,” he rationalizes aloud. “And I don’t work for Mr. Wonka—well, not like you do, at least. So your record of conduct would be perfectly safe.” In fact, Wonka doesn’t even keep records of conduct. He doesn’t generally do much hiring and firing.

Dr. Weber looks him over warily, carefully considering. Charlie squirms nervously as he feels himself being dissected under a microscope. Finally, she tells him, “You make an excellent sales pitch…but I’m not worth the fuss. I’ll be taking my leave now; I have business at the university.” Without leaving room for further debate, she turns and strides down the hall, noticeably hastier than usual.

Releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, Charlie lopes back inside. He needs a shot of espresso, stat. And he would rather not look too deeply into that compulsive need to help every simultaneously ingenious and emotionally stunted adult he comes across just yet.

Maybe Dr. Weber is right that he shouldn’t worry so much. After all, things have a mysterious way of ultimately working out around here.

[bandbagels]

i don’t want you, but i want you - (bad boy!frank iero x reader)

A/N: I don’t know what the fuck i was doing during this but this shit is so long, enjoy :)

hit me up, I’m nice i swear // masterlist

“Frank, we just have to get this done and done well, and then we don’t ever have to speak to each other again.” I say, setting down my notebook at one of the outside tables. Frank sighs, letting his notebook slam on the table and he puts his feet up on the table, showing no regard for the project.

“Fine by me.” Frank says nonchalantly and I glare at him, pushing his feet off the table.

“Don’t be an ass.” I mutter, opening my notebook. He mumbles something incoherently and opens his notebook, looking towards me.

“What’s your pretty little mind thinking we should do?” He asks and I can’t tell if he’s being serious or teasing me. Ignoring the comment, I open the copy Lord of the Flies I brought.

“Well we need to show how fast these kids lost their innocence on the island, but I’m debating on whether it was because of their personalities or the environments they surrounded themselves with,” I pause, reading a line of the book, “or maybe their responsibilities.” I wonder aloud, looking back up at him.

Frank had his back up on the table and he was staring at me. Not in a way where he was listening to me, but in a way where he was just staring at me, but I couldn’t see the mood behind his eyes. I almost rolled my eyes and nagged him again but he replies.

“Maybe it was all of above.” Frank suggests, nonchalantly staring now, “I feel like innocence was uniquely lost in the book. Jack turned because of his egotistic personality and his need to fill the shoes of his hunter responsibility. Roger was shown as evil in the beginning, and-“ “-the innocence he had washed away because of his environment.” I finish for him and he nods.

“To be honest, I didn’t think you were listening to the book.” I say, as our teacher had a recording read the book to us, “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was sleeping, but you sit close enough to me that I could hear you discuss it.” He tells me as I write down the information, “And it seems a lot easier to remember when it’s coming out of your mouth.” He smirks, making me blush, “Don’t blush yet, darling, I’m only getting started.”

“Be serious, Iero. It’s your fault we got sent out-fucking-side and have to work on this at lunch together.” I snap, glaring at him.

“It’s not my fault you keep arguing with me.” He states, riling me up on purpose.

“Whatever. Now we just need the artistic side of the project.” I say.

“That’s most definitely your side of the project, miss art portfolio.” He teases and I nod.

“I can get into the art room and use the stuff I have stuffed in there. Meanwhile,” I pause, looking up at Frank, who looks unamused but stands anyway, ready to do as I ask, “can you head to the library and pick up some picture books of like heaven and hell? Or descriptions? Please?”

“Anything for you, darling.” He smirks, bringing a blush to my cheeks again.

—

I could barely carry all of the art supplies I was holding, including a bunch of cardboard, metallic paint, rocks and fluffy cotton. I was almost to the table when someone jumped out in front of me, making me drop everything.

“Frank.” I whine, bending down to pick it up. Frank was laughing his ass off, but eventually started to help carry some of the things.

“You’re way too damn easy.” He laughs, “Instead of Ralph as the symbol of innocence, it should be you.”

“I’m not innocent.” I tell him and he glances at me.

“You’re the poster child for innocence,” He giggles, “It’s not a bad thing though. I mean, I’m the total opposite of innocence. I wouldn’t want you to turn out like me, sweetheart.”

“Why’s that?” I ask him and he turns towards me.

“Are you kidding? You’re smart without even trying. You have an amazing personality. You’ve got things going for you and all I can do is sit and admire you from afar.” He spills, “Not to mention you’re fucking beautiful.”

All I could do was blush.

“What are you saying, Frank?” I ask, still uneasy on what he was really getting at.

“I’m saying I adore you. I’ve accepted that and I’m gonna get over it, don’t worry.” He mumbles, laying the cardboard on the table next to the books.

“Why would you want to get over it?” I ask him, my heart thumping in my chest. I’ve always liked Frank in that way but the way he always seemed to pick a fight with me dimmed that feeling down.

“Think of it like this. I smoke cigarettes. I shouldn’t, but I do. Now with you, I shouldn’t be feeling this way towards you, but I do.” He states, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it, “You’re a goody-two-shoes. I’m a rebel. In this case, we shouldn’t attract.”

“Why not?” I pester more.

“Because we’re not fucking magnets, Y/n. We’re human, and it never works out with humans. Let it go.” He growls, “Can we just get started on this, please?”

“Out of all people to accept things that are abnormal, I’d believe it to be you, Frank.” I say, continuing the conversation.

“I’m just looking out for the best for you. I’m not someone you want to be with, trust me, just let it go. We have 45 minutes.” He picks up a piece of cardboard but he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Promise we’ll talk about this?” I ask him and he groans.

“I’d really just like to drop this, Y/n. I don’t even know why I told you in the first place.”He shakes his head but I keep staring at him until he looks up at me.

“I’m not gonna drop this.” I tell him and he sighs.

“I’ll meet you at your locker after school, alright?” He promises, earning a nod from me and we start to work on this project.

—

Eighth period ended and I go to my locker to put away books, and as I close the locker, Frank is behind the door.

“Frankie, damn,” I yelp, “You scared me.”

“Frankie?” He smirks, walking with me, “Sexy.”

I roll my eyes but my grin speaks otherwise. It’s quiet for a moment before Frank speaks up.

“What do you want to talk about?” He asks, more timid than usual.

“How do you feel?” I ask him, “About me.” He chuckles.

“I already told you, I adore you, but I can’t-“ He stops mid-sentence.

“I adore you.” I say suddenly, “Would that change anything?” He’s staring at the ground as we walk, almost like he’s finally stuck in the middle.

“I can’t, Y/n. I can’t be with you.” He starts, “I fuck around too much for a relationship. I don’t even know the first about relationships. It just wouldn’t work out with me.”

“What if it’s not a relationship at first?” I propose, “I mean, we both fucking like each other, but what if instead of a relationship, we were just talking. No strings attached, just talking. We’re with each other but we’re not really with each other. A connection but nothing really connecting us.”

He thinks about it before looking at me.

“I hate that I’m doing this,” He shakes his head, “you don’t need me.”

“Technically, I don’t have you.” I end the conversation there, turning into a classroom because of course, as the goody-goody I apparently was, I had clubs after school.

—

The talking thing was the best we could have done. We sat with each other more and talked for hours just about music or how I felt (mostly because Frank never talked about his feelings). We became so close in the month we decided to start this.

The thing was, Frankie was a huge softy. The hardcore persona he had disappeared when he was around me. It liked it. I believed that part of him was better than the other.

I open my locker, receiving a tap on the shoulder. “What’s up, Pete?” Over the course of the month, I met Frank’s friends, and me and Pete immediately hit it off.

“Nothing, I just want to congratulate you on having Frank wrapped around your finger.” He smirks, joking. I shake my head, partially grinning as I take some books out.

“I don’t have Frank wrapped around my finger.” I say, putting some books back in my locker and shutting it.

“I disagree. We went to a party last week and normally, Frank just takes the first girl that flirts with him up for a quick one. Maybe a few girls.” Pete starts.

“I did not need to know that.” I roll my eyes.

“Anyway, at the party last week he literally didn’t take any girl up on their offers. None. And it probably doesn’t seem weird to you but it was weird for him. I was thinking, and like,” Pete pretends to think deeply, “Why would Frank choose to not have sex with any of those girls? Oh yeah, he has a total fucking hard on for you.”

“Pete!” I say, pushing him because we’re in a public place.

“What?” He chuckles, “I’m just telling you, the horny little fucker he is, he wants to bone you badly if he’s rejecting sex from anyone else.”

“Pete, shut up.” I blush at the words, noticing Frank walk into the hall. He gives me a little smile before noticing Pete, in which he gives a bit of a confused look.

“I’ll see you later, Y/n, if I’m late to health again Mrs. B’ll have my ass.” He grins, hugging me. He nods ‘hey’ to Frank before rushing in the other direction.

“Hey, sweetheart,” He smiles, “What was Pete saying?”

“He was talking about how he needs help in Health. Nothing much.” I answer, walking with him. He nods, “Why? Are you jealous?” I tease.

“Of course,” He grins, “I’m so jealous you’re helping Pete in health.” He says, “Anyway, Ray wants to invite you to this thing he’s calling a ‘student get together’.”

I chuckle. “Ray’s a little cutie.” I tell him, ready to turn into my next class, “I’ll go with DJ, since she most definitely has a crush on Ray. See you there, Frankie.” I smile, turning into my class. Last second, a hand wraps around my waist and I’m pulled into a hug.

I’ve never seen Frank hug anyone let alone me.

—

Walking up to Ray’s house, it was not what I’m guessing he expected. It was a full blown high school party, with loud music and drinking.

“Not what I was expecting.” I say to my best friend and we talk in.

“I don’t care. I’m gonna go find Ray. Go desperately make-out with Frank for the first time.” She teases and I brush her off as I walk around.

“Y/n?” I hear Pete ask and I turn. He had been drinking a bit and drunkingly smiled at me, “Didn’t think it was your kind of scene.”

“It’s not, I guess.” I tell him and over the loud music.

“Well,” He slurs, grabbing my shoulder and pointing in a direction, “Frank’s over there. I’m gonna go try to make out with Patrick.” I nod and head in that direction. I start that way and find Frank sitting on a counter, very drunk and really out of it. Actually all of the boys were.

“Hey, Frankie.” I smile and he jumps off the counter, coming very close and holding my waist. He’s almost giggling at me.

“Hey, Y/n.” He giggles, looking down at me, “I wanna make out with you. Do you wanna make out?” He giggles again.

I look up and chuckle a bit, a smile tugging at my lips. “How much have you had to drink, Frankie?”

“Not a lot, actually.” He tells me and I don’t even realize we were backing into a wall.

“I don’t know how the hell I want you on regular days, but I always know I wanna make out with you all the fucking time.” He mumbles, “Fuck, I’m fucked up, aren’t I?”

“You’re pretty fucked up, Frank.” I giggle, slipping out of his grasp, “I think you need some water.”

“You’re always fucking right, baby.” He grins, moving away, letting me actually grab him some water, “You’re not gonna drink?” He asks before shaking his head, “Shit, sorry, you don’t drink. I knew that.”

I giggle at him as I bring him his water, explaining how maybe he needed to stop drinking tonight.

“Probably.” He tells me, setting the glass down on the counter and laying his head in my neck. He places little kisses up and down. A blush rises up to my cheeks like it always seems to do when he’s around.

“Frankie, you’re drunk.” I remind him and he keeps laying kisses.

“I don’t care.” He says, lifting his head and swiftly kissing me. He obviously knew what he was doing, him being way more experienced than me, and he basically took the lead and guided me through the kiss, “Fuck, that felt really good,” He separates for a second before crashing his lips on me again. His hands find my waist and I gently push him off although I don’t want to.

“What’s wrong? Are you uncomfortable because-“ I interrupt him, “No, Frankie, I’m fine, it’s just you’re drunk and you won’t even remember this tomorrow, so let’s get you home, okay?” He nods, shortly before grabbing Ray’s attention.

“Ray?” He yells, “You have a room?” He asks, not really going into detail, and Ray’s eyes get a bit bigger while his eyes shift from me to him.

“Yeah, Upstairs, first door on the right. I’d want you two in a room rather than strangers.” He says and we climb the stairs, finding our way into the room.

“You don’t wanna make out right now?” He grins drunkingly, falling onto the bed.

“I’d rather not when you’re drunk, baby.” I chuckle, laying next to him.

“Baby? Y/n, I swear to god, I’m asking you to be my girlfriend after this.” He spills, drawing me closer under his arm, “I should have just done it a while ago but I was too damn scared of ruining a relationship. But, fuck, I want you. All of you.”

I don’t know what to say to him.

“Frankie,” I start and he hums so I know he’s listening, “I love you.”

“I love you too, darling.”

—

A groan brings me awake and suddenly I’m tucked into someone’s chest. Frank.

“Frankie, wake up.” I say and his arms soften around me, groaning lightly again. The room was still dark so I could guess it was early in the morning, but light from outside the door illuminated the room a bit.

“Fuck,” He mumbles, rubbing his eyes, and looking to me, “Did we do something? Because I sure as hell wouldn’t want to forget that.”

“We didn’t.” I say, laying my head against the pillow, “You just got too drunk.”

“I’m so sick of wanting you,” He tells me randomly, “I fucking love you, and I fucking want you. That’s it.” I lay there, listening to his voice, “I want to make out with you in the school halls and then we can watch all the flicks you want and then I’ll fucking marry you one day and we’ll have a kid named-“ I move in bed, pressing my lips to his, cutting him off.

“You wanna do that?” I ask, straddling him, “Because I do too.”

“I do,” He groggily whispers, “But right now I’m going to throw up, so when i get back I’ll tell you how much I love you and then you’ll be my girlfriend.” He chuckles, standing to go to the bathroom, “You know how all that fluffy shit goes.”

“You’re impossible.” I grin, “I love you.”

“I love you more, love.” He states, sleepily walking to the bathroom.

give me ideas // masterlist

[celticmythpodshow]

Another Writer's Journey

Please accept my apologies for writing about myself. I generally try and avoid this as I feel I am nowhere near as important as the stories I tell (and those that we tell as far as the Celtic Myth Podshow is concerned). That having been said, let's plunge on in!

When I moved from Primary School to Secondary school (after the now legendary 11+ examination), one of my favourite lessons was the English class. At 11 years old I was far too young to understand much about Grammar or story/poem analysis, but I loved the act of creation involved in summoning imagery and meaning from words. Plain and simple words that when strung together could create pictures in my mind and feelings in my chest.

One memory that sticks in my mind as significant because it told me, even at that tender age that I had an intense desire to write, was a class exercise that progressed over an entire term. We were each asked to write a single-page, short and concise  story and then read it to the entire class. I was in heaven! I wrote an adventure story involving a dangerous trek in the jungle and eventual possible rescue. My story stretched the limits of our allotted time as I had filled well over a dozen pages of the small A5 exercise books that we used to be given at school. After I had finished - I don't remember exactly what the teacher said - my fellow class-mates were asked to give their feedback to the teacher and they all asked for more detail about my story and for the tale to be completed. The teacher, perhaps bowing to popular pressure, asked me to complete the story and for the next couple of weeks I wrote continuing episodes and read each out in turn to the class. The joy I felt in entertaining my peers with my my writing is a joy that has never left me. To give pleasure with mere words is something that can never be underestimated.

As my relationships with my school-mates developed, I played many games and don't remember writing much other that the allocated tasks that we were all set. Our play-ground games however were rapidly becoming increasingly complex. A small group of my intimate inmates decided to each take on the role of a particular leader/hero/ruler on a planet in some imaginary Science Fiction universe that we had decided upon. My own planet of bio-mechanical inhabitants acquired technical drawings of the transport system within its major cities, biological descriptions of the alien inhabitants (vaguely resembling cones on wheels as I recall!) and each city having its own history mapped out. Hours and hours of work. It never got used in our games of course, but for me the creation of back-story was as essential as the game itself.

Writing after Leaving School?

As my school-years were coming to an end, my close-knit circle of buddies discovered the very first 3 volume box-set of an imported game from America, ridiculously named "Dungeons & Dragons". The game was what later came to be known as a 'role-playing game' with one person acting as a story-teller come referee come guide and the other players taking on a role of a character within a Fantasy-based universe.

The big difference between this and other traditional methods of story-telling was that the actions that the players decided to take determined the future course of events within the story. The Fantasy universe moulded itself around us as we played. We were living in the story! I had come home! What an amazing discovery.

It wasn't long before I, myself, took on the part of the Dungeon Master (as the referee was called) and was creating my own interactive stories with a group of players. My own game had maps (based on hex-paper) that were filled in as the players explored the world I had created plastered all over one wall of my very small flat and the remaining space in my flat taken up with as many chairs as I could fill into the space. At one stage, our story had over ten people meeting weekly to continue their adventures and the whole story arc carried on for over a year.

That was something that required almost constant attention and a vast amount of time and energy to complete. Something that I would never advise anyone of even half-sane mind to contemplate doing!

Turning to Myths & Legends

Coming into my early 20's, my daily reading consumption increased and although I didn't put pen to parer at this time not only did my love of fiction grow and evolve but my love of mythological and religious stories also grew. My interests spread into a more academic and factual direction in order to find out where these stories came from and to seek answers as to why some versions of the same story were different and why there were similarities between stories from widely different cultures around the world. This was a long time before I discovered Joseph Campbell! My love of story, mythology and comparative religion eventually lead me to study ritual and magic - which, in my opinion, is yet another variety of living story. But that is really a different tale that I shall save for another day.

One of my greatest loves from my first days at Secondary schools was Tolkien's Lord of the Rings and the whole Middle-Earth mythos. To be fair, it is a love that I carry with me to this day. Back in 1977, I found the Silmarillion to be hard reading at my first attempt, but I fast grew to love it. In particular, the Song of Creation found in the first part, Ainulindalë, tells of the creation of Eä, the "world that is" struck a deeply resonant chord within my soul.

What happened next is something that I look back on with great awe and wonder. Without realising it, my next actions were to act as a prelude to the type of story-telling that I was to take up again 30 years later! I recorded myself reading the Ainulindalë accompanied by music by Tangerine Dream (I think the album was Phaedra) and loved every minute.

It was only when I listened to the cassette recording that I was over-whelmed and the hairs on my arms stood up and my heart raced with some form of excitement that I had never felt before. Something magical had happened. When I was reading about the Horns of Ulmo, resounding in the Deep Waters, there were horn blasts in the music. So much synchronicity happened in this reading whose true significance I missed at the time. This was something unique and wonderful. But hey-ho! - I was 18 years old, and forgot all about it in the rush of rapidly expanding teenage hormones in the following months.

Time for a Quick Break

Let's take a small break in the narrative here, while I grab a glass of water, you get to wonder what on earth you are doing wasting your time reading the drivel that I have written and I skip forward in time. As we go, we can jump over several failed attempts at both fiction and non-fiction writing, and arrive at the point in my life where my long-suffering wife (the gorgeous Ruthie) and I decide to start a podcast about Celtic Mythology. The Celtic Myth Podshow was born at Imbolc, 2008 - it seemed to us a suitable birthing time. Reading the complex Irish myths out aloud seemed to us an excellent way of learning them, understanding them and perhaps help other people out with the same tasks. It was only natural that eventually we would want to cover all the stories of the Celts that we could find.

For two years, I scripted the ideas we came up with and along with friends and family we recorded and released shows every fortnight. There was no way in this or any other universe that we could maintain this pace and were it not for my becoming seriously ill and requiring major surgery due to Cancer at the end of 2009, I think I/we would have burned out and never carried on making any shows or telling any more stories.

Health is something that when you are healthy you can often take for granted. I certainly did. Without it, each physical movement initially and later any focus or concentration became something that rapidly drained my energy. I learned about Spoon Theory very quickly indeed. Google it - it's worth it.

Life events (family, career, housing, finances etc.) began to overtake us in 2015-2016, and the rate at which we could produce shows dwindled as more and more of our focus and attention had to be placed on far more immediate concerns. I think we only managed to get out one show in 2016 and another in 2017. Early in 2017, I discovered that I had Leukemia and we were again forced to focus on health and the need to rapidly find a new home.

Patience, Pacing and Priorities

It is strange that no matter how important your writing is to you, or how much you value your creative work and no matter how much pleasure you get from seeing or hearing the joy that other people have from hearing or reading your work, there is no way that the inspiration will flow when your life's basics are under threat. I thought that writing and creating would be a great distraction form the more serious problems in our lives. I was, however, totally wrong. It just wouldn't happen. It took time - a long time - for me to even begin to accept this. Starting a new podcast, Celtic Tomes, was my refusal to accept that I could do nothing creative during this time. Eventually this podcast too had to come to a halt as life's needs escalated. This was a frustrating time that I am glad we seem to have passed through. It is over and I hope I have learned some very important lessons about patience, pacing and the priorities in our lives.

At the height of the Summer heatwave in this year (2018), we moved and began to unpack and settle. I could feel the relaxation beginning to seep into my bones. Despite the mountains of boxes around me, the presence of inspiration began to make itself felt.

For me, inspiration works in a very strange and yet defined way. It seems I have to make space in my life and my head, start the process off by moving a little way towards an idea and then whatever it is that comes from outside of myself, from the wider universe, from the Realms of the Fae or the Gods or whatever (be it Awen or Imbas or just plain Inspiration), I begin to feel its breath rushing into me towards a new creation. They say the word 'inspiration' comes from from the Proto-Indo-European root *en "in" + spirare "to breathe". Breathing in the Spirit of creation from the cosmos perhaps? It is interesting that the word 'spirit' also has the same roots....

Flexing My Muscles (as if!)

I felt I needed to flex my writing muscles again. "If you don't use it, you lose it" is a common expression, but I am not sure it means you forget how to write, but I think it may mean you lose contact with that flow of "spirit" or whatever that brings a creation into life and full being. I had been listening to podcasts about the Craft of Writing for some time and as October was approaching, I began to hear more and more about NaNoWriMo. NaNoWriMo stands for the "National Novel Writing Month" and it always takes place during the 30 days of November. In this time you do your best to write 50,000 words to create a novel (novella perhaps?). Success or failure is not strictly the main goal. The main goal of #NaNoWriMo is to get you writing.

So I made a decision to write a novel. Research and preparation of that novel has been one of the most enjoyable and rewarding pastimes that I have encountered in the last few years and I am incredibly excited to start writing on November 1st. My novel is going to be a ghost story set in the middle of a disaster zone at a place I know well in Hastings - the town where I was born.

It's only 10 days away now and I find myself 'itchy' to start writing. As I can't start on my novel until November, I found my mind drifting to other projects. Perhaps I could start thinking about the next book for the Celtic Tomes? So, I totaled the votes cast for the next book and started some preparation. Fantastic!

And yet, still the Universe had not finished with me.

Unfinished Business

Last week, I woke up wondering where my work period that day could be directed, opened my laptop and found myself opening up the Script for the Branwen story! The Second Branch of the Mabinogion is the next story to be told in our main podcast, the Celtic Myth Podshow, and the script is about half-way completed and stands at about 22,000 words. I found myself re-reading and editing what I had already written, suddenly aware that I was mentally preparing myself to finish the script. I sent my prayers of thanks up to the Gods or whoever was helping me with the inspiration and went to bed a very happy Gary.

A few days later, the realities of the situation began to sink into my dense, Neanderthal brow and I realised that if I were to avoid the same burn-out problems that I had hit before then I would have to heed the lessons of Pacing that I had tried to learn previously. I would have to take things very slowly indeed. I would have to work in tune with Life and not separate from it.

November is, for me, fully booked with NaNoWriMo and Life events, but after that, in the New Year, I can turn my attention back to the Branwen story and do some editing of my novel, some recording for Celtic Tomes and any other project that leaps into my mind. The important thing I have to remember, and I really must drive this home into my thickest of heads, is that I can only focus fully on one major project at a time. To do otherwise would be to tread, stagger and eventually fall on the stony path to a barren plain where nothing gets written.

Thank you for listening to the story so far.

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