#they’re so done with Pulitzer’s shit and Pulitzer has no idea what to do about it

[corpusdiem-seizethedead]

“With all due respect- you are due no respect”

-Jack Kelly & David Jacobs to Pulitzer at the end of the 1992 film

[zacc-attacc]

Firstly - I really love good puns, so your username made my day xD

Then, for your request thing - would you maybe write a Sprace OneShot that plays in the canon era? Maybe some sort of friends-to-lovers thing?

Thanks :)

First of all, thank you for the request! And for the compliment, of course.

ANYWAYS, HISTORICAL SPRACE, HERE WE GO BABS.

Sweet-Talker- A Historical Sprace Fic

Word Count: 2k

I wasn’t supposed to fall in love. Period. Especially with a boy. I was Spot Conlon, the King of Brooklyn. Not some blithering idiot who brings flowers to some idiot boy halfway across New York. I had made a pledge, not only to myself but to the others. I was responsible for them. 

So why was I falling for a stupid blond Manhattan boy with an addiction to soggy cigars?

I still remember the first time I saw him-- on a pape I was selling to a regular buyer. It was just a black and white picture, which hardly did any justice to how handsome he was in color. But even among 20 or so other newsboys, I felt a flutter in my stomach when I looked into his eyes. 

Disgusting, I thought as I sold the paper. Is this what the boys were talking about? Sparks flying and all that sappy shit?

If I had been smart, I would’ve sold all my papes and kept my distance from the strike. From Cigar Boy. 

Brooklyn don’t get caught up in things that ain’t our deal, I reminded myself. 

But Race, as I learned later, tends to bring out the worst in me. So I did the dumb thing. I sold all but one of my papes (I couldn’t bring myself to just… Give him away like that. For what? A penny?) and ran to Manhattan. 

Where it was a full-blown war. Pulitzer had called in dozens of goons (but, of course, couldn’t be bothered to show up himself), an army of policemen, and the only cop the newsboys truly feared-- Snyder. The only man who had succeeded in locking up the two most resilient Newsies of New York- Jack Kelly, and yours truly. 

I watched in horror as bottles were thrown, teenage boys were hit by adults, even a smaller boy who needed a crutch to walk was beaten with his own crutch. And I knew I couldn’t do the smart thing, the Brooklyn thing ever again. Not for this.

I ran to join my brethren, letting myself give in to the adrenaline of a battle. Luckily for me, most people were too lost in the chaos to notice me. 

All except for one. 

As cops ran, chasing boys as if they were prey that they would likely never catch, who other than Cigar Boy walked over to me, spitting blood out of his mouth and extending his hand for a handshake. 

“Well, well, well, to whats do we owe the pleasure of Spot Conlon of Brooklyn?” He said, giving me a tired grin. He didn’t have a cigar between his lips, but he did have one sticking out of his pocket. I shook his hand, noticing that even after he had literally been beaten up for an hour plus, his handshake was firm. 

“Okay there, Sluggo, we’ll talk when you ain’t bleeding from the head,” I said gruffly, turning and starting to walk back towards Brooklyn. If I could convince the boys, we could come back later and tell Manhattan we were joining the strike. 

“The lodge is this was,” the boy pointed to the opposite direction of where I was heading. I gave a light laugh. 

“No, no. I’s best get goin’ so you’s can patch up.” 

“There ain’t no way I’s letting you walk halfway across New York after getting beaten up,” the boy protested, grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the lodge. 

“I’ve been through worse,” I protested, attempting to dislodge my arm from his grasp. 

“Well, ya’int goin’ through that again. Now c’mon. We has some bandages back at the lodge for that cut of yours,” he said, gesturing to the deep cut in my upper arm. I sighed in defeat and started walking. 

“Just so you know… This is just to make sure yous don’t pass out in the streets on the way there,” I clarified. The boy just rolled his eyes and chuckled. 

“For New York’s most feared Newsie, you sure is worried about someone you just met today.”

“I’m feared, but I an’t heartless, sweet-talker. I don’t want another life on my conscience.” Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. What kind of monster did he think I was? Race stopped walking. I looked up and saw a complex setup of fire escapes, rails, and a rooftop where a newsboy who could only be Jack Kelly was pacing.

“Fair enough. Well, we’s here… So I’s just gonna swing up, grab my stuff, I can meet you down here,” the boy said, grabbing onto some rungs of a fire escape and climbing up with surprising nimbleness. It was as if the battle had barely affected him. That, or he was still riding the adrenaline rush. 

“No, no. Take care of your boys. I won’t die,” I said, hearing the panic in my tone. If Jack saw me with no reinforcements, he’d start to think we were fully on board. And if Brooklyn wasn’t, and word got around that I had already fought… It wouldn’t be good. They would accuse me of being a traitor. I couldn’t risk that.

“Ey, no, that wasn’t part of our agreement!” he yelled as I walked away. I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Next time, have me shake on it, sweet-talker!” I shouted back, turning around to see his impish grin. My muscles were screaming in protest from overuse, but I had to get home before dark. 

“The name’s Racetrack Higgins!” was the last I heard before breaking into a sprint. 

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

And here we are now. Strike over, prices back, nobody dead, everyone happy.

Except for me. 

Because I wasn’t supposed to fall in love, but here it came. Striding down the hill with a cigar in its mouth.

I could feel the unease in the boys beside me. We weren’t used to soloing Newsboys in our area, barely after selling hours, no less. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,” I muttered to them, walking towards Race. 

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here,” I hissed, grabbing his shoulders and fake-shoving him to look like I was giving him a serious talking-to. He couldn’t know we knew each other. It had to look like we were fighting.

“Well, Conlon, I thought we’d had a moment there,” Race whisper-shouted back, shoving me as well. I lowered my voice to an even quieter tone. 

“Meet me in your alleyway after sundown.”

He looked at me, confusion on his face, but nodded numbly and ran away. 

I heaved a sigh and turned to go spin some fake tale about why he was there.

That boy is going to be the death of me.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“Why’d you chase me out like that, Conlon?” Race asked, leaning against the brick wall of the Newsboy lodge. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. 

I hated it. 

“Because, Higgins, the boys don’t like strange Manhattan Newsies on our turf,” I half-spat. How stupid could he get? Didn’t he understand what was at stake here?

“You’re mad at me,” he said, his eyes flashing with realization. 

“Yeah, no shit,” I muttered, starting to pace. This was a bad idea. Why did I keep letting myself come back to him? Why was I constantly subjecting myself to the one thing I couldn’t have?

“Why? I just wanted to see you again,” he protested, walking towards me. I turned around to face him, my nose practically touching his chin.

“‘Cause we ain’t supposed to be friends. The boys see you hangin’ around Brooklyn, they’ll think yous tryin’ to prove something. And you know what they do to boys that ain’t ours? They beat ‘em up. Then, they bring them to me. And I decide if they’s gets a real pounding. But do I have a choice? No! Once they’s decides yous getting beat, my say hardly matters. If I randomly tell them to let someone go, I’m considered soft. Then we both get beat. Do you see what they’ve done to some boys? I ain’t letting that happen to you, Race! I’m not patching up your wounds because I couldn’t control-”

“Spot.,” Race cut me off. I froze. It was the first time he had used my full name. 

“What?” I asked bitterly. I noticed my eyes were burning. Why were they burning? What was this hellish sensation?

I felt something warm trickle down my face. 

Oh. My. God. I was crying. Crying! I hadn’t cried in four years! All about some idiot boy who had lovely eyes and blond hair and was empathetic and made me genuinely laugh and feel safe for the first time in years-

Race stepped forward, crushing the distance between us in one stride (damn tall people), and then… Hugged me. 

I hadn’t been really hugged in seven years, since I had made it to Brooklyn. Well, I had received bro hugs. Light ‘ey, whaddup’ hugs. But this… This was the type of hug that I hadn’t received since my parents had died. The type of hug that shields you from the outside world, that makes you feel like an atomic bomb could go off and they could protect you from it. 

It was so strange, so human. I hadn’t been treated like a real person for so long.

“It’s really like that, huh,” Race whispered, stroking my back. I felt goosebumps appear on my skin. How much feeling had I forced myself to miss out on? 

“It’s just… A lot. I mean… I’ve always known I would give my life for those boys, they’re my everything. But… I don’t know if they would for me. I don’t even know how much they truly respect me. I can’t even say if they’d respect this new rule I’ve been thinking of putting in place,” I said, not moving from my place in Race’s grasp. 

“And what would that be?” Race muttered, rocking back and forth. It was… nice. 

“No beating up on Racetrack Higgins ‘cause he deserves the world,” I said, my voice still muffled in his shirt. He chuckled. 

“I hardly deserve the world… But… Could I have you?” there was this caution in his voice, so different from the constant suave tone he took on while talking with me. But, then again, I of all people was sobbing into a boy’s chest, so this night turned out to be the night of all the unthinkable. 

“I don’t know if that’s what you really want, but… You can have me, sweet-talker,” I said, tipping up my head and meeting his lips in a kiss. 

It wasn’t sudden, or brash like most would’ve thought our first kiss would be like. No, it was slow and sweet. Because even if our relationship was loud and chaotic, we could take pieces of it as slow as we wanted. 

And now, I can say that my sweet-talkers lips are just as sweet as his words.

A/N: Thank y’all so much for reading! if you have any sort of prompts, pop on over to my asks! Love y’all! <3 

[bijackkellys]

thunderstruck ; part one

lazarus, or the return of jack kelly

Fandom: Newsies (All Media Types) Relationships: Jack Kelly/David Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer Word Count: 1,651 Dedications: a huge shoutout to my gf, beta reader, and number one fan @mistyw273​, and to @dimenovelcowboy​ for supporting me endlessly. tag list (if you’d like to be added to this list just send me an ask or dm!): @santa-fe-maniac​ @pulitzers-world​ @yo-let-me-get-a-milkyway​ @verified-dumbass​ @jewishdavidjacobs​ @agentsnickers​ @thetruthabouttheboy​ Author’s Note: hey readers! i want to start by saying thank you so much for all the support and interest so far—i was honestly not expecting to get so much feedback with just the introduction but i'm really thrilled so many people are here for the ride! i figured i would go ahead and put part one up; this is the only back-to-back update i'll be doing, but i wanted to have more than the prologue out there. from this point forward i'm going to try bi-weekly updates on tuesdays and fridays (that's tentative and subject to change depending on how things carry on, though!). again, thank you for your interest and i really really appreciate the feedback, it honestly means the world to me. with that, let's get on with part one! 

read it on ao3

five months later.

JACK DOESN’T KNOW WHEN he started running, and doesn’t know where to stop.

Right now the world is this hazy, deafening thing. The streets loop endlessly around him, too bright and too loud, a mix of over-saturated colors and sounds he can’t pull apart. In the middle of it all he feels as if he’s drowning. He’s drugged up to his eyes, this much he can tell—there’s little else that he’s aware of, though, except for his feet pounding against the pavement and this base, animalistic instinct in the back of his brain telling him to go. To run and run and keep running. 

So he does. Buildings and road signs and people dissolve into background noise as he tears through the streets. Someone is after him; as disoriented as he is, he’s sure of it, and it’s that hot rush of fear that keeps him going more than anything else. A spike of adrenaline pushing him forward. 

Maybe he’s lost them miles ago, but it’s not until the moment he thinks his legs will give out underneath him that he collapses against the back wall of an alleyway, sputtering for a breath. His lungs burn and he feels dizzy, but Jack pushes past the blurred images in his head and the low ringing in his ears to catalog what he knows. His name is Francis—no. He swallows dryly and starts again. His name is Jack Kelly. He’s eighteen, maybe nineteen, now, depending on how much time has passed. He’s an art student, and a superhero, and there was a fire, and then—

And then everything fills up with static and the feeling of hands on his skin and this harsh, chemical smell. His stomach turns. 

Jack hates feeling like this, like he’s been separated from his own thoughts. The lack of control that comes with the clouded figures where his memories should be is enough to make him vulnerable in a way he hasn’t felt in years, exposed like a copper wire that’s been stripped of its casing. 

And the current—that’s gone altogether. There are silver cuffs biting into the skin of his wrists; the seam that held them together is broken along a jagged edge, but the slim band of green light lining them means they’re still suppressing his powers. Jack aches for the buzz of electricity to come back, needs them off. He twists his hands desperately and in doing so, makes his drug-addled brain suddenly aware of a cold piece of metal clenched in his fist.

He opens his palm. It’s a flash drive. His mind dredges up a fuzzy memory of ripping it from a computer port in what he thinks might have been a control room. He doesn’t know what it contains, but if he’d held onto it so desperately that it became second nature, then it must be important. He needs to find a computer, he thinks abruptly, and then stands up and immediately sways on his feet. 

Okay—okay. Not yet, maybe. Before that, he needs food and water and rest. He needs the lodging house, except he has no idea where he is, and in the state he’s in, he barely knows which way is up. He needs—he needs to call Crutchie.

Jack is struck suddenly by the overwhelming desire to hear his pseudo-brother’s voice, strong enough that his chest physically hurts from it. It’s been—weeks, maybe? months?—the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other since they were kids. If he can get his hands on a phone and get Crutchie on the line, he thinks, then powerless and drugged or not, he’ll be okay. 

It’s not much of a plan, but it’s a start. All he has to do is find a phone. This is easier said than done, though; there’s still a payphone booth left next to a nearby subway station, rusted from lack of use, but he doesn’t have any money. He’s aware of how he must look, a boy in tattered clothes with cloudy eyes and words slurred together, begging for change. More than one person threatens to call the police. Most of them just push him away. Jack feels his desperation pitching upward quickly, tightening in his throat.

When a stranger finally hands him a few quarters with a wary look, he’s not sure if it’s fear or pity or some combination of the two that makes her do it. He’s grateful all the same. He rushes over to the booth, blood roaring in his ears from the anticipation. His hands are shaking so hard that his fingers stumble over the keypad, but he knows Crutchie’s number by heart, is sure he could dial it in his sleep. It goes to voicemail and Jack shoves the receiver against his ear.

“Crutchie, it’s me—it’s Jack. Please pick up.”

When he slides the second quarter into the slot and calls again, it barely has a chance to ring.

“Jack is dead.” Crutchie’s voice comes through, wavering. Jack almost chokes on his relief.

“I’m not,” he says, and there’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, and then a noise that sounds like a broken sob. 

“No—”

“Crutchie, I’m here. It’s me. I’m not dead.”

“How…”

“I don’t know,” Jack says, truthfully. 

“You—you can’t—fuck, Jack.” And in the middle of everything, Jack is caught off guard because Crutchie almost never swears. There’s a long quiet, broken by just the static-filled sound of Crutchie crying. Jack’s own cheeks are wet. “It’s been five months,” he gasps finally. “I thought—we all thought you died in that fire. Holy shit. Where have you been?”

Jack’s head spins. He hadn’t even realized how much time has passed. Five months...it’s June now, then, and the spring semester of classes is already over, and he’s nineteen, and there’s this gaping chasm of lost time in his head—

“—ck? Jack.” 

He realizes that Crutchie is calling his name abruptly, and Jack blinks, trying to clear his thoughts. “Yeah, I-I’m here. I don’t—everything’s fuzzy, Crutchie, I don’t know what happened, where I’ve been—” His words trip and stumble over each other. “I’m gonna try and find my way back to the lodging house, I’ve just gotta—”

“No, no, wait, you can’t,” Crutchie cuts him off, suddenly fierce. Jack pauses.

“What do you mean?”

His response is quieter this time, tentative. Slow, like he’s walking on his toes. “Jackie...how much do you know about what’s been going on?” 

Dread pools in Jack’s chest, hot and fast. For as long as they’ve known each other, he’s only heard Crutchie sound like this, scared and small and hesitant, a few times before. Something has gone deeply wrong; he knows it in an instant, maybe should have realized it even before now. “What is it, Crutchie?” he demands.

Crutchie takes a shuddering breath. “They said you set the fire,” he says, and Jack’s stomach plummets. “It was all over the news—they said the hospital wasn’t an accident, that Strike—that you—had planned the whole thing, did it on purpose.”

“No...” Jack feels nauseous, dizzy, sure in that moment that he’s going to be sick all over the pavement. His memories of the hospital brim with fear and heat and voices that echo in his skull, and the idea that the public believes he’s the cause of that, of all that death and destruction, hurting innocent people—he can’t stomach it. Doesn’t know how to.

“Jack, people were angry. Really angry. Not just at Strike—there was a whole new anti-super wave, worse than it’s ever been before, and now everyone thinks supers are dangerous and they started... taking people.” Crutchie’s voice goes even lower as Jack feels his heart crawl up into his throat. “They—we call them Snatchers, we think they’re in league with the police—they’ve surrounded the lodging house and swarmed half the city, dragging kids with powers off to someplace called the Refuge.”

Everything goes hot and sharp for a moment, a quick snap of recognition that burns like fire. Jack tastes metal in his mouth, chokes on it. “That’s where I was,” he says hollowly. He knows it even through the fogginess in his head.

“Oh, Jackie,” Crutchie begins, but Jack doesn’t let him finish.

“Are the others—is everyone okay? Race, Specs, Elmer—did they get taken?” The lodging house is a frequent stop for super kids who need a place to spend the night, but the three of them and Jack are the only permanent residents that have powers. If the Snatchers found them, they’d have been dragged off to the same fate that Jack has only just escaped. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Crutchie says yes.

“They’re holed up with Spot in Brooklyn,” Crutchie replies, and Jack lets himself exhale. “I haven’t been talking to them a whole lot, because they’re trying to stay under the radar, but the last time I heard from them, they were okay.” He gives a rattled sort of laugh, devoid of humor and more exhausted than anything. “Shit, Jackie. Everything fell apart without you.”

Jack passes a hand over his face, wants to cry. Wants to scream and tell Crutchie that he’s lost and drowned and terrified, that he feels more helpless than he’s ever been, that for all the time he’s spent playing hero he doesn’t know how to save anyone from this. Instead, though, he sets his jaw. “I’m gonna fix this, Crutchie,” he says, half-promise and half-prayer. He’ll find a way.

“Jack—” Crutchie begins, but what he’s going to say next Jack doesn’t find out. The timer clicks, and there’s a robotic female voice in place of Crutchie’s that tells him the call has timed out. 

The line goes dead and then Jack is alone all over again, the vow he made weighing as heavy as the shackles on his wrists. 

[terramythos]

TerraMythos' 2020 Reading Challenge - Book 22 of 26

Title: House of Leaves (2000) 

Author: Mark Z. Danielewski

Genre/Tags: Horror, Fiction, Metafiction, Weird, First-Person, Third-Person, Unreliable Narrator 

Rating: 6/10

Date Began: 7/28/2020

Date Finished: 8/09/2020

House of Leaves follows two narrative threads. One is the story of Johnny Truant, a burnout in his mid-twenties who finds a giant manuscript written by a deceased, blind hermit named Zampanò. The second is said manuscript -- The Navidson Record -- a pseudo-academic analysis of a found-footage horror film that doesn’t seem to exist. In it, Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist Will Navidson moves into a suburban home in Virginia with his partner Karen and their two children. Navidson soon makes the uncomfortable discovery that his new house is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. Over time he discovers more oddities -- a closet that wasn’t there before, and eventually a door that leads into an impossibly vast, dark series of rooms and hallways. 

While Johnny grows more obsessed with the work, his life begins to take a turn for the worse, as told in the footnotes of The Navidson Record. At the same time, the mysteries of the impossible, sinister house on Ash Tree Lane continue to deepen. 

To get a better idea try this: focus on these words, and whatever you do don’t let your eyes wander past the perimeter of this page. Now imagine just beyond your peripheral vision, maybe behind you, maybe to the side of you, maybe even in front of you, but right where you can’t see it, something is quietly closing in on you, so quiet in fact you can only hear it as silence. Find those pockets without sound. That’s where it is. Right at this moment. But don’t look. Keep your eyes here. Now take a deep breath. Go ahead and take an even deeper one. Only this time as you start to exhale try to imagine how fast it will happen, how hard it’s gonna hit you, how many times it will stab your jugular with its teeth or are they nails? don’t worry, that particular detail doesn’t matter, because before you have time to even process that you should be moving, you should be running, you should at the very least be flinging up your arms--you sure as hell should be getting rid of this book-- you won’t have time to even scream. 

Don’t look. 

I didn’t. 

Of course I looked. 

Some story spoilers under the cut. 

Whoo boy do I feel torn on this one. House of Leaves contains some really intriguing ideas, and when it’s done right, it’s some of the best stuff out there. Unfortunately, there are also several questionable choices and narrative decisions that, for me, tarnish the overall experience. It’s certainly an interesting read, even if the whole is ultimately less than the sum of its parts. 

First of all, I can see why people don’t like this book, or give up on it early (for me this was attempt number three). Despite an interesting concept and framing device, the first third or so of the book is pretty boring. Johnny is just not an interesting character. He does a lot of drugs and has a lot of (pretty unpleasant) sex and... that’s pretty much it, at least at the beginning. There’s occasional horror sections that are more interesting, where Johnny’s convinced he’s being hunted by something, but they’re few and far between. Meanwhile, the story in The Navidson Record seems content to focus on the relationship issues between two affluent suburbanites rather than the much more interesting, physically impossible house they live in. The early “exploration” sections are a little bit better, but overall I feel the opening act neglects the interesting premise. 

However, unlike many, I love the gimmick. The academic presentation of the Navidson story is replete with extensive (fake) footnotes,and there’s tons of self-indulgent rambling in both stories. I personally find it hilarious; it’s an intentionally dense parody of modern academic writing. Readers will note early that the typographical format is nonstandard, with the multiple concurrent stories denoted by different typefaces, certain words in color, footnotes within footnotes, etc. House of Leaves eventually goes off the chain with this concept, gracing us with pages that look like (minor spoilers) this or this. This leads into the best part of this book, namely... 

Its visual presentation! House of Leaves excels in conveying story and feeling through formatting decisions. The first picture I linked is one of many like it in a chapter about labyrinths. And reading it feels like navigating a labyrinth! It features a key “story”, but also daunting, multi-page lists of irrelevant names, buildings, architectural terms, etc. There are footnotes that don’t exist, then footnote citations that don’t seem to exist until one finds them later in the chapter. All this while physically turning the book or even grabbing a mirror to read certain passages. In short, it feels like navigating the twists, turns, and dead ends of a labyrinth. And that’s just one example -- other chapters utilize placement of the text to show where a character is in relation to others, what kind of things are happening around them, and so on. One chapter near the end features a square of text that gets progressively smaller as one turns the pages, which mirrors the claustrophobic feel of the narrative events. This is the coolest shit to me; I adore when a work utilizes its format to convey certain story elements. I usually see this in poetry and video games, but this is the first time I’ve seen it done so well in long-form fiction. City of Saints and Madmen and Shriek: An Afterword by Jeff VanderMeer, both of which I reviewed earlier this year, do something similar, and are clearly inspired by House of Leaves in more ways than one. 

And yes, the story does get a little better, though it never wows me. The central horror story is not overtly scary, but eeriness suffices, and I have a soft spot for architectural horror. Even Johnny and the Navidsons become more interesting characters over time. For example, I find Karen pretty annoying and generic for most of the book, but her development in later chapters makes her much more interesting. While I question the practical need for Johnny’s frame story, it does become more engaging as he descends into paranoia and madness.

So why the relatively low rating? Well... as I alluded to earlier, there’s some questionable stuff in House of Leaves that leaves (...hah?) a bad taste in my mouth. The first is a heavy focus on sexual violence against women. I did some extensive thinking on this throughout my read, but I just cannot find a valid reason for it. The subject feels thrown in for pure shock value, and especially from a male author, it seems tacky and voyeuristic. If it came up once or twice I’d probably be able to stomach this more easily, but it’s persistent throughout the story, and doesn’t contribute anything to the plot or horror (not that that would really make it better). I’m not saying books can’t have that content, but it’s just not explored in any meaningful way, and it feels cheap and shitty to throw it in something that traumatizing just to shock the audience. It’s like a bad jump scare but worse on every level. There’s even a part near the end written in code, which I took the time to decode, only to discover it’s yet another example of this. Like, really, dude? 

Second, this book’s portrayal of mental illness is not great. (major spoilers for Johnny’s arc.) One of the main things about Johnny’s story is he’s an unreliable narrator. From the outset, Johnny has occasional passages that can either be interpreted as genuine horror, or delusional breaks from reality. Reality vs unreality is a core theme throughout both stories. Is The Navidson Record real despite all evidence to the contrary? Is it real as in “is the film an actual thing” or “the events of the film are an actual thing”? and so on and so forth. Johnny’s sections mirror this; he’ll describe certain events, then later state they didn’t happen, contradict himself, or even describe a traumatic event through a made-up story. Eventually, the reader figures out parts of Johnny’s actual backstory, namely that when he was a small child, his mother was institutionalized for violent schizophrenia. Perhaps you can see where this is going... 

Schizophrenia-as-horror is ridiculously overdone. But it also demonizes mental illness, and schizophrenia in particular, in a way that is actively harmful. Don’t misunderstand me, horror can be a great way to explore mental illness, but when it’s done wrong? Woof. Unfortunately House of Leaves doesn’t do it justice. While it avoids some cliches, it equates the horror elements of Johnny’s story to the emergence of his latent schizophrenia. This isn’t outwardly stated, and there are multiple interpretations of most of the story, but in lieu of solid and provable horror, it’s the most reasonable and consistent explanation. There’s also an emphasis on violent outbursts related to schizophrenia, which just isn’t an accurate portrayal of the condition. 

To Danielewski’s credit, it’s not entirely black and white. We do see how Johnny’s descent into paranoia negatively affects his life and interpersonal relationships. There’s a bonus section where we see all the letters Johnny’s mother wrote him while in the mental hospital, and we can see her love and compassion for him in parallel to the mental illness. But the experimental typographical style returns here to depict just how “scary” schizophrenia is, and that comes off as tacky to me. I think this is probably an example of a piece of media not aging well (after all, this book just turned 20), and there’s been a definite move away from this kind of thing in horror, but that doesn’t change the impression it leaves. For a book as supposedly original/groundbreaking as this, defaulting to standard bad horror tropes is disappointing. And using “it was schizophrenia all along” to explain the horror elements in Johnny’s story feels like a cop-out. I wish there was more mystery here, or alternate interpretations that actually make sense. 

Overall The Navidson Record part of the story feels more satisfying. I actually like that there isn’t a direct explanation for everything that happens. It feels like a more genuine horror story, regardless of whether you interpret it as a work of fiction within the story or not. There’s evidence for both. Part of me wishes the book had ended when this story ends (it doesn’t), or that the framing device with Johnny was absent, or something along those lines. Oh well-- this is the story we got, for better or worse. 

I don’t regret reading House of Leaves, and it’s certainly impressive for a debut novel. If you’re looking for a horror-flavored work of metafiction, it’s a valid place to start. I think the experimental style is a genuine treat to read, and perhaps the negative aspects won’t hit you as hard as they did to me. But I can definitely see why this book is controversial. 

[skyhooks-notebook]

My John Wick/Jason Bourne movie which will never be made

(Bourne, of course, is a brutally disillusioned idealist. He had no idea he was signing away his soul. Wick likely sold his soul with his eyes wide open, though he probably only understood the ultimate cost later on - a naive pragmatist.)

I don’t post much at all, but here is a thing that happened on my computer. I was thinking about how John Wick and Jason Bourne could be brought together. My thoughts became long, and I started writing it down. This isn’t a story, just a sketch of how I think such a movie could be made. It’s not really edited either, this is all off-the-cuff.

[I only know what’s in the movies. I don’t know other canon from either ‘verse.]

So, if I were making a movie…

The universes of John Wick and Jason Bourne have very different styles, creating a problem.

Problem: - Bourne lives in a Universe where government is large, powerful, knowledgeable and nearly competent. - Wick lives in a Universe where a vast and elaborate criminal underworld exists, where we’ve never seen those major criminal figures worry about law enforcement or government.

The discrepancy must be resolved.

Simple.

Jason Bourne has never dealt with crime. Everything has been political and confined to the intelligence community.

Wick has never dealt with politics or the intelligence community.

So.

We must assume that the intelligence community is perfectly happy to leave common crime in the hands of law enforcement.

- Law enforcement has an unwritten and fatalistic attitude that there will always be some level of crime no matter what you do because it’s innate to human nature. And if you’re going to have crime, it might as well be organized. Let the strongest and most dangerous criminals accumulate power and influence, because they will go a long way to controlling the stupid, the excessive and the disruptive crooks. Better to have one major weapons trafficker controlling the traffic than have a thousand slightly smaller and more disruptive dealers completely out of control. (You can strongly hint that there’s an uneasy, unwritten and largely unspoken agreement between crime and law enforcement, and that it’s often a two-way street.) And if the big crime gets too big, it’s easier to knock it back down to “acceptable” levels because you’ve got bigger targets, which are easier to hit and which make a large and impressive splash across the front page when you throw RICO charges at them.

Plus it would also illustrate that Wickian Law Enforcement at its highest levels is just as dirty, amoral and underhanded as the Bournite Intelligence community.

- So, with a little work and willing suspension of disbelief (which wouldn’t be hard, because who wouldn’t want to see Wick and Bourne on the same screen provided it’s done with at least half an ass), it’s possible to bring the two Universes together.

- We start with Bourne. Someone else, like an hard ass, experienced reporter, is snooping into the government’s history of creating conditioned assassins. Maybe because a public face, like a former intelligence director, has left the shade to become a politician. And many strongly suspect that he’s dirty as fuck, but our snoopy reporter is just figuring out how deep the rabbit hole goes. Our politician was, of course, instrumental in developing programs like Treadstone, Blackbriar, et al.

- The Snoop finds out, one way or another, that one of the earliest failures of these programs was an “asset” who experienced a psychological break, went “off the res”, starting killing people and still turns up now and then to kill more people. To our Snoop, it appears that the government has created an uncontrollable monster who is still on the loose and possibly lurking right outside the White House, dear reader, are you scared now?

- The story, scanty, incorrect and harshly spun, gets printed as above. A few names are named, but mostly dead people (and maybe someone who has already been publicly discredited.) Our politician is not named because our Snoop doesn’t yet have absolute proof linking Mr. Politician to the Treadstone/Blackbriar/etc. machine.

- The evidence still exists. Witnesses still live, in numbers too great to be cleanly eliminated.

- Mr. Politician is sweating bullets.

- The Snoop isn’t done. He wants to find Bourne so he can say, “Here’s your monster, where’s my Pulitzer?” As investigation continues, the story becomes clearer to the Snoop, and the monster starts to look like little less monstrous and little more victimized. Which is an even better story.

- Now Mr. Politician is not only worried that he will be named, he’s worried that if Snoop makes contact with Bourne, or simply as a consequence of Snoop stirring the shit, Bourne will find out who our Politician is and how complicit he was in the program that destroyed David Webb. Mr. Pol knows this is likely to be a death sentence.

- It has become obvious to everyone who isn’t deeply deluded that Jason Bourne is practically indestructible and that sending more valuable and increasingly scarce ‘assets’ against him is just going to result in the loss of those assets. Agents available may be trained and conditioned to within an inch of their lives, but Bourne’s psychological break caused him to exceed his limits, training and conditioning in a way Black Ops programs haven’t been able to replicate. Those with a pragmatic attitude believe that they have no agent who can measure up to Bourne. Politician believes this as well.

- But Mr. Politician knows some things that the intelligence community has never concerned itself with. In his many years of government service, Mr. Pol was also involved with Law Enforcement at various times. Maybe he did a stint with the effa-bee-eye. Whatever. He knows about the Criminal Underworld, he knows that to maintain the ugly equilibrium, the Underworld may be influenced to comply with certain requests. And he knows a name. John Wick.

- Mr. Politician is also savvy about recent developments in the Underworld. He’s got a friend who’s still in the business of monitoring organized crime and keeping tabs on what’s going on down there. Mr. Pol has listened to recent stories with fascination because of certain similarities to a well known government failure who has haunted his dreams for decades. It has become a fact in Mr. Pol’s mind that the CIA will never be able to take down Bourne, but maybe there’s another way.

- Mr. Politician approaches a major Crime Lord and tells him point blank to activate John Wick by any means necessary and set him on the trail of one Jason Bourne. If Wick can’t be activated, Crime Lord will receive his own personal set of extensive criminal and RICO charges, delivered to his doorstep by the entire FBI

- Crime Lord knows if he gets charged, he probably won’t survive because other crime lords are going to want to make sure he doesn’t talk - about them. Also, his family will be endangered no matter which way the sword swings; either the FBI will be targeting them or his fellow criminals will be.

- Crime Lord knows John Wick. They’re old friends. Crime Lord feels a bit conflicted about it, but his first loyalties are to his family and his own hide. So he swallows his fondness for John Wick and commits falsehood, deception, a calling in of favors, maybe a little blackmail and the old Rock-And-A-Hard-Fuck-You-Up-Place on Wick. An elaborate, manipulative lie, that sets a misinformed John Wick on the trail of a man potentially as dangerous as himself.

- Now, we’ve got Jason Bourne being hunted by the Snoop, which has him on alert. We have John Wick hunting Bourne because he believes, once again, that he has no choice.

- We also have a Jason Bourne who is somewhat confounded. We need the scene where Bourne finds out, before contact ever takes place, that someone has taken out a contract on him with an Underworld assassin. Bourne doesn’t know much more about the Criminal Underworld than Joe Schmoe from Kokomo, just what he’s seen in the news and largely ignored, because it never had anything to do with him. Even in all that training years and years ago, there was this gap, because organized crime wasn’t the CIA’s beat. Maybe at first, Bourne even assumes that this Wick character isn’t a threat because he’s just a murderer, a thug, and not a highly trained government operative like himself.

- So in a riveting scene where Bourne and Wick first come into contact, we see Bourne - under the influence of his ignorant assumption - nearly getting killed by Wick and making an extremely narrow escape by use of desperate measures. We also have Mr. Wick limping away, suitably impressed with the skills of his opponent.

- Now we have that stretch of the story where Wick is on the hunt, Bourne is on the run and Bourne is trying to uncover any information he can find about this assassin. Wick doesn’t research much, though, because that’s not how he works. Bourne is a machine; the gears must grind. Wick is a force of nature, like a tornado; most of the info he gets he just picks up along the way, either paying for it or having it given to him by friends.

- Bourne discovers that Wick had a military past, Special Forces, maybe he was fucked over by the military/government in his own way. Or Bourne sees it that way. Bourne finds out about Helen and her death, and maybe not the whole story, but quite a bit about how John cut through a small army of Russian mob mooks for vengeance. He identifies with Wick’s grief and anger. He sees something of himself in John Wick. He sympathizes with the devil.

- John hasn’t done the heavy research. He understands that Bourne is dangerous, perhaps more dangerous than anyone he’s ever met. He consolidates his resources and finds someone else to do his research. He is awaiting a report on Jason Bourne when…

- Bourne stops running, goes to confront Wick and ends up trying to explain, while fighting of course, what he knows about the Dirty Politician and the Crime Lord who has called John out of his troubled retirement yet again, and how Wick has been used and betrayed (this time) until he says something that causes Wick to call truce long enough to hear it all.

- Bourne can see the beginning of a way to solve the whole mess. After some persuasion, Wick is on board and has some ideas of his own.

- Now we’ve got our boys on the same side and it’s only left to decide whether the war will be conventional or nuclear.

- There are two victories we need to see. We must see the destruction of Mr. Politician and Mr. Crime Lord.

- You might-could send Bourne, who doesn’t really give a shit about the covenants and conventions of the criminal world, to the Continental - probably breaking in, instead of checking in. Luring the Crime Lord out into the open, perhaps on the intimation that Mr. Politician is about to take up backstabbing. Draw the Crime Lord out to confront the Politician. Bourne’s plan, reluctantly agreed to by Wick, is to draw the Politician and the Crime Lord together, get evidence and even a full recording of the meeting and expose them both to the world.

Or course, this backfires. Bourne finds himself in a position where he has to kill either Crime Lord or Mr. Politician in self-defense. Probably the Crime Lord.

- It would also be immensely satisfying to see Wick take out the dirty politician with a head shot. Bourne would, of course, be stoically pissed about it all, but it also illustrates the difference. Bourne is willing to let even unrepentant bastards live because he’s tired of having blood on his hands. Wick doesn’t let anybody live who’s fucked him over. Bourne is still conflicted about who and what he is. Wick has come to terms with himself. Bourne believes in atonement. Wick believes in damnation. Bourne still cares. Wick doesn’t give a fuck. Bourne still dreams of inner peace. Wick would settle for a little peace and quiet, would you motherfuckers just leave me the fuck alone already. Get off my lawn. And stop teasing my dog, you bastards.

(Bourne, of course, is a brutally disillusioned idealist. He had no idea he was signing away his soul. Wick likely sold his soul with his eyes wide open, though he probably only understood the ultimate cost later on - a naive pragmatist.)

- You must also show Wick taking an active role in planning, because if Bourne does all of it and says here’s what we’re going to do, then 1) he’s just using Wick as a tool or weapon, instead of treating him like a person and an equal and 2) Wick once again is being controlled by someone else instead of doing what he does best, which is take matters into his own hands (shooting Santino may have looked like a misstep, but who in the audience didn’t love it?)

- I’ve forgotten our Snoop reporter.

We could let Bourne track him down, in which case he will almost certainly die, because going by canon everybody who sympathizes with Jason Bourne must die.

We could let Wick find him, in which case he probably has a much better chance of surviving to publish his Pulitzer Prize winning story provided he’s not armed when he meets Mr. Wick. Hell, Wick could give him a coin, which could buy him entrance and protection at the Continental (even the government doesn’t want to mess with that bunch - like stirring a hornet’s nest with a stick; you might survive, but it will be excruciatingly painful and you’ll look like an idiot the whole time with all the screaming and flailing and jumping around in a panic.)

John Wick’s name will not appear in the story. Only a vaguely defined “other sources”.

- And after all is said and done, Bourne and Wick part company, with mutual respect and recognition. Though they really don’t like each other very much.

So that’s my John Wick/Jason Bourne movie which will never be made. But I had fun.

P.S. Please excuse crappy photoshop, I just wanted something there.

[loving-jack-kelly]

Jack Kelly is not Stupid!

(An entire three page essay by me, Asper, who's in love with Jack Kelly.)

Okay listen we all know I love Jack Kelly and I adore Jack Kelly and Jack Kelly is an incredible character, but let me talk about Jack Kelly right now. Jack Kelly is a goddamn genius, and nobody seems to think so, including himself. We’re talking right now specifically how I write Jack in modern au, but plenty of this could also apply to canon so let’s just dive right in.

When I write modern Jack, I write a very specific character across any and all aus. Jack Kelly is a foster kid from an immigrant household, he spoke Spanish at home, he has ADHD and dyslexia, struggles with anxiety and often with depression, and thinks he’s stupid. He’s not stupid, in fact, he’s pretty goddamn smart, but he doesn’t see it in himself.

Davey Jacobs and Katherine Plumber-Pulitzer are very similar in many ways. Both of them are also very smart, Davey has dyslexia and Katherine had ADHD, both of them have their own anxiety to deal with, but the difference is the environment they grew up in.

Jack moved around a lot. He moved schools, families, friends, towns, and he never did well in school. He struggled in English, both because he didn’t speak it as well as he spoke Spanish until he was in foster care, and because of his dyslexia. He didn’t recognize it as dyslexia, or ADHD, for that matter, because everyone always had a different explanation. He moved around so much, the curriculums were different, the assignments, the teachers, of course he wasn’t getting incredible grades. He couldn’t focus, so he acted out. It wasn’t malicious, he wasn’t trying to be disruptive, but after a half hour of trying to read a book he couldn’t make sense of even when he could make the letters stay put in the right order on the page, he couldn’t sit still anymore. It was easier to doodle on the worksheets, to draw little comics of funny things happening around him, to chat with the person next to him. Beyond that, he learned pretty quickly that if he made the jokes before he became the joke, people laughed with him, not at him. And one of those was decidedly better than the other. So people put his bad grades down to him never paying attention in class, and nobody ever bothered to ask if he was having trouble paying attention, or having trouble learning, they just assumed he was bad at school, at eventually, when enough people told him that? He started to believe it. It was easier to believe that he was just bad at English than to try to convince people that he wasn’t joking when he said “I can’t read” and that he wanted to pay attention but every time he tried to force himself too, it seemed like he just got distracted again. Knowing the name of every constellation in the sky didn’t mean he was smart, he learned that on his own time and it didn’t make him smart, he just liked the night sky, is all. And being able to focus on art for hours and hours and hours without noticing the time passing by, that was just because art was, well, art, and he could never get bored of that. He was stupid, but art wasn’t something he had to be smart to do. Never mind how many classical painters he could identify without names next to the painting, never mind the fully accurate map of the night sky he painted after months of careful research, never mind how much he loved math, he couldn’t ever focus and he got bad grades in school and he was stupid, he couldn’t keep up and it took him five times as long to get anything done and he was stupid.

Davey, on the other hand, grew up in a steady, stable, loving home. He loved stories, and wanted to learn to read as soon as he was old enough to understand that those marks on the page are what were telling the stories, but it was hard for him. At first, his parents and teachers assumed it was just because he was young and just learning to read, but eventually they watched him read and compared how fast he was moving in reading and writing to how fast he was moving in other subjects, and decided to test him, and realized he had dyslexia. So he had reading interventions, and was taught how to deal with it, and was able to compensate for it.

And Katherine had a similar thing. She was smart and everyone knew it, she got good grades in school, but she could never focus and they recognized it as ADHD and she was given ways to deal with it, and it didn’t affect her so much because she was given accommodations and support.

Jack didn’t get any of that. He got new school after new school after new school, and all of them and himself blamed it on the moves and Jack just not being good at school. He was just stupid.

And he met Davey and Katherine and it just cemented that idea in his mind. They were so smart, and they mentioned sometimes having trouble but they were so smart and did so well in school, he only did well in art and music, and he could barely read and barely focus and Davey and Katherine were just so smart, and he was nothing like them, so he couldn’t be smart. He was just stupid.

The thing is, he isn’t. He loves stories, he loves telling them and hearing them and it’s frustrated him time and time again that other people can read a book in a week and he can read an hour a day for two months and only be halfway done, because the letters don’t stay still and the words don’t even look like words and it takes him ten minutes to piece together a two sentences. But he listens to audiobooks, and Davey can’t figure out how he figures out Agatha Christie mysteries before the end, and Katherine never ceases to be amazed at how much he retains from nerdy podcasts she sends him because she thinks he’ll like them. He knows more about the night sky than the people who run the planetarium, and loves to lean over and tell Davey when a fact is wrong, that star is this many light years away and that means the light we’re seeing was made when the dinosaurs were around, isn’t that incredible? And he can spend hours making a painting just right, and pick out the perfect ratio in a painting without even thinking about it, and knows more about art history and color theory and the science, chemistry and math that go into art than most art teachers did. Reading was just hard, so he didn’t get good grades and had stopped trying to a long time ago, because trying just resulted in late nights and frustration and thinking he was even stupider than he already did.

And the thing about thinking you’re stupid is that it doesn’t go away. Eventually, sure he and Davey were talking about something and Davey described dyslexia and Jack was like oh shit! That’s me! And eventually the same thing happened with Katherine, and he was like double shit! That’s also me! But it didn’t really matter because they could be so smart even with those things affecting them, and he couldn’t. Because he was stupid.

Because thoughts like that don’t go away, at least not all the way, so now maybe he could blame pieces of being bad at school on them, but most of it he was convinced still came out of him being stupid. And it’s hard to convince him otherwise, because he’d been thinking like that for so long, and because he sees Davey and Katherine and can’t help thinking that they’re so much smarter than him, even though they’re not, really, they’ve just been supported and accommodated more throughout their lives, which obviously means they’ve been able to deal with it more.

And beyond that, Jack’s anxiety plays a huge part, too, because he can be sitting in bed, doing homework, and his ADHD is making it hard to focus and his dyslexia is making it hard to read and his anxiety is telling him he’ll never get it done and he’ll get a bad grade and he’ll fail the class, and that makes it harder to focus, which means he’s reading even slower, which means he’s even more anxious, which means it’s harder to focus, et cetera, et cetera. And that just makes him feel even more dumb, because it’s something else he can’t control that other people don’t even see as a problem. Because he says he can’t read, and people tell him to stop joking and get back to work, like that’s gonna help him. Because he says he can’t focus and people tell him to focus, like that’s gonna make a difference. Because he says he gets anxious and people tell him they do do, just get over it, like that’s gonna make a difference. And because when he says he’s depressed, when all of the things he’d gone through and everything he thinks about himself and all his fears and doubts feel like they’re suffocating him, people tell him to cheer up, smile, stop being so sad, like that was enough to make him feel better.

So he always feel stupid, especially in comparison to his friends, but he’s not, he just didn’t have the opportunities his friends did to learn how to work around their problems, and he didn’t. He didn’t get taught how to work around his dyslexia, he didn’t get to learn how to deal with ADHD, he didn’t get medication for ADHD or anxiety, he just dealt with it in his own way, which didn’t get him good grades. Because his way of dealing with it was making jokes and not even trying once he realized that trying didn’t even do him any good. He’s not stupid, and maybe he technically knows that, but hearing it and believing it so long and his own cycle of anxiety and depression combined mean that he can’t quite make himself really believe it.

But Jack Kelly isn’t stupid, he only thinks he is because he hasn’t had the resources and environment that would have allowed him to grow into his own intelligence in the same way Davey and Katherine did, so he found his own ways to express it, but he doesn’t consider that intelligence, and constantly compares himself to them even though they aren’t really that comparable, but he thinks they are and therefore thinks he’s stupid thank you for coming to my TED talk titled “Jack Kelly is Not Stupid and Also I Love Him.”

[momo-de-avis]

Do you have any tips on how to start writing? I'm really bad at expressing my thoughts well so I figure if I write like, a diary or something I may get better at talking,

A diary is actually a good thing! A great thing, actually. Because it allows you to practice for yourself only. It’s one of those little writing corners where you can just be yourself, unlimited, boundless, as you wish, and no one will criticize you. If you allow your thoughts to just pour onto the paper, even if only a paragraph per day, I guarantee you will grow. It’s important for writers to keep practising, and it’s common advice to just tell WRITE EVERY DAY, which isn’t so helpful as people make it seem. Most of the time, people use this to mean like, write a story, a short story, participate in NaNoWriMo (if you’re like me and don’t like to set up goals like Nano does in fear of disappointing yourself or are just plain bad with deadlines, Nano is a terrible idea). But actually, a diary does wonders. It’s the perfect way of practising, and it goes both ways---you vent and you practice. It’s for you alone.

First of all: don’t be too demanding on yourself. Whether it’s word/page count, deadlines or quality of what you’re creating, it’s important to keep in mind that you’re just starting and, even if you aren’t, it’s a first draft. First drafts are supposed to be just that---the very first time you write down your idea. It’s supposed to be a rough diamond that will be shaped later on into whatever you want it to be. For some people, that means write it once and then rewrite it entirely (I’m those people), for others it just means it’s got a main body, and then you just work what you have. It really depends. People have different methods, so no matter how much others tell you to do this way or that way, it’s your way that matters. 

Keep exploring your possibilities so you’ll find your work method. Listen to other’s people’s advice only to the limit of your abilities. If you try out a method and you can feel it in your bones right off the bad it just doesn’t work for you, quit it. It’s no good forcing something you’re not on par with. Just scratch that altogether. Methods, discipline, plotting---that varies from person to person and I detest when others say there is a right or wrong way to do things. There isn’t.

As for plotting, there are several ways to go about it---but take this with a grain of salt. I never followed a single method until I found out there are names for this shit. What I do is called a zero draft, or the Direct Writing Process. Word vomit onto paper, in other words. I have an idea, I think about it for a while and just pour it out. I personally work very well with freewriting and improvisation. I am a pantser---that means I don’t plot, I just define my characters, my conflict, my goal, some plot points and go on instinct. Most of the times, other plot points emerge as I write. They just pop up in the process. Other people can be plotters: they plot the whole thing down to the detail. Those are more likely to use methods like the snowflake method, or the 3 Act Method (I personally hate the 3 Act method. I think it’s super limited and most stories these day’s don’t necessarily follow a 3 act structure, but a structuralized (around 5 acts, if you will) plot that has inciting incident (the thing that sets the story off), plot points (the things that push the plot forward), plot twist (NOT necessary in a story, and I hate that we’re in a day and age that’s convinced people that a story MUST have a plot twist---it really doesn’t. Sometimes being predictable is good), and a conclusion. The 3 Act thing is mostly used in cinema, from what I learned).

(Keep in mind there are other methods, these are just the ones whose names I remember)

Pick up books within the genre you’d like to explore and read a lot. Now, I know, this is that sort of shit people just love telling new writers as the number one advice, but I think what lacks is telling people ways of how to read when you’re a writer. So here is how I do it:

I mark pages that have passages that I want to go back to, underline sentences that inspired me and make mental notes of literary devices and word combos that are new and useful to me. The reason why it’s so important to read a lot when you want to write is to submerge yourself in the millions of styles out there in order to find your voice. Re-read passages that make you go ‘shit, that was really good!’ and let yourself be submerged by it. Disconnect from the world if you have to. Re-read the books that have inspired you. When you finish a book you loved, ask yourself why you loved it---take notes, even. Just write down the things you enjoyed, make little essays for yourself. It’s not just that reading a lot helps when you want to write, you gotta THINK about what you read. For youself (USE YOUR DIARY :D).

And on that account, and I am dead serious here, read bad shit. I mean it. Read the worst possible book you can find. You’re going to read a lot of advice saying ‘you shouldn’t do this when you write’, and I’ll tell you right off the bat that I HATE ‘should-and-shouldn’t-dos’ advice for writers. You’ll read that fragmented sentences and heavy thick paragraphs are a bad thing because it wears out the reader, then you pick up Donna Tartt and realize she does that A LOT. So why does she get away with it? Because she’s good at it. The advice should always be ‘do it well’, not ‘don’t do it at all’ (generally speaking, do not trust someone who tells you there are other rules to writing besides grammatical).

But the bad books? Bruh they’re a perfect guide to How Not To Do Things because, contrary to Mister White Male Pulitzer spreading advice on Literary Hub, those books actually show you why it doesn’t work. And by showing you how it doesn’t work, you get an idea of ONE WAY it shouldn’t be done. So while Donna Tartt is great at heavy, thick paragraphs, you pick up fucking Eragon and get the gist of just one way it won’t work: when it forces you to pick up a thesaurus and basically search for every other word in there.

Then, of course, practice. By practicing, I mean---do whatever the crap you want. I cannot express enough how much I want every knew writer out there to cover their ears and go BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH every time someone tries to tell them what they should and shouldn’t do, because when you’re starting, it’s REALLY IMPORTANT that you just go out of boundaries as best as you can. You learn from your mistakes. But you gotta know why they’re mistakes. No one learns a damn thing by being told ‘this is bad’. You gotta see it for yourself. You gotta feel it. You gotta experiment. Because it might just happen that one day, it won’t be bad. And that will mean you will have found a way of reverted a rule---and that in itself means you’re finding your own voice.

So keep experimenting. I’m serious. Don’t be afraid of trying out. Never wrote Sci-fi? Fuck it. Try it out even without reading a book---it’s for yourself, get into the mood and do what you please. Never tried poetry? Go ahead. Be wacky about it. Make it visual, fuck rhyming and do what you please. Want to write a thing that’s historical but haven’t researched that bit of history? Experiment all the same. Go back and forth between your reading and your writing (one thing I do a lot is put the book I’m reading down for a second to go write something because I got so inspired by what I’m reading. If that happens to you, my advice is---bruh let it out. Don’t tame it. Don’t put a lid on it. FLOURISH).

There’s one thing I like telling people: there is no such thing as a bad idea, there are only ideas that need working.

I repeat: no such thing as a bad idea.

You really wanna write something that just came up to you but you’re thinking ‘I’m afraid this is too cliché’? Fuck that. For the love of God, AVOID thinking about the word cliché at all times. Clichés aren’t bad, they’re only bad when they aren’t worked properly. And there’s a reason they exist---people like them. So, let’s swipe that away right now and focus on what’s important: you have an idea, and you want to work it. But something feels off. That just means you need to rethink some concepts, NOT that the idea itself is bad.

Keep in mind that, sometimes, a story takes time to mature. It might mean you’re too young to write it (the one I have on wattpad that’s a first draft btw, Best of Times, I had the idea at 18, but it’s very political and I was Clueless (TM), I had to wait until I matured). Be patient and kind to yourself---you need time, and with you, so does your story. Don’t force anything out, cause a lemon can only squeeze so much juice. Leave a WIP unfinished if you have to, and jump to another one to clear your head---there is absolutely no problem with that (boy do I do that).

With that in mind: Sometimes, walking away from a WIP is a good thing.

Now, as for expressing yourself: as I mentioned above, reading a lot might help. But here’s the thing. Expressing yourself doesn’t come from reading and understanding literature, it comes from yourself. Read a lot and take notes, pay attention to literary devices, ESPECIALLY pay attention to how certain writers break rules. But then, work yourself out.

See, bruh. Work your vision. Look at the world around you. You know how they say a musician is good when they develop good earing? A writer is good when they learn how to see, to see into the world around them in their own way. Listen to the people around you, enjoy the little things in life, observe life’s intervals. Actually, on this aspect let me recommend a book: Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli. It’s a YA I think, very small and it was the one book I read when I was 13 that changed my life. It’s also a life-lesson for writers on the matter of ‘how to make the cliché absolutely beautiful’ and ‘how to grab a plot that’s been overdone and make it special’. Here is a synopsis. 

So, all in all, I would say: read, experiment, see and practice. Search for your inner voice. Don’t EVER throw away an idea.

HAPPY WRITINGS, ANON

[sunlitblue]

To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before (5)

yay! part five is here! this part is kind of short, but it’s also kind of dramatic (i hope). i think that there’ll probably be two more chapters after this one, and i am so not ready to let this story go. as always, message me w/ any questions or theories that you have. enjoy! <3

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8

“I spoke to Jack,” were the first words out of Katherine’s mouth when you answered her call. It was Facetime, this time, so you could see the shiny tears in her eyes. She didn’t give you a chance to reply before she continued.

“He texted me a half hour, or so, ago. He said that you told him that you have no feelings for him anymore. Is that true?”

Her voice was measured when she asked, but you knew her well-enough to know that her calm exterior was a practiced façade. She’d learnt it at her father’s company dinners when old white men grinned down at her condescendingly when she said that she wanted more than to be known as Joe Pulitzer’s rich daughter. She was good at it, but you knew better.

“Katherine, I promise that I feel nothing even remotely romantic for Jack. I would never hurt you like that, you know I wouldn’t.”

There was quiet for a moment, and then she exhaled, and grinned.

“Thank god! Do you know how difficult it was not to talk to you?”

You matched her smile and laughed.

“Yeah, I have some idea. My life has kind of imploded in the past couple weeks.”

You told her the official story of your relationship with Race. You wanted desperately to be honest, but Race had been right. She’d freak out and probably fly down to yell at you. Fake dating was exactly the kind of logistical nightmare that she’d hate.

Two weeks into December and week before the dreaded ski trip, you and Davey found yourselves huddled under the bleachers.

“Davey, remind me again why this is the only place we can cram for history?”

“Uh, duh, because we aren’t supposed to know about the ‘pop’ quiz. If Bunsen catches us learning, he’ll change the date again, and we won’t be able to see it coming!”

You rolled your eyes, at him, but got back to your notes.

“So, what changed in New York state labour laws in 1899?”, you quizzed him.

Before he could answer, you heard footsteps above you, and, then, voices.

“I don’t know, Race, it’s, like, you just don’t have time for me anymore. Whenever I see you, you’re with her!”

“What do you want from me, Spot? You want me to wait around until you’re done playing games? Why don’t you just hang out with your Brooklyn boyfriend?”

You swallowed and nudged Davey, motioning with your head that the two of you should get out of there.

“No way,” he whispered, low enough that you barely heard it. “They’re talking about you!”

Davey was your closest friend, and after Spot had cut the both of you off, neither of you ever found out why. He claimed to be over it, but Davey had a big heart. Spot’s betrayal hit him harder than it did you, and he wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to get some dirt on Conlon.

“He’s not like you, Race! He isn’t a good listener!”

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s because he doesn’t wait on your hand and foot like I used to. I’m done dating someone that I idolise, Spot. Do you think that’s love?”

Race sounded a little out of breath, and you had to strain to hear his next words.

“Spot, you cannot keep doing this to me.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Is she coming on the ski trip? You know that’s been our thing since we started high school, Racer.”

“Why would that be your business? The trip’s in a week and you have a boyfriend.”

Spot sighed.

“I know, but maybe by then… I won’t.”

Something creaked and you heard Race’s scoff and his footsteps stomping away. After a while, Spot followed.

Davey turned to you with wide eyes.

“Dude. Spot is trying his luck with your boyfriend.”

You gave him a small, tight smile.

“We should get to history. Don’t need Bunsen to think we’re bunking.”

The next day, you ran into Jack. Everything was still a little awkward, but it had been a couple weeks since the party and you knew that he and Kath were back on speaking terms. The conversation you’d over heard was still playing itself on a loop in your head. Race was your fake boyfriend, but he wouldn’t cheat on you, right? And, why did the idea of him getting back with Spot put a pit in your stomach? That had been the plan, hadn’t it? Jack must have seen that something was bothering you when he stopped you in the hallway at the end of the school day.

“Hey, you look stressed. Is everything alright with you and Race?”

You suddenly remembered why Jack had meant so much to you. He was kind and intelligent, but it was more than that. It always felt like he could read your mind, before you even figured out what you were thinking.

“Uh, no, but Race-drama is probably the last thing you want to talk about.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t care. Tell me what’s going on.”

So, you did. You told him everything, leaving out the fact that it was all supposed to be fake.

“I guess,” you concluded, “I just feel like the longer I’m with him, the more it’s going to hurt when he inevitably goes running back to Spot. I could kick myself for not seeing this coming.”

“Uh, shit, I don’t know what to tell you. That sucks. I’m sorry you have to go through that.” He reached out an arm and pulled you into a side hug.

“Y/N?”, you heard someone hiss at you from across the hallway. You both looked up to see Race standing there, with a calculus textbook in his hand.

You pulled away from Jack.

“Hey, do you need a lift today? Should I wait?”, he asked kindly

“Thanks, Jack, but you’d better not.”

You headed to Race and pulled him into an emptier corridor. His voice was sharp when he spoke again.

“What the hell? What do you think people will say when they see my girlfriend cozying up with Jack Kelly?”

“Excuse me? What do you think people will say when they hear that you’re practically begging to get back with Spot?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I heard you talking on the bleachers.”

“Oh, so you’re spying on me now?”

“Not intentionally!”

He scoffed.

“Okay, so I was talking to Spot. So, what?”

“Yeah, exactly. So, what? Look, neither of us expected this to go on for so long. Spot obviously wants you back, Jack and I are cool. I think we can call it.”

He looked hurt.

“I cannot believe that you’re trying to end this before the ski trip. It’s in the contract!”

“Yeah, only if we’re still together.”

“We are still together! You’re just trying to pull out because you’re scared.”

You stepped nearer to him, and you could see his chest rising and falling.

“What do I have to be scared of, Higgins?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Somewhere, you hear a bell ring.

How do you tell your fake boyfriend that you can’t go skiing with him because you’re developing real feelings? You can’t. Instead, you take a step back. From a little further away, it’s easier to avoid the sparkle in his eyes, or to stop your hand from grabbing onto his fidgeting one.

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll see you on Friday. The bus leaves at seven, right?”

He looks a little shocked that you’ve given in.

“I, uh. Yeah.”

“Cool. Don’t save me a seat.”

TAGLIST: @the-kool-aid-man-is-real @broadwayloser @newsies-nuisance @bennie-badeend @all-american-fangirl @hungoverhellhound @seriously-ceci @ben-cook-can-cook @pinecovewoods @brendonuriehimself @races-erster @the-butterfly-anon

[hansrillow]

is this an excuse to also analyze this scene that lives in my brain 24/7?

I will die on the idea that Davey just has the knowledge of unionizing and striking the way that jack wouldn’t. jack’s never had anyone to educate him on how this stuff works, so he’s saying fuck this after they get their asses handed to them and Davey is the one saying “lol, get up we’re not done.” Davey, at least to me, screams jewish immigrant, likely a socialist/anarchist just based on the amount of jews that immigrated during that time period. anyway

the line “lighten up no one died” is, in my brain, that Davey knows these things are dangerous and someone very well could have died, but they didn’t. they can get Crutchie out of jail, what they can’t do is bring him back to life. 

like you could look at this scene and go “shit, Davey cares more about the strike than Crutchie” or you could look at it and say that he knows Crutchie is smart and capable of keeping himself alive in jail while they work on getting him out and getting the strike done. 

and part of me thinks that a reason jack has that super visceral, absolutely “we’re done” reaction is because he might not have ever seen any of these kids (his friends, his family) get hurt like that before and not been able to stop it or go fuck them up in revenge (or teaching them a lesson or whatever reason you think). he can’t go beat up pulitzer and the cops and the scabs and whoever else, he’d absolutely lose that fight. he probably (definitely) feels helpless in a way that he never had. which is just a different way of saying what you said but tl;dr I agree

another thing I find so interesting though is that jack says “I'm not putting those kids back in danger”, coming from the point of view of “these are my kids (re: family) and I’m not going to do that to them”. where Davey kind of seems to come at it from the point of view of “they’re their own people. they can decide if they want to take these risks or not.” (though, I will say the risks of striking weren’t well explained buttttttt anyway)

and I think that’s just such an interesting contrast of characters, and the way they’re written almost seems, to me, that jack has been a leader because he didn’t have a choice, but davey doesn’t seem to have that. it wasn’t by choice, exactly, but he easily could’ve left and found him and les a different job.

I dont know I have a lot of thoughts especially revolving around this scene. and rizz, you gave me an opportunity to ramble so by god I took it

now that i’m thinking about it i can’t stop so. i know we in our heads are like yeah jacks the fighter, he gets into trouble, not afraid to get his hands dirty, all that. and that’s true too. but i’ve been looking at the script for something i’m doing and looking over the dialogue before wwh reprise. and jack’s fine with getting his hands dirty, as long as it’s just his hands. he can feel the big picture—“it ain’t just about us, all around this city there are kids” etc etc—but he doesn’t see it.

davey does. davey is the one who understands, really, that there has to be strategy, long-term endurance, and goddamn consequences too- ones that jack doesn’t seem as willing to accept. jack fr doesn’t have davey’s stamina when it comes to a fight, a real fight, since this isn’t some street-side brawl like jack wants to treat it as.

davey knows it’s a real fight, and davey is more ready than jack to do battle. he’s practically calling it a war- “they took this round.” he’s already trying to win the next battle. davey knows they’re lucky that all that’s happened so far was only one of them being carted off. he knows that if pulitzer wanted them dead, they would be, while jack still thinks rich folk like them don’t care enough about kids like him. he’s still getting stuck at the individual while davey is planning a battle with willing soldiers. and he’s willing to get hurt for it- is willing for the newsies to get hurt again for it again, because to him it is worth it. and to jack, right then in this scene… it’s not.

if anyones insecure, it’s jack, and if anyones a damn brick wall, it’s davey fucking jacobs.

[skyhook-sly]

My John Wick/Jason Bourne movie which will never be made

(Bourne, of course, is a brutally disillusioned idealist. He had no idea he was signing away his soul. Wick likely sold his soul with his eyes wide open, though he probably only understood the ultimate cost later on - a naive pragmatist.)

I don’t post much at all, but here is a thing that happened on my computer. I was thinking about how John Wick and Jason Bourne could be brought together. My thoughts became long, and I started writing it down. This isn’t a story, just a sketch of how I think such a movie could be made. It’s not really edited either, this is all off-the-cuff.

[I only know what’s in the movies. I don’t know other canon from either ‘verse.]

So, if I were making a movie…

The universes of John Wick and Jason Bourne have very different styles, creating a problem.

Problem: - Bourne lives in a Universe where government is large, powerful, knowledgeable and nearly competent. - Wick lives in a Universe where a vast and elaborate criminal underworld exists, where we’ve never seen those major criminal figures worry about law enforcement or government.

The discrepancy must be resolved.

Simple.

Jason Bourne has never dealt with crime. Everything has been political and confined to the intelligence community.

Wick has never dealt with politics or the intelligence community.

So.

We must assume that the intelligence community is perfectly happy to leave common crime in the hands of law enforcement.

- Law enforcement has an unwritten and fatalistic attitude that there will always be some level of crime no matter what you do because it’s innate to human nature. And if you’re going to have crime, it might as well be organized. Let the strongest and most dangerous criminals accumulate power and influence, because they will go a long way to controlling the stupid, the excessive and the disruptive crooks. Better to have one major weapons trafficker controlling the traffic than have a thousand slightly smaller and more disruptive dealers completely out of control. (You can strongly hint that there’s an uneasy, unwritten and largely unspoken agreement between crime and law enforcement, and that it’s often a two-way street.) And if the big crime gets too big, it’s easier to knock it back down to “acceptable” levels because you’ve got bigger targets, which are easier to hit and which make a large and impressive splash across the front page when you throw RICO charges at them.

Plus it would also illustrate that Wickian Law Enforcement at its highest levels is just as dirty, amoral and underhanded as the Bournite Intelligence community.

- So, with a little work and willing suspension of disbelief (which wouldn’t be hard, because who wouldn’t want to see Wick and Bourne on the same screen provided it’s done with at least half an ass), it’s possible to bring the two Universes together.

- We start with Bourne. Someone else, like an hard ass, experienced reporter, is snooping into the government’s history of creating conditioned assassins. Maybe because a public face, like a former intelligence director, has left the shade to become a politician. And many strongly suspect that he’s dirty as fuck, but our snoopy reporter is just figuring out how deep the rabbit hole goes. Our politician was, of course, instrumental in developing programs like Treadstone, Blackbriar, et al.

- The Snoop finds out, one way or another, that one of the earliest failures of these programs was an “asset” who experienced a psychological break, went “off the res”, starting killing people and still turns up now and then to kill more people. To our Snoop, it appears that the government has created an uncontrollable monster who is still on the loose and possibly lurking right outside the White House, dear reader, are you scared now?

- The story, scanty, incorrect and harshly spun, gets printed as above. A few names are named, but mostly dead people (and maybe someone who has already been publicly discredited.) Our politician is not named because our Snoop doesn’t yet have absolute proof linking Mr. Politician to the Treadstone/Blackbriar/etc. machine.

- The evidence still exists. Witnesses still live, in numbers too great to be cleanly eliminated.

- Mr. Politician is sweating bullets.

- The Snoop isn’t done. He wants to find Bourne so he can say, “Here’s your monster, where’s my Pulitzer?” As investigation continues, the story becomes clearer to the Snoop, and the monster starts to look like little less monstrous and little more victimized. Which is an even better story.

- Now Mr. Politician is not only worried that he will be named, he’s worried that if Snoop makes contact with Bourne, or simply as a consequence of Snoop stirring the shit, Bourne will find out who our Politician is and how complicit he was in the program that destroyed David Webb. Mr. Pol knows this is likely to be a death sentence.

- It has become obvious to everyone who isn’t deeply deluded that Jason Bourne is practically indestructible and that sending more valuable and increasingly scarce 'assets’ against him is just going to result in the loss of those assets. Agents available may be trained and conditioned to within an inch of their lives, but Bourne’s psychological break caused him to exceed his limits, training and conditioning in a way Black Ops programs haven’t been able to replicate. Those with a pragmatic attitude believe that they have no agent who can measure up to Bourne. Politician believes this as well.

- But Mr. Politician knows some things that the intelligence community has never concerned itself with. In his many years of government service, Mr. Pol was also involved with Law Enforcement at various times. Maybe he did a stint with the effa-bee-eye. Whatever. He knows about the Criminal Underworld, he knows that to maintain the ugly equilibrium, the Underworld may be influenced to comply with certain requests. And he knows a name. John Wick.

- Mr. Politician is also savvy about recent developments in the Underworld. He’s got a friend who’s still in the business of monitoring organized crime and keeping tabs on what’s going on down there. Mr. Pol has listened to recent stories with fascination because of certain similarities to a well known government failure who has haunted his dreams for decades. It has become a fact in Mr. Pol’s mind that the CIA will never be able to take down Bourne, but maybe there’s another way.

- Mr. Politician approaches a major Crime Lord and tells him point blank to activate John Wick by any means necessary and set him on the trail of one Jason Bourne. If Wick can’t be activated, Crime Lord will receive his own personal set of extensive criminal and RICO charges, delivered to his doorstep by the entire FBI

- Crime Lord knows if he gets charged, he probably won’t survive because other crime lords are going to want to make sure he doesn’t talk - about them. Also, his family will be endangered no matter which way the sword swings; either the FBI will be targeting them or his fellow criminals will be.

- Crime Lord knows John Wick. They’re old friends. Crime Lord feels a bit conflicted about it, but his first loyalties are to his family and his own hide. So he swallows his fondness for John Wick and commits falsehood, deception, a calling in of favors, maybe a little blackmail and the old Rock-And-A-Hard-Fuck-You-Up-Place on Wick. An elaborate, manipulative lie, that sets a misinformed John Wick on the trail of a man potentially as dangerous as himself.

- Now, we’ve got Jason Bourne being hunted by the Snoop, which has him on alert. We have John Wick hunting Bourne because he believes, once again, that he has no choice.

- We also have a Jason Bourne who is somewhat confounded. We need the scene where Bourne finds out, before contact ever takes place, that someone has taken out a contract on him with an Underworld assassin. Bourne doesn’t know much more about the Criminal Underworld than Joe Schmoe from Kokomo, just what he’s seen in the news and largely ignored, because it never had anything to do with him. Even in all that training years and years ago, there was this gap, because organized crime wasn’t the CIA’s beat. Maybe at first, Bourne even assumes that this Wick character isn’t a threat because he’s just a murderer, a thug, and not a highly trained government operative like himself.

- So in a riveting scene where Bourne and Wick first come into contact, we see Bourne - under the influence of his ignorant assumption - nearly getting killed by Wick and making an extremely narrow escape by use of desperate measures. We also have Mr. Wick limping away, suitably impressed with the skills of his opponent.

- Now we have that stretch of the story where Wick is on the hunt, Bourne is on the run and Bourne is trying to uncover any information he can find about this assassin. Wick doesn’t research much, though, because that’s not how he works. Bourne is a machine; the gears must grind. Wick is a force of nature, like a tornado; most of the info he gets he just picks up along the way, either paying for it or having it given to him by friends.

- Bourne discovers that Wick had a military past, Special Forces, maybe he was fucked over by the military/government in his own way. Or Bourne sees it that way. Bourne finds out about Helen and her death, and maybe not the whole story, but quite a bit about how John cut through a small army of Russian mob mooks for vengeance. He identifies with Wick’s grief and anger. He sees something of himself in John Wick. He sympathizes with the devil.

- John hasn’t done the heavy research. He understands that Bourne is dangerous, perhaps more dangerous than anyone he’s ever met. He consolidates his resources and finds someone else to do his research. He is awaiting a report on Jason Bourne when…

- Bourne stops running, goes to confront Wick and ends up trying to explain, while fighting of course, what he knows about the Dirty Politician and the Crime Lord who has called John out of his troubled retirement yet again, and how Wick has been used and betrayed (this time) until he says something that causes Wick to call truce long enough to hear it all.

- Bourne can see the beginning of a way to solve the whole mess. After some persuasion, Wick is on board and has some ideas of his own.

- Now we’ve got our boys on the same side and it’s only left to decide whether the war will be conventional or nuclear.

- There are two victories we need to see. We must see the destruction of Mr. Politician and Mr. Crime Lord.

- You might-could send Bourne, who doesn’t really give a shit about the covenants and conventions of the criminal world, to the Continental - probably breaking in, instead of checking in. Luring the Crime Lord out into the open, perhaps on the intimation that Mr. Politician is about to take up backstabbing. Draw the Crime Lord out to confront the Politician. Bourne’s plan, reluctantly agreed to by Wick, is to draw the Politician and the Crime Lord together, get evidence and even a full recording of the meeting and expose them both to the world.

Or course, this backfires. Bourne finds himself in a position where he has to kill either Crime Lord or Mr. Politician in self-defense. Probably the Crime Lord.

- It would also be immensely satisfying to see Wick take out the dirty politician with a head shot. Bourne would, of course, be stoically pissed about it all, but it also illustrates the difference. Bourne is willing to let even unrepentant bastards live because he’s tired of having blood on his hands. Wick doesn’t let anybody live who’s fucked him over. Bourne is still conflicted about who and what he is. Wick has come to terms with himself. Bourne believes in atonement. Wick believes in damnation. Bourne still cares. Wick doesn’t give a fuck. Bourne still dreams of inner peace. Wick would settle for a little peace and quiet, would you motherfuckers just leave me the fuck alone already. Get off my lawn. And stop teasing my dog, you bastards.

(Bourne, of course, is a brutally disillusioned idealist. He had no idea he was signing away his soul. Wick likely sold his soul with his eyes wide open, though he probably only understood the ultimate cost later on - a naive pragmatist.)

- You must also show Wick taking an active role in planning, because if Bourne does all of it and says here’s what we’re going to do, then 1) he’s just using Wick as a tool or weapon, instead of treating him like a person and an equal and 2) Wick once again is being controlled by someone else instead of doing what he does best, which is take matters into his own hands (shooting Santino may have looked like a misstep, but who in the audience didn’t love it?)

- I’ve forgotten our Snoop reporter.

We could let Bourne track him down, in which case he will almost certainly die, because going by canon everybody who sympathizes with Jason Bourne must die.

We could let Wick find him, in which case he probably has a much better chance of surviving to publish his Pulitzer Prize winning story provided he’s not armed when he meets Mr. Wick. Hell, Wick could give him a coin, which could buy him entrance and protection at the Continental (even the government doesn’t want to mess with that bunch - like stirring a hornet’s nest with a stick; you might survive, but it will be excruciatingly painful and you’ll look like an idiot the whole time with all the screaming and flailing and jumping around in a panic.)

John Wick’s name will not appear in the story. Only a vaguely defined “other sources”.

- And after all is said and done, Bourne and Wick part company, with mutual respect and recognition. Though they really don’t like each other very much.

So that’s my John Wick/Jason Bourne movie which will never be made. But I had fun.

P.S. Please excuse crappy photoshop, I just wanted something there.

[backonefish]

ANNUAL WRITING SELF-EVALUATION 2016

@paynner tagged me in this (i hope this is still her name :p). And I’m super excited to do this even if I really don’t have much to say. But anywho, here goes.

1. List of works published this year: 

A Whole New World

In a World Like This

(it hit me the minute I posted my second fic that both the titles were incredibly similar and it was too late too change. Le sigh. Tis life)

2. Work you are most proud of (and why):

I know IAWLT was the more popular one, but I’m quite impartial to my first one, AWNW (what the hell are these acronyms? Is this what I get for naming fics after song titles?). It was the first one I wrote for the 1D fandom and it kind of took a life of its own. The minute I saw the prompt, the plot fell into place and I loved being able to write all the Disney into their banter. It was just so much fun to write. I don’t think I’ve written anything that has been that much fun and I kept having to tell myself to focus on actual life and not write.

3. Work you are least proud of (and why):

Um… neither? I know I’m more proud of AWNW, so ergo, the other should be my least. But I really loved writing both and I’m quite proud of both. I mean they’re not literary masterpieces, but I liked them enough to publish… Having said that, there is still stuff I would like to change.

For AWNW, I still feel like the bet was a little too rushed and forced. I had to keep re-writing that part and wished I could’ve fleshed it out more. I also feel like I suck at endings, bc I get super into developing the plot and once I figure out how to end it, I rush into it so quickly and just want to be done. And then when I go back, I wish I had a full more bodied ending. I dunno if that makes sense, but it’s something I need to work on.

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

Can I pick two? I’m going to pick two. Both are from AWNW. (this part turned out to be quite long. sorreeee)

“I Just Can’t Wait to be King” is what wakes him up on Wednesday. It used to be what woke his parents up every day when he was a child and the Lion King was the best thing ever. Except he’s no longer a kid and karma’s a bitch.

Today when he drinks tea, he covers Simba’s face with a strategically placed thumb. He places the mug in the sink once he’s done, only to double back and place a kiss on Simba’s face. It’s really not Simba’s fault that his neighbour is an asshole who can’t respect sleeping hours.

That night, Louis stuffs his ears with cotton and hopes for the best.

---

On Thursday, hopes come true. For the first time that week, Louis is woken up by his alarm. Not some –

The angst filled notes of “Let it Go” comes thudding through the walls. Never mind then. Hopes are meant to be dashed.

---

It’s Friday and “Tale as Old as Time” is playing through his walls and really, being woken up every fucking day by a piano playing, Disney loving neighbour, is a tale as old as time. Tomorrow is Saturday. Surely, his neighbours understand the sanctity of a Saturday.

---

Surely he has been more wrong in his life? It’s currently 7:20 and Louis is lying in bed listening to a much improved version of “A Whole New World.” Neighbour #2 is getting better at this. Too bad the same can’t be said for Louis’ sleep.”

K, So I loved this bit bc I was quite proud with how things flowed. It was one of the first ideas that came to me about the fic and stylistically, I enjoyed the movement from one day to the next and the chance to incorporate the Disney songs into the transitions.

And

Perhaps he too should write a poem.

He pulls out a blank sheet of paper and chews his pen.

Harry. He’ll write a poem for Harry.

Hair that shines like a princess

No. He scratches that out and starts again. It’s still too soon.

Skin as soft as a petal

Hair as shiny as the sun

Eyes so – what rhymes with petal? Metal? Nettle? Kettle? Ah, yes. That will work.

Eyes as green as my kettle

Harry, you are my number one.

Dimples as deep as the sea

Lips that make me want to come

Heart as pure as can be

Harry, you are my only one.

Perfect. Literary genius, he is. This is Pulitzer Prize worthy. He rewrites the poem carefully on a fresh sheet of paper and then decorates it with hearts and flowers. He spends the rest of the day in eager anticipation for when he gives the poem to Harry.

Ten pm finally rolls around when Harry texts Louis to say that he’s home. Louis bounds over eagerly, knocking obnoxiously until Harry opens the door.

“Here,” he bypasses Harry’s greeting to thrust the poem taped to a bouquet of flowers he’d picked up on his way home.

“Lou,” Harry breathes, caught off guard, “What is this.”

“I wrote you a poem,” Louis points at the paper, rocking on his feet impatiently. “Read it.”

“Okay,” Harry says, floored. He places the flowers on the table and carefully pulls the poem free. He reads silently, lips mouthing along the words. When he’s done he looks at Louis, eyes wide and slightly teary.

“This is the nicest thing anyone’s done for me,” Harry says, voice wavering slightly.

“So you liked it?” Louis asks, shy all of a sudden.

“I loved it. Your kettle is very green,” Harry agrees.

Louis nods. He’s quite proud of that line. Harry reaches out to cup Louis’ jaw with one hand, poem still clutched tightly in his other.

“Your lips make me want to come too,” Harry whispers, leaning down.

This is my other favourite bc its so absurd. The poem is so bad. I love it. It’s crazy and stupid. It was the most ridiculous thing I could write and I did write it and it just worked with the nature of the fic. Also I could easily picture Larry being this ridiculous about shit (*cough* the wind makes nice waves) and being so in love with each other that they can’t see how bad it is. So yeah. These two pieces.

(also wow, apologies for all the grammatical errors in AWNW)

5. Share or describe a favorite review you received:

Ahhh, I love every single kudo, like, bookmark and comment. I’m still flabbergasted that someone would take the time to appreciate my fic in any sense. So thank you.

If I had to pick one (im sorry if this is cheesy) but I loved the comment paynner left on IAWLT. I wrote it based on her prompt but never in a million years would I expect her to leave such a heartfelt comment on my fic. Like, she picked excerpts she liked and commented on it, promoted it on tumblr and then even proposed to me (I said yes). It honestly doesn’t get better than that. Forever grateful.

6. A time when writing was really, really hard:

Oh… um right before I started writing Larry. I used to write for other fandoms and stopped bc I was no longer inspired? And just real life got in the way and I didn’t see the purpose of writing anymore.

7. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you

This is super tough. I want to say the Harry and Louis I wrote for AWNW. They’re both so ridiculous and over the top. I never imagined writing them like that and it actually working.

8. How did you grow as a writer this year:

Well one, I started writing again, and two, I’m writing RPF and AUs which I never imagined id do. But moreover, I wrote more comedic, light hearted fluff. I used to write angst bc I get angst and it was what I always wrote. So coming back into a completely different genre was nerve-wracking but also so much fun and quite rewarding. I got to be sillier in my work, insert more of my thought process into the characters, and actually create worlds.

9. How do you hope to grow next year:

I want to return to angst next year, and write a longer fic. Mainly, commit to something long enough to actually write it. The last time I wrote a multi-chaptered fic, I was so tired by the end of it and was the worst at updating. So yeah, commit to writing, create a proper schedule to write, and all that jazz.

Oo I also really want to develop my side characters more. Make them more well rounded and bodied and more central to the plot.

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

Can I just say all the authors in this fandom have been a huge inspiration. I’ve been reading fic for the past year and a half and I’m always so incredibly floored by the variety, talent, and uniqueness of each fic. So, yeah, a huge thank you to everyone who has written.

I will pick out three (bc I love doing things in threes) who have definitely been a positive influence.

Zarah5 (I hope that wherever she is, she’s doing amazing.) Stylistically, the way she writes… wow. The ability to convey emotion and fears through actions and dialogue only, is so unique and I’m in awe of how she does it. Her plots are so detailed and nuanced and just pull me under (see what I did there? I can be punnier than harry). Also her sentence structure? She embodied the characters as the narrators so well and utilizes that into unique sentence structures. I’ve yet to see someone who can write in such a manner.

@alienproof so I’ve commented on chelsie’s work about how she creates atmosphere. You read her fics and you’re instantly pulled into the mood of the world. Finding Lou? The Wonderlands? Omh, the wonderlands. Guys, you don’t understand how much I love that fic. I’ve never waited that eagerly for a fic update in my life. Her Louis and Harry are so much older, but so well written, their fears and motives and dynamic. And the atmosphere. It always boils down to the atmosphere and I love it.

@paynner . duh. I adore her writing. ADORE. Her fics are the best pick-me-ups you could ever need. They’re so funny, so smutty, so unique. Also she’s this plethora of prompts and every time I come across one of them, I’m like ooo I want to write it. Obviously, I went and wrote one. So, literally, she’s been the most positive influence. But yeah, I love her mind, I love how well she writes and I LOVE how somethin’ bout you was so different than her usual style of writing but it works so well! I remember only realising who the author was bc princess isn’t subtle at all, but otherwise I got so sucked up in the world and the plot and the unique way the love/hate dynamic worked that I couldn’t even tell it was her. Oh, also – how the hell did she manage to write so much in a year? 

You people amaze me. And make me think, hey i should give this writing thing a shot too.

11. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year:

Lmao, my love for BSB? Im still amazed that I was able to insert them into a fic. I literally wrote three dates for Harry and Louis in IAWLT bc I wanted to write about the Backstreet Boys and then I went and named the fic after their song. Sue me, I’m trash for them.  

12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

Write what you want. Write what’s fun. You’ll enjoy it more than if you try to write what other people want to read. Also write for fic exchanges bc it puts you on a deadline and provides you with prompts and gives you an automatic audience. (I guess this is mainly for newer writers, but I really have no new wisdom for experienced, established authors… )

13. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

Oh… finishing for sure. I’m working on a med school, friends with benefits fic, set in Canada which is multi-chaptered bc why not bite off more than I can chew. The entire thing is planned out, but I’ve been stuck on the third chapter and life is a thing that refuses to be ignored… so yeah. Lets see. But I’d like to get it finished this year.

keep everything crossed

14. Tag three writers whose answers you’d like to read. ;)

@donotdialnine and @juliusschmidt who I’ve recently been reading again. So much love for their work. And @sadamenoito bc i’ve read all her fics a few too many times. Dunno if you’ve done it already, but if you haven’t….

*All answers should be about works published in 2016. Also, you can skip any questions you hate or don’t want to answer, but please leave them on the list so that others can do them if they want. :)