#was absolutely agonising over something i wrote all week | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

commander-diomika · 3 years ago

Note

I am Very Tipsy (okay I'm drunk so sorry about spelling but also ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) but I just wanted to say that since I started reading your rqg series I have not been able to stop thinking about it! I mean the fucking development of it all just really gets to me it's incredible, don't get me wrong i like most interpretations of their relationship but there's just a soft spot for me when it comes to 'if I wasn't stuck with you we never would have gotten past how incredibly annoying you are' like every interaction they have pre-timeskip is deliberately pissing the other off and I feel like a lot of writers kinda side step it (again not a criticism) and I just love that you can feel the frustration when you write them. I mean in 'always forgive your enemies' you've got Zolf trying desperately to be like "no I've grown as a person it's been a long time he's clearly been through Some Stuff and maybe we'll be able to work together" and then Wilde says 1 sentence and zolfs immediately like "actually no fuck you I was right to not give a shot when you got tossed off a ship you're a tool" and the development of that to I don't like you but we've gotta work to whether to I don't dislike you but your friend sucks and no I'm not jealous what the fuck are you talking about to the terrified guilty rage if not being listened to but oh gods is he gonna be okay in 'experience' (along with just the utter heartbreak of Wilde almost reaching out to Zolf because yeah he does trust him now but then remembering that this is contagious and what if hes infected and what if it's HIS fault that Zolf gets sick and immediately shutting down and putting himself through a week in solitary IN THE ROOM HE SHARED WITH BOSIE SURROUNDED BY THOSE MEMORIES TOTALLY TRAPPED WITH THAT KNOWLEDGE BY THE PERSON HE TRUSTS BY HIS OWN ORDERS I MEAN FUCK DUDE and the kind of flirting except no I'm not but I mean if *you* were I wouldn't not be????? In 'the country' and 'talked about' and even then there's so many guards up and there's so much in the way - the blame the self loathing the guilt and the anger of it all AND the whole theres 2 people who had never met before we introduced them who shouldn't work are doing WHAT in quarantine (and also 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀) AND FUCK DUDE THE LATEST INSTALLMENT!? IVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT SINCE YOU RELEASED IT HOLY FUCK! THE UNFAIRNESS OF THE SITUATION THE BETRAYAL OF SOMETHING LIKE THAT HUT THE ONLY THING YOU CAN BLAME IS THE CIRCUMSTANCE THE ONLY ONES YOU CAN CURSE ARE THE GODS BECAUSE THIS ISNT HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO GO! THIS ISNT FAIR! WILDE SHOULD HAVE BEEN ABLE TO MAKE THAT DECISION FOR HIMSELF ZOLF SHOULD HAVE BEEN ABLE TO FEEL TRUSTED THEY SHOULD HAVE BEEN ALLOWED TO FEEL SAFE AND TRUSTED AND WHOLE AND TOGETHER AND THIS FUCKING INFECTION TOOK THAT! IT FORCED WILDE TO TALK ABOUT IT IN CIRCUMSTANCES HE COULDN'T CHOOSE! IT MADE ZOLF KNOW ABOUT BEFORE HED ACTUALLY BEEN TRUSTED WITH IT! AND IT WAS SO FUCKING UNFAIR AND DUDE IT WAS INCREDIBLE I JUST CANT ARTICULATE HOW I FEEL ABOUT IT AND THE WHOLE DISCUSSION JUST GOD IM YELLING IN MY OWN HEAD BUT NONE OF THE WORDS EXIST! I know a while ago you said you'd read something and you weren't sure about your own writing but Hank oh my fucking god please know that I've been thinking about what you wrote for the last month, I've been talking about it to my friends I'm so hyped for anything you have to write and I have no idea where you want to go with this or what points you plan to hit and everytime I get a notification I'm both excited and terrified and I just love it so fucking much your writing is incredible

Ooh my friend I have been waiting for your comment since I posted "Punish", I have come to enjoy your tipsy insights because yeah!! You get it! These fkn onion boys and their LAYERS of barriers they've both got up around intimacy (and yes I absolutely LOVED contrasting that with Barnes and Carter who in my head canon met like... 6 weeks ago? And just blew straight past any agonising over what it meant and got on with it. There's more of them in the next scene too BTW).

As soon as I decided I wanted to tackle the time gap with a trans Wilde, the strip inspections were the first thing I knew I'd have to wrestle with, and I KNEW it would be brutal and unfair and un-fun but also?? Absolutely one of the draws to ZolfWilde is that they've been through some absolute shit together, and exploring how instead of turning into unhealthy trauma bonding, it grows into something unlikely yet beautiful, and the fucked-up trans reveal was just another thing on the pile that they overcome or work through.

And Zolf has the thought of "this isn't how its supposed to go" but he wouldn't even be as close Wilde if not for the fucked up circumstances. There's no "supposed to". If this hadn't happened, Zolf and Wilde would have never worked together and continued to distantly think the other one was a git if they crossed paths. So it's a parodox of a thought.

Thank you for your nice words abt my writing, as always. I'm gonna go work on the next part u legend.

#Ask hank #Just realised I should tag stuff about the fic with a single tag instead of just general RQG #Strange Company

8 notes · View notes

theesteemedladydebourgh · 3 years ago

Note

Hi!! I haven't read the new chapter yet but I've read Jingle Holy Fuck and The First Time Divorcees Club this past week!

I can't get over how much I love this world you've created. It's absolutely beautiful, and immensely intense (and agonising at times). The way you wrote both characters and their relationship is really human, moving and beautiful.

I wanted to thank you for writing about Lily's anxiety and panic attacks and her dealing with them. I have them as well and, though I wouldn't wish them on any person ~or character~, it's comforting to see them in a story.

I'm gonna go read the next chapter now, and I'm so excited for their talk!! Thank you for sharing your work with us, wish you all the best ♡

🥺 thank you so much, lovely! I'm so glad to hear that Lily's anxiety resonated with you, because it's something that I suffer from too, and I actually didn't originally set out to write this as part of her character. Jily's entire past, and all the ways it's affected Lily over the years just ended up growing organically as I wrote, and I'm hopeful that it's turned out well and authentic to that experience. ❤️

#ask #anon #the first time divorcees club #tftdc spoilers

4 notes · View notes

magicalrocketships · 4 years ago

Text

Anyway I haven’t written anything in months, but I thought I’d just open up scrivener and SEE if I could put ten words on a page, but when I opened it there was a file that I don’t really remember creating, and I certainly, absolutely, definitely don’t remember what the fuck I was trying to write because it was months and months ago, but anyway. Here’s what was there; a few snippets of unconnected scenes.

And it’s Marvel, which is even stranger since I only engage with approximately half of movie canon and no comics canon, and read my two favourite chosen plots over and over again with little deviation, sooooo.

Some Peter Parker and some Bucky/Steve. How they’re connected I don’t entirely remember other than they’re in the same file on my computer but clearly I had some idea when I wrote it.

***

It rained the day Peter Parker lost his powers. It was a Tuesday. Peter was supposed to have a calculus test.

It rained the day after, too, and the one after that. Peter hoped it was a sign that his loss was temporary.

The day after that dawned bright and sunny, but Peter's powers remained just as gone as they had been the day before.

It was, unfortunately, a sign of things to come.

***

College was all right. The weather was better than the east coast - specifically the winters - and for whatever reason, most of the alien or SHIELD-related problems and fallout seemed to also happen on the other side of the country, so Peter was relatively protected from the constant FOMO that losing his powers had condemned him to. He spoke to Aunt May a few times a week, had a fairly steady twice a week catch up with Ned, and as of the start of his junior year, he'd made it up with MJ enough that they occasionally caught up over FaceTime and made careful attempts not to talk about anything that had happened.

His tuition was paid for. Peter didn't pay too much attention to the detail. He'd tried not to accept it, but in the end, May had made him. You got hurt in the line of duty, she'd said, coming in to sit on his bed next to him. You got so, so hurt. You deserve a payout.

They didn't talk about how the payout was likely coming from Tony Stark's own personal bank account. They didn't talk about Tony Stark at all, which was how Peter liked it.

***

The dreams came.

They came like a punch to the chest or someone hooking him around his knees. They floored him, made the room disappear and pain spasm across his chest. Sometimes he tried to scream, but he could never make a sound.

He was alone when the dreams came, and when they came again, and when they wouldn't fucking stop coming, and he couldn't fucking wake up.

***

Steve woke to pain. Agonising, horrifying, desperate pain. He was curled up in a ball on the floor, hands clutching his head, trying desperately not to scream. It hurt. It hurt.

His head hurt so much.

"Steve, Stevie." It was Bucky, Bucky kneeling down next to him with his hands to Steve's shoulders. "I'm here. It's all right. You're not alone."

Steve couldn't even manage to say Bucky's name. He screamed instead, pain lancing through him like lightning.

"I'll get them," Bucky said. "I'll get them. Hold on, pal."

He didn't remember. He couldn't remember. There was just Bucky, and pain, and then--

Something familiar. A cry. Two cries. Babies. He reached for them instinctively, these children he couldn't remember, these cries he knew on the inside but not anywhere else. Two tiny children, who settled against his chest and settled the sharp, terrible pain in the head until it was nothing but a muted, familiar ache and he could open his eyes.

Bucky stroked his hair. "You're safe," he said. "You're safe, and Jamie's safe, and Sally's safe, and I'll keep it that way. I promise."

Jamie. Sally. He didn't remember, but it didn't mean he didn't know. These were his children, his two twin babies, one nestled in each arm, sleeping soundly against his chest. They made the pain go away.

"I don't remember," he said, but Bucky kept stroking his hair.

"You don't need to," Bucky said. "You're safe. They're safe. I'll keep you safe."

"Where are we?"

Bucky's hair was longer than Steve thought it should be, but he didn't know where he knew that from. He didn't know where he knew Bucky from.

"Home," Bucky said softly. "We're at home."

"All right," Steve said, and his little boy wrapped his fingers around Steve's thumb, and held on.

***

It was a dark night, and they were on a pier. Steve could hear the water lapping against the supports.

"You're my best friend," Bucky said.

"You're mine too, pal," Steve said, and there was an ache in his chest that he knew, that he'd known for longer than he could remember, a hole that could never be filled.

"You'll get a chill," Bucky said.

Steve thought that that was stupid, that the weather was too warm for him to get a chill, that he'd be fine, that there was nothing more important than time for him and Bucky when it was just the two of them. Except Bucky was going off to war, and Steve couldn't follow him even though he wanted to, and there was no way back from that. "I won't," he said, stubborn as ever.

"Come here," Bucky said, and he slung an arm around Steve's shoulders. "Such a fucking punk."

The hole in Steve's chest ached. "Make sure you come back to me, all right?"

"You think I'm ever going to leave you?" Bucky said. "You're not that lucky."

Steve woke up.

***

Jamie liked Steve to hold the bottle for him, curled up in Steve's lap and letting Steve do the work. Jamie was Steve's mirror image, down to his snub nose and intense gaze. His hair was growing slower than Sally's, just a little blond fuzz across his head. Steve didn't remember yesterday, or the day before that, or anything before this house he lived in with Bucky and his children, but there were some things that stayed. Jamie liked Steve to hold his bottle for him, and Sally liked to hold it herself. She had a little blonde wisp of hair that fell across her forehead, and the stubbornest set to her small face.

"That's all you," Bucky said, coming in with a water bottle for Steve and a sandwich on a plate. "I remember you looking that stubborn when you were a kid."

Steve doesn't remember being a kid. Sometimes when he tries to talk now, he can't find the words. He doesn't remember from one day to the next, and it would be terrifying except that Bucky's here, and Bucky tells him everything's all right every time he sees him.

"You're okay," Bucky said, sitting down on the arm of the sofa. "Jamie's okay and Sally's asleep and we're all okay and I'm keeping us safe."

"I don't remember," Steve said, and for a moment, Bucky looked sad, but it was gone before Steve could properly recognise it and remember to think about it later.

"It's all right," Bucky said, and leaned over to stroke Steve's hair. It felt nice. He leaned into the touch. "You don't need to worry. It's all all right."

Steve nodded, and concentrated on the baby in his lap, and holding the bottle up so that he could drink.

#fic i wish i was writing #marvel #steve/bucky #peter parker #i wish i remember more of what this was going to be #i just know bits #and i'd completely forgotten it existed until today #amnesia #of a sort #babies #loss of powers

9 notes · View notes

the-quiet-winds · 6 years ago

Text

Shake it till You See it

so this one was an idea i had that @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts and i wrote together and, to be quite honest, it is hands down one of my favorite ones we’ve ever done (not including the ward au because that is our damn CHILD but you understand (which btw the first part of the next installment should be up tomorrow))

this one is pretty soft overall, but there are some moments of self-deprecation. otherwise, we should be pretty good.

being on tour had given the queens the opportunity to travel all over europe, and the producers told them that in the future they were planning on taking the tour global. right now, the queens were in Spain, and aragon had delighted in the opportunity to show her fellow queens around. on this particular day, however, both jane and parr had decided to stay at home while the others went to a nearby beach; parr immediately retires to the tiny room she’d commandeered as an office in their rented accommodation, while jane decides to get some cleaning done. the other queens, as lovely as they were, did not seem to have ‘keeping tidy’ mastered in their list of skills. it was a tie between boleyn and katherine as to who was the messiest with their belongings, and so jane decides to tackle katherine’s room first. she starts by sorting the large pile of clean laundry sitting on the desk that katherine had never got around to putting away. she starts placing them in the correct drawers, but upon opening katherine’s sock drawer she’s faced with a notebook. the cover is plain pink and jane picks it up, frowning slightly. she was going to put it back, but then a photo falls out of the notebook and drifts to the floor.

jane picks it up and a wave of nostalgia washes over her.

the picture is of jane and parr from when they were in finland, touring helsinki. parr had taken the picture, jane remembers with a fond smile. the two of them had been sitting at a table outside a tiny cafe, eating finger sandwiches and drinking iced tea (a horrifying concept to jane, but it wasn’t absolutely horrible). the moment captured in the picture was when jane let out one of her trademarked ‘mum puns’, as they were called, causing katherine to uproariously laugh and jane to grin quite goofily at katherine’s reaction.

jane smiles down at the photograph for a moment or two. she opens the notebook, intending to just tuck the photograph in the pages, but the page it falls open on catches her eye.

there was a photograph of her and katherine, both fast asleep at an airport. katherine’s legs were tucked under her and her head was resting on jane’s shoulder. next to the photo were some sparkly silver star stickers, placed seemingly randomly across the page, and underneath were the words “Glasgow Airport, 23rd December” written in pink glitter pen. in smaller letter underneath it reads “me and jane talked about the brönte sisters - she loves them (note to self: read bronte sisters?)”

a rush of affection runs through jane’s system at the note. she’s suddenly struck with a memory of seeing katherine toting around one or two brönte books not too long after.

the opposing page is all written in fine green ink:

“it’s christmas! jane loved the CDs, she says she’s going to listen to them all the time. she got me this gorgeous jewelry box from stockholm and i think she wants me to put a picture in the lid. i just don’t know which one to choose!”

a soft smile grows on jane’s lips; she remembers vividly katherine running into her room a week and a half after christmas to proudly display the box, complete with a photo of the two of them at their London press night. both of them had been shocked at the positive response and had giddy smiles on their faces, wearing the gorgeous dresses they’d bought specifically for that occasion. from what she’d written, it seemed as if katherine had agonised over the choice for that full amount of time and the thought was sweetly endearing to jane.

she doesn’t even realise she’s turning the page until it’s already happened, eyes already skimming the next passage.

“18th January - we arrived in norway yesterday and the first show was a blast! lots of positive reception.

last night i had a stupid nightmare. the usual. i don’t really know how, but when i woke up, jane was there. she did that thing with my hair that calms me down.”

there are some water droplets on the page, presumably tears to jane.

“i don’t know what i did without her, to be honest.”

jane stares down at the page, heart aching for katherine. “oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, even though there’s nobody around to hear her. she looks over at the opposite page, where katherine had stuck a ticket to Oslo Aquarium at the top.

“19th January - we went to the aquarium! just me and jane. i think she wanted to make me feel better after last night. when we were in the cafe jane went to pay for everything and a woman asked me where ‘my mum’ got her coat from!!” the word ‘mum’ was underlined three times and jane stares at it, trying to work out if it was meant to be positive or negative.

jane knows she shouldn’t keep reading. these were katherine’s private thoughts, obviously not meant to be read by anyone else.

but jane’s curiosity was killing her.

she flips the page.

“katherine’s 2am thought #46” is written across the top. “jane really really REALLY loves when her mum puns”

this brings a smile out of jane and she gives a small laugh. the journal continues on like this, memories and tickets and photographs littered throughout. one page features a small sketch of a person; it was difficult to tell who it was supposed to be due to the fact it was unfinished and had a scribble through it, with “WHY CANT I DRAW” written in biro underneath. jane frowns. she personally thought the drawing was quite good. the next page was even worse, however.

katherine had just written the word “stupid” over and over again, in shaky handwriting and with tear stains littering the page.

jane’s heart twists and her jaw falls open in a small gasp. it seems so logical, jane realizes, that katherine would have some (...a lot, really) of self-esteem issues. jane hates knowing that she’s suffered in such a way and somewhere, deep down, promises that, if she can help it, katherine will never feel so low about herself again.

little does she expect, when she turns the page, to read a similar sentiment echoed in katherine’s words.

“25th January - we went on a walk this morning. there was a woman with a little boy, she was helping him learn to ride a bike. jane tries to hide it but i know it got to her, seeing that. i wanna try and make her feel better. i don’t know how, but i’m gonna try. she deserves to be happy.”

tears well in jane’s eyes and the little statement. she then very clearly remembers what must have been that evening when katherine came into jane’s room, blanket around her shoulders and ‘wuthering heights’ clenched in her hand, shyly asking if they could read together. it was a tender moment, one which ended in katherine asleep practically in jane’s lap at that point. it had, in fact, made jane incredibly happy to share something she loves with someone she loves

jane is flipping through a few more pages when suddenly there’s a clatter of the front door being thrown open and a gaggle of overexcited voices float down the corridor. jane hurriedly goes to shove the journal back into the drawer, but a charm on her bracelet catches on a page and as she yanks her arm away the page rips.

she doesn’t even realize the page ripped and simply closes the drawer and hurried back to where she was folding the laundry.

katherine walks in a moment later, hair slicked back from the water, a ‘six!’ tank top and gym shorts over her bathing suit.

“oh, hey jane,” she says surprised, but not displeased at having this particular guest in her room. “whatcha up to?”

katherine’s eyes fall on the single discarded page and picks it up. her eyes widen. it’s the page from her journal where she had simply written ‘stupid’ over and over. she looks at jane with wide eyes. “what were you doing?” she asks fearfully.

jane freezes, eyes widening as she spots the page in katherine’s hand. “I-” she starts. “I was just doing some tidying, love.”

“how did this end up on the floor?” katherine asks, voice with a thin veneer of calm over the clear panic. jane doesn’t answer for a moment. she doesn’t want to tell the truth, doesn’t want to admit that she violated katherine’s privacy by reading her personal thoughts, but it doesn’t take a genius to work out how the paper ended up outside of the journal, and jane knows that katherine already knows the answer to her question.

jane deflates, shoulders sagging. “i’m sorry, love,” she says quietly, not meeting katherine’s shocked and probably hurried face. “i didn’t mean to, i just opened the drawer and saw the book. then something fell out so i went to pick it up and i was stuck. please forgive me, kat.” jane looks down, ashamed, waiting for katherine’s response.“nobody was meant to see that,” katherine says quietly. she doesn’t know how to react; she mostly just feels embarrassment. her cheeks flush as she thinks of jane reading the parts where katherine is thrilled to be mistaken for jane’s daughter, or the stupid childish stickers she’d put on some pages, or her self-pitying rambles. she’d be surprised if jane could see her as anything except a stupid little girl after reading that, and she looks down to avoid eye contact.

jane notices katherine’s cheeks and ears burn bright red. katherine isn’t mad, she’s embarrassed. about what, though? what was she not meant to see?

she suddenly remembers seeing ‘mum’ underlined three times on the aquarium page.

“i’d be honored if someone thought you were my daughter,” she says quietly and suddenly.

katherine looks up, eyes wide and almost disbelieving. “r-really?” she asks, voice practically reaching a squeak. jane nods, not reaching out to her but just subtly opening her arms, in case katherine wanted a hug. just as she predicted, katherine lets out a tiny, slightly embarrassed noise of happiness and darts into her arms. her hair and clothes are still damp from the water but jane doesn’t mind.

“i still shouldn’t have looked at your journal, though, kat,” jane says as she hugs katherine. “and for that i really am sorry, I promise you it won’t happen again.”

“it’s okay,” katherine squeaks. a thought strikes her and she pulls away. jane panics, hoping that katherine didn’t have a sudden change of heart. katherine digs the book out and flips wildly on it, looking for a certain page. she blushes heavily as she shyly hands the book to jane.

“this is like the only good drawing in here,” she says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

the sketch is in dark pencil, a drawing of her and jane together on the couch. katherine looks to be curled up, head on jane’s lap, the other woman’s hands gently resting in her hair.

“kat, this is brilliant,” jane says softly, eyes transfixed on the drawing. katherine fidgets slightly.

“you really think so?”

“i do,” jane smiles. katherine looks uncertain for a moment.

“would you like it?” she blushes again. “the drawing, i mean. you can have it, if you want.” she shrugs, as if nonchalant, but her cheeks pink and ruin the effect.

“i’d love it, sweetheart.”

jane, remembering what else she’d seen in the journal, sets it down and katherine’s heart sinks. it only gets worse when jane takes her hands and tugs her to the bed, where they sit down next to each other. jane turns to face kat before speaking.

“about what else i saw in there,” she starts and katherine cringes, knowing exactly what she saw and what was about to come.

she didn’t expect jane’s hands to leave hers and gently come to cup her cheeks, tenderly bringing her face up so they were eye to eye.

“kat, love,” jane says, “i know that you have a lot of...,” she searches for the right words, “self-esteem issues, perhaps.” katherine flinches slightly, so jane strokes a thumb lightly on her cheek. “i just want you to know that you can talk to me about anything, and i’ll never judge or think anything less of you.”

katherine looks down, and then back up at jane, eyes wide and uncertain. jane does her best to pour all the love she has into her reassuring smile, and katherine sends her a weak one of her own.

“thank you,” she says quietly. jane tucks a strand of hair behind katherine’s ear.

“it’s no trouble, love. i’m here for you, always.”

katherine’s eyes well with tears again, and jane hopes they’re tears of relief.

sure enough katherine’s resolve crumbles as she falls into jane’s arms, mumbling words of thanks and love into the crook of jane’s neck.

jane gently strokes her hair. “always, love. always.”

#six the musical #six musical #jane seymour #katherine howard #julie and jess write #shake it till you see it

62 notes · View notes

nicolemagolan · 6 years ago

Photo

Books I Read In April 2019

I read widely in April, but sadly I didn’t finish many individual books. Over the Easter break I was busy with social activities and between those most of my reading revolved around research for my essay. But in saying that...I did lose myself in a reread of a thousand-page-long book. And it was wonderful.

Hazards of Time Travel by Joyce Carol Oates

2/5 stars

Hazards of Time Travel is a classic example of great concept, but poor execution. This sci-fi novel follows a young woman living in a heavily controlled futuristic dystopian society, and when she gives a passionate speech challenging her peers to question their government, she is exiled. Through time. To the 1950′s. Just casually.

Unfortunately, that speech is about the only time the character does anything. She is very passive, watching historical events unfold and attending lectures at the university she is placed in. I had a lot of questions regarding why she was sent to the past, and most of them are never answered -- nor even challenged by the supposedly rebellious main character. She becomes focused on pursuing the love interest, who is one of her professors.

I am not a romance fan, it’s just not my thing. More than that, I am not a fan of the student/teacher romance trope at all, and here is no exception. The way it takes over the plot is so frustrating.

Still, I stuck with this dull book to the bitter end (and I truly am bitter), hoping that some of the sci-fi elements would come into greater play. They didn’t, not in any way that I found compelling. Overall, I would only recommend this to readers who find interest in a light science fiction romance with a 1950′s backdrop.

The Wise Man’s Fear (The Kingkiller Chronicle #2) by Patrick Rothfuss

4/5 stars

I first read this series in 2017, and with news developing on the movie & tv adaptations, I found myself missing the story of Kvothe. While The Wise Man’s Fear has issues, Patrick Rothfuss is truly a master storyteller and this fantasy world is immersive, entertaining, and cleverly interwoven. I had a great time diving back in, and reading it for a second time revealed many small details that can only be noticed on a reread. Absolutely brilliant. It took me a few weeks to get through the thousand pages but I enjoyed every minute. I wrote a full review on my blog Eating Fiction.

The Slow Regard of Silent Things (The Kingkiller Chronicle #2.5) by Patrick Rothfuss

3/5 stars

The Slow Regard of Silent Things is a precious little novella about a broken girl trying to live in a broken world. It is beautifully written, with heart-felt honesty and simplicity. It follows Auri, a side-character from The Kingkiller Chronicle and shows her going about her rather odd daily life.

I loved Auri in The Name of The Wind and The Wise Man's Fear, and here she is much the same, but reading from her perspective was all the more lovely. She knows she is a little bit broken inside, but she embraces it. She does not explain herself to the reader, but there are many hints as to who she is and where she came from; little nuggets of information to uncover -- many I missed on my first read through. I reread this by listening to the audiobook which is read by Patrick Rothfuss himself. He has a wonderfully smooth voice. I listened to it as I rearranged my bedroom -- a perfect activity for such a book, as Auri spends much time agonising over putting things in their true places. I enjoyed the characterization of the different objects she has in her home. The setting is mysterious and imaginative, and the way Auri moves through what seems to be the remains of an old city is mesmerizing. The insight into how she lives is fascinating, and definitely adds to the overall series. However, in the end, I'm sad to say this is a rather pointless story. I'm glad it was published and that I was able to read/listen to it, but I was really hoping for more secrets to be uncovered. I would have loved an appearance from Kvothe (seeing him from Auri's perspective would be fascinating). There were lots of little tid bits that got me excited, but it was short lived. That was not the purpose of the book. There is something special about this novella, something quiet and sad and gentle. Patrick Rothfuss is just such a fantastic writer. But I can't lie and say I wasn't disappointed. I just really miss Kvothe.

Maybe in next month’s wrap up I’ll include some of the non-fiction books I’ve been reading for my uni classes. I don’t think I’m going to be getting through much else; it’s a busy month. Thanks for stopping by! Let me know what books you’ve been reading.

#reading wrap up #booklr #books #book review #kingkiller chronicle #kkc #hazards of time travel

1 note · View note

thehappymessproject · 6 years ago

Text

77-79/100 - 5 steps to train our perseverance muscle

Yesterday, I forgot to write. My daily structure is very challenged at the moment, so things slip through. Between the 75th and the 76th day of my challenge, a week passed. When I sprained my elbow and was forced to physically rest, I realised I was in great need of rest, not only physically, so I decided to take the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve off.

Some might consider this as a failure of my 100 days project. I call it self-perseveration and know it’s key to make change last.

Perseverance is a tricky business when it comes to us regulating ourselves. There is only one way to truly and sustainably discipline ourselves : with love. And yet, most of us use mainly self-abuse to that end.

Here are a few steps that make it easier for me to implement change in a sustainable loving way :

1. Start with where you’re at

Ok, you’re imperfect. Welcome to the human club, don’t worry, we are all in the same boat. You don’t have to change at all. But if you want to, you are going to have to deal with imperfection.

It is very important that we start from where we are at instead of dwelling on where we would want to be. I started to change my relationship with writing bit by bit.

I started by cultivating intention : I spent a few months trying to write more. And experimented from there. I would spend more time playing with my Instagram captions, telling little stories about my art, writing 6 words prompted stories... I journaled more and more, because I learnt that journaling liberates our writing. I wrote a couple of articles for my professional blog, started a project with an artist I know.

I only started this challenge when I felt so frustrated about not writing regularly that I kept thinking about it and being mean to myself about not doing it. And after I had done earlier in the year 100 days of creative living, after doing a few yoga and art 30 days challenges to first feel that I am actually capable of persevering in anything.

As much as I wanted to write before that, I had to accept that I had to honour my pace, respect the rhythm of my process.

We need to make sure we start where we are at, because it’s the only way that will give us the time and space we all need to grow (in any kind of way). Trying to fast track growth actually hinders it.

2. Taking stock : mapping our weaknesses

Ok, here is a part that is as uncomfortable as it can be empowering. To actually implement change, we need to know how we are actively sabotaging ourselves. If you think you never sabotage yourself, think again.

Maybe we set impossible goals, leading us inevitably to “I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it”. Maybe we spend more time thinking about things than actually doing them. Maybe we procrastinate. Maybe we avoid any thoughts about what matters to us. Maybe we’re waiting for “the perfect time”. Maybe each time we would have time and space to do something important to ourselves we end up involving ourselves in drama (yours or others’) instead. Maybe we act as if our anxiety (”what if this terrible thing would happen to me? and this one? and that?”) isn’t about stories, but actual facts. Maybe we agonise over every details so much that we never even start, or stop ourselves midway because it’s not as we imagined it would be. Maybe we use self-deprecation and criticism until we feel so bad that we don’t even try. Maybe we keep looking and engaging in situations we know will make us give up/fail when it gets hard. Maybe we keep yourself so busy that we can’t even think or feel what makes you suffer. Maybe we numb ourselves each day with TV, food or substances. Maybe we keep finding things you “need” to do to be more prepared to do what really matters to us. Or any of the endless list of ways humans use to avoid facing who they are, what they feel and want.

I am myself guilty of a few of those. Most of us are when we are honest with ourselves. We also can be guilty of them, but not in every circumstance. Like : I will use excuses to avoid exercise (”it’s going to be too hard”, “I don’t feel motivated enough”...) that I would never accept from myself in an intellectual endeavour, where I would brush it off immediately (”yes it’s scary, it’s not a reason to stall, let’s go”).

A few questions to start you off : What do you think are the worst things to feel or situations to be in regarding change/doing new/hard things? What do you do to avoid feeling like this, even if it means you won’t achieve what you wanted? When you tried to persevere but didn’t : how did you stop yourself? What happened exactly before you gave up? When you tried to persevere, what personal flaws do you link to your failure to keep going?

We often think that reflecting on our weaknesses will make us feel bad and discouraged from even trying. It is actually the opposite. When we avoid facing them, they sneak up on us and devastate us. When we know how we sabotage ourselves and accept it, we then can plan how we are going to use this knowledge to our advantage.

3. Make contingency plans

This is SO SO important. Most of us start recovery or change as if it will be this perfect learning curve, without any mistake or hardship, or the need to change the way we do things. As if motivation was the only thing that matters.

But recovery and change are both messy businesses. And they both include to change the way we react to triggering or changing situations.

Since I started this challenge, I had to devise a few contingency plans. Instead of essays, when I am exhausted, completely depleted or very short on times, I will often resort to make lists that are helpful to me. That’s how you will find lists of things I love, for which I am grateful for the hardest days. I will write about topics that are more comfortable and easy for me, or require less brain power. I will start a longer essay so I don’t feel pressured to even reread myself since I won’t publish. I often write essays that 750-1000 words long. When it gets really hard, I don’t force myself to do more than 500 words, the minimum I decided to write everyday for that 100 days project.

All of those alternative plans have the same function : giving me a maximum of flexibility so I can persevere in a loving way, making permanent changes instead of performing change only for a while.

4. Cultivate mindful flexibility

This one is very linked to the former point. Anything that is too rigid is bound to lead us to failure. Life is messy, humanity is messy, therefore change can only be messy and chaotic.

I am not advocating for a perpetual change of goals, which is often a sign of a lack of commitment and avoidance. I am advocating for a change in the way we go towards those goals.

I started this challenge by publishing everyday, but since I am still writing long essays, it became more and more frustrating. Until I really couldn’t finish a post one night, was almost in tears about it, and realised that I had settle to write everyday, not post everyday. I then started writing each essay in 2 to 3 days, a rhythm much more adapted to my personality and current mental health and way of writing.

Now that I’ve done it for a few weeks in this new way, I noticed that : I love having a couple of days to write and reread myself, but I also love to strive towards writing shorter essays. Both ways taught me important things about myself and my process, and by accepting to change “the rules”, I made sure to learn way more than by forcing myself into one unique way of doing it.

That’s also why I chose to take a week off for the holidays : my last 100 days project left me exhausted and depleted. I clearly pushed myself too hard. I wanted to see what would happen to my momentum if I listened to my fatigue and made my process more flexible. I am so happy I did, the last month of the challenge feels so much more enriching that way (even if it was indeed a bit hard to go back at it).

Each time we focus more on how we want those challenges to help us become the person we really want to be and to grow instead of solely focusing on the challenge, we make those structures work for us, instead of the opposite, we make those processes more human.

5. Make it easy to get to the finish line

This challenge was so important to me, I wanted to write everyday about my job so badly, that of course, it was really scary to do so. As exciting as it could also be, and as satisfying as it can get get, doing things that matter to us carry a strong emotional charge.

Because of that, the more important something is to us, the more resistance we are probably going to have to fight on the way. Facing resistance can get really hard. We need to make sure we are loving towards ourselves to resist resistance on the long run.

If you want to set goals, start small, always. If I had tried this 100 days project even a few months before, I would have failed miserably. I created mini challenges and wrote about so many things I liked before this, for years actually.

I didn’t set up for writing as much as I coud everyday when I planned this challenge. I chose instead a minimum number of words I thought would be doable on a very long term. 500 words takes me about 20-50mn per day, that seemed doable for me given my lifestyle (see #1). If I would have experienced a lot of difficulties, I would have cut the word-count to 250 words, less if necessary. It was more important to find ways to stick to it than to have an actual number of words down everyday.

And all those former points making it easier for me absolutely made it possible on the way. When we take on challenges as if we need to be perfect, we make failure happen each and every time. Those challenges, or anything we want to persevere doing on the long term will make us face our deeply human imperfection.

Perseverance is hard because it asks us to face ourselves, often with a focus on our least favourite parts of ourselves.

When we don’t take it easy, all this discomfort will force us to quit, burnt out and disappointed because we did ask too much of ourselves. When we make it easier, we face our imperfection and tells it “it’s ok to be the way you are, now let’s find a way to make it work”.

By persevering in a loving way, we learn to love ourselves just as we are, perfectly human and therefore imperfect. We also make our dreams happen, even if most of them will include fear, discomfort and hardship. One step at the time.

Each mini goal we set up to attain and actually did will make us feel stronger, more confident and trusting our ability to create a life for ourselves that we actually enjoy.

So... What are you going to work with next?

See you soon, Love, L.

#perseverance #perfectionism #challenge #counselling #writers helping writers #psychologist #therapist #100 days project #100 days of writing #the happy mess project #writer

6 notes · View notes

joeandtaylorfanfiction · 6 years ago

Text

Lessons (AU) | Submitted Anonymously

Chapter One: "It's nothing too complicated"

Taylor had been working non-stop during these last few weeks before the school Christmas break. There was so much to get done, the kids were rehearsing their Nativity play and Christmas Concert’s every other day now as well as making Christmas cards for parents and every possible relative they could think of. Taylor’s agonising day had been filled with twenty different five-year olds dressed as sheep walking around with glue sticks and cotton balls. The other teachers had no idea how she did it. Many times, they had called her a miracle worker. She always replied with a smile and a thank you.

At twenty-four years old, Taylor was the youngest full-time teacher in the school and was considered to be the best kindergarten teacher in the entire district. Half of the time Taylor didn’t even know how she worked so well with the younger kids, her Mother always said she had a very loving and caring nature which probably helped but Taylor put a lot down to having her helpful teaching assistant Jess, she never would be able to work in that class without her.

“So, who is the meeting with tonight?” Jess asked as she stood at the sink washing thirty sticky paintbrushes. She was a young woman taking a year during college to study as well as work in the teaching field. She was assigned to work with Taylor at the beginning of the school year and luckily, they hit it off straight away, Jess hoped to be as good with her own class of kids one day as Taylor was.

“Um, Poppy’s Dad I think. He should be here anytime now.” It was just approaching 4:30pm, the kids had been let out of school just over an hour ago so clean up was almost complete. Taylor had the meeting with Poppy’s Dad and then she was going to stay and correct some of the work the kids had done. She loved going through their work, reading their little sentences, their adorable little mistakes. Those were always the highlight of her evenings.

“Her Dad? Never seen him before.” Thinking about it, Taylor didn’t think she’d ever seen him either, Poppy was always picked up and dropped by a young girl. She was definitely too young to be her Mother. Taylor assumed her to be a nanny, which within this area of London it was not surprising.

“Me either, wouldn’t even know he existed if Poppy didn’t talk about him.”

Joe jumped in his chauffeur driven car at exactly four thirty, he was late and he knew it. That was a regular thing, it normally didn’t matter too much, as long as he was home for Poppy’s bath and bedtime. Joe had had a rather big meeting with some of his clients it had been organised last week so everything would all fit but of course it all ran over. He thought he would be able to finish up his work meeting by four take the twenty-minute trip across London and be there early but alas that would no longer work, especially with rush hour creeping in.

Joe was the owner of one of the biggest accountancy firms in the UK, he had founded his company whilst still in university. It started slowly but became hugely successful just after he graduated highest in his class with a first degree in accountancy. Then his world got thrown upside down when his girlfriend fell pregnant with Poppy, she had told him that she couldn’t keep her and she wasn’t ready. Although he knew ultimately it wasn’t his choice, he couldn’t stand the idea of aborting or giving away his baby, she was part of him. Something he had always wanted. Joe had pleaded with her on the phone one evening begging her not to get rid of the baby. After three hours, she had finally agreed as long as he looked after her, alone.

Over the course of those next nine months Joe finally spent some of his money and moved out of his parents’ house to one just down the road still in North London. He had just finished building the castle for his princess before she then decided to make an entrance into the world three weeks early. Poppy spent a few days of her life in the ICU before coming home, those few days in the hospital were anything but easy for Joe. He would go to visit her in the mornings and the evenings, with his office a five-minute drive away he would sometimes go during his lunch break too. Finally, when Poppy did come home he worked three days a week in his home office. His Mum stayed at the house for a few weeks just to help with sorting a schedule, Joe was very grateful for that. His Mum was and has always been one of his best friends.

“Mr Alwyn” Joe’s chauffer looked back in the mirror, implying they had reached the destination.

“Thank you, Jack” Joe smiled back, he opened the car door and looked down at his watch. ‘Only twenty minutes late, well done, not like this is important or anything’ he thought to himself. He hated how this made him look, he’d never even met Poppy’s teacher, what a terrible first impression. He quickly ran to the gate and was buzzed in by the reception staff.

“Are you Mr Alwyn? You want Miss Swift’s classroom, it’s the yellow one with bumblebees on the door.” The receptionist knew who he was straight away, they must have been made aware he was coming. Joe walked along the brightly coloured corridors with paintings and displays all over the place. It suddenly occurred to him that he had only ever been inside this school once and that was during an open evening. A wave of guilt hit him, the reality that he was missing his daughter grow up had just begun to sink in when he spotted the bright yellow door. It was labelled in big purple letters ‘Miss Swift’.

Taylor was halfway through singing a song from the radio when she heard a knock at the already cracked open door.

“Hi, I’m Poppy’s Father” the blonde man grinned looking down at her sat at the desk.

“Oh, please come in, have a seat.” His appearance was very neat, his hair was exceptionally blonde much like his daughters, she clearly took after him genetically. He was dressed in a black suit with a navy-blue tie and black work shoes.

“Sorry I’m late, I was held up at work.” Taylor momentarily wondered what he did, she could tell he was well off, clearly something in business. Possibly something with the stocks like her Father. She remembered her Dad getting home from work every day around 6pm just in time for a delicious dinner her Mother had made.

“It’s no problem, by the time I’ve cleaned up and checked the kids work I’m normally here until five thirty.” There was a slight pause for a moment before the blonde spoke again, “I’m Miss Swift by the way!” She smiled as her eyes quickly shifted to Jess who was tidying up the books in the corner of the room. She silently mouthed something to her but Taylor couldn’t make it out. Her eyes moved back to his piercing blue ones. They were a blue she had never seen before, like an ocean she could just fall into.

“Joe” he replied sitting down in the seat. He was thankful it was an adult chair, all the others in the classroom were two inches from the ground and no way could his over six-foot frame sit on one of those.

“Well Mr Alwyn I’ve been calling a few parents in just to discuss what will be happening over the next few months after Christmas. Basically, in the new year we will begin some more academic studies. Nothing to crazy or drastic of course, they are only five. From spending time with Poppy it’s easy to see she is exceptionally bright. This especially in reading and writing, her language skills are in fact very advanced for her age.”

“She loves to read, that’s our thing. If I’m not home in time for a bedtime story, I get in trouble!” he chucked and Taylor smiled. He noticed how pretty she was when she smiled, well she was pretty anyway but there was something about her happiness, it radiated, like sunshine.

“Let me show you something” she quickly got up from her chair and walked towards the other woman in the corner of the room. Joe took this time to admire her appearance. She wore a pink floral patterned sun dress, it matched her red lipstick. She was tall and had blonde wavy hair that fell half way down her back. She was very beautiful, Poppy had once described her as looking like a princess, she wasn’t wrong. He continued to stare at her until her voice suddenly snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Poppy wrote this today and I thought you might like to see it” Taylor passed Joe a piece of paper which read ‘I love my Daddy. I like it when we read together.’ Along with it was a crayon drawn picture of who he assumed was him reading with Poppy. He smiled looking down at the paper, his little girl was his everything, from day one. He hated that he couldn’t always be there but knowing she made things like this put him at ease.

“She absolutely adores you. Raves about you. You know I get a lot of kids who talk about their Mum’s and even their pets but you’re the only Dad.” Taylor interrupted his thoughts. Being a full-time Dad and running his own business was extremely difficult and he knew how lucky he was to get the help he does. Abbie was his saviour, she was a family friend who became Poppy’s nanny when she started pre-school and Joe began working in the office again. Joe had known the nineteen-year-old since she herself was five so he trusted her completely with his angel. Abbie would tell Joe all the time how much Poppy talked about him. He was her Mum and Dad in one, something he would never change for the world.

“Now whilst she is unbelievably gifted in reading and writing, math is something she seems to struggle with. She’s not bad at it, it’s just we will be working a lot quicker and on some new things which might trip her up. It might be worth you or anyone at home just working with her a little to try to get her confidence up with working at a faster pace.” Joe couldn’t seem to concentrate when she spoke, he was enamoured by her. He found himself just staring at her porcelain skin and perfect facial structure.

“Of course, I’ll sit down with her on the weekends or her nanny can go through some things after school.” Joe was surprised she struggled in math, Poppy had never mentioned it, he clearly didn’t hand down his mathematic talent.

“Great! It’s nothing too complicated and you really don’t need to worry. She just finds adding and subtracting double-digit numbers a little tricky.” Joe nodded leaning forward in his chair as Taylor pulled out a small booklet of equations. She handed it to him, their hands briefly touched before he placed it inside his suit jacket pocket.

The pair talked for a little longer until Taylor turned back to her desk and began looking through some paper, she was hoping it looked like she was looking for something but really she was stalling. She hated these parent and teacher meetings, she was an awkward person in general and most of her conversations were with five-year olds so talking to the parents wasn’t really her strong suit. For some reason, she felt intimidated by Joe. To say he was attractive would be an understatement and his suit really helped the fact.

“Um, I think that’s all I really have to say…” Taylor rambled turning back to face him.

“Oh, great! Thank you, did you need this or-” Joe passed Taylor back the drawing Poppy had made of him, their hands brushed one another again.

“Oh no no, that’s yours stick to the fridge, frame it, she would love that.” She refused the piece of paper and smiled at him. She couldn’t help it, for some reason she just wanted to smile at him.

“She would. I’ll do that, thank you!” Joe reached for her hand and gently shook it, he momentarily lost himself in her blue eyes but suddenly realised he had been holding her hand for much longer than would be considered normal and released his grip. In that one moment, he was completely and utterly memorized by her. He broke his stare and began walking to the door. “Thanks again, have a good night Miss Swift” he mumbled before closing the door behind him.

“Oh, my gosh he was so hot!” Jess excitedly whispered worried he could still hear from the corridor. But Taylor was so deep in her thoughts she could barely hear her. She had no idea what just happened. Never in her life had someone made her so nervous or awestruck, not even when she had to teach with the principal in the classroom. “And he was totally checking you out” Jess’ comment snapped Taylor out of her thoughts.

“He was not” Taylor got up from her desk as she shook her head and laughed. She began to place her stuff back in her bag, trying to hide her bright red blushing cheeks.

“Listen, when you got up, he practically undressed you with his eyes and you were definitely doing the same, don’t even try to deny it” Jess walked closer toward Taylor, looked her dead in the eyes and smiled when she saw Taylor was blushing profusely. Jess continued to taunt Taylor for the rest of the evening until they finally both left at about five forty-five.

Joe got back to his house around five forty, his meeting with Miss Swift had lasted just over half an hour. He didn’t have time to process anything before Poppy came running up to him and flung herself around his neck. This was a nightly thing, every evening when he came home from work she always jumped on him enjoying his piggyback rides. With Poppy still clinging to his back, he walked into the kitchen to find Abbie cleaning up plates from her and Poppy’s dinner. Joe thanked her and insisted she should go home and he would finish cleaning later.

“Did you have a good day monkey?” Joe said as he gently picked her up and carried her to the living room. Poppy nodded and began to tell him all about her day at school talking about her friends and how Abbie had gotten her ice cream that evening.

Poppy was the spitting image of her Father, she had long blonde hair with a slight curl which went all the way down to her waist and the most electric blue eyes. Her smile could light up a room and her laugh was Joe’s favourite sound. Although difficult at first, ever since she was born she brightened his world. She was so precious and innocent he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone ever hurting her. Abbie had helpfully already bathed and dressed Poppy in her Beauty and The Beast pyjamas so she was ready for bed, normally Joe would do that but because of the meeting at school he didn’t make it back in time.

Both Joe and Poppy were now sat huddled together on the couch as he began to tell Poppy about his meeting with Miss Swift.

“I met your teacher today she-” Joe began but was interrupted by a shriek of happiness.

“Miss Swift? Isn’t she like a princess?” Poppy’s eyes sparkled with excitement, she really was absolutely enchanted by the woman.

“Yes, she is but she said you are having trouble with some math. So, she gave me this and said you and I can do these together at the weekend!” Joe pulled out the booklet of simple math equations from his inside jacket pocket to show the five-year-old.

“Ugh math is hard” the little girl briefly flicked through the booklet rolling her eyes.

“I know but I will help you and trust me it’ll be lots of fun. Now let’s read a story and get you to bed so you’re not tired tomorrow!” Poppy whined in response, throwing her dead-weight self into her Dad’s lap with her arms and legs flailed in all different directions. Joe laughed at his daughter as he awkwardly picked her up and carried her to her room. He opened the bright pink door with his foot and placed her down gently in her queen-sized bed. Poppy quickly snuggled down with her stuffed toy bunny.

“Can we have the princess book?” Joe nodded of course, and pulled the book from the rather large pink bookcase in the corner. He laid down next to his little girl wrapping his arm around her small frame and holding the book in front of them both. Poppy and Joe both took turns each reading a few pages. It was the story of a princess who did not want to be a princess, she didn’t like dresses or crowns or acting like a lady. Poppy thought it was so funny, it was one of her favourites and they read it at least once a week.

After they finished the book Joe lay there for a while with Poppy in his arms stroking her hair. This was his favourite moment of the day. He got to be with the person he loved most, he loved watching her. She made the cutest little faces, he saw so much of himself within her. His Mum told him all the time how much she was like him when he was younger. It was safe to say, he never imagined his life to be like this but now he wouldn’t have it any other way. The only thing being that from now on he would try to spend more time with her during the week, he could see it even more now she was in school, she was growing up so fast, too fast and he couldn’t stand it.

“Night angel” Joe placed a short kiss on Poppy’s forehead and made his way out, he made sure to turn her nightlight on before closing the door behind him.

Joe walked back downstairs towards the kitchen gearing up to clean the dinner plates and cutlery which Abbie had left in the sink. He had just turned the water on when his phone began to ring. He pulled it from his pocket and saw it was his Mother. He quickly shut the water off and answered it.

“Hi Mum” he leant backwards on the kitchen counter running his free hand through his blonde hair.

“Hi Honey, how was your meeting with Poppy’s teacher?” the cheerful woman asked.

“Oh that, it was great” he smiled to himself as Miss Swift’s face briefly popped into his head as he continued speaking, “Her teacher just gave me some extra math problems, she said Poppy has been struggling a little but it’s nothing to worry about.”

“That’s good, you’ll be able to go through those with her or even Abbie might be able to help her. Now, are you coming to the Christmas Concert tomorrow? I know you hadn’t quite made up your mind, you weren’t sure how much work you would have.” The Christmas Concert was a small production the school held each year, they had all the kids singing Christmas carols whilst completely messing up every rehearsed hand action. It was sweet, Joe had never attended but his Mum and Dad went to watch last year when Poppy participated with the pre-school.

“I forgot about that” Joe paused for a moment. “But yeah, I’ll come, I’ll surprise Pop!” It saddened him that Poppy assumed now that he wouldn’t be able to attend things at school but it meant when he did show up, it became even more special.

“She’ll love that! I’ll make sure to save you a seat. Now, how are you?” His Mother seemed concerned, she knew he worked so hard and he was a great Father but he isolated himself. He seemed to find it difficult to go out with friends because he had Poppy to look after whereas a lot of other guys his age or men he worked with had no responsibilities. A fair few of them had girlfriends and fiancé’s but no kids.

“I’m good, just a lot going on at work, I was late for the meeting at the school today, I felt awful, she said it was fine but you know I hate being late.” Joe huffed feeling a little defeated.

“I do, Poppy’s teacher is very lovely though. I’m sure she didn’t mind.”

Joe and his Mother spoke for another half an hour before deciding they both needed to go to bed. They wrapped up the conversation and said a quick goodbye, Joe thanked her for reminding him about the concert and said he would see her tomorrow.

He slid his phone into his back pocket and yawned. Joe had gotten up at around five thirty that morning to get ready for the day. He was used to that by now, but it was getting Poppy up which is always the hardest. Poppy was definitely not a morning person, neither was Joe to be fair but she had to be practically dragged out of bed, it was one of the many traits she seemed to have picked up from him.

Joe walked slowly into the living room and sat down on the large L-shaped couch. He grabbed the TV remote and switched Poppy’s children’s channels to Netflix. He decided to watch a new show he had read about in the newspaper whilst in the car on the way to work that morning. It wasn’t something he was hugely interested in but he wanted something new to binge watch. Joe’s evenings were quite lonely after Poppy had gone to bed, his Mum would call but it wasn’t the same as having someone to share a bottle of wine and watch TV with. Joe ended up watching one episode of the show before falling asleep half way through the second one, his heavy eyes finally giving into the sleep after the busy day.

This fic was submitted anonymously through messages as the writer did not want their Tumblr url to be noted. (feel free to message me if you want to submit something anonymously)

#submitted #taylor and joe fanfiction #series #AU #dad joe #teacher taylor #meeting

51 notes · View notes

drizzitwrites · 6 years ago

Text

Musings on Writing

So, I did work on my fic today, and FINALLY got myself out of the scene I’ve been working on for over a week, BUT! The more interesting bit of writing I did came out of my clearing out my brainspace on 750words.com before diving into my writing. It wasn’t intended to be a blog post, but I got it started and I was thinking about some of my insecurities and the things that have been milling about in my mind in regards to this fic over the weekend, and it just sort of shaped up into one. It’s ~800 words (750words.com and all that) so I’ve posted it under a cut to save your dash. I hope you’ll read and enjoy.

Monday and back to work on writing.

I wish I could remember all the brilliant (or not so brilliant) ideas I had over the weekend about how to revise this story, but I can't. I know I keep reading things or hearing things or thinking things that I am like THAT would make this fic better--usually in the realm of I read a word or turn of phrase in a different fic that I was like oh that's doing this so much better than I'm doing this. Which is helpful to a point, but can also be hurtful or detrimental. Like, I'm not one to say you should never compare your writing to someone else's writing, because I think a degree of comparison can be helpful both as a driver (as in, I want to be better and I want to be competitive with this person who I think is doing some of the best work--applicable across whatever field you happen to be in), but also as inspiration and a guideline. Right? So you can see what someone "successful" (I put that in quotes because it's all relative) is doing and say oh, let me use this as a teaching device. Let me dig in and break down the way they are doing things so I can understand them and then try to incorporate the same principles into my work. So in those respects I absolutely do think it's important to compare yourself against others, especially others that you view as benchmarks.

The problem, of course, with comparing yourself to others is when you are comparing yourself to someone who has been doing something longer or, in short, just has a better aptitude for it, right? Like, you can go too far and obsess over it like oh, but they used this word or did this or that and I didn't even think about doing that, I'm clearly terrible. Okay, maybe. But probably not. The beauty of people is that we all think differently. And we all experience differently. And we all key in on different aspects of the same setting or scene or person or whatever. That's great. Everyone is at a different stage in life and practical experience so you can't get too hung up on comparing yourself to someone you admire, or who is widely admired, because maybe you will be them in five years, but you are not them right now and that's okay. Or maybe, in a year, you will be better than they are. Who knows. The point is, compare yourself to the point of inspiration, but not past it, I think.

Which...it's great that I'm telling you all this because I never actually DO it. I'm always over here like oh I think my fic is pretty good and then I read something that I think is brilliant and I'm like "THROW THIS ALL AWAY, WHY AM I EVEN TRYING!!!" which is the natural place most of us go, but is wholly unhealthy.

I think it's more important to compare yourself to yourself, right. Like, oh a year ago I was here and now I'm here and that's great. This is the part I struggle with. Because I have this idea, which is not an incorrect idea, that every fic has to be better than the last. Which...okay, it's problematic on some levels that I won't get into right now, because yeah sometimes you just need to write something just to write it and whatever, it is what it is. But generally, my aim is to improve with every fic I put out. But! It's harder to see those improvements work to work on the small scale, but if I go back and read what I was writing a year ago this time I'm like...oh...I see so much evolution here. But I never actually DO that, so I'm often just over here feeling frustrated and like "I could be so much better!"

Yes, self, you could. And you can. And you will be. And you are.

The other thing to remember here...and its a thing for ME to remember as much as for anyone else...is that the perfect is the enemy of the good. Like, I can spend weeks and weeks and weeks revising and refining and agonising over this to find just the right word or evoke exactly the right image or I can just decide that this is doing a better than adequate (or even adequate) job of doing what it is supposed to do and saying right, that's sorted, moving on to the next.

Because, for one thing, my idea of perfect is constantly evolving. So what is perfect anyway? Who knows really. I might think it's perfect and then read something someone else wrote and say NO! I SHOULD HAVE DONE IT THAT WAY! and we're back to the beginning. Or, I may never reach "perfect" and never actually finish anything. Neither is the option I want.

As Jonas once told me when I asked him why it took him half the time to finish a certain task than it took me: "Because, SK. I'm a man with a profound sense of 'good enough.'"

Sheer brilliance, as always.

#writing #drizzit writes #thoughts on writing and life #the art of comparison #growing the brand #personal growth

6 notes · View notes

sicklylittlesnowflake · 7 years ago

Note

Omg I never knew you wrote spiderman!!! i was like omg??/ Im so happy?? anyway what about if Peter gets a migraine round at the stark tower and he's like 'its only a headache I'll be fine' and... he's not lol @ him

(This is baby’s first Spiderman fic!! There’s been quite a few amazing ones so have my dollar store discount contribution :“) but I love me some Spiderman tbh!! not the longest fic for now bc I haven’t written Peter ever!! Also I’m excited to come back to marvel!!)

Occasionally Peter would feel a little insecure about his place in life; sometimes feeling like he wasn’t quite a part of something as much as everyone else. Of course, he had Ned who he loved very dearly and appreciated, but he wondered sometimes if he was missing out on his teenage years. Sometimes felt excluded and pushed to the shadows, being at the bottom of the High School Hierarchy.

Being the Spiderman gave him a sense of purpose, it made him feel like he was doing something with his life, made him feel good about himself.

It had been a week full of parties he wasn’t invited to, a week of scrolling through his little to no followers instagram trying to study for a Spanish test and seeing fellow classmates with hundreds of likes having fun. So when Tony Stark invited him round to the Stark Tower that weekend for some suit upgrades, Peter was excited.

It was all he was really thinking about, using that as an excuse to get through the horrible week. He had pulled a lot of all nighters trying to study for various tests, and catching up with the Decathlon team to redeem himself for his disappearances, and needless to say he was burned out. He needed this trip to Stark’s more than ever.

"Are you sure you should go to Stark’s like that?” Ned frowned, eyeing up his way too pale friend who had the darkest circles under his eyes, and who was also desperately rubbing at his temples.

“Like what? I’m good, Ned! Look at me, I’m ready to see him,” Peter insisted, clenching his teeth at his pounding headache.

“Did Mr Stark request that he sees you at your absolute worst or am I missing something?” Ned shot back, still very hesitant to let his best friend just take off like this.

Peter rolled his eyes, “I’m fine, dude! Look, I really need this right now.”

Ned sighed, still obviously very concerned, “Just..look after yourself or something. If you die I guess I’ll have to be Spiderman and I can’t do that yet because I’ve got a huge test coming up!”

Peter smirked, “In your dreams, dude! Catch ya later.” He scurried out of the school doors, where he caught sight of Happy’s limo. A wave of excitement rushed through him, momentarily forgetting about his pounding headache and waved enthusiastically at him. Happy waved back boredly, but fondly.

“Wait this shit is real?!” Flash gasped as Peter climbed onto the car and waved proudly at Flash. Happy could only groan as he pulled away, driving off.

“I’m so glad that you picked me up at the front of the school!! Thanks dude!! Now Flash knows this isn’t a fluke!” Peter said excitedly, adrenaline rushing through his body.

Happy huffed fondly, “Well, it is kinda a fluke, you don’t actually have an internship. But I only did that because I want to get out of this car as soon as possible.”

Peter pouted, a sly smile creeping onto his face, “Awh, you just missed me, Happy! Don’t try and hide it! You missed me so much you just couldn’t wait for much longer!”

Happy tried to disguise his smile, and was thankful someone decided to call him. He picked up the phone and answered. As the car quieted down, the adrenaline in Peter’s body lowered and suddenly he became aware of his extreme fatigue once again.

Peter slumped against the car seat, hissing ever so slightly as his head throbbed, a sudden surge of pain in his head. He lifted a hand to his temples, rubbing circles discreetly as not to raise any suspicion.

He closed his eyes as to suspend any possible sensory stimuli. He felt exhausted and drained, weak, lowkey wishing he had listened to Ned. However that stubborn voice inside his head told him otherwise, that this was the right choice. He felt his body relax, begging him desperately to rest for a little bit. He was hesitant, but a few minutes of nodding off while Happy spoke on the phone was totally fine, right?

“Wake up, kid,” Happy’s voice boomed out, causing Peter to jolt awake.

He tensed, looking up to see Happy’s disapproving gaze, smiling sheepishly. He went bright red in shame, realising he must have been asleep the whole trip there.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, pressing his lips together as he climbed out of the car, nearly tripping over his own feet. Letting out a little “whew”, he straightened himself out, and looked up to see the Stark Tower, amazed. He was in awe, the magnificent spectacle never ceasing to cause his jaw to drop.

“Alright kid, stop gawking and get inside,” Happy chuckled softly, although he was extremely concerned, watching with furrowed eyebrows as the teenager ran inside the tower. He cleared his throat, knowing something was wrong.

As Peter and Happy escalated through the lift, his headache, which now was surely a migraine, begin to intensify, a sharp paining throbbing in his head. Peter let out a tiny grunt of discomfort, eyes squeezing shut for a few seconds in pain. In those few seconds he missed Happy’s concerned glance.

Once the elevator doors reopened Peter stepped out, eyes twinkling with delight as he saw all the advanced tech around him. He walked around slowly, trying to walk as straight as possible due to his dizziness. He hoped he was convincing, but deep down he knew he was was not walking straight at all.

“Don’t break anything,” Happy warned, jokingly.

“I’ll try! Can I touch though?!” He said excitedly.

“Absolutely not,” Tony’s voice rang out from across the room, making his presence known and strutting out in full designer suit.

Peter flushed bright red, chuckling nervously, “Totally a joke!!”

Tony raised an eyebrow fondly, “Yes, of course it was, Pete.”

“So! What do you need me to do? Do you need me to demonstrate anything?” Peter asked with as much enthusiasm as he could, wanting to make the most of this experience and prove himself Tony. In reality, he was declining in energy levels fast and all he wanted to do was curl up and rest. He did a twirl in the air to try and show off his eagerness, but only resulted in his head spinning rapidly, the room spinning like he was on some amusement park ride. It was like his Earth was tilting, causing him to stumble slightly.

Tony raised an eyebrow, “Nice going, prima ballerina.”

Peter blushed again to which Tony frowned, “Also, aren’t ballerinas meant to be all prim and pretty? You aren’t looking too hot, Peter.”

Peter’s eyes widened, “Uh, I just..had a long day at school! Is all!”

“Hmm,” Tony replied and began to walk towards another room, “follow me then, Swan Lake.”

Peter nodded, carefully following Tony, trying to keep his balance and not trip over and break something and lose the suit forever. He entered Stark’s lab, eyes lighting up with awe and wonder.

“Woah,” he whispered, eyes twinkling with delight and excitement.

“Woah indeed,” Tony remarked, heading to one of his most recent developments and beginning to demonstrate.

Peter tried his absolute best to listen to him, because he wanted to, he really did. Normally he’d be all ears, sucking in information like a vacuum. This was Stark Industries tech for gods sake, one of the most advanced tech of their generation.

As Tony continued to explain the science behind his invention coolly, Peter began to get extremely frustrated. His brain wasn’t fully processing the information, cutting out bits, concentration wavering as his migraine continued to intensify. He clenched his teeth, hoping the pain would just subside for a little bit so he could actually listen to Mr Stark.

As Peter forced his senses to cooperate with him, he found that his head hurt even more. His vision began to blur and fade in and out, blinking rapidly as a futile attempt to correct his impaired vision. His spidey senses were going haywire.

“Peter, are you having trouble keeping up?” Tony said, interrupting himself from his little lecture.

Peter shook his head, “No Mr Stark, of course not.”

As he forced himself to process information, his brain was desperately trying to reject it, overloaded and overwhelmed. There was a finite amount of energy left in Peter before the migraine would eventually win. As his senses were overwhelmed, so was his migraine, and the agonising pain reached a peak.

A shooting, burning pain tormented his head, so harsh and unforgiving Peter couldn’t help the hiss and groan of anguish ripping out of his throat.

“Peter?” Tony exclaimed.

His entire body was wracked with this overwhelming pain as his knees began to buckle, giving out, feeling himself begin to fall when Tony was at his side. Tony held him tightly so he wouldn’t fall, his grasp firm and reassuring.

“Peter, what’s wrong?” He asked calmly, trying to keep a level head in this situation. It became clear to Peter that Tony knew something was up all along.

“My head hurts so much,” Peter whimpered into Tony’s side, teeth clenched.

Tony gave him a sympathetic look, sighing softly as he called out, “Happy? Go get the medicine and stuff, I’m taking Peter to his room.”

Tony picked the teenager up effortlessly, as Peter struggled to stay conscious, lights flickering in and out. The older man exited his lab, heading towards a room already made elegantly and laid him down onto the bed. Peter’s muscles relaxed as his skin came into contact with the soft, luxurious mattress and blanket.

Happy entered the room, saying something inaudible to Tony as the room started to fade into darkness.

“I’m sorry Mr Stark,” Peter whimpered softly as he lost consciousness.

Peter woke up groggily to a night sky by his window and Tony flicking the lights open. His heart a lot less, with only a few remaining remnants of the pain.

“How are you feeling?” Tony asked as he approached the teenager.

“Better,” Peter croaked, sitting up weakly as he rubbed his eyes. He tried to calm down the bedhead he was sure he had; but knew he was not too successful at that. Tony sat down at the edge of his bed, sighing as he passed Peter some aspirin and a glass of water.

Peter gulped down the glass of water, trying to distract himself from the feeling of guilt and shame ridden in his chest. “What time is it?”

“6:30,” Tony replied, inhaling deeply, a sure sign that he was about to lecture him.

“Pete, if you wanna be the Spiderman, you gotta start looking after yourself. Your no use to the civilians if you’re not well, you need to learn to take care of yourself more and know your boundaries. Hiding stuff doesn’t help anyone, you, me, the innocent people you want to save..It’s not convincing either,” Tony started.

“Happy texted me that you were sick the second you fell asleep in the car, I was hoping that you would give in and tell the truth once you got here. Pushing yourself when it’s not necessary isn’t the way to–Peter?” Tony came to a halt as a very light and quiet sniffling sound resonated from the teenager.

Peter cried quietly, aggressively trying to wipe away the tears he was unwillingly shedding. He tried to repress the sounds of his tiny sobs, feeling pathetic and weak.

Tony’s eyes softened, heart breaking as he inched closer to the boy, “Hey, c'mon man, what’s up?”

Peter shook his head violently, unable to stop himself from the little hiccups and never ending tears. He turned away from him, not wanting him to see him like this.

Tony sighed softly, “Pete, did you not hear anything I just said there? My whole lecture about not hiding things? Bottling up emotions is the same situation–you can’t do that shit. It doesn’t work–trust me, I would know.”

Peter sniffled, voice shaky, “..I just..I’m really angry at myself I guess..I wanted this to be special because nothing in my normal life is ever really special and everyone else seems to be having so much fun..they all seem so happy..and I’m lucky because I have Ned and some people have no one but still I know everyone looks down on me and I just wanted to prove myself–”

Tony interrupted him, “Is anyone bullying you? Who’s bullying you? Tell me–”

Peter shook his head, “No, Mr Stark. No ones..I just..i guess it’s more of a me thing..I feel like I’m just on the outside watching everyone living their lives and being teenagers and I’m just..not capable of that I guess. I feel so stupid and useless all the time like nothing I ever do is important or means anything..and I guess I just wanted this Spiderman thing because it gives me purpose and..maybe I am nothing without this suit, I don’t–”

“Peter, stop this at once. You have proven yourself worthy of that suit on numerous occasions, all those things you’re saying about yourself is not true,” Tony interrupted, his voice firm and genuine.

Peter stayed quiet, wiping away at his tears, the sight way too heartbreaking for Tony.

“Oh for..c'mere,” Tony said, opening his arms.

Peter widened his eyes, “Y-you mean..”

Tony smiled, “I’m not just opening the door for you this time.”

Peter practically tacked Tony into a hug, wrapping his arms around him as he sobbed quietly. Tony sighed, rubbing the teenager’s back sweetly, trying to offer this kid reassurance and care.

“I felt like you too once, you know,” Tony said softly.

“..Y-you? Really?”

Tony chuckled, “Yes I did. Sure, I was Howard Stark’s son, but I always felt left out and excluded growing up. I felt like I couldn’t just be a teenager, you know? It’s bullshit when people say your teenage years are the best years, there’s still a lot coming for you, Pete.”

Peter giggled through his tears, feeling a lot better, a whole weight lifting off his shoulders.

Tony rubbed his back soothingly, smiling, “We are going to have a good weekend, Pete. I promise you.”

#peter parker #tony stark #spiderman homecoming #ned leeds #happy hogan #whump #MCU #marvel #prompts #sickfic #can u believe i actually finished it today like i said lmao #hopping onto the spiderman hype train bc!!

332 notes · View notes

benxsamuel · 7 years ago

Text

Ian Mackaye on everything

Ian Mackaye’s interview with Huck Magazine is an endless source of practical, life-affirming wisdom. It would be a shame to condense it to a bite-sized quote so this is going to be one long post:

On navigation versus survival:

I understand that people, melodramatically, may consider life something one has to survive. But you’re alive, that’s what life is, you are surviving. It plays into this idea that people’s lives are narratives – that it’s a film or book and you have to survive all this craziness. I think it’s a disservice, ultimately, because it makes others feel like their lives aren’t crazy enough. In my mind, life is not a war – although human beings create conditions that make it feel that way – and I think that navigation is a fairer term. I see life essentially as an empty field. The construct of that empty space has to do with society, but it also has to do with us. The only real question is how are we going to navigate that space, from beginning to end. If people thought of themselves as navigators, maybe they would have more purchase. Navigation is about having a say in the matter, whereas surviving is about dealing with things being thrown at you. With navigation you get to decide whether you want to be in that situation in the first place.

On success:

You could say society sees success as absolute – you’re either winning or you’re losing. Can success be interpreted as just keeping going? Success is a perpetual state of affairs. With my music for instance, I’m not goal-oriented. The decision to be in a band was huge for me. I came to a realisation that I could do this, because punk gave me the permission slip. I was able to play bass, which is crazy – here’s this animal beating on a wire, and a tune is coming out. That is success. Then I played with other people, and these animals organised those sounds in a way that was recognisable. That is success. We wrote our own songs. That is success. We played a show. That is success. Every day is a success – if you’re in the moment.

On punk:

My definition of punk is the free space. It’s an area in which new ideas can be presented without having to go through the filtration or perversion of profiteering. So, if we’re not worried about selling things, then we can actually think. The problem with new ideas is that they don’t have audiences. And in terms of the marketplace, an audience equals clientele. If you have no audience, it’s not profitable. Punk was an area, for me at least, where it didn’t seem to matter. I didn’t know any punk rocker who thought, ‘I’m gonna make a living out of this.’ The ones that did quickly left. What I received from the counterculture was a gift; the permission to create freely. And my reaction was to take care of this gift and keep it alive because it continues to give.

On straight edge:

The structure of society is an oppressive concept. I don’t see self-destruction as a valid form of rebellion. If anything it’s an assistance; you’re a thorn in their side, so help them by taking yourself out. Today, they’re imbibing technology, a new kind of drug, and losing themselves. I never got involved with drugs because I saw the fallout from the ’60s. As a Hendrix fan, I’d talk to people who’d seen him play and they couldn’t remember it because they were high. It doesn’t make sense to me that you wouldn’t want to remember your life. This concept of partying, it’s like you’re sweeping up after yourself constantly. You’re just sweeping away your memories. I like to be present, and keep it with me. Some people think of straight edge as a tee-totaling sobriety movement, but in my mind it was just about self definition. I found it unimpeachably positive.

On finding your tribe:

But most people go through life as tourists. They’re checking out the sights and eventually they’ll go home. I’m always looking for the long-distance runners. The people who recognise that protest is a form of exercise and that life is there if you want it. You just have to be open, communicative and interested. That’s who I recognise as my tribe.

On anti-narratives:

The reason we like endings is that they’re manageable. Think about the effect of the electronic medium on the way we think. Radio, television, movies, computers. At some point things became serialised as stories. But when you live in a society where you’re constantly being shown stories, our brains become reformatted to create narratives in our own lives. It’s misleading because life does not have a narrative arc. The world does not have a narrative arc. Or if it does, it’s bigger than anything we could ever fucking write about. I remember being in bands where someone would say, ‘Well, that’s the biggest thing I’ll ever do.’ Who thinks like that?! I don’t think of life as phases. I think of life as life.

On getting older:

I don’t believe in youth culture. By embracing it you also embrace the expiration date. Not that I’m always young, fuck that! I’m alive! I’m living! When people say, ‘Urgh, I feel so old,’ I’m like, ‘What the fuck man! You’re not old, you just are.’ If you’re cold you can put a coat on. If you’re wet you can dry off. But if you’re old you can’t do anything. Let me ask you: what role have you played in terms of becoming thirty-one?

Interviewer: Um? Zero active participation.

Exactly! All you did was wake up! That’s it. We wake up! There’s this notion in American culture that children are not real. It’s pointed out by the statement, ‘Well, at some point you’re gonna have to get real.’ But people are real from the moment they’re born. They’re real and they’re valid. When a fifteen-year-old kid has an idea, it’s not an unreal idea. But if you’re told over and over again that you have to ‘get real’, it creates this mentality that it doesn’t matter what they do. Because once they become real they will be absolved of everything, so they take no responsibility. This experiential thing? It’s a little touristic. Like, ‘I gotta taste it all!’ I know people who fucked one person I know people who fucked 100 people. Their experience may seem different, but outside pressures leave both people wondering if they made a mistake. I wish people wouldn’t spend their lives thinking about what they could’ve or should’ve done. I wish they would live their lives thinking about what they should be doing now.

On insecurities:

I tend to think of insecurities as reminders to go do something. As a teenager I was extremely self-conscious of my body. But at some point I realised there’s nothing constructive about agonising over it. So I filed that away, like, I can’t change this, so just do something – get to work. As a young child, I couldn’t grasp the idea of death. It was so unbearable for me, I freaked the fuck out. But then at some point I realised I would never get an answer from a single person on earth. So I figured – just live. I think the most constructive way to approach a lot of this stuff is to make peace with incomprehensibility. I accept the things that I cannot comprehend, that I will never comprehend, and I have peace with that. If I feel an insecurity, I practise more. I write a song. Just do something.

On perspective:

I have this concept about changing the source of light. The way things appear has a lot to do with where the light is. Sometimes things seem impenetrable, but maybe we just need to change the source of light. For instance, if you felt paralysed by your work – you’re miserable but you’re scared to leave your situation, because you think you’d become irrelevant – then I would say: stand back. Change the source of light. Look at the situation and realise that, though it is important to you – and I will say this to myself – though it is important to you, your work is ridiculous. And your fears are unfounded. You said, ‘People are inspired by you,’ but however one rates my ‘celebritydom’ or fame or whatever the fuck I have, it’s worth pointing out that 99.9 per cent of the population of the world never has, doesn’t and never will know of me. I don’t exist. There are entire giant cities in Indonesia where not a single person has ever heard of me. The music I make does not matter. And if it’s causing me duress, I should realise it’s ridiculous and that my fears are unfounded. Because what’s the worse thing that could happen. Like, what would be the worst thing that could happen to you?

Interviewer: That I miss my deadline. I have anxiety every week before we go to print – which is now. One voice in my head says, ‘You’re gonna miss it! You’re a failure!’ The other voice is like, ‘It’s a magazine, get a grip.’

Exactly, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Life is just a straight line. There are two definitive points, one at the beginning and one at the end. It could be argued that should you decide to procreate that may merit another point. Everything else is affection – accoutrements, add-ons, additives. The way we speak, the things we own, the way we identify ourselves, they’re all artifices on some level… While we’ve been talking maybe 100 people have been killed, maybe 1,000, who knows, and yet this development hasn’t affected our conversation whatsoever. If you put things in perspective one realises how it just doesn’t matter. So the value is up to us, and if we’re gonna assign the value, then why would we assign negative values?

Interviewer: I would say you’re in the minority – the enlightened minority – for being liberated by feeling like a speck of dust in the universe. And the rest of society is veering more towards this idea of, ‘I gotta make it!’ Why is the ratio skewed?

Well, I think that your definition of society is a little off base. People working in the fields of Vietnam, or whatever, I don’t think they’re thinking, ‘I gotta make it!’ I think they’re just doing their work. You’re in London. You work in a field that is obsessed with digital. I think probably the pure irrelevance of that medium, when you get down to it, is the reason people are so hellbent on wanting it to matter. It’s almost an inverse. It’s like they’re making cotton candy, yet they’re obsessed with nutrition. ‘It has to have nutrients in it!’ they say, because they know it’s cotton candy. I’m not being dismissive. People freak out when they’re thirty, they freak out when they’re forty, mostly I think people just like to freak out. I guess it’s convention. Convention gives people a sense of comprehension. And people are not at peace with incomprehension. I read an article about a space craft that was tasked with taking photos, I think Carl Sagan was involved. NASA said we’ll only operate this camera until we’re at the edge of the universe. After years and years, when it slipped past the edge of the universe and NASA said let’s cut it off, Sagan lobbied to take one more picture – and it was of the earth. Can you imagine what Earth looked like from outside the universe?

Interviewer: Like a star?

It’s not even a star. It was a tiny little dot. And Sagan pointed to this little dot in this vast sea of stars, more than you can imagine, or ever count, and he said, ‘Every idea that any human has ever thought, every fight, every war, everything that has ever occurred, happened there.’ How insignificant, that people would die over property when it doesn’t even rate as a speck in the universe? I appreciate that idea. Because insignificance is liberating. If you stop thinking this is my land, then you’re free. If it’s your land – my property, my concept, my scene, my society – you have to defend it. You’re hamstrung by it.

On life:

But at some point in my life I decided that the basis of all my reasoning is this: pain hurts. That’s true for you and it’s true for me; I don’t wanna hurt other people because I don’t wanna be hurt. Keep things simple and they suddenly seem doable. I read this book in my early twenties – by C.S. Lewis, I think. There was this image of life as a tree and each decision we made was a branch. And then every decision we made, once we were on that branch, were smaller branches and smaller branches until you got down to the twigs. The author explained that if you are on the wrong branch, if you made a bad decision, you have to go back to the trunk – because once you’re on that branch, every decision will be wrong. That was such a great thing for me. I was just navigating, I made a mistake, so I have to go back to the trunk. Because back at the trunk, life – simple life – is always right.

#ian mackaye #fugazi #minor threat #the evens #philosophy #note to self

57 notes · View notes

mjsmum · 7 years ago

Text

Does a beautiful birth experience even exist?

It might seem as if I've opened the blogging flood gates, but I'm very aware that baby challenges change as quickly as the direction of the wind, and I want to get my feelings in order about some of the early topics before they fade to make way for new parenting dilemmas.

Matilda will be two weeks old tomorrow, and I feel like I'm finally ready to talk about my labour experience. In fact, I may have left it a little too late, as I would contemplate having another baby now - whereas at the time I strongly declared to Jim that we were getting a cat next time!

The naivety of going natural

Like many women, I had a strong desire for a natural, holistic birth experience. I'd like to consider myself a tough cookie when it comes to pain management, and I told myself that the discomfort would only be temporary, and that I could feel empowered by the act of bringing new life into the world with minimal medical assistance.

To support this goal, I started arming myself with tools to help me prepare for a painkiller-free birth. I attended prenatal yoga classes to learn controlled breaths; I consulted a herbalist to learn about natural remedies; I rented a tens machine, and wrote a birthing plan that was all about a water birth and absolutely no pethidine or epidural under any circumstance.

When reality starts getting in the way

The first sign that my birth experience wouldn't be all it was cracked up to be came in week 28 of pregnancy, when I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. After struggling to control it with dietary changes I was put onto metformin tablets with my evening meal, and nightly insulin injections. This meant two things:

1 - I would be induced around my due date if baby didn't make an early appearance

2 - the likelihood of needing extra monitoring was such that a water birth would be highly unlikely

I could write a whole separate blog post on the impact of GD on my pregnancy experience, but the overwhelming effect on my labour plan was one of panic . That my choices were being taken away from me. And it's hard to remain empowered when the things you wanted for your birth experience are being taken off the table one by one.

However, as my due date drew nearer and Matilda's weight and measurements began to shoot off the chart, I was secretly glad not to be enduring the agonising two-week countdown of being overdue, and one day before her due date we decamped to hospital to be induced.

The long wait for labour to begin

In the middle of my labour, my midwife (who was incredible - more on that later) declared that unless it's for medical reasons, she doesn't know why anyone has an induction, and I can understand why. Turns out it involves a whole lot of waiting around - two days in my case - for something to happen.

You're stuck in a side room while women in natural labour filter past you to the delivery suite, with someone poking their head round the door every few hours to take your blood pressure or shove a finger up your hoo-ha just in case anything has kicked off.

The best thing I did during this time was send Jim home for some proper sleep, as we had no idea how gruelling the first few days of parenthood would be. The worst thing I did was to let my mixture of fear and excitement keep me awake at night, as I could've used the energy for labour when it finally happened. However, it did give me the chance to binge watch my way through series 6 of ER on DVD!

Eventually, after a pessary, two gels and a sweep, I began to feel period-like pains in my stomach, and requested some light pain relief from the midwife. A dose of paracetamol and codeine later I got back into bed, and felt something start to trickle down my leg. By the time I got to the bathroom my waters gave way fully, and after a dramatic gush all over the floor I realised I was standing there with soaking wet pyjama bottoms. Things were finally kicking off!

Thank god for a hot shower

I don't actually remember much about early labour - it lasted around 5.5 hours, and Jim came back to the hospital as soon as my waters went - other than the fact I felt very alone. I was only checked by medical staff once or twice during this time, and it was hours before they would internally examine me to see how I was progressing.

It was a LOT more painful than I had imagined, and my yoga breathing went straight out of the window. My cries for more codeine were never answered, but one kind midwife did run me a bath. The water helped but I felt trapped in the restrictive porcelain tub, so got out after a handful of minutes.

Not being able to get comfortable basically summed up the early part of my labour. Standing was too much; sitting on the ball only worked between contractions; hanging off jim's shoulders worked temporarily, but didn't anchor me the way I needed. In the end, my absolute saviour was the en suite shower in my room. I turned it to maximum heat, grabbed hold of the hand rails in the cubicle and swayed from side to side for literally two and a half hours until someone came to check on my progress.

Everything...and then nothing

The good news on examination was that I was 9cm dilated and ready to go to the delivery suite. I'd lost the will to put clothes on by that point, so the midwife wheeled me up there in a towel and blanket with soaking wet hair - oh the glamour!

For me, the first hour in the delivery suite was the only moment of clarity and control in the whole labour experience. My midwife, Toni, was very calm, soothing and experienced. My contractions slowed to a manageable level, and I felt happy enough to proceed with my plan of as natural birth as possible, with just gas and air to see me through.

Had I known what was about to come, I would have taken the epidural offered to me at that point, but for some reason I was still hell bent on this badge of honour of pushing a baby out with minimal pain relief. Next time, I'm taking the drugs!

What should've been the beginning of the end was actually the start of 6 of the most tiring, painful and frustrating hours I've ever experienced in my life. And by the time Matilda arrived, I was so delusional and exhausted I felt like I was having some kind of out of body experience.

The slowing down of my contractions was the first of many things that started to go awry in those last few hours. They had to put me on a hormone drip to artificially stimulate me to contract three times every 10 minutes, and they also gave me IV fluid as Matilda was showing signs of dehydration.

I still wasn't dilated enough to push, so had to put up with a couple more hours of intense pain before being given the green light to start trying to pop my baby out.

Throughout those couple of hours I pleaded and begged to start pushing, but had I known what real pushing meant, I would've shut up and made the most of the gas and air! The physical effort involved with each push was so intense that I was physically sweating, and I definitely shit myself on more than one occasion, but by that point I no longer cared.

Time for intervention

What started to become apparent at the pushing stage was that Matilda just wasn't coming out. As much as I pushed her forward, she started to slip back, and after 90 minutes of body-wrenching squeezes, the midwife made the decision to call a doctor for assistance.

What I didn't know at the time was that doctor intervention had been discussed more than once during those final hours because of my 'failure to progress', but that my midwife fought tooth and nail at every stage to buy me more time. It was this determination that meant I didn't end up having a c-section, and I will be eternally grateful to her for being so persistent.

I don't think I'd really thought about what the end of my labour would be like in advance, but I never got that glorious moment of doing a final push to feel a slippery baby slide into the midwife's arms with a triumphant first cry. Matilda's heart rate began to drop, so the decision was taken to use forceps, and suddenly the room was filled with a team of doctors and nurses.

By this point I was basically hallucinating with adrenaline, pain and tiredness, so the final part felt slightly disembodied. I saw what I could only describe as a giant pair of salad tongs on the side, not realising that they were what was about to help deliver my baby, and then I was being dropped down and tilted backwards on the bed ready for the big moment.

The midwife explained to me that I needed to push hard with the next contraction, as the forceps were there to assist - they couldn't do the job for me. It was this next contraction where I basically had a total meltdown; the pain and discomfort of the forceps was like nothing I'd ever experienced, and instead of pushing I started screaming and begging for them to make it stop.

Here, the midwife stepped in with a bit of tough love and shouted at me to pull it together for the sake of my baby. It obviously did the trick as I gave it one final push and heard the staff telling me excitedly that my baby had arrived!

The eye of the storm - and the calm that followed

Because of the way Matilda was dragged into the world, we didn't get that idyllic moment where she went straight onto my bare chest for skin to skin. I didn't know at the time but her shoulders had got stuck so they'd had to rotate her to get her out. The cord was wrapped around her neck, and her apgar score was only 5, so they rushed her over to the side of the room to give her some inflationary breaths.

I remember everyone being calm but not hearing my baby crying, and repeatedly asking Jim and the staff if everything was ok. Then she let out the first of many wails we have since heard, and they briefly put her on a towel on my stomach to say hello.

At this point I was still lying flat on my back, legs akimbo in stirrups, unaware that I'd suffered a third degree tear and lost 800ml of blood. They explained to me that I needed to go straight into theatre for repair, so no sooner had I met my baby I was wheeled away, given a spinal block, and laid back down for repair.

Strangely, that moment in theatre was the beginning of the post-birth calm. I was so tired and overstimulated that I couldn't really think about the baby I'd left behind in the delivery suite - it almost felt as if it hadn't happened - and I zonked out into a deep sleep during the hour it took them to stitch me back together.

The next thing I remember is being transferred onto a different trolley and wheeled back to the now cleaned-up delivery room. I felt nothing but tingles from the waist down, and waiting for me was a plate of pie and mash and a peacefully sleeping baby, who was placed onto my bare chest. It still didn't quite feel real at that moment, but I wasn't in pain; all I felt was complete contentment.

Processing the reality of giving birth

The first couple of nights after Matilda was born I couldn't close my eyes without getting forcep flashbacks. To be honest, I felt haunted by the whole labour experience, but gradually the horror moments started to fade.

Over the next few days I began to fully process MJ’s birth, and realised that while it had been far from the holistic experience I had imagined, it had taught me some important lessons:

- Why do we put so much pressure on ourselves to make life even harder and have a natural birth? Real empowerment comes from making the best decision for you personally, and if we ever decide to go through it again, I will confidently ask for an epidural and feel no sense of shame

- Any woman who delivers a baby is a fucking superhero. Whether you deliver naturally in water or have an elective caesarean, you birthed a baby. That deserves a massive amount of respect

- Nothing that hurts that much can ever be empowering at the time, but you can definitely give yourself a massive pat on the back afterwards for getting through it. You are a female warrior!

- Never underestimate the power of a good birthing partner. I crushed every bone in Jim's hands during my contractions, and yelled at him every time our birthing soundtrack came to an end and needed rebooting, but he will never fully realise how just being there with that support in those moments got me through

- It's OK to come away from hospital with the opinion that labour sucks, and lament the gruelling process your body has been through, and continues to go though afterwards. Because when you're having a 'woe is me' moment you can pick up your perfect, tiny little baby and give her a tight cuddle, and realise all that pain and fear was completely and totally worth it

#labour #labor #birth #positivebirth #firsttimemum

1 note · View note

jakehoulsby · 7 years ago

Text

December 2017 Update

It’s been a while since I wrote anything so thought I better give you an update…

What a funny week it’s been. I’d been agonising over what to do about the album since around September and had semi-made my mind up in October to scrap the whole thing, only to realise I probably only need to scrap about a third and make adjustments to the remains. I’ve spent this week doing nothing but recording at home and it’s been sheer bliss now I have the time to fully immerse myself. I’m hearing in my head better than ever how the songs should sound and I’ve woken up every morning excited for the day ahead. I haven’t actually announced it on this page but Ford are using Howl in an advert so I’ve been able to quit work and focus all my efforts on my music. This is my full time job now. I’m over the moon and I couldn’t have done it without you beautiful people. Thank you thank you thank you. It couldn’t have came at a better time.

To give you a little backstory on this year, I’ve been pretty lost and incredibly unhappy but I struggle to be vulnerable (I prefer to just crack jokes) so I hid it from my family and friends and only confided in a very, very select few number of people who were like angels. I hated my life and who I was becoming but I couldn’t see an escape without having to make compromises with music so I just carried on as normal but got high morning, noon, and night to take the edge off everything. Luckily, just as I’d spent late September self-destructing and really struggling to get a grip, I got a call and was told Ford were going to use Howl in an advert meaning I could change everything and not have to make any compromises. I can’t tell you how I felt that week. It was like it had all been set up somehow, like there was a God or I was living in some kind of simulation.

I drove through to my mam’s house a couple of days after getting the news and it was one of the best evenings of my life, just chilling with her and my sister, chatting shit. I properly opened up and told them everything and it was then that the Ford news actually sunk in and I realised a lot of my current troubles and worries were over for a little while.

Since then, I’ve made healthy changes and can feel myself returning to the person I think I am and should be. I want to immerse myself in music and books and let everything I learn influence what I do. It’s hard at times because I am an antisocial bastard and like to be alone 99.9% of the time but you do need people in your life. I’m such a bad replier though I sometimes worry everyone thinks I’m dead ignorant. Do you ever leave a reply so long it gets to that point where you wonder if you can even reply anymore or if that window’s closed? That’s my constant dilemma.

I kind of think of myself in the bigger picture now and that’s changed a lot of things too. I’m aware I’m going to die one day so I just want to work hard and realise my musical potential and leave behind a body of work that simply says who I am and where and when it all happened. It’s easy to get caught up doing what you think you should do but I still believe that if you make good music that’s true to you and immerse yourself in it, stay focussed, and believe in it, people will listen to it and it’ll eventually spread. The world’s changing right now, rapidly. I think the future of music and art is probably not in major labels and what not but in lone wolves like Sufjan and Stormzy (and even Casey Neistat), doing things themselves initially (or forever) and allowing their curiosity and passion to guide them. It’s funny getting older cause you realise all the cliches are cliches for a reason. Life is a journey.

I’ve been messing around with music for 15 years now, first writing terrible classical music on the piano, then writing terrible blues music on the acoustic guitar, and it’s not something I’ll ever be able to stop doing. I love music in most, if not all, of it’s forms and I want to be a student of it for life. I guess knowing that now gives me a certain confidence I’ve lacked this year. At times it felt like this album would be my first and last. I know that’s not the case now. I don’t want to be perfect or make perfect music, I just want to make music that captures and reflects part of me. It’s absolutely unreal seeing how many people are enjoying the music and how many messages I’ve had recently from people saying they’ve connected to the songs on another level or that it’s helped them in some way. As corny as it sounds, I feel like we’ve connected and it’s almost like I understand some of you and you understand some of me. It’s weird but nice and it’s something that’s very new to me. I could certainly get used to it though. All of a sudden what I’m doing doesn’t feel like such a selfish pursuit.

Right, I’m gonna go. It feels a bit weird posting something so personal but I wanted to let you in. I wish I wasn’t so bloody intense like but it’s just who I am. There’s more I wanted to say (I plan these posts in my head when I’m out on a run or on my bike) but I’m going to leave it there and get back to work. Can’t wait to share new music with you. Those who have caught me live this year and know the new songs, I’m thinking Golden Age is gonna be the first single of 2018. Really excited. Speak soon x

p.s. here's the advert... https://vimeo.com/236573074

#serendipity #music #diary #album

4 notes · View notes

vampireadamooc · 7 years ago

Text

Vampires: a cultural history

From 12th-century ‘revenants’ to teen thriller Twilight, belief in vampires has been  an enduring theme in cultural history.  Richard Sugg looks at the legend that just won’t die and examines possible physiological causes...

This article first appeared in the September 2013 issue of BBC History Magazine

http://www.historyextra.com/article/premium/vampires-cultural-history?utm_source=Twitter%20referral&utm_medium=t.co&utm_campaign=Bitly

Sunday 1st September 2013

Submitted by: Ellie Cawthorne

In the late spring of 1870, an American journalist was staying in a little Hungarian village. One night at about 2am he awoke “in a cold sweat, screaming and struggling with some horrible thing, cold as death, that lay upon my breast pinioning my arms to my sides, and trying to fasten his clammy mouth about my throat. I yelled and fought, and presently I heard men running through the hall toward my room.” Hearing this tale, the American’s landlord warned gravely that he had been sucked by a vampire – and must prepare for death. At this point the American is not persuaded. But presently, having had it explained to him that ongoing and widespread vampire hysteria in the region is due to the recent death of one Peter Dickowitz, who has since attacked many villagers, he follows a party of vampire-killers to the local cemetery.

Two coffins are hauled from the earth. And at this point something remarkable happens. Our author, who had previously referred with disdain to “the old, horrible superstition of vampirism”, very quickly becomes  a true believer: “I saw – dare I tell it? – in the sickly light of the flambeaux, that the men within them were not dead; but, horrible beyond expression, deadly in their ghastliness, yet, alive, they lay there. Their bodies were swimming in blood, and a horrible leer was on their mouths, and agonised fate within their staring eyes. Loathsome beyond thought, ghoul-like beyond nightmare dream, they were the living dead.” Dragged away from the consecrated ground, these two vampires are staked through their hearts. At this point, our already-traumatised witness hears from each “such a wailing sob and cry… as I never did dream even in nightmare”. The heads of both ‘vampires’ are then laboriously hacked off with sharp spades. By 1870, most educated Europeans and Americans saw vampires as either thrilling entertainment (on both stage and page) or as an example of the backward superstitions of peasants in such lands as Hungary, Romania, Serbia and Greece. So what could have caused the radical change of heart seen in our previously sceptical reporter? One factor was undoubtedly the relatively undecayed state of the exhumed corpses, supposedly swimming in blood. Since the painstaking forensic work of Paul Barber, it is relatively well known that some bodies are slow to decay, and that copious fluids (resembling blood) can issue from them.  The sudden release of trapped gases can even result in ‘vampires’ screaming when staked.

A human-headed bird attacks a man in a 1491 illustration. (Science Photo Library)

 Paralysed with fear The second factor in the American reporter’s vampire epiphany is less well known. The attack that the American suffered was almost certainly a combination of sleep paralysis and nightmare. These inter-related medical conditions have occurred throughout history, and still occur now. When we sleep we routinely become paralysed; this prevents us from acting out dreams and suffering possible injury. We’re not usually conscious of this state. But during a sleep paralysis nightmare, the victim feels absolutely conscious. They see their room, often in  vivid detail, but are paralysed and cannot speak. Presently, they become aware of an entity approaching. They may see it or hear it; but even if they do neither they are horribly convinced of it (perhaps hovering just outside their field of vision) and utterly traumatised by fear. Now the demon entity is on their chest, its weight crushing and its hands or mouth suffocating, squeezing the life from their throat… Although in reality such attacks last no more than a few minutes, to victims the experience can seem endless. This mix of symptoms can vary, as can the extremity of attacks. But in many cases they cause a level of terror that mere words can barely capture. In 2011, some years after a nightmare attack, the American writer Alexis Madrigal wrote that:  “It didn’t feel like my life was at risk. That was, in fact, too small. It felt like the presence was after something else, probably what you’d call my soul” – strong words from someone who describes himself as “a straight materialist”. This and many similar descriptions leave one wondering if the nightmare is indeed the origin of evil itself. It certainly is the origin of many vampire epidemics. Some of the very earliest written accounts of proto-vampires come from Britain. In the 12th century alleged revenants (essentially, undecayed walking corpses) brought terror and death to people in Buckinghamshire, Wales, Northumbria and at Melrose Abbey  on the Scottish borders. In Wales, sometime after 1149, an English knight complained of a recently deceased “Welsh wizard” who “keeps coming every night, calling by name certain of his former neighbours, who instantly fall sick and die within three days”. A contemporary report from Buckinghamshire tells of a dead man who, the night after his burial, “suddenly entered the room where his wife lay asleep and, having awakened her... almost killed her by leaping upon her with the whole heaviness of his weight and overlying her”.

Henry Fuseli's 1781 painting 'Nightmare'. (Art Archive)

In 1567, in the Bohemian city of Trawtenaw, the revenant of one Stephen Hubener “did pinch many men with such strait embracements, that many of them died”. Those who survived reported “with one consent... that they were thus clasped or beclipped by this... man” – who, for his pains, was decapitated, eviscerated and burned. Around 1738, a young Serbian girl “named Stanoska... went to bed in perfect health, but awoke in the middle of the night, trembling, and crying out, that the son of the Heyduke Millo, who died about nine weeks before, had almost strangled her while she was asleep. From that time, she fell into a languishing state, and died at three days end.” Many similar reports depict crushing and suffocation. All in all, the symptoms of sleep paralysis nightmares fit ‘vampire’ attacks uncannily well – in some cases, as snugly as one of Count Dracula’s well-tailored travelling gloves. The sense of weight and suffocation are obvious enough similarities. Name-calling was also pretty common, and fits the documented auditory hallucinations of nightmare bouts. Outside of fiction, the vampire did not always suck blood. But nightmares could give reason to think that it did. Recent accounts have described the pressure on the throat as like “something sucking the life out of me”. More precisely still, nightmares seem to cause spontaneous bruising in some victims. If these were found on neck or chest (over the heart), then thirsty teeth would easily be inferred. Why, though, is one particular dead person often identified as the attacker? The answer is twofold. First, medical science has found that, bewildered by the nightmare, the brain shapes the imagined ‘entity’ into something familiar. In regions where vampire legend abounds, this will naturally be a vampire, and in a small community where everyone knows who has just died, the most recently deceased would be a prime candidate for the role. But recent studies have also shown that attacks are increased or exacerbated by stress. So after the first attack, once the story has spread with the speed of village gossip, there will probably be more attacks (often perpetrated by the same culprit), thus more stress, leading to yet more attacks – until the vampire is destroyed. As with many psychosomatic terrors, belief is potent: if you believe the vampire has been dispatched, it will usually stop haunting you. Many people who died from ‘vampire attacks’ were actually victims of contagious disease – one reason why vampires were often said to attack their own families first. Some deaths, though, are not so easily explained. The 12th-century Welsh victims and the Serbian girl Stanoska all died within three days of the first attack. Why? Astonishingly, these people probably died  of fear. A number of travellers and anthropologists have reported ‘voodoo deaths’ of this kind in Africa and among the Aboriginal peoples of Australia. In such contexts, if someone knows that they have been cursed (usually by a witch doctor or similar), their belief-driven terror is so potent that they fall sick, experience a kind of physiological shutdown, and die within three days. This phenomenon was, for a long time, thought typical of primitive tribal beliefs.  In fact, it is equally typical in vampire and witch territory. Writing in 1923, the traveller and folklorist Edith Durham told how “the peasants all through Albania, and Macedonia are extraordinarily affected mentally if they believe they must die, and seem to make no effort whatever to live...  I heard of more than one case in which a man’s death having been foretold by reading the future in fowls’ bones, he proceeded to sicken and die.” In her recent book on sleep paralysis, Shelley Adler related how the religious beliefs of Hmong people from south-east Asia led to several nightmare-related deaths during and after the 1970s. These attacks, which occurred in the USA among Hmong refugees, were thought to be due to angry ancestral spirits, and subsequently inspired the horror film A Nightmare on Elm Street. So vampires (or nightmares incorporating them) really can kill you – if you believe in them. Anyone who has suffered from sleep paralysis nightmares will understand this level of terror. And if you suffered such an attack in a little Serbian or Greek village a century or more ago, what explanation  could there be – except something supernatural and demonic? Neither the nightmare nor the vampire have quite relinquished their hold, even in 21st-century Europe. Just before Christmas 2003, one Petre Toma died in the little Romanian village of Marotinu de Sus. As archaeologist Timothy Taylor reported, “his niece suffered nightmares and appeared seriously ill. She claimed that her uncle was visiting her at night and feeding from her heart; that he was a strigoi [a Romanian revenant]”. The girl’s illness was clearly psychosomatic: Toma’s corpse was disinterred and his heart burned, the ashes mixed with water that was given to  the niece to drink – and she recovered. And this incident took place just as Stephenie Meyer was signing the deal for her first Twilight books. More recent still was the case of Sava Savanovicˇ, a Serbian first identified as a vampire in the 18th century. When in 2012 his reputed home – an old water mill on the river Rogacˇica in Zarozˇje – collapsed, local authorities warned residents to arm themselves against the now-homeless revenant with crosses and garlic. This was probably shrewd business PR rather than authentic superstition: the mill and village had been popular with tourists for some time, and the story made world headlines. Yet the announcement that “five people have recently died, one after another,  in our small community”, and allegedly “not by accident”, would be all-too familiar to vampire believers of past times. Vampires on screen: how the legend became box-office gold The early wave of 18th-century reports on the folk vampirism of central-eastern Europe might well be described as the first phase of ‘vampotainment’. But it was in the 19th century that it became really popular. A short tale, The Vampyre, penned by Byron’s physician, John Polidori, caused a sensation in 1819, prompting a popular stage version, The Bride of the Isles, and the invention of a highly sophisticated ‘vampire trap’, through which the defeated bloodsucker magically vanished in the closing scene. This tale gave us the prototype of the suavely seductive vampire aristocrat, Lord Ruthven – and it certainly didn’t hurt that many saw the shadow of Byron himself behind this figure. Female vampires soon got their teeth into readers, starting with the impressively daring quasi-lesbianism of Sheridan Le Fanu’s 1872 Carmilla, on through John Payne’s long poem Lautrec in 1878, and reinforced by Robert Louis Stevenson’s powerfully atmospheric Spanish tale, Olalla, during Christmas 1885.

The 1922 silent film 'Nosferatu'. (AKG images)

Stoker’s Dracula (1897) of course remains for many the vampire classic, and perhaps rightly so. There again, many people now ‘know’ Dracula without having read it – whether via the silent Nosferatu (1922), the numerous caped outings of Bela Lugosi, or Coppola’s superbly lurid version of 1992. With many recent vampire tales getting more ironic than supernatural, one can see how the Twilight novels and films offered something new in vampotainment. Oddly, though, the Victorian Dracula is far more sexy than Stephenie Meyer’s tamely puritanical saga. Nothing in Twilight comes anywhere near the scene in which Jonathan Harker swoons under the eyes and lips of not one, but three alluring female vamps. Richard Sugg is a lecturer in the English department at Durham University. He is the author of Faces of the Vampire: From Holy Terror to Sexual Taboo (2014).

#tags preserved for commentary of OP

1 note · View note