Here I am!
Here I am!
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I also signed up for the Homestuck Shipping Olympics. I got Cotton Candy! I would have thought that that ship would have gone faster (I recognise nearly all of the names for Jane<3Roxy, whereas for Jake<3Dirk or John<Karkat I recognise nearly none) but it still went pretty fast, so I'm indebted to Isidore for being my Resident USian. A lot of the ships surprised me, actually - ships I used to think were popular struggled to get members and I saw a few unconfirmed ones that I swear I've read fic after fic for on AO3.
I've updated Raising Heck, although I've hit somewhat of a stumbling block with that particular story. I really enjoy writing it, and I have the plot all mapped out and that's fine, but along with my procrastinating laziness I just can't seem to write the selkie couple, damnit.
Hah, I was so wrong.
So the long and short of it is that I'm going to stick to a schedule of once a week and see how that works. It's on Tumblr, this time, because of its Community(tm) and Ease Of Connection and Discussion With Other Bloggers (tm), and you can find it here - original here, though warning for the ramblings and whinings of a 14-16 year old.
I've also got some original writing, a piece for the Science Fiction genre I had to produce in novel opening form for my English Language AS Coursework.
( Read it hereCollapse )
I've half a mind to carry it on, actually. I have a tentative scene where my main character asks the mermaid prostitute to tea written already, but we'll have to see. Also on the original writing front is an even more tentative idea for a story I hope to have half-written by November, so that for once I can actually finish a story rather than fart out 50,000 words of something I will never finish or edit come NaNoWriMo time.
It, uh, involves an ex-selkie and her wife. By day they are magical environmental conservationists and by night they fight monsters. Apparently my mind can only write plots involving Angry Sealadies Kissing On The Mouth. Am I complaining? Nope.
Apparently long!fics are my style at the moment. I've been working on that Raising Heck thing for the Skulduggery fandom (and other short-to-medium Skulduggery shit; I blame my enabler-y type fan and beta, moonie) and the sherlock fic Lee inspired me to write, so, yeah. Lots of longfics.
I've had Derek Landy's blog bookmarked on my internet bar forever since I got my computer, and hadn't the heart to take it off - I started reading it again, fell back in love with the crazy but tiiiiiiny fandom, flailed with some Tumblrites and basically used it as a crutch to help me through the 2nd series of Sherlock, because my god. I'm still writing my Marriage Blanc fic, but I've since pooped out a 5,000 or so thing which is a Sherlock/Skulduggery Pleasant crossover - what if Sherlock's skull was Skulduggery's? - entitled 'Two Brain Cavities Are Better Than One' (inspired by redscharlach's S1 Sherlock icon of the same tagline!), made a Skulduggery FST and started a semi-in character Skulduggery blog on Tumblr basically to save my normal followers - I sensed that twoo many completely conflicting fandoms was a bit annoying, so.
I've also started another Skulduggery WIP, mainly because I got sick of reading/whining about horribly characterised fandom interpretations of the Valduggery pairing (it's hard to find any fic at all, so if anyone disagrees with this I'd uh, love some recs?), too.
'Two Brain Cavities Are Better Than One' can be found here at AO3,
'Raising Heck', my FST, can be found here, and the Tumblr-thing can be found here.
My fic of the same name can be found here.
Also, if you're interested in the SP fandom at all I suggest you check out this comm! It's regularly updated by one person at the moment, which is good (there are three other comms for SP on LJ, all dead) but bad (because it's not fair to maintain a comm all on your lonesome!).
Follow the fake cut to read it here
( or the real one to read it here, if you prefer DW/LJ to AO3!Collapse )
in which Sherlock is gay, John is straight, but they're together, because it's the only way John can keep Sherlock clean (from cigarettes; cocaine). Everyone knows, except for Sherlock - Anderson tries to warn Sherlock, Donovan feels sorry for him, Mrs. Hudson finds out immediately etc.
As is typical of Lee, I thought this was prompt was deliciously uncomfortable and heartbreaking and oh dear, and decided I had to write it, in time for the new season.
(Getting in a last hurrah in The Great Wait, as it were. Yes, I timed it badly. I know.)
I'm proud because so far I've managed to write and edit every single day since I started it, even if that was only 100 words and a paragraph restructuring (I'm looking at you, 20th December) and I've been posting progress on DW.
If you want to take a look, it's here.
As I've probably mentioned many a time (oh, so many times, I have terrible memory for keeping track of what I have said to who, and this includes people and journals on the internet) I attend a monthly creative writing course, run by two lovely professionals, one who has extensive connections to the, er, writing side of things, working for the BBC etc, and the other has connections to the local government (it's run by my county's Arts and Education Project). I'm terribly lucky to attend and I love the people I work with, even though my old partner left - it's made up of young adults of all ages, and she thought socialising with a few kids younger than her was beneath her, but that's a story for another time.
Last session I attended after having not been to a session for months, due to them being on hiatus for the holidays, before that not attending due to GSCEs, and also because the month before, the aforementioned partner had kind of deceived me as to when the session was. (I think she was angry that I wanted to carry on the course, but hey, she's not the one who wants to write.)
So this one I was a little wrongfooted! It turned out that once I'd been introduced to new members and sat down, a group of Unfamiliar Adults walked in, and I assumed they were part of the couple of people doing a mini documentary on our course.
(The women running it are damn good at their job of making the course worth while, and promoting themselves - but it's best to just run with whatever they go month to month, I've learnt).
Turned out they weren't to do with any of that, nor were they guests come in to talk about their field or give us insight into writing for a specific industry, or anything like that (much).
No, they were actors. Actors, it turned out, that had commissioned our group to write a series of scripts and poems on the theme of christmas shopping for a port city in my county, to be performed in the street, in shops, and in public places like theatres and museums.
And I hadn't come prepared.
I vaguely remembered getting the email, and lamented that I wouldn't be able to contribute; our last commission was to retell fairytales for children in Malawi, to be sent as little books to schools with a severe dearth of stories that weren't written in the Twenties for British kids, and I'd missed out then.
But our course leader turned to I and the other guy who hadn't been there last week, and informed us we'd be writing something Right Here Right Now, whilst the actors did test readthroughs with the others, and with that she chivvied us out the door for Inspiration.
Luckily I'd been given the task of writing on the subject of Christmas shopping, and whilst none was on in my lovely collegecity at present, I'd had a sufficiently traumatic experience that Wednesday to draw on, so I used my Experience Time wondering around with the other chap and buying myself a coffee before returning to the library's conference room we were stationed in (up three flights of stairs; a pain in the arse when your course leaders are obsessed with setting writing exercised out and about in the Real World of the city) and writing the poem.
I didn't take it too seriously, to be honest. I had my college bags from the day before, and I pulled out the Sylvia Plath anthology we'd been studying for inspiration, sipping my coffee and chatting with everyone before we were told to quieten down and get on with it. After about quarter of an hour with no inspiration and just over ten minutes left I began to scribble as if my life depended on it, and I didn't even edit it. Since I had to leave early, I kind of threw it at the pile of submitted pages after copying it up in a neater hand, and got on my three hour bus journey home (thank god for my laptop and second season of Adventure Time, because we broke down four times on the way home, bringing up my travel time to a lovely four and a half hours).
So when today I get an email from said course leader, saying that
'Dear ___, Just to say have seen your poem performed twice now – once in the ___ Museum and one in the theatre and I think you would love it. All 6 actors read it in the theatre and it turns into a bun fight with them all clamouring for words like bargains off a shelf. Your poem finished the evening as it was a good finale. So well done to you – you really captured the spirit of what was needed! Happy Christmas, ___'
I was pretty bloody happy. People performed something I wrote! That they commissioned in the first place! And they interpreted it awesomely! It was enough to give me delusions that I could Actually Poetry, considering that a fortnight ago that weird haiku-thing my lecturer had made me do was put on the college intranet and got lots of positive comments. All in all, a lovely early Crimbo present.
And, uh, this has been a long long post gloating about my course and the fact that I got some of my work performed. Sorry.
Although I thought this was an odd thing (after all, my college is basically Concrete Campus Capital, with a side order of Metal and Glass) I hopped to it, merrily leaving the classroom - except not, since today has been pretty horrible, actually - and walking outside into the bitter cold. Dodging my six foot three classmate as he leapt gracefully out of the nearby bushes like a stoner gazelle having found the big stick he wanted, I immediately set upon finding a nettle plant and something thorny or at least black for myself.
(It was that kind of day.)
After using my cardigan as a makeshift glove to pick my nettles I headed back inside with my spoils (a dandelion, a nettle leaf and a reedy husk) and was promptly told that I had to write a Haiku with the 5-7-5-7-7 syllable scheme about my emotions, based on one of these items.
I Do Not Do Poems.
However after we'd vomited up our drivel and our teacher had told us to go she pleaded that could some of us, please, anybody submit our tweaked and edited poems to her for publishing (anonymously) on the college's intranet for the "poem a day" scheme, and what can I say?
I've never been one to refuse a desperate forty-something English teacher who genuinely thinks that Freud is a good person to psychoanalyse her students with.
Anyway, if someone is indeed reading this harsh crit would be appreciated - I'm convinced I need to work in 'trodden' somewhere.
I feel fragile and
Broken, half a nettle leaf
Full of poison sting.
Covered in glass-sharp needles
That shatter under your skin.
I felt evil and dystopic today. This might be a bit too morbid for comfort, and for that I'm sorry.
The walls are white, gleaming tile. The lights reflect orange and blue onto them in stripes and circles. The floor is a grey brown black, totally absent of colour, though not in the way children learn in primary school, ‘all the colours make white and none of them make black, here is a prism, this is why the sky is blue, two times two is four, ta ta ta’. Set upon the voids are little tables, and these are hard grey plastic and metal. Looking up at the tiles we can see four entrances set into the room, where they naturally flow from one wall to another, making corridors and doorways look as if they were formed hundreds of thousands of years ago. Through these holes stream a continuous line of people, wearing nothing on their heads save stubble and white gowns on their bodies. These people stand in loose rings at their tables, and as they take their places more file in until the room - no, it is a station, for this is a closed down stop on the Underground, scrubbed and made new for this last travel to a different place - is filled. But oh so orderly, with all the people in white packed as if to be seeds in a sunflower. It is beautiful. And even with the bleached look of the gowns and the harsh light on porcelain, it looks natural too.
When all of the tables have been filled all the people in white relax their postures, standing at ease. Smiles grace their faces. The terrible military precision with which they arrived is gone now. They are safe, as it were, on the journey. All of the platform anxiety has gone, even though if you looked for the life of you the sight of a screeching metal beast would not be seen anywhere.
A little woman of slight stature who can’t be more than twenty reaches into the pocket of her beautiful white gown and brings out a pill, small and orange. Its colour stands out against the clean fabric and she sets it down in front of her on the plastic table set out for the purpose, like this is her contribution to the world’s largest picnic. Like the cracking of a glowstick or an invisible signal sent through a hill of ants everyone else does the same, still smiling calmly or with a concentrating look. The only emotions missing on every face are those of worry, fear or doubt.
Some of them bring out letters. A few, with a sheepish roll of the eyes or a grin, bring out stuffed animals or other lucky tokens. Others bring nothing at all, save the little orange pills. But that’s all right. This is only a journey, a means to an end.
After the rustle of reedy arms on the shore everyone has at least a little capsule in front of them. A full minute passes whilst everyone stands as statues. It would be uncanny and inhuman if it were silent, but here and there is a whisper, or a murmuring voice. People are praying. People are running through lists in their heads.
People are saying goodbye.
At a half past noon on this day - except how could any of these people know that, for they surely are not wearing timepieces - another secret signal passes between the beautiful people, and they take these pills, and swallow them.
Again, it’s a little like a drama, like a group of children have been sat down and told to improvise or over-act some seemingly innocuous action. Some of the pills go down gullets quick as a wink, whilst others carefully position their own on their tongues before slowly rolling them up into their heads and gulping with as much fanfare as a boardwalker. Some of them are furtive about swallowing their pills. Some of them - mainly smiling older man and women - reach wizened hands out and feed the pills to each other, a cracker-pulling of a celebration. All of this , once more, takes less than a minute.
You would not be alone if you wondered whether this was a rehearsed thing, if it truly were a performance of the most beautiful and deadly kind. But nothing more than a shared belief holds these people’s actions together.
Of course, hours later when a lone survivor is torn from the smiling, hugging bodies, their stomach pumped and their simulated stroke treated, their sobbing pleas to be left alone ignored - only then will those unaware of the bewitching event know what happened. The papers will ignore the unwilling testimony of this survivor, call it a rehearsed event of a brainwashed cult, but this survivor’s secret will be safe with those who witnessed it - those who have journeyed on, and you.
“I hate you, okay?”
That’s probably the hundredth time you’ve said that today.
“I mean it this time.”
…And that’s why you’re in bed with me. Yes, it all makes so much sense now. You only keep me around for the filthy, filthy hatesex.
“I’m so going to get you for that-“
I barely felt that slap! I can’t wait to see what you do if you actually, you know, express a feeling like love or something to me.
“I feel offended now. You’re infringing on my masculinity.”
I did no such thing! Now stop protesting about whether or not you have a burning hatred for me, and come here so I can hold you in my arms.
“One day you’ll wake up with a slitted throat and a massive picture of a dick drawn on your face with permanent marker, and you’ll realise how serious I was today all that time ago.”
Ah, it’s… Technically tomorrow, actually.
“Shit, really? We don’t have too much - oh, that feels good.”
See what not talking gets you?
“Now it’s your turn to stop talking, dear. Do that again.”
Happy to oblige.
“I love you really, just- ah.”
I know, I know. Shhh now.