It hurts my brain
ithurtsmybrain issued that challenge that affected my brain badly indeed, and so I started writing an Emma Woodhouse/Eminem fic. I intended it to be a shortish ficlet and to post it straightaway, but it didn't quite work out. Now I'm stuck between giving it up entirely, leaving it short, or taking the story somewhere.
Would any of you like to read it through and advise me to give it up what to do? It's an attempt at the Austen style. I'm agonising about Eminem, because I totally don't know what the man sounds like when not rapping, and I can't have him contribute song lyrics alone even though it's fun. Does anyone know which phrases he uses, apart from "like"?
Emma Woodhouse had lived in this world for two-and-twenty years and during this time had learned to be a mistress of her feelings just as much as she was the mistress of her father’s house. It took all her strength of mind, however, to not let any of the disconcert show that he felt upon being introduced to Frank Churchill’s friend, whom Frank had brought back from London, where he had gone for the purpose of having his hair cut. She valiantly kept her countenance, praying that Mr Knightley’s daily visit to Hartfield would not happed to fall into the quarter of an hour of Frank and his friend’s stay, while Frank performed the introduction with a gallant bow. "Miss Emma Woodhouse - Mr Marshall Mathers."
The young man gave Emma a long look which she could call no other than impudent. A curt nod, a curtsey followed, and she was relieved from the inconvenience of his attention. To her great consternation, Emma saw that Harriet, who had walked to Hartfield that morning and was invited to stay for tea, regarded the odd visitor with apparent interest, nay, admiration even. There was a faint blush to her cheeks and her soft blue eyes remained fixed upon his face long after the introduction had been performed. Emma felt that whatever pain Harriet might have experienced on account of Mr Elton, it was now forgotten. So much rapt attention on the young lady's part seemed to irritate the young man, and he exclaimed impatiently, "Y'all act like you never seen an American before!"
Mr Knightley chose that inopportune moment to appear in the doorway, and Emma felt herself on the verge of swooning when his brow furrowed and his features darkened at such ungentlemanlike behaviour. She executed all her presence of mind and performed the necessary introductions, and then proceeded to sit down and talk about the weather, determined to keep the peace for the duration of the gentlemen's visit.
Mr Mathers soon became the talk of Highbury, and Emma found herself being in his company more often than she would have wished for. Despite herself her interest in him and his eccentricities grew. He was a young man of about five-and-twenty, who had been born and raised in the New World and had only recently come to England. His manners were not equal to any of the gentlemen's she was used to be in company with; he was frank, bordering on uncivil, and he used expressions that she had never heard before and found hard to understand. After a week's acquaintance, she had not as yet been able to ascertain his occupation. The Church was most likely to be his profession, as he occasionally mentioned a Doctor Dray, whom she assumed to be the vicar of his parish. She could see what it was that made him an attractive companion for Frank; she, too, felt that strangeness of his appealing, and she could not but be titillated by the extravagance of his attire. Unlike any other man she knew, he never wore a cravat. Most often, he would walk about in shirtsleeves, which her father regarded as scandalous negligence. Poor Mr Woodhouse, who had taken kindly to the young man, often lamented that his habit of not dressing properly would result in his catching the flu or pneumonia. His breeches were long and so loose that they hung about his person like a lady's petticoat, but Emma liked the many pockets, from which he would fish mysterious-looking objects every now and then, shake them vigorously and then put them back away, muttering nonsensical execrations regarding the fishing sport ("No net!") or philosophy ("No eclectisity!").
She was taking a turn in the shrubbery, perusing the note Mr Mathers had left behind on his last visit. It looked like he had attempted to write poetry, which surprised Emma. She felt guilty about reading words that had been meant to be private, but she was hoping that they would give her a clue to his character, which she found increasing hard to make out.
Apart from that I'm well. No permanent brain damage done yet. Drowning in work at the moment and owing comments aplenty. I will get down to it asap, I promise.
Would any of you like to read it through and advise me to give it up what to do? It's an attempt at the Austen style. I'm agonising about Eminem, because I totally don't know what the man sounds like when not rapping, and I can't have him contribute song lyrics alone even though it's fun. Does anyone know which phrases he uses, apart from "like"?
Emma Woodhouse had lived in this world for two-and-twenty years and during this time had learned to be a mistress of her feelings just as much as she was the mistress of her father’s house. It took all her strength of mind, however, to not let any of the disconcert show that he felt upon being introduced to Frank Churchill’s friend, whom Frank had brought back from London, where he had gone for the purpose of having his hair cut. She valiantly kept her countenance, praying that Mr Knightley’s daily visit to Hartfield would not happed to fall into the quarter of an hour of Frank and his friend’s stay, while Frank performed the introduction with a gallant bow. "Miss Emma Woodhouse - Mr Marshall Mathers."
The young man gave Emma a long look which she could call no other than impudent. A curt nod, a curtsey followed, and she was relieved from the inconvenience of his attention. To her great consternation, Emma saw that Harriet, who had walked to Hartfield that morning and was invited to stay for tea, regarded the odd visitor with apparent interest, nay, admiration even. There was a faint blush to her cheeks and her soft blue eyes remained fixed upon his face long after the introduction had been performed. Emma felt that whatever pain Harriet might have experienced on account of Mr Elton, it was now forgotten. So much rapt attention on the young lady's part seemed to irritate the young man, and he exclaimed impatiently, "Y'all act like you never seen an American before!"
Mr Knightley chose that inopportune moment to appear in the doorway, and Emma felt herself on the verge of swooning when his brow furrowed and his features darkened at such ungentlemanlike behaviour. She executed all her presence of mind and performed the necessary introductions, and then proceeded to sit down and talk about the weather, determined to keep the peace for the duration of the gentlemen's visit.
Mr Mathers soon became the talk of Highbury, and Emma found herself being in his company more often than she would have wished for. Despite herself her interest in him and his eccentricities grew. He was a young man of about five-and-twenty, who had been born and raised in the New World and had only recently come to England. His manners were not equal to any of the gentlemen's she was used to be in company with; he was frank, bordering on uncivil, and he used expressions that she had never heard before and found hard to understand. After a week's acquaintance, she had not as yet been able to ascertain his occupation. The Church was most likely to be his profession, as he occasionally mentioned a Doctor Dray, whom she assumed to be the vicar of his parish. She could see what it was that made him an attractive companion for Frank; she, too, felt that strangeness of his appealing, and she could not but be titillated by the extravagance of his attire. Unlike any other man she knew, he never wore a cravat. Most often, he would walk about in shirtsleeves, which her father regarded as scandalous negligence. Poor Mr Woodhouse, who had taken kindly to the young man, often lamented that his habit of not dressing properly would result in his catching the flu or pneumonia. His breeches were long and so loose that they hung about his person like a lady's petticoat, but Emma liked the many pockets, from which he would fish mysterious-looking objects every now and then, shake them vigorously and then put them back away, muttering nonsensical execrations regarding the fishing sport ("No net!") or philosophy ("No eclectisity!").
She was taking a turn in the shrubbery, perusing the note Mr Mathers had left behind on his last visit. It looked like he had attempted to write poetry, which surprised Emma. She felt guilty about reading words that had been meant to be private, but she was hoping that they would give her a clue to his character, which she found increasing hard to make out.
Apart from that I'm well. No permanent brain damage done yet. Drowning in work at the moment and owing comments aplenty. I will get down to it asap, I promise.