A life in three parts.
Phase 2: Philos Electron
Micheal decides to join several LiveJournal communities, most of them tangentally related to what he calls a 'hobby', as if scared of the reality of it. He dresses his thoughts in pretty wordsso bright, so brightand sends them to the ball. While they occasionally come back missing a slipper, they sometimes return with an admirer on their arm.
Someone suggests writing.
He is hesitant. More and more posts think that he should quit the art, and just do writing. He scribbles the outline for a piece, hastily, during some quiet moment not lifting boxes or helping inane customers, and fills in the details at home. Belldust posts the piece on a writing community that might be interested in this sort of thingwith the now habitual LJ-cutand it is recieved with mild intrest by most, warm by some, and feverish by one, who declares it "just what I was looking for", and demands more, lest bodily harm occur. Belldust carefully ban_sets the username, dismisses them as a random crazy, and gets on with his not-life.
As he practices his writing, belldust also finds that he has plenty of people asking about his life. So he begins to use his account for something other than posting in communities. As he does, more and more people add him to their friendslists. Eventually, he is asked to do a commisioned story, and agrees. He stuggles with joining an escrow service, finds the right link, and soon has several dollars socketed snugly in his checking account. A few hours work, and the commissionaire (it's not technically correct, but "client" seems so cold.)has some brand-new, one-of-a-kind reading material.
Michael never explored the financial oppurtunities afforded by his hobby before. WIth a combination of deftly-chosen keywords, he began poking around. Apparently, several people make lots of money off of it. Some sell their work at conventions, some do occasional pieces in a vast body of more mainstream work(those are commonly refered to as "closeted"), and other adroit souls managed to make their entire living off of subscription sites. Michael puts out feels among his fahis readers to ask if any of them would be interested in commisoning them.
Meanwhile, he has been drawing quite a lot. Buying the markers was a mistake, as they are expensive and he still doen't quite have a handle on plain ol' pencils yet. But he's gradually improving. Criticism, in accordance with some Interweb law, is scarce, due to the scarcity of his kind of art. And so, with little nudges, Michael slowly becomes a better artist. An artist, a writer, and a good blogger.
Triple threat.
And as with any threat, some feel he must be neutralized.
There are marauders at the gate.
Would-be artists and writers and RPers, devoid of any creativity of their own to channel into creation, and attacking those who do. At least, that's the explaination given by those who have warned belldust about them. Personally, he suspects that they're simply unhappy about the direction others are taking the fandom, especially with regard to the public image. Certainly, they have enough originality to spare on their own work and attacking others, but their snidely derisive criticism of others prevents their popularity. Michael decides that they bear further watching, and leaves to get ready for his date.
His coworkers noticed his new presence; where once there had been a vague blur, there was now a not-unattractive young man with a steady job. They couldn't date him themselves; that would be unprofessional. But they could ask discreet questions, like a flyweight boxer's punches, aimed at Michael and others. And, slowly, they began to build a profile, and match it with an efficiency that most dating sites would envy.
Michael himself tried some of those same dating sites. He entered a few of his most personal of intrests, but the keywords they were almost invariably placed next to dissuaded him almost right away. He had never thought to ask his colleagues for help, and now they were giving it anyway.
The first date ended in disaster. His social skills were so rusty as to need copious lubrication. Said lubrication produced a misfire. All over her shoes.
He drove her home in silence, and wasn't the least bit surprised when, in the middle of finishing off an icon the next evening, she called and told him it wasn't working out. What was surprising was that she wanted to know if he was interested in a friend of hers. Michael accepts, wondering if he's some kind of dating Hot Potato.
He needed less lubricant for this one. She was pretty, and smart, and a good conversationalist. One thing led to another, then to his car, then to his house, then to his bedroom, then to morning.
Michael got up first. He showered, and headed for the kitchen. About halfway through the Eggs Benedict, he hears a clicking sound. He freezes; he left his computer on.
She's on there, typing busily away at the screen. His most personal files are flashing in front of her eyes, and he watches the expression on her face turn from disgust to deeper disgust, as his grip tightens on the rubber spatula.
She turns to look at him, with anger on her face.
He feels as if some part of himhis heart, perhapshad been stripped of skin and laid bare; as if some internal sensor had been tripped, and there was now some display flashing TILT in big, red letters.
"The frick is this?" she asks.
He has no answer.
And they never see each other again.