igrab
in
grabi_hands
(no subject)
Dear katieforsythe,
I've been reading your writing for a long time, though certainly not as long as you've been writing it - almost a year now, a little less. You were one of the first authors of Sherlock Holmes fic I was pointed to, and from the very get-go, your name was spoken with reverence, your words put up on a pedestal, and while I confess to being wary of hype, I quickly found out for myself that every bit of praise is entirely deserved.
You take writing to the level of pure art that goes beyond even the boundaries of what original fiction can accomplish. Like many other Holmesian authors, you take a baseline fact - the fictional published writings of John Watson - and weave a story around, about, and outside of it. Unlike any other Holmesian author, you create something transcendent, powerful, and truly breathtaking.
But I'm sure you've heard the platitudes. I shall give the specifics.
You use language in a way that speaks not only of a master's innate intuitive skill, but also of the craftsman who knows exactly what tool to use at the right time, the artist who not only knows how to paint but how to blend pigments and prime canvases and where each color comes from and what it's associated with and each technique of the great masters and why. The way you talk about Victorian England leads me strongly to believe that you have a time machine, and the way you talk about London - well, Sherlock Holmes himself is the only comparison I can make. It gives your writing so much credibility, and more than that, it gives it tone and flavor. When I think of writers I aspire to be - and I do aspire, writing is in my bloodstream, it's my life - you are right there among great published authors whose works have lasted centuries. So for that reason, I love your stories.
I love the way you talk about God. I love how you don't shy away from the subject, don't automatically brand Holmes and Watson as atheists simply because they commit a sin. I, myself, was never raised religiously - in fact, my mother is very strongly atheistic and any mention of religion makes her uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable as well, for many reasons but mostly for the same reason Holmes and Watson are leery of churches. But I almost miss the days in which belief was truly something holy and not just a big political issue, or a joke. I believe very strongly in a higher power, and in faith, if not in a textbook written by old guys that doesn't make sense. So, for that reason too, I love your stories.
I love the little things. I love every particular you define about this character or another, and I love the myriad ways in which the public, printed version differs from 'what actually happened'. I love how free your dialogue is, because people don't always make sense when they talk to each other, and particularly not people who have been through so much together.
I love Birds to a Lighthouse. I love every story in your 'Love' collection, but - and I was actually foolish enough to believe I would never say this - you have utterly surpassed yourself with this one. It is a brilliant, painful, moving, incredible work of art. It made me laugh, it made me honestly cry which I must say only happens in prose medium very, very rarely. Not because I was sad, that wouldn't cut it, but I teared up at the sheer beauty of this world you have expanded, embellished, and saturated. I read this and I knew I couldn't just be a silent lurker any longer, not when I revere you so greatly, and when you've spoken so deeply to me.
Because you have. Last fall, when I was pining for someone perfect who didn't love me and terribly, painfully lonely, your words told me I wasn't alone. When my brain works too fast, when I jump from fandom to fandom because my mind feels like it's glittering and nothing holds my interest for long - your words tell me that that, too, is okay, and it's not only that, it's beautiful. When I feel like the world is too straight and too small and too shallow, your words tell me that someone out there - whether it's you or this fictional character or the person who first dreamed up this fictional character - someone out there understands. And when I love so strongly it's like dying; then, too, your words are there.
I love the way you write about love. I love the way you write about love between brothers, and friends, and love at first sight, and love through ups and downs and love that's helpless and love that's broken and still hallowed. I think all of us, or at least, some of us - or maybe just me - we all want love that binds us together, and sometimes, we're afraid of expressing it. (All right, I'll stop hiding behind this 'we'. I. I love and I'm afraid of loving too deeply and I can't control it.) I'd say that I shouldn't make an ideal out of people that have caused each other so much pain, but we all cause pain, we all hurt each other and do unspeakable things but your words tell me that this too will pass, that these things can be overcome, that it's okay to express the depth of your emotions.
Particularly, I'd like to point to a scene in Birds to a Lighthouse. The scene in which Watson asks Holmes if he expects him to wait, and Holmes says no.
In that moment, I was completely of a mind with Holmes. Yes, it made perfect sense. Of course he couldn't be expected to wait. From my own experiences, distance decimates a relationship and it seemed unthinkable, to be allowed to demand anything so personal of someone else, even someone you are, in essence, married to.
And, well. When my heart was pulled to the now-apparent inevitable conclusion - I cried, because it seemed to me - in that moment - that I was being given, as you so aptly and often put it, a miracle. An epiphany. That this kind of love exists. That it's okay for it to exist. That there are people, albeit fictional people in Victorian London, who will fight for each other.
And I know, I'm sure it's been said before. But tonight, reading that - it had a profound effect on me and I thought, I wish there was a way to express how grateful I am.
There isn't. But I hope you know - I hope you've known, I hope that all of this is just a repetition of things you've heard before. I can't even hope to give back a little of the joy, and sorrow, and laughter, and philosophical awakening that you, over the course of many months and many, many rereads, have given me.
I will keep reading and rereading anything you ever write. I will probably be too breathless and emotional for something so inane, in that moment, as a comment. But I will try. I just couldn't lurk any longer, crying of sheer beauty, and not saying a word. I knew that if I said words, they would be many. But when it all comes down to it, there are only two important words that I can boil this down to.
Thank you.
Your grateful and eternal fan,
igrab
I've been reading your writing for a long time, though certainly not as long as you've been writing it - almost a year now, a little less. You were one of the first authors of Sherlock Holmes fic I was pointed to, and from the very get-go, your name was spoken with reverence, your words put up on a pedestal, and while I confess to being wary of hype, I quickly found out for myself that every bit of praise is entirely deserved.
You take writing to the level of pure art that goes beyond even the boundaries of what original fiction can accomplish. Like many other Holmesian authors, you take a baseline fact - the fictional published writings of John Watson - and weave a story around, about, and outside of it. Unlike any other Holmesian author, you create something transcendent, powerful, and truly breathtaking.
But I'm sure you've heard the platitudes. I shall give the specifics.
You use language in a way that speaks not only of a master's innate intuitive skill, but also of the craftsman who knows exactly what tool to use at the right time, the artist who not only knows how to paint but how to blend pigments and prime canvases and where each color comes from and what it's associated with and each technique of the great masters and why. The way you talk about Victorian England leads me strongly to believe that you have a time machine, and the way you talk about London - well, Sherlock Holmes himself is the only comparison I can make. It gives your writing so much credibility, and more than that, it gives it tone and flavor. When I think of writers I aspire to be - and I do aspire, writing is in my bloodstream, it's my life - you are right there among great published authors whose works have lasted centuries. So for that reason, I love your stories.
I love the way you talk about God. I love how you don't shy away from the subject, don't automatically brand Holmes and Watson as atheists simply because they commit a sin. I, myself, was never raised religiously - in fact, my mother is very strongly atheistic and any mention of religion makes her uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable as well, for many reasons but mostly for the same reason Holmes and Watson are leery of churches. But I almost miss the days in which belief was truly something holy and not just a big political issue, or a joke. I believe very strongly in a higher power, and in faith, if not in a textbook written by old guys that doesn't make sense. So, for that reason too, I love your stories.
I love the little things. I love every particular you define about this character or another, and I love the myriad ways in which the public, printed version differs from 'what actually happened'. I love how free your dialogue is, because people don't always make sense when they talk to each other, and particularly not people who have been through so much together.
I love Birds to a Lighthouse. I love every story in your 'Love' collection, but - and I was actually foolish enough to believe I would never say this - you have utterly surpassed yourself with this one. It is a brilliant, painful, moving, incredible work of art. It made me laugh, it made me honestly cry which I must say only happens in prose medium very, very rarely. Not because I was sad, that wouldn't cut it, but I teared up at the sheer beauty of this world you have expanded, embellished, and saturated. I read this and I knew I couldn't just be a silent lurker any longer, not when I revere you so greatly, and when you've spoken so deeply to me.
Because you have. Last fall, when I was pining for someone perfect who didn't love me and terribly, painfully lonely, your words told me I wasn't alone. When my brain works too fast, when I jump from fandom to fandom because my mind feels like it's glittering and nothing holds my interest for long - your words tell me that that, too, is okay, and it's not only that, it's beautiful. When I feel like the world is too straight and too small and too shallow, your words tell me that someone out there - whether it's you or this fictional character or the person who first dreamed up this fictional character - someone out there understands. And when I love so strongly it's like dying; then, too, your words are there.
I love the way you write about love. I love the way you write about love between brothers, and friends, and love at first sight, and love through ups and downs and love that's helpless and love that's broken and still hallowed. I think all of us, or at least, some of us - or maybe just me - we all want love that binds us together, and sometimes, we're afraid of expressing it. (All right, I'll stop hiding behind this 'we'. I. I love and I'm afraid of loving too deeply and I can't control it.) I'd say that I shouldn't make an ideal out of people that have caused each other so much pain, but we all cause pain, we all hurt each other and do unspeakable things but your words tell me that this too will pass, that these things can be overcome, that it's okay to express the depth of your emotions.
Particularly, I'd like to point to a scene in Birds to a Lighthouse. The scene in which Watson asks Holmes if he expects him to wait, and Holmes says no.
In that moment, I was completely of a mind with Holmes. Yes, it made perfect sense. Of course he couldn't be expected to wait. From my own experiences, distance decimates a relationship and it seemed unthinkable, to be allowed to demand anything so personal of someone else, even someone you are, in essence, married to.
And, well. When my heart was pulled to the now-apparent inevitable conclusion - I cried, because it seemed to me - in that moment - that I was being given, as you so aptly and often put it, a miracle. An epiphany. That this kind of love exists. That it's okay for it to exist. That there are people, albeit fictional people in Victorian London, who will fight for each other.
And I know, I'm sure it's been said before. But tonight, reading that - it had a profound effect on me and I thought, I wish there was a way to express how grateful I am.
There isn't. But I hope you know - I hope you've known, I hope that all of this is just a repetition of things you've heard before. I can't even hope to give back a little of the joy, and sorrow, and laughter, and philosophical awakening that you, over the course of many months and many, many rereads, have given me.
I will keep reading and rereading anything you ever write. I will probably be too breathless and emotional for something so inane, in that moment, as a comment. But I will try. I just couldn't lurk any longer, crying of sheer beauty, and not saying a word. I knew that if I said words, they would be many. But when it all comes down to it, there are only two important words that I can boil this down to.
Thank you.
Your grateful and eternal fan,
igrab