Beta?
Ergh. I'm just going to ask this way, because I never can tell who's going to be able to help, and I hate emailing out of the blue, because that's so presumptuous of me, ne? So from now on I'm just going to post when I need a beta.
Just about finished with the Jon/Spencer/Ryan Elf!fic prequel. Roughly 35,000 words. I'd like a quick beta of grammar stuff. If you're interested, please respond here and I'll take the first one or two responses.
Tom called, like every night before a show. Tom tended to get anxious before going on stage-not nervous, exactly, but uneasy, and this was the first tour without Jon along to distract and entertain him.
Jon told him about the assignment and Tom told Bill who told everyone, and they all laughed and started shouting emo jokes in the background. “Oh my god,” Bill said, stealing the phone away, “Jonny Walker, you have to tell me everything after you meet him! You must take pictures of his ‘daddy didn’t love me’ self-cut scars.’”
“Sorry, Bill,” Jon said, sort of vaguely annoyed, because, you know, he wasn’t actually about the mocking. He’d had friends who’d been cutters, and it wasn’t really funny. “Signed a confidentiality agreement.”
That set off a whole new round of laughter and jokes about how paranoid Ross must be, and what a freak, and what sort of horrible, crazy things Jon would see at his place.
That night, Jon tried to set aside his preconceived notions and grabbed Ross’ newest collection at the bookstore. He hunkered down in the café with a huge cup of coffee, determined to read at least a little. A little over an hour later he finished and went right back to the shelf for the other two Ross had put out. Jon liked to think he wasn’t a judgemental asshole, but he couldn’t believe that he’d dismissed Ross’ work before.
Jon liked poetry well enough-he loved music and spent most of his life since his early teens in various bands. Good poetry could be like lyrics, and Jon could appreciate that. But Ross poetry wasn’t just good. It wasn’t just catchy and lyrical and painful and bittersweet. Ross’ poetry made Jon hear music. It was amazing.
He ended up buying all three books, the first luxury items he’d bought since arriving in Las Vegas. He stayed up late in his car, reading his favourites over and over again by the parking lot lights.
There wasn’t a lot of information on Ryan Ross, Jon discovered, when he looked online the next day. He was seriously tight-lipped in interviews-unsatisfying relationship with his parents, passion for literature and music, and yes, he is dating someone and no, he won’t discuss it any further.
The only pictures Jon could hunt down were a couple yearbook shots, and Avery’s work-the headshots from the dust jackets. All the photos were black and white. The yearbook shots were grainy and pixelated, but Jon could tell Ross had a wide, generous mouth and mischievous eyes.
Avery’s shots were beautiful and wistful, but they were all profile or three-quarter shots of Ross turning away from the camera in soft focus. The most Jon could get from those was that Ross’ hair looked impossibly soft and that his facial structure was delicate and regal.
By Friday Jon was about to die of curiosity. It wasn’t at all like him. He was a pretty laid back guy, which was why everyone on tour had always loved him. No matter how worked up everyone else got, no matter how stressful the situation, Jon kept cool.
But Ross’ words kept repeating over and over in Jon’s head with snippets of music. He thought about them while he worked, found himself trying to capture the idea of a particular phrase in a picture. He thought about them at night and dreamed about them. It was sort of insane.
The car came at 7:30 precisely and Jon left Stephanie in charge of locking things up for the evening. Ross’ condo was in the suburbs, further than Jon had ventured. He’d been in Vegas just over a month, and it was sort of surreal-he kept forgetting where he was. Most of his time was spent working. The only time he’d spent near any of the casinos was when he visited hotels for weddings. He hadn’t played a single game or seen any of the real attractions of the city, so it was easy to forget.
Ross’ condo was small, but very expensive looking. Jon figured that, given the guy was twenty-one, it was impressive that he owned his own place at all. Jon couldn’t quite get over the fact that Ross was younger than him. His words were so powerful and he wrote with such an impressive vocabulary-Jon had read online that a lot of the stuff from Ross’ first book had been written when he was in high school-fifteen and sixteen years old, writing poetry that would make Bill Beckett sick with envy if he’d ever bother to get over stupid preconceptions and read it.
The door was answered by strikingly pretty boy with silky honey gold hair down to his shoulders and sweet blue eyes, dressed like he’d raided a twelve year old girl’s closet. “Mister Walker?” he asked.
“Jon, please.”
The boy opened the door wider for Jon to enter. “Please come in, Jon. I’m Spencer.” He shook Jon’s hand and leaned into the hall to shout, “Ryan! Jon is here!”
Spencer gave Jon a small, sheepish smile when he turned back. “He’s freaking over what to wear,” he explained. “The publishers are making a website. Can I get you something to drink while you wait? Tea, or coffee?”
Jon forced himself not to be weird or uncomfortable, no matter how awkward it was standing in a stranger’s house…a stranger he’d been obsessing over for the better part of the week, no less. “Coffee sounds good,” he said.
“Come, have a seat in the living room,” Spencer said. And, well, there was something about the kid. He looked like he couldn’t be more than eighteen, and his clothes and hair didn’t help…but something about the way he carried himself, and the way he spoke, politely and with careful phrasing, that made him sound older.
Spencer showed him to a seat and went into another room, presumably the kitchen. Alone, Jon took the opportunity to take in his surroundings. The living room had a cosy feel about it-lots of warm colours and soft lighting from small laps instead of an overhead lights. On the longest wall there was a huge plasma television and a crazy expensive looking sound system. The entertainment centre was stuffed to bursting with jewel cases and vinyls.
Across from the chair where Jon was seated there was a comfy looking sofa hugged by matching end tables, both decorated in knickknacks and covered with books. The coffee table had a half-finished game of chess and notebook covered in slanted handwriting. Jon was tempted, really tempted to take a peek, see if it was something new Ross was working on, but he forced himself to look away.
That was when his eye caught on the framed piece above the sofa. It took him a second to wonder why it was so familiar. It wasn’t that Jon didn’t recognise his own work, but he had no expectation of seeing this piece anywhere at all, really, let alone in Ryan Ross’ home.
Even if people recognised his work, it wasn’t this stuff…the stuff he’d done the first time he’d gone on the road with The Academy Is… shooting all the time. It was disappointing, because that was some of his favourite work, but early on Jon had learned that photography wasn’t about what he liked. At least, not if he expected to make a living.
For a second, Jon thought maybe it was just that Ross was a fan of The Academy Is…, because the shot was of Bill and Tom sharing a mic, foreheads pressed together. But then Jon’s gaze was drawn across the room to the other frames-there were several of his other pieces-a schoolyard fence, a silhouetted figure in a dark alley, a series all along the back wall of Chicago through the seasons.
Spencer came back in and Jon jerked his eyes away quickly to look at him. “What…?”
“Oh,” Spencer said, looking at the ground. He set the cup on the coffee table in front of Jon. “Ryan and I are fans of yours.”
“Where did you even find these?” Jon asked. “How did you get them?”
Spencer looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Ryan saw one of your pieces on William Beckett’s blog, and he followed the link and we saw these, and had them printed professionally. But, I mean, we’ll pay you, of course. That was why Ryan was so eager when he heard you’d purchased Avery’s business. We’ll pay you whatever price you feel is fair.”
Jon wasn’t even sure this kid was for real. “You don’t have to…I don’t want your money,” he said.
“Well,” Spencer began, hands clasped so tightly together they were going white and red.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mister Walker,” came another voice and Jon turned to see Ross descending the last few stairs, straightening the cuffs of his crisp, white button down. The accompanying pinstripe pants and black vest enhanced a long, willowy frame, making Ross look delicate and painfully thin. There was a bright blue cravat around Ross' long neck, drawing Jon's gaze down to where the top button of Ross' shirt had been left undone. None of the pictures had done him justice.
“You can call me Jon,” he said, and almost cringed at how he sounded, hollow and uncertain.
Thanks!
Just about finished with the Jon/Spencer/Ryan Elf!fic prequel. Roughly 35,000 words. I'd like a quick beta of grammar stuff. If you're interested, please respond here and I'll take the first one or two responses.
Tom called, like every night before a show. Tom tended to get anxious before going on stage-not nervous, exactly, but uneasy, and this was the first tour without Jon along to distract and entertain him.
Jon told him about the assignment and Tom told Bill who told everyone, and they all laughed and started shouting emo jokes in the background. “Oh my god,” Bill said, stealing the phone away, “Jonny Walker, you have to tell me everything after you meet him! You must take pictures of his ‘daddy didn’t love me’ self-cut scars.’”
“Sorry, Bill,” Jon said, sort of vaguely annoyed, because, you know, he wasn’t actually about the mocking. He’d had friends who’d been cutters, and it wasn’t really funny. “Signed a confidentiality agreement.”
That set off a whole new round of laughter and jokes about how paranoid Ross must be, and what a freak, and what sort of horrible, crazy things Jon would see at his place.
That night, Jon tried to set aside his preconceived notions and grabbed Ross’ newest collection at the bookstore. He hunkered down in the café with a huge cup of coffee, determined to read at least a little. A little over an hour later he finished and went right back to the shelf for the other two Ross had put out. Jon liked to think he wasn’t a judgemental asshole, but he couldn’t believe that he’d dismissed Ross’ work before.
Jon liked poetry well enough-he loved music and spent most of his life since his early teens in various bands. Good poetry could be like lyrics, and Jon could appreciate that. But Ross poetry wasn’t just good. It wasn’t just catchy and lyrical and painful and bittersweet. Ross’ poetry made Jon hear music. It was amazing.
He ended up buying all three books, the first luxury items he’d bought since arriving in Las Vegas. He stayed up late in his car, reading his favourites over and over again by the parking lot lights.
There wasn’t a lot of information on Ryan Ross, Jon discovered, when he looked online the next day. He was seriously tight-lipped in interviews-unsatisfying relationship with his parents, passion for literature and music, and yes, he is dating someone and no, he won’t discuss it any further.
The only pictures Jon could hunt down were a couple yearbook shots, and Avery’s work-the headshots from the dust jackets. All the photos were black and white. The yearbook shots were grainy and pixelated, but Jon could tell Ross had a wide, generous mouth and mischievous eyes.
Avery’s shots were beautiful and wistful, but they were all profile or three-quarter shots of Ross turning away from the camera in soft focus. The most Jon could get from those was that Ross’ hair looked impossibly soft and that his facial structure was delicate and regal.
By Friday Jon was about to die of curiosity. It wasn’t at all like him. He was a pretty laid back guy, which was why everyone on tour had always loved him. No matter how worked up everyone else got, no matter how stressful the situation, Jon kept cool.
But Ross’ words kept repeating over and over in Jon’s head with snippets of music. He thought about them while he worked, found himself trying to capture the idea of a particular phrase in a picture. He thought about them at night and dreamed about them. It was sort of insane.
The car came at 7:30 precisely and Jon left Stephanie in charge of locking things up for the evening. Ross’ condo was in the suburbs, further than Jon had ventured. He’d been in Vegas just over a month, and it was sort of surreal-he kept forgetting where he was. Most of his time was spent working. The only time he’d spent near any of the casinos was when he visited hotels for weddings. He hadn’t played a single game or seen any of the real attractions of the city, so it was easy to forget.
Ross’ condo was small, but very expensive looking. Jon figured that, given the guy was twenty-one, it was impressive that he owned his own place at all. Jon couldn’t quite get over the fact that Ross was younger than him. His words were so powerful and he wrote with such an impressive vocabulary-Jon had read online that a lot of the stuff from Ross’ first book had been written when he was in high school-fifteen and sixteen years old, writing poetry that would make Bill Beckett sick with envy if he’d ever bother to get over stupid preconceptions and read it.
The door was answered by strikingly pretty boy with silky honey gold hair down to his shoulders and sweet blue eyes, dressed like he’d raided a twelve year old girl’s closet. “Mister Walker?” he asked.
“Jon, please.”
The boy opened the door wider for Jon to enter. “Please come in, Jon. I’m Spencer.” He shook Jon’s hand and leaned into the hall to shout, “Ryan! Jon is here!”
Spencer gave Jon a small, sheepish smile when he turned back. “He’s freaking over what to wear,” he explained. “The publishers are making a website. Can I get you something to drink while you wait? Tea, or coffee?”
Jon forced himself not to be weird or uncomfortable, no matter how awkward it was standing in a stranger’s house…a stranger he’d been obsessing over for the better part of the week, no less. “Coffee sounds good,” he said.
“Come, have a seat in the living room,” Spencer said. And, well, there was something about the kid. He looked like he couldn’t be more than eighteen, and his clothes and hair didn’t help…but something about the way he carried himself, and the way he spoke, politely and with careful phrasing, that made him sound older.
Spencer showed him to a seat and went into another room, presumably the kitchen. Alone, Jon took the opportunity to take in his surroundings. The living room had a cosy feel about it-lots of warm colours and soft lighting from small laps instead of an overhead lights. On the longest wall there was a huge plasma television and a crazy expensive looking sound system. The entertainment centre was stuffed to bursting with jewel cases and vinyls.
Across from the chair where Jon was seated there was a comfy looking sofa hugged by matching end tables, both decorated in knickknacks and covered with books. The coffee table had a half-finished game of chess and notebook covered in slanted handwriting. Jon was tempted, really tempted to take a peek, see if it was something new Ross was working on, but he forced himself to look away.
That was when his eye caught on the framed piece above the sofa. It took him a second to wonder why it was so familiar. It wasn’t that Jon didn’t recognise his own work, but he had no expectation of seeing this piece anywhere at all, really, let alone in Ryan Ross’ home.
Even if people recognised his work, it wasn’t this stuff…the stuff he’d done the first time he’d gone on the road with The Academy Is… shooting all the time. It was disappointing, because that was some of his favourite work, but early on Jon had learned that photography wasn’t about what he liked. At least, not if he expected to make a living.
For a second, Jon thought maybe it was just that Ross was a fan of The Academy Is…, because the shot was of Bill and Tom sharing a mic, foreheads pressed together. But then Jon’s gaze was drawn across the room to the other frames-there were several of his other pieces-a schoolyard fence, a silhouetted figure in a dark alley, a series all along the back wall of Chicago through the seasons.
Spencer came back in and Jon jerked his eyes away quickly to look at him. “What…?”
“Oh,” Spencer said, looking at the ground. He set the cup on the coffee table in front of Jon. “Ryan and I are fans of yours.”
“Where did you even find these?” Jon asked. “How did you get them?”
Spencer looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Ryan saw one of your pieces on William Beckett’s blog, and he followed the link and we saw these, and had them printed professionally. But, I mean, we’ll pay you, of course. That was why Ryan was so eager when he heard you’d purchased Avery’s business. We’ll pay you whatever price you feel is fair.”
Jon wasn’t even sure this kid was for real. “You don’t have to…I don’t want your money,” he said.
“Well,” Spencer began, hands clasped so tightly together they were going white and red.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mister Walker,” came another voice and Jon turned to see Ross descending the last few stairs, straightening the cuffs of his crisp, white button down. The accompanying pinstripe pants and black vest enhanced a long, willowy frame, making Ross look delicate and painfully thin. There was a bright blue cravat around Ross' long neck, drawing Jon's gaze down to where the top button of Ross' shirt had been left undone. None of the pictures had done him justice.
“You can call me Jon,” he said, and almost cringed at how he sounded, hollow and uncertain.
Thanks!