deep sea-anemone vowels
Oh, man, I totally crapped out last night at 10 pm. Slept almost all the way through the night, too - was up for a while at around 4 am, but managed to get back to sleep at some point. I had a terrible headache, which unfortunately has not gone completely away; it's just sort of migrated to behind/above my right eye. I'm choosing to blame the weather and my sinuses, and possibly my period, which arrived on Sunday afternoon.
The funny thing is, I felt good and well-rested (headache notwithstanding) right up until I got to the office, and then I was like, I could go to sleep right now. It's work that does it. Not here specifically - I like it here - just facing a long day of making copies and rescheduling appointments and dealing with board members and senior managers etc. And I like them - they're generally okay people to work with, but en masse, it all just makes me want to crawl back under the covers. Sigh.
I forgot to mention it yesterday, but I posted a story on Sunday:
People in Masks Cannot Be Trusted
Under the Red Hood; Dick/Jason; adult; 3,175 words
If Jason is Westley, Dick doesn't want to know who Buttercup is.
I think I've circled back around to the point in my fannish 'career' where I'm the only person interested in the stories I'm writing. Well, I'm also amusing mousapelli, but that's mostly because now we have a running joke about teenage Dick's stash of porn and how he had to hide it not from Bruce, who really didn't care, but from Alfred, because once Alfred found it, it was useless to Dick, and he had to start all over again. And the worst was the time Alfred tried to make a suggestion about procuring something a little classier ("Master Richard, may I suggest--" "NO, NO YOU MAY NOT. NOT NOW AND NOT EVER." It was quite possibly the only time Dick ever raised his voice with Alfred.), and Dick couldn't jerk off for a week after that. She won't write me the damn story, though.
Somehow I think that 1. not being tied to comics canon is actually more fun and 2. what I want from these characters is not what most people want, because mostly I want them to be hilarious and awkward, not angsty and brooding. If I wanted angsty and brooding, well, that's what canon is for.
Anyway. This was the story that was originally far schmoopier (embarrassingly so; I mean, it's a story where Dick and Jason watch The Princess Bride and have makeouts that lead to sex. Is there a more spot-on definition of schmoop than that?), even though it always ended with the argument. and hey, in this one, they fight after they have sex, so it's different from the other two I've written. *snerk* I'd say I'm done, but I'm still trying to find my way into a Jason POV, and I already have another story idea, so, possibly there could be more stories nobody but me cares about. Since I can't get other people to write them, I have to do it myself.
Speaking of, I'm also working on a Mal-centric Inception story, and it's a little weird, not just because it's a new fandom, but because I have a moment of disconnect every time I type the name "Mal" and I don't mean Mal Reynolds. (Also, Dom is my brother's name, which makes that a little weird, too, but luckily, he's not in the story much.) We'll see how that goes, because while I have a vague outline of what's supposed to happen, the details are a little murky.
I was thinking about this last night in the shower - give me a handful of characters and a little time, and I'm pretty sure I can write their voices fairly accurately. I just have a really hard time coming up with actual plots - or, if I've come up with a plot idea (I still have a list of casefile type things I would like to write in SPN), with figuring out how to execute it. If someone just told me, "here are the beats you should hit to make that plot work," I think could knock it out of the park. This is why, in the end, I always feel like a hack. (Also because I have no interest in creating my own characters, just in writing other people's.)
But enough of that.
In addition to various stories, I'm working on a substantive AtLA post and the Gaslight Anthem pimping post, but for now, have a poem:
Parts of Speech
Some stories don't want to be told.
They walk away, carrying their suitcases
held together with grey string.
Look at their disappearing curved spines.
Hunch-backs. Harmed ones. Hold-alls.
Some stories refuse to be danced or mimed,
drop their scuffed canes
and clattering tap-shoes,
erase their traces in nursery rhymes
or ancient games like blind man's buff.
And at this stained place words
are scraped from resinous tongues,
wrung like washing, hung on the lines
of courtroom and confessional,
transposed into the dialect of record.
Why still believe stories can rise
with wings, on currents, as silver flares,
levitate unweighted by stones,
begin in pain and move towards grace,
aerating history with recovered breath?
Why still imagine whole words, whole worlds:
the flame splutter of consonants,
deep sea-anemone vowels,
birth-cable syntax, rhymes that start in the heart,
and verbs, verbs that move mountains?
~Ingrid de Kok
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/202991.html.
people have commented there.
The funny thing is, I felt good and well-rested (headache notwithstanding) right up until I got to the office, and then I was like, I could go to sleep right now. It's work that does it. Not here specifically - I like it here - just facing a long day of making copies and rescheduling appointments and dealing with board members and senior managers etc. And I like them - they're generally okay people to work with, but en masse, it all just makes me want to crawl back under the covers. Sigh.
I forgot to mention it yesterday, but I posted a story on Sunday:
People in Masks Cannot Be Trusted
Under the Red Hood; Dick/Jason; adult; 3,175 words
If Jason is Westley, Dick doesn't want to know who Buttercup is.
I think I've circled back around to the point in my fannish 'career' where I'm the only person interested in the stories I'm writing. Well, I'm also amusing mousapelli, but that's mostly because now we have a running joke about teenage Dick's stash of porn and how he had to hide it not from Bruce, who really didn't care, but from Alfred, because once Alfred found it, it was useless to Dick, and he had to start all over again. And the worst was the time Alfred tried to make a suggestion about procuring something a little classier ("Master Richard, may I suggest--" "NO, NO YOU MAY NOT. NOT NOW AND NOT EVER." It was quite possibly the only time Dick ever raised his voice with Alfred.), and Dick couldn't jerk off for a week after that. She won't write me the damn story, though.
Somehow I think that 1. not being tied to comics canon is actually more fun and 2. what I want from these characters is not what most people want, because mostly I want them to be hilarious and awkward, not angsty and brooding. If I wanted angsty and brooding, well, that's what canon is for.
Anyway. This was the story that was originally far schmoopier (embarrassingly so; I mean, it's a story where Dick and Jason watch The Princess Bride and have makeouts that lead to sex. Is there a more spot-on definition of schmoop than that?), even though it always ended with the argument. and hey, in this one, they fight after they have sex, so it's different from the other two I've written. *snerk* I'd say I'm done, but I'm still trying to find my way into a Jason POV, and I already have another story idea, so, possibly there could be more stories nobody but me cares about. Since I can't get other people to write them, I have to do it myself.
Speaking of, I'm also working on a Mal-centric Inception story, and it's a little weird, not just because it's a new fandom, but because I have a moment of disconnect every time I type the name "Mal" and I don't mean Mal Reynolds. (Also, Dom is my brother's name, which makes that a little weird, too, but luckily, he's not in the story much.) We'll see how that goes, because while I have a vague outline of what's supposed to happen, the details are a little murky.
I was thinking about this last night in the shower - give me a handful of characters and a little time, and I'm pretty sure I can write their voices fairly accurately. I just have a really hard time coming up with actual plots - or, if I've come up with a plot idea (I still have a list of casefile type things I would like to write in SPN), with figuring out how to execute it. If someone just told me, "here are the beats you should hit to make that plot work," I think could knock it out of the park. This is why, in the end, I always feel like a hack. (Also because I have no interest in creating my own characters, just in writing other people's.)
But enough of that.
In addition to various stories, I'm working on a substantive AtLA post and the Gaslight Anthem pimping post, but for now, have a poem:
Parts of Speech
Some stories don't want to be told.
They walk away, carrying their suitcases
held together with grey string.
Look at their disappearing curved spines.
Hunch-backs. Harmed ones. Hold-alls.
Some stories refuse to be danced or mimed,
drop their scuffed canes
and clattering tap-shoes,
erase their traces in nursery rhymes
or ancient games like blind man's buff.
And at this stained place words
are scraped from resinous tongues,
wrung like washing, hung on the lines
of courtroom and confessional,
transposed into the dialect of record.
Why still believe stories can rise
with wings, on currents, as silver flares,
levitate unweighted by stones,
begin in pain and move towards grace,
aerating history with recovered breath?
Why still imagine whole words, whole worlds:
the flame splutter of consonants,
deep sea-anemone vowels,
birth-cable syntax, rhymes that start in the heart,
and verbs, verbs that move mountains?
~Ingrid de Kok
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/202991.html.
people have commented there.