(Untitled)

[mothersmucker]

Scott isn't really expecting anybody to show. If anybody does, it'll probably be students from class-- he offered 'em a whopping letter increase in their grade to bribe them, and of course the permanent esteem of their favorite professor into the bargain-- though it's possible some people might stumble in on a whim, lured by the promise of free

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[mothersmucker]

Somebody's gotta begin, right?

Scott eases out from behind the student desk and crosses the room, stopping to pluck a chocolate bar from the bowl, wiggling his brows suggestively at the room as he drops his prize into the breast pocket of his shirt. There's a book in his hand, Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman-- one of the best perks of the island is getting all these Books Of The Future; last things he'd read had been Sandman Midnight Theater and Good Omens, and he was waiting on an advance copy of Neverwhere when he got yoinked. He's planning on reading a poem to warm things up. He hops on top of the teacher's desk, sits down indian-style, and finds his place.

"All right, let's get started. This one's a poem by a fellow named Neil Gaiman. If you haven't heard of him, and you like it, I order you to take that black softcover over there--Smoke and Mirrors, it's called-- and devour it immediately, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. All right, nuff jabbering." And he starts.

"Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never saw before," he begins, narrating the picture in his own mind as well as the author's, speaking clearly and loudly with the irresistible, spellbinding skill of a man who has lived and breathed the written word since he was knee high to a grasshopper. "...if you turn around here, you can walk back, safely; you will lose no face. I will think no less of you." Scott addresses different individuals in turn. In a way, this choice couldn't be more apt-- they're instructions for how to navigate should you wake up in a fairy tale, and aren't they all kinda stuck in a fairy tale? Jesus, Mary and Jo-Jo the carpenter, he teaches Beauty in his writing class!

"...Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that witches are often betrayed by their appetites; dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always; hearts can be well-hidden, and you betray them with your tongue." It isn't often, but every once in awhile Scott comes across a piece that he wishes like hell he'd written-- this is one of 'em. When he finally comes around to the end, he's got goosebumps on his own arms. "...and then go home. Or make a home. And rest."

He closes the book softly, smiles at the room, and heads back to his seat.

[curiously_cora]

Coraline did not in fact like Mister Gaiman. Nor ever wish to read or hear another word written by him in her entire life. He was, to Coraline at least, the second person she would least like to meet. The first of course being the Other Mother.

So when Mister Scott said that name and read those words she did what a child would do. She closed her eyes and she covered her ears and sat in silence. And waited for it to end.

"He's not very good, is he?" Coraline said simply. It was less of a question and more of a statement. "In fact I think he's a bad word. Lots of bad words. The kind that I would get into a lot of trouble for repeating. I don't think poetry is supposed to make you feel that."

[mothersmucker]

He didn't notice her reaction when he was reading-- he doesn't know how, he always looks for Coraline at these things-- but he didn't, or else he might've... what? Stopped? Doesn't matter, he guesses. But it takes less than a second for Scott's brain to put the pieces together once he sees Coraline walking up to him.

Oh, SHIT.

"Ah, well..." He wants to look anywhere but her big brown eyes but man, he can't. "I'm, ah, sorry you didn't like it." He scratches the back of his neck. Like he doesn't know why she hates it. Like she doesn't know he knows why she hates it.

What a smuckin' moron he is!

[curiously_cora]

"It's okay," Coraline said simply. People were going to read his books and people were going to see that awful movie. Coraline knew that and accepted it, she didn't have to like it however. "It's not like you wrote it. Why didn't you read your poems or things? I mean, I'm sure that they are much better than his."

[mothersmucker]

Coraline: 2, Scott: 0

"Oh, I... I dunno. I guess. Well, you know, I didn't want to start this thing off like the Scott Show. And to be totally honest, hon, it's been kind of awhile since I wrote anything I liked."

Yikes. Has he even admitted that to Lisey? He guesses it's something about the way she's looking at him, totally frank in her utter distaste for this guy that uses her in his story, and the way she asks the questions even his wife wouldn't ask. Cora doesn't know better.

[little_moons]

"You know," I murmur quietly, dropping into the chair beside him with a sigh and a flicker of a smirk, "I don't remember you bribin' us with candy when I was in your class."

[mothersmucker]

Scott turns, grinning-- Neil's only joking but he kinda does feel caught. He knew somebody was gonna say something about the raw deal going on here.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he mutters back. "But y'know, a class with your level of brilliance and achievement..." He seems to struggle for a second, trying to convey the total smucking je ne sais quoi of it all. "I dunno, chocolate just doesn't seem enough. I couldn't have gotten away with anything less than crystal trophies or a Waterford pen, I'm telling you. Anyway," he says, changing tactics abruptly, "quit your bitching. You gettin' up there or not, wise guy?"

Professor Landon's not taking any excuses.

[little_moons]

"Wow, you really are full of shit," I say, grinning obnoxiously, eyes crinkled at the corners, "You do know I got no fuckin' interest in a Waterford pen, right? Actually, I don't even know what the fuck that is."

Slumping down in my chair, I lift one shoulder in a lazy shrug and say, "Maybe I'll wait 'til last. I mean, I don't want the poor bastard who has to go up after me to feel bad."

Bullshit.

[mothersmucker]

"Part of the profession, my friend," he says easily. "And trust me, I don't have much interest in 'em, either. Beats me why they give big-shot writers pens carved from Ecuadorian marble to commemorate gigs, as if anybody practices the lost art of the noble longhand anymore. 'cept for us islanders."

He eyes Neil archly. "Yeah, yeah. That's real considerate of you. Hope there's still chocolate left," he says, adding a nervous sigh for flair. Without looking away from the current reader, he continues. "You didn't stop, didja?"

[little_moons]

"Stop what? Writing?" I ask with a laugh, scratching a hand through my hair and giving him another jerky shrug, "No, I didn't stop. Still pretty much shit at the whole fiction thing-" My writing was always just a veiled retelling of things I've known intimately, no matter what I did. I can make up stories, sure, but it's like I've had too much to say since I was eight years old and too long spent keeping it quiet. "I, uh... I'm still keeping a journal, I guess. I mean, I like de Worde's class, fine, it's just not the same."

[mothersmucker]

Scott shakes his head, just slightly. "Doesn't matter what, so long as you're writing." He pauses and gives Neil an exasperated, to-hell-with-you look. "You're not even the same zip code as shit, and you know it. Or you wouldn't still be going at it."

He always liked teaching all right, but it's different on the island; here, it's better, it feels vital in a way it never did at Orono. It's enough to put aside thoughts of his own creative dry-spell. There's applause as the reader takes their seat, and he turns, giving Neil his full attention. "Your narrative goes down so smoothly I have a hard time imagining you even break a sweat at the notebook. You've got a voice with a capital V." He smiles a little, then gives Neil a look more commonly seen on drug-sniffing dogs. "You have anything with you?"

[little_moons]

"I've got me. What more do I need?" I say, with a smile that's probably a little flirty, just because maybe all my smiles are. I can shrug it off and pretend like what he's said doesn't mean a thing, but it's a lie. It matters. If nothing else, it's good to hear.

Plus, I just might have a notebook in my pocket. Maybe.

"You ever consider doin' this whole thing someplace else? You know, less like school."

[mothersmucker]

"Touché," he says, raising his eyebrows. "Seriously, though, I would like to see you get up there. And-- yeah, you know, I was thinking about it. I just don't know where. At first I was thinkin', maybe a stage, but I dunno. That might discourage people. I wanna keep it casual, but I don't want to do it in the Compound, you know? I don't want people to keep from presenting 'cause they're worried who might walk by-- people are funny about public speaking. I want it to be comfy, that's all. On the other hand, I hate to ask the building crew to build something special, 'cause it seems like that's counting my eggs before they're scrambled."

Scott scratches his head and eyes the next reader as they step up, and he lowers his voice. "What do you think?"

[little_moons]

"I think you should have it at my place. It's closed Sunday, I wouldn't mind havin' you writer geeks invade the place for a night," I offer, leaning a little closer like I'm letting him in on some big secret, "And you know this kind of shit's always more fun when you can get drunk first."

I grin playfully, "You know, late, after the kids leave."

[intrinsicworth]

As Scott sat back down, Glen in one of the seats beside him reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. "Haven't heard that one before, but it's a good one, Scott. No poetry of your own from the famous writer though?" he inquired, lifting an eyebrow at his friend. "Don't do that sort of writing?"

[mothersmucker]

Scott genuinely feels kinda bad now-- not so much for not reading his own stuff, but a little bit for how unaware he's been this whole time, encouraging others to share their own thoughts and unthinkingly selecting a piece from another writer. He'll abstain from more chocolate, that's all. Between that and his frequent walks and the lack of Coors, he's starting to lose his delicate writer's paunch-- he's sad to see it go, it's like a trademark, he's pretty sure, but at the very least it might help him pick up the slack in baseball.

"Nah, not tonight," he says, but there's a certain deferential guilt, or at least apology in his voice. If anyone has an idea about the extent of his recent writer's block, it's Glen. There's something about him that unhinges Scott's jaw bigtime, and especially since they had their first talk about King, it seems there's nothing that's taboo. "But you really oughta read something. C'mon. How about a passage from Watership Down or somethin'? Chicken Soup for the Gaffer's Soul?"