How entertaining. My insurance provider is spam-texting me about a flu shot I can’t get, and telling me that it’s good for anyone no matter their health status.
*thumps head on desk* Damnit.
(On the other hand, if you are able to get a flu shot, you should go do that as soon as possible.)
Another season of Leverage watched, with some internal screaming over Eliot’s shoulders.*
Down to most of the bottom hem to finish on the sewing project tomorrow. And a new project added to my mental queue of a blasted pin cushion. My fingers will thank me for not stabbing them while reaching into the cup that currently holds the straight pins.
*Just. broad shoulders that are nicely muscled with a proper overlay of fat to pad them are. really. fucking. appealing. ok? Also, his physicality is likewise appealing. He’s not the only one who is, he just hits some very specific buttons. I mean, can you imagine being cuddled by that? Just. All wrapped up and snuggling into him. GAH!
*stomps off muttering to themself about pretty men and a very annoying case of skin hunger*
Reminder to practice positive self talk. If you are beating yourself up in your head it’s really difficult to recover. Try and be gentle and show yourself some mercy when you aren’t perfect as humans never are. You’re wonderful I’m proud of you
I went to reread one of my own fics, because I’d forgotten which fic went with the title that popped up in my kudos email. Apparently, I’d also failed to notice a comment. Easy enough when there wasn’t a notification email (I checked. I don’t delete them until I’ve replied to them, and this one wasn’t replied to, so there should have been one).
I read it, and started laughing. Because, dude, if you failed to pay attention to the canon, it’s not my job to convince you that a part of canon I didn’t change actually exists.
Besides, how the hell do you come to the conclusion that someone whose mother’s family has a legend they have elven heritage somewhere in their past, and someone who fights orcs on a regular basis would refuse to believe in other species? Seriously? Did we read the same book? Watch the same movies? Because somehow, I really doubt it.
*goes back to giggling, because the other options are crying and screaming, and neither is appealing right now*
It is only ten, and I should not feel this bloody exhausted.
I’ve had a nap which involved actually falling asleep today, if only about an hour and a half of one.
I slept not-so-well last night, and woke up relatively early after going to bed on the late side of my normal window of bedtime.
I have gotten a half-load of dishes done, a handful of things (granted, mostly heavy things) out of the RV, and some work on my current Sims3 game done. And a few more posts into the queue, which will start up again next Monday.
I understand why I feel sleepy and exhausted. I just don’t like it, and going to bed now defeats the purpose of attempting to have something resembling a sleep schedule. (2300-0100 to bed, 0800-1000 wake up… and anywhere from seven to eleven hours of sleep, because fuck managing to actually set a schedule that involves the same number of hours to sleep every night, oh no. Damnit. Not for lack of trying off and on over the years, but that’s the best I’ve managed.)
Hopefully recombobulating my bed will take long enough to push me into the 2300 hour. And a couple other bits of bedtime chores.
Hugs for everyone, and I hope y’all sleep well when you get there! (And that you have or had a good day, depending on how close you are to bedtime yourself.)
*forgotten fic writers fistbump of solidarity*
Seriously, you’re not on any of them, either? Me, I can understand, but you? Friendo, that’s just fucked up I’m sorry it’s like that.
*head rub* I wasn’t always left off of them. I’ve popped on ones since I started writing regularly for SW, but recently *pbbbt* Nothing. Worst part is, it isn’t like rec lists aren’t being made. I’m just apparently not good enough to appear on ‘em anymore! (Which I know, subjectively, isn’t true, but it’s the first thing I think when I see nearly everyone I know on more than a few, but not even a single mention of me. Well, at least not at first. Afterthought, ahoy!)
Don’t fret about putting me on one if you don’t have the spoons. I’d rather people put me on one when I’m not getting all butthurt about it, but I still appreciate the gesture. You’re on my Rec Lists too when I start making them again.
You’re right, though. It hurts, and it sucks, and – if I may add something – it takes out every bit of urge to update or write out of hardworking writers. It’s hard to find that again by yourself, it really is. *hugs* Have a good night, dude, and I hope the urge to write doesn’t leave you, too.
#morgynleri#important af#we should start a fanclub of forgotten people#i think this is the one thing i hate about reclists#no matter how hard you try someone is gonna get hurt because fandom consumes more than it gives back#or sometimes they don’t consume at all which is worse#*shrug*#thanks for telling me it’s alright to feel bad about this morgyn
*fistbump*
I have only seen something I write on one rec list, and I wasn’t even named as one of the authors, even though I wrote a good deal for it. It made it really hard to even bother writing for that shared AU, to be forgotten even on something I wrote.
And you’re going to get a post in the stuff at least (because while I’m avoiding tumblr because hiatus-of-minimal-internet, I do have internet this week while I’m staying with @lferion, and I’m going to use it to attempt to fill the queue for the next five weeks with cute animals and fic recs and my own stories). Whether I manage more than one depends on how far I get in catching up on reading fic, and at least start reading Of Iron (because Tolkien is one of the fandoms I have been on the fringes of for years, and I like having more fic to read there, too).
(This post is getting long, and getting into self-indulgent and possibly self-centered ranting, so the rest is under a cut.)
It does take a lot of the desire to bother to update out of a writer – and I’d only really gotten that back after AO3 finally gave me feedback*. Kudos, a hit counter, the occasional comment or bookmark. Sometimes I even get a bookmark that’s a rec, or has a comment on it! It’s always nice. And subscribers, to individual stories or series or to me in general.
On tumblr, there are people who regularly like and reblog as they have spoons to do so, and have noticed the fic post (I have gone to a regular time-slot for that because it makes it easier for people to find if they’re looking for it). There are sometimes comments, and I always go read tags if people bother with them.
This is why I make a point of reblogging even the fic I don’t have the spoons to read right away from people I follow, when I see it. Why I make a point of reblogging art, too. It’s why I mentioned on my hiatus post that if mutuals post fic or art, please to @ mention me so it shows up in my email notifications (at least in theory, since several seem to have only shown up in my activity feed lately).
Anyway. A point of reblogging, because it gets to more eyes, because it tells the author/artist that yes, I see you, I see you have made a Thing, and I would like everyone I know looks my direction to see you have made a Thing, and for them to maybe read/view the Thing, and hope that one of them has the spoons to say more happy, squeeful words about the Thing than I might have at the time I see it to reblog it.
*There is a reason that the posts about how comments were all-important in the Good Old LJ Days, and how this and that author are so disappointed by current fandom’s inability to leave a comment piss me off. Because dude, bully for you to have gotten comments on that platform. I got ignored and forgotten and I actually fucking like having kudos/likes now, and a fucking hit counter so I can see that people actually are at least opening the fic.
Even if I still get left behind a lot because I have a sporadic update schedule that’s been made worse by deteriorating mental and physical health, and I tend to eschew the popular pairings even when I write shippy fic, and I don’t tend to go for whatever the popular tropes are at the current moment, and there’s been a distinct dearth of sex in anything I’ve written for years now as I’ve been able to put words to my own attractions and come to terms with my discomfort writing a lot of romance or sex, and preferring friendships and found-family over romantic pair-bonds that result in sex.
*takes a deep breath* Anyway. Yeah.
Also, on a tangential note that some might not think has anything to do with any of this – of my primary deities, one is Persephone, as the Queen of the Underworld, of the unwanted and the forgotten; and another is Hel, Queen of the Dead, of the outcast and the abandoned. The primary aspect of Loki for me is the Mother of Monsters.
Because they are the ones who say to me “it is ok to hurt. It is ok to be upset that everyone and everything passes you by. Being a monster who no one wants out there doesn’t mean that no one loves you. Because if nothing else, you can always come to us. We know what it is like to be on the outside, to be disdained for our choices, to be ignored because we failed to play the game everyone wants us to play.”
And that? I need from somewhere. And I offer it to anyone who needs it. It is ok to be hurt that you are unpopular. It is ok to be different. And if you are hurting and lost and abandoned and forgotten, there is welcome here.
(Treat people like things, and everything changes, because part of being one of the people on the fringes of what mainstream society finds acceptable, at least for me, is protecting, to the best of my ability, those who are likewise from those who come to my attention as those who try to push the people at the fringes down and out and away and call us less than human. I don’t expect this will be a problem from most of my followers, but I figure it is best said anyway.)
Me: Enjoys Maul as a villain in all his menacing yet somehow kooky blood-soaked glory.
Also me: Acknowledges that Maul has had a Truly Shitty Life™ and feels sorry for him and wants him to heal and make amends to society and find some happiness that doesn’t involve torture and killing.
Also also me: Hopes Obi-Wan permanently ends him this time, and then burns his remains over the campfire we see in the promo and scatters his ashes to the four winds so that he can’t ever be magically resurrected.
(Look, these latter two desires aren’t mutually exclusive. Maul can be happy in the Force, where he’ll be reunited with his brother, y/y?)
whovians-have-the-impala-at-221b:
Hades speaks to me on a spiritual level
why does tumblr always relate to the satan of every fandom
Because it’s easier to identify with a flawed character then some kind of ultra human the hero normally is portrayed as.
fuck that was deep man
#ALSO#HADES DOES NOT EQUAL SATAN#NOPE#NO#I WILL FIGHT PEOPLE#THAT IS NOT HOW THE RELIGION WORKD#FIGHT ME IM A CLASSICS MAJOR (tags via @punsbulletsandpointythings)
^^^
What they said. *crosses arms while grumbling*
Went looking at one of my older original ‘verses because one of @lectorel‘s posts niggled at me about it, and I’m re-reading my stories, and grumbling at myself over a few things, and making mental notes about research to do to take what I have and expand it. Ok, and actual notes, too, because who knows when I’ll have the spoons to go doing the research needed.
When I wrote these, nearly a decade ago, I deliberately left out names and places and other markers, and now I’m pretty damned sure it’s (a) all the US, thank you, (b) all but two of the characters are either not male, straight, white, cisgender, protestant, thin, able-bodied, neurotypical, monogamous, or wealthy, most are multiples of that, and © the two that are all or most of the above (they both may fail to be wealthy) are very distinctly the villains of their pieces.
Putting the rest beneath a cut because I don’t actually have the stories themselves posted publicly anywhere, and without them as reference, some of the bits might not make sense.
…. Erm, ok, and some of the snippets and bits I’m thinking are worth keeping, in some fashion or another, are also under the cut.
Also, anyone who wants to take the idea of a world where magic is present, and deeply distrusted in the US (just another minority to exploit, oppress, and murder, as far as the government is concerned), and run with it, or any of these characters, feel free. I’m honestly not sure I’m up to writing much in this particular ‘verse at the moment. It’s depressing, and I do not have the spoons to deal with it as is right now.
The pair who are straight – one is black or Native American or both, and the other is ADHD or autistic, and she’s very fond of playing a very particular sort of game (magic, it’s a cooperative game, the goal is to create something pretty and interesting and challenging for each other to add to). They’re the ones in the most bits, and in the end, theoretically, he dies. At least, as far as anyone from the outside would think. I’m not entirely sure he actually does so. (I’m also, while still proud of certain lines of his dialogue, am not certain I’m proud of them in context so much as out of it.)
The boy who suffers entirely more than he should, damnit, is transgender and utterly confused by people who care. He’s also physically disabled, and possibly has mental health issues beyond C-PTSD. He’s definitely nonverbal, and whether that is just because talking was dangerous or more than that, I don’t know.
The woman who dances in the storm surge and incoming hurricane is poor, and lives along the Atlantic coast, somewhere south of Delaware. Most likely, considering my own experiences, Maryland or North Carolina.
The person the priest makes the mistake of confronting is AFAB nonbinary whose depression tends to manifest as rage. Who has no one to turn to, is suicidal, and has absolutely no qualms about taking everyone around them with them.
I have no idea who the woman who is the figure in the dancing bit is, but I’m fairly certain her deities of choice are deities of life and death, creation and destruction. She’s also probably not thin, but I have so little to work from in her snippet. (Which is at the end of this post.)
The band is a trio who are poly, whose gender I can’t figure out, are pissed off, are probably white and probably aren’t the heroes they want to be, but they’re the ones the media focuses on, so they say fuck it, and do their damndest to turn conversations and interviews to those who are being exploited and murdered and stripped of their rights by a right-wing, conservative, reactionary government.
And the one with roses, I only know the villain of the piece, and I would dearly love to punt the “Inspector” into a deep dark pit full of pissed off non-venomous snakes. Because it’ll take longer for him to die than if they were venomous. (I’m not posting any bits from it.)
Interesting lines and snippets:
“Can’t control the mountains with iron and piss. Can’t trap the wind in a jar.”
“You can’t hear her screaming, and you think you have the power to hold her back. Think that concrete and steel will keep her out, that by burying your prison cells far from shore or fault line you’ll hide from her fury.”
“Mother’s cradle, hands rocking you to sleep. Can’t run now, the walls are shaking off their foundations. Don’t scream now, baby’s sleeping.”
“I don’t intend to go down quietly when they find me.” Take them with him, instead. Expend every trace of energy he could gather in a brilliant firestorm that would be hard to miss.
There’s a knock on the door, and he looks up, uncertain why the person hasn’t just come into the room. Surely it can’t be his, something like this never is. He curls against the pillow, his arms wrapping around his knees as he waits for the person to come in, for them to tell him he doesn’t belong here, to leave.
An admonishment that never comes, even when the person finally opens the door, looking in uncertainly before giving him an encouraging smile, and asking him if she can come in. He doesn’t know what to say, a shiver going through his body. No one ever asks him anything. No one cares enough.
Except they do care, they tell him. Let him stay in the room, let him eat as much as he wants, never hurt him, never tell him what he can do is wrong. He doesn’t come out very often, sits at the window and watches the rain, tracing the trickles of water that slide down the other side of the glass. He can’t quite bring himself to believe them, can’t quite believe this is real.
“You cannot take this from me,” she murmured, a smile curving her lips before she shouted it again. Laughing as she spun, feet splashing in the surging surf, arms stretched wide. Knowing she was dancing on the knife’s edge, all but daring the storm to take her off her feet, take her away from this world entirely, and not caring if it did.
“Cling to your cross and your book, holy man. Pray that your god will deliver you into the mercy of death, because I will have no such kindness for you.”
“Oh, call me a demon, call me an angel, call me a god. Call me mother, call me father, call me Death.”
“The world believes they’re wrong, believes we as a nation are wrong. A whole generation of Americans believes they’re wrong.”
“Change is a necessity, or a culture stagnates, and they’re desperate to prevent the change their children and grandchildren want. Everything they say and do makes them look like they’re trying to recreate the ‘good old days’, to create a time that never actually existed.”
"If they’re wrong, what would you say to the violence known to be committed by the so-called ‘magical community’?”
“Most of it can’t even be proven to have been them, rather than acts of nature, or the malice of those who want to maintain the status quo. That which can be confirmed is them defending themselves, which isn’t illegal unless you’re using magic. They aren’t afforded the right to live their own lives, to be human, in this country, only the right to be government property and cannon-fodder.”
Dance With Us
Hands raised with arms spread in welcome, she stands in the center of the circle, her lips moving in silent invocation. Hips sway slightly to the beat of intangible drums, hands beating out an old rhythm for her call. Warrior and mother, creator and destroyer, beauty and danger. Old memories rising on wind and dancing around her in a heartbeat promise of renewal.
Blood on stone, death and new life. Voice rising with the wind, drums louder beating against her skin. Ecstatic in the pain and the promise, pleasure warm as the blood painting her bare skin. The roar of wind, swirling around her filled with dust.
Dance, daughter. Dance with Us.
There's a Mirror on the Wall 