lydamorehouse | Entries tagged with fan fic

I am still sitting on a book that I should have gotten back to the library AGES ago. I should just give up on it, I think, and admit that I am not in the mood for horror manga right now: PTSD Radio. I think I'm just mad because I got halfway into it and then stopped. It's a book of pictures, I should just be able to push through.

Anyway.

What I did read (and also, as it happens, watch the anime for) was Kyuujitsu no Warumono-san / Mr. Villain’s Day Off by Morikawa Yuu. As I read this manga, I thought a lot about that torpedoed panel at Minicon: "Shipping Light and Dark." The main character of this manga is known only as Shogun or The General and it's clear that being The Villain is just his day job. He's good at it and high-ranking and does seem to sincerely want to end humanity reign on Earth (he's an alien), but when he has time off all The General really just wants to go to the Ueno Zoo to watch the pandas.

The inherent ridiculousness of the situation fuels this gag manga. For those of you familiar with The Way of The House Husband, this manga runs of the same concept as that one: putting a scary guy (a villain, a yakuza gangster) into light and fluffy domestic situations is just so difficult for the brain to parse that it automatically seems silly. This is a guy who'd kill a man for looking at him funny, but he can't handle a roomba, right? It's just ridiculous!

And this is part of the appeal (for me, at least) of shipping dark characters with light ones. Taking the villain off the battlefield and asking the question, "What does Dr. Doom do on his day off?" forces us to attempt to humanize someone who is maybe, normally, only seen in black and white and as larger-than-life. And, I think this works especially well for those villains who are mostly just foils for the hero. Those villains whose motives are somewhat vague, or like Crowley in Good Omens, just sort of works for the Other Side--and who doesn't necessarily buy into the full agenda.

This isn't to say there isn't value in exploring those that are more committed to the "evil" cause, however.

One of the things I really didn't get to talk about on that panel (because it was so thoroughly shamed out of us) was the fact that, in my fan writing, I am actually interested in sociopathy. Like, there was a really fascinating recent article in the New York Times interviewing a woman who is a psychotherapist and a (diagnosed) sociopath. She apparently has a new book out that I should probably find and order all about her life, etc. But, she points out in the interview that not every sociopath is a serial killer, despite the popular imagination. It's a mental illness like any other for many people. It's difficult to medicate, so people have to learn to just live with it. But, yet in the interview with her you can TOTALLY see her struggling with empathy and consequences... like she is COLD and you totally get the sense that she would cut you and have zero remorse, you know? Just in a half-page interview! And, I just find this utterly captivating. Like, she talks in the interview about what happens when she tells people that she is a honest-to-god sociopath at cocktail parties and the like because inevitably, apparently, people will just start telling her about their fantasies of murdering co-workers, spouses, etc.

Anyway, in fiction, I've explored the idea that a sociopath, who among other problems severely lacks empathy, could be loved, particularly by a hero who has ALL the empathy.

Like in the manga I just read, trying to write a sociopath just living their lives is a kind of fictional puzzle that I particularly like to play with. Can you write a sympathetic sociopath? Can you do that without "weakening" the sociopathy--what fan readers call OCC, being out of character? Like for me, the challenge is "Can I write a believable love story between two people who should be (or have been) enemies, in part because one of them LITERALLY has no conscience?"

And I don't know that I've done it, but it was a fun exercise to try, you know? And, I think one of the appeals of shipping these sorts.

==
Again, the article "What It's Like to Be a Sociopath?" is probably behind a paywall for most of you. Apparently, the author is Patric Gagne and the book is Sociopath: A Memoir. Interestingly, there's some talk in various Reddit forums that in psychology the term "sociopath" isn't typically used as a diagnosis, instead folks who suffer from this mental illness are referred to as having anti-social personality disorder, which I knew from my previous research into this stuff for my fan fic. But, in this case since it appeared in a NYT article, it raised some flags for people working in the profession as to whether or not Gagne was merely sensationalizing for the publicity or actually lying about her credentials as a psychologist. And you know... fair point.

There is another article about her, here, in The Guardian that is free: https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2024/apr/08/patric-gagne-sociopath-fighting-urges

And the Daily Mail... mmmm, seeming more an more disreputable... as this is a deeply sensational article about her, some of which seems a bit perposterous: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-13248861/sociopath-patric-gagne-new-memoir.html

Still, I should see if the library has this book.

I'm actually very pleased that we rolled almost no dice last night. I have a feeling that several of the other players strongly disagree with me, but role-play for the win!

Below is Ave's rambling synopsis of the session.

======

June 8
Red Maple Lodge
Ceyan Empire

Dearest Idyril and Sierra:

Anges is trying to convince me not to rob Simon blind. She says, “Taking advantage of people is wrong.”

There is no question that Anges is Very Hot, especially when she gives me that stern look, but her logic is faulty. She thinks we’re supposed to feel bad that Simon is a terrible businessman with an equally atrocious ability to judge character. Apparently, just because he gave us all massively expensive uncommon and/or rare items from his magical stores (my Bracers of Defense are very sparkly!) for free, it’s “poor judgment” on my part, not his, to continue to take advantage of him.

I could not disagree more.
( Cut, lest your scrolling finger becomes sprained and unusable... )

The group of people that I'm playing D&D with has a tradition of mini-arcs in a campaign where they switch to alternate characters, presumably so no one gets bored playing a particular race or class or personality type for too long. As someone who is both, generally, a novelist rather than short story writer and who is in it for the roleplay and not the mechanics, I was initially very dubious about this approach. Like, haven't we all just finally learned each other's character names and are starting to form relationships? But, after playing a session (I missed the first one being on the road,) I kind of get why people enjoy this. With a whole new cast of characters, the entire vibe of the party shifted.

We went from fairly somber and serious to giggly and frivolous.

And I'm honestly here for it.

I'm now playing Ave, Idyril's younger sister. Like him she is a high elf, but unlike him, she's not a racist. She has no preconceptions that elves are any better than humans or tieflings or what have you. She also has zero sense of chivalry or honor. She is, in fact, attempting to live a life FULLY bereft of responsibilities. Ave's dream job is no job at all. She is a wild child, in every sense of the word.

Because, I based her character entirely on a throwaway line in the description of elves in the 5e Player's Handbook. It said in the handbook that elves declare, for themselves when they are adults. Their names when they are children are shorter, cuter, like Ave, and when they are adults their names sound more like elven names with too many 'y's and consonants, like, say, Idyril. Ave has decided that one way to live her dream is simply to never agree to growing up. Just full stop. No adulting. It's not for her. She's 125 year old and has said no to adulthood FOREVER. Her adult name would be something akin to Averylia but she's Ave and will, if she has a say in the matter (and, as it happens, she does), always will be Ave. (Just as a sidenote, I decided Idyril's childhood name was Rei. Despite how I spell it, I pronounce Idyril's name: ID-ray-el, so this make more sense when you're dyslexic, trust me. I could figure out how to better spell his name, but I have decided that Elvish is like Welsh or Irish, it's spelled Idyril and is simply said ID-ray-el.)

So, that's her in a nutshell. Also, if by chance, you have been following along you also know from the one mini adventure I played as her previously, that her backstory is simple. When Idyril was disgraced, the pressure was on to turn the spare into the heir. (Harry has to become William and no one likes it, particularly not the spare!) Ave continued to resist the whole grown-up responsibly thing and so Mother Dearest sent her off to a monastery to learn discipline, and, hopefully, in the Travorian family matriarchal tradition, adopt the Way of the Shadow and become an assassin. Ave hated every minute of it, and if she learned any lessons at all from the ninja goon squad it was when she attempted to escape and was hauled back, over and over again. One time, however, she finally made it over the wall without the ninjas noticing. She then ran straight into the arms of a Drunken Master, whose ability to evade the ninja squads while also partying like a boss aligned perfectly with Ave's lifestyle. She considers this woman to be her true teacher. And now is actually actively learning to be a monk.

That's far more than you need to know to appreciate what comes next. I will note that I'm NOT trying to make these letters self-contained, so if this is your first one, you might just want to skip, anyway. There's probably too much backstory to ever hope to make sense of it. It's cool. I'm posting these for fun, anyway.

----
( Cut because fic is so very boring, I wouldn't want to offend your eyes for even a millisecond )

I'm pretty sure that I will lose my readership in droves, but it occurs to me that I have been unfair to my Star Trek: The RPG group. I've posted a bit about them from time to time, but mostly in general. I've never posted the fic that I've written for that group. So, I thought I'd start.

Lo, a new icon for you to ignore! If you see the Star Trek logo and don't want to read RPG fic, please skip!

About us: we started playing together (according to the session logs) on January 19, 2019.

So, that's been a long time. Especially since we've always played online via video conferencing, so we played throughout the isolation of the pandemic without a hiatus.

We only play once a month, so it's not quite as intensive as it might seem. It has been, however, one of my favorite groups. We are all crew members of the USS Alan Turing, NCC-74659 an Intrepid Class scientific and survey operations starship currently deployed in the Shackleton Expanse. We are playing in the post-Dominion War era of the Trekverse (so, think: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine-ish).

When we started, I was playing a supremely chatty Bolian Chief Science Officer named Ardon, who, despite coming from a polyamorous culture, secretly longed to be monogamous. Of course, he ended up in a threesome with the Cardassian ambassador and the ship's counselor, until eventually he jumped ship (literally, he went AWOL) for what he imagined to be his one true love, a Romulan space marine. He has not been heard from since.(Maybe. There may have been messages sent from the Romulan Star Empire that appear to have information only Ardon would know, but that mystery is still in play.)

I replaced myself in the role of Chief Science Officer, with a human named Rochester "Ro" LeRoux who was raised on Andor, as part of a Starfleet military base. I tend to like to play characters who go against type. So, Ro managed to become a Science Officer despite only having expertise in "soft" sciences. Previous to the Dominion war, Ro served as a a ship's historian... and then later taught watercolor at Academy. (I blame the actual play mechanics here. When I discovered I could have expertise in something inane like watercolor, I was like, "YES, this is the skill we will most need while fending off Orion slavers in an alternate universe!) When war could no longer spare any of its soldiers, Ro reluctantly entered the battlefield only to accidentally distinguish himself and become a lieutenant commander. His main value is: do whatever is necessary to get to retirement.

Ro, when I picture him in his head, looks and acts a bit like Ian McKellen at his most flamboyant.

Ro is, by chance, one of the few humans on the bridge/senior staff of the Turing. Our captain, Ayla Taryn, is, of all things, a Deltan. Our first officer is Commander Delara, a Betazoid who grew up on Vulcan. The Chief Engineer is the incomparable Li Meru, a Bajoran. Our Chief Medical Officer is a Napean named Eliva.

Our group is interesting because we all pick up various NPCs and play them as player characters. I think this has something to do with the fact that when you're playing on a ship, you need more than six people to do all the things. Why not give the helmsman some personality? It feels much more like it's part of the Trek franchise when everyone has a strong and unique personality/backstory.

So, for instance, I also created the replacement ship's counselor who left after the disaster with Ardon. He's technically an NPC, but the new counselor also fits my mold of playing against type: a Vulcan psychologist, Sular. Like all my characters, Sular has a secret. He was raised on Vulcan, but among a tribe of dessert nomads, who practice V'tosh ka'tur (think: Vulcan raised by an emotion cult.) He initially rejected their lifestyle and submitted to Kolinahr (the purge of emotions) in order to join the Vulcan Science Academy and pursue a life among the stars as a communications officer. But, after a tragedy wherein most of the crew of his previous ship was lost, including a special person he failed to express his love to, he has been experimenting with a return to the practices of his youth.

Anyway, you don't need to remember any of these people in order to enjoy what I'm about to post, except Ro and Sular (who should be obvious in context, or I have failed being a writer.)

This is actually an older piece that sets the stage for a piece I started today based on last night's game (which I hope to post in a couple days, depending). I ended up feeling really crummy today, however, and didn't finish it. My stomach has been a little urpy, my nose runny, and my body achy. I've tested for COVID, and so far, I seem to just have picked up some other random bug. My body is NOT used to this whole being sick thing anymore, however, and so, even though I had a bunch of stuff I wanted to be doing today, including writing the fic, I face-planted and spent most of the day utterly passed out.

Without further ado, I offer this ridiculous fic, which is basically me asking the question: How would a Vulcan be a Ship's counselor?? Could they possibly be any good??

===

The ship’s counselor was young.

Well, Ro mused, everyone seemed so young to him these days, and, really, that was not the most surprising thing about the person sitting seiza on the floor across from him.

Sular, the person whose sole job it was to look after the emotional health of the crew, was a Vulcan.

He wouldn’t have this job if he wasn’t good at it, Ro reminded himself as he tried to close his eyes and join Sular in meditation. But, dealing with people’s emotions all day, every day? A Vulcan? It seemed… well, illogical.

Ro wouldn’t even think about it twice, but he needed serious help. His head still rang after the encounter with that malevolent presence on The House of B’Ling. In fact, he kept having the strangest physical sensations in the aftermath. His stomach suddenly lurched at the memory. HIs head spun. Ro thought he might throw up all over this very lovely Vulcan meditation rug in front of him.

In an effort to calm his wildly beating heart, Ro let out a long breath and put a hand on his chest. His hand shook; his breath came out ragged and uneven.

This was not going well.

“You seem to be having trouble concentrating,” Sular said, his flat affect and emotionless voice surprisingly comforting to Ro’s jangled mind.

Perhaps there was some logic to a Vulcan counselor, after all. It didn’t hurt that this young man was handsome in that way so many Vulcan men were, all angles and planes.

Sular arched a finely sculpted eyebrow. His hands rested flatly against his thighs. “I suggested mediation because quiet contemplation often helps heal a mind that has been forcefully invaded. Perhaps you have been more severely damaged than I initially assessed. Would prefer to talk instead?”

Ro wasn’t sure reliving the encounter would make him feel any better. He shivered at the mere suggestion that he discuss that vile Thing that had pressed itself into his mind. His stomach dropped again and he felt dizzy. Oh gods, what did he even eat today? Klingon bloodwine and sushi? This was going to be gross!

As Ro struggled to keep the contents of his stomach to himself, Sular pulled himself upright in a very fluid motion. The counselor had started to turn away towards a set of scoop chairs, when he noticed Ro’s distress.

With the ease of youth, he crouched back down beside Ro.

Peering deeply into Ro’s eyes, Sular appeared obviously concerned, despite his lack of expression. Dark eyebrows knit together briefly. ““Lieutenant Commander LeRoux, are you quite all right?”

Ro gripped his stomach which had begun to cramp. “It’s deeply disconcerting that something that touched my mind can hurt my body. It feels like it shouldn’t be possible. ‘Psychic Damage,’ it sounds… ridiculous.”

“Psychic damage is a known phenomenon.” Sular assured him as he reached a hand out to help him up. “I will make tea.”

Tea sounded amazing. Ro tried to smile at this delightful young man, but his smile faltered. He was, however, comforted by the strength in the cool, firm grip that lifted him easily to his feet. Upright, Ro’s sense of his own center of gravity returned. He felt more grounded. Despite that, he found didn’t want to let go of that steadying hand. He clutched to Sular as if he were an actual, physical lifeline.

Sular seemed to accept Ro’s reluctance to release his hand without any awkwardness or stiffness. He did not pull away or let go until he was certain that Ro was comfortably settled in the chair. Surprisingly, Sular knelt again beside him, letting his hand rest on Ro’s arm, until Ro focused enough to look him directly in the eye.

Such lovely gray eyes,too-- like a gathering storm at sea.

Sular nodded as if something had been decided. Finally letting go, he stood up. “Rest here. Tea will be only a moment.”

Ro sat in the surprisingly comfortable chair, focused on breathing evenly, and looked around.

The counselor’s office was full of the clean lines of the Zen aesthetic that Ro had come to associate with Vulcans, with a few notable exceptions. There seemed to be a large framed replica of a papyrus scrap that read in Greek: To Eros: You burn me. A poem attributed to Sappho, an ancient human.

“You burn me?” Ro repeated, a little shocked. “Fiery passion? An ancient sex god? Isn’t that… a lot for a Vulcan?”

Sular had requested a thermos of boiling water from the replicator, but otherwise seemed to be making tea by hand at a nearby counter. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Are you under the impression that Vulcans do not experience intense emotions?”

Ro blinked. “Yes? I mean, kind of?”

“It is understandable that it appears that way. However,” Sular said, handing Ro a steaming mug of something that smelled faintly of hibiscus and beremont, “You are incorrect. Vulcans have struggled with great emotion since the time of Surak.”

Ro couldn’t help the little chuckle that escaped his lips, “Really? Are you suggesting that right now, underneath that mask of cool composure you’re a hot, burning mess of uncontrolled passion and emotions?”

“Not uncontrolled,” Sular said, sitting down primly. “But yes.”

Was that sexy? It was kind of sexy.

Not a very professional thought. Well, at least he wasn’t thinking about mind monsters, he supposed. Perhaps he was feeling a little better already? Holding a hand out, Ro noticed it still shook. He let it fall to his lap with a sigh. At least he could manage a sip of tea, if he used both hands to steady the cup. Vulcan tea, if this was what this was, was quite good: sharply bitter, but with an undertone of a flora sweetness. “Shouldn’t we be talking about me?”

“Only if you like.” Sular settled back against the back of his chair, and crossed his legs lightly, loosely. This one was far more…languid than a lot of the stiff Vulcans Ro had known..

“But, don’t I need to process my trauma or whatever?”

“It is not strictly necessary. Often, when a person has experienced this particular kind of psychic damage all that is required to overcome it is rest. Having a pleasant chat is a form of mental rest. At least it can be, for some.”

Everything about this counselor was a lovely surprise, Ro decided. “So, you’re a counselor?” Ro ventured around a sip of tea.

The eyebrow quirk let Ro know he’d asked a rather stupid and obvious question. “I am.”

“What I mean is… the family proud?”

“You may be surprised to learn that my immediate family was quite pleased by my change in career.”

“Change?”

“When I joined StarFleet I was a communications officer.”

Clearly a story there, also clearly off-limits, Ro decided. Well, there were such things as professional boundaries Ro supposed. Not having much else to say, they sat in companionable silence for several long minutes, sipping tea.

Ro could feel his heart rate slowing.

Sular had piped some kind of soft music into his office. It seemed to be an instrumental version of an Andorian folk song. Bits of the original kept flitting through Ro’s mind. Some version of that grand old ballad of a cleverly ruthless Imperial guard. It was normally quite a bit more rousing when sung at the local tavern. The chorus was something akin to ‘Once more into the breach, you wild ice mountain warriors!’ Ro used to dream of being one of those when he was small.

Mmmm, that was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

After Sular had filled Ro’s teacup for a second time, Ro confessed, “There is one thing I feel guilty about. I was… mean to Roloo.”

“Can you further define what you are expressing by the word ‘mean’ ?” Sular asked. “The word you have chosen does not appear to align with any action that would result in guilt.”

Ro rolled his eyes a bit and let out a sigh, “That’s because I was being coy. I didn’t actually want to say what happened, that I was verbally abusive. I told the wee little thing that I’d ‘box him about the ears.’”.

Resting his tea cup in the saucer on his lap, Sular said, “I see.”

Even though Sular’s expression had not changed, Ro swore he felt waves of disapproval coming from those ridiculously gorgeous gray eyes. “Look, don’t judge. My mind had just been invaded by something so awful that it caused actual, physical harm! I thought I was safeguarding my ability to reason by refusing the hypo from Eliva, but I was wrong. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Your reaction was not outside of the typical response to such stress,” Sular said with such calm certainty that Ro almost believed him. “You did not actually harm the creature, correct?”

“I guess,” Ro said. “But, who knows what kind of abuse he suffered at B’Ling’s hands? I didn’t need to add to it.”

Sular took a moment to set his empty cup and saucer on the small table between them. He leaned forward and steepled his fingers. He tapped his fingers against his chiseled chin. “Why are you so certain that what you did harmed this person?”

Ro laughed. “Boxing Roloo’s ears would be terrible! It’d be like kicking a puppy.You haven’t seen him. He's tiny. Adorable. Like a weirdly attractive weasel. ”

That last bit made Sular pause to consider for a moment. Apparently, after erasing that mental image with an almost imperceptible frown, he continued, “Yet, if I read the reports correctly, he quite mercilessly infected his former shipmates with any number of pathogens that had been stored in The House of B’Ling’s medical bay. Viruses, I must point out, which do not distinguish between the slaver or the slave. He infected everyone on that second galleon.”

Ro felt his stomach tighten a bit at that. It was actually somewhat difficult for Ro to reconcile Roloo’s cuteness to both his brilliance and his capability for violence. “I suppose that’s true.”

“There is no supposition. It is irrefutable,” Sular said. He stood up and, after pressing some hidden button on the otherwise blank wall, produced a plate of treats. “Cookie? Or do you use the term biscuit?”

“I only say ‘biscuit’ if I’m being pretentious,” Ro admitted with a smile.

“Understood,” he said impassionately, but there was a ghost of a smile on Sular’s lips for a moment as he set the plate on the table. After helping himself to a cookie, Sular returned to his own seat. “If I may confess a frivolous consideration, I have long wondered how the Universal Translator approaches dialects, particularly those of English, but really, of anywhere. If one is raised with the American English spoken in the Southern United States, does the Universal Translator add the occasional ‘y’all’ or other idioms or vocal tics?”

Ro laughed and mimed the computer’s voice, “Red Alert, y’all! Red Alert!”

“Just so.”

Ro considered this for a moment as he tasted the cookie. Mmmm, was that cardamom? “I don’t know, but now I kind of hope so.”

“Indeed. Myself, as well.”

Charming. The young Vulcan was simply charming. Ro smiled to himself, enjoying the cookie. He reached for a second.

“There is one question I feel I must ask, Lieutenant Commander--”

“Ro, everyone calls me Ro.”

“Very well, Ro. Is there any part of your expression of guilt that is related to a concern that aggression from you might make you a target for extra scrutiny by Star Fleet’s Judge Advocate General?”

“You mean my ‘jailor’?” When Sular said nothing to that, Ro reached for a third cookie. What did they call it? Stress eating? After taking several bites, he said, “I see you’ve read my jacket.”

“It was only logical. I must be acquainted with the full context of your military career in order to--”

Ro waved off the rest of Sular’s excuses. “It’s no secret that I’m an extra-legal human. Starfleet has literally been monitoring me since my birth. But, rest assured the one and only augmentation that I have is a so-called ‘superhuman’ ability to withstand cold temperatures.” Ro paused because this statement wasn’t strictly true. He had also scored much higher than expected in reason and intelligence, but Starfleet had decided, in its wisdom, that those numbers fell within the ‘normal’ range of what could be expected from a relatively bright human being. He cleared his throat and went on, “Extreme temperature survival is the augmentation that the Denobulan doctor performed on me so that I might, in my infancy, survive along with my mother after her shuttle crashed during a rescue mission--which she would never have gone on so pregnant had there been anyone nearby, and time being of an essence.”

“It’s a noble story.” Sular agreed.

“But?”

“There is no ‘but,’” Sular said simply. “I hold no stake or vested interest in your status as an illegal human.”

“Extra legal,” Ro corrected. If he’d been deemed illegal, he’d have lived his life in prison. Or exiled on some hostile planet. Or put on ice. Or whatever Starfleet did with Augments these days.

“Extra legal,” Sular nodded in an apology. “My concern is as the ship’s counselor. It is possible that carrying the burden of Starfleet’s fear regarding augmented humans affects your ability to be aggressive and decisive when needed in command situations. When reviewing your military jacket, I noted that you spent nearly two decades teaching….” He seemed to either be searching for the subject matter or doing a Vulcan version of sheer and utter disbelief, “... watercolor. You hold expertise in xenobiology, human medicine, and history. Yet, you spent much of the Dominion War… painting.”

Ro couldn’t help the small smile when he said, “You sound like you disapprove, Counselor Sular.”

Both eyebrows went up briefly. “It is simply illogical that you would waste such prodigious talent teaching watercolor when there was a war to be won.”

Letting out a little sigh, Ro slumped back the chair. “You’re all but accusing me of being a coward. Aren’t you the least bit worried about reinjuring me, psychically-speaking?”

“Not in the least,” Sular said. “I have already determined that sufficient time has passed since your troubling encounter. In anticipation of this session, I reviewed all the cases of this kind of psychic damage in the past twenty years. No singular, short time exposure has needed more than distance and twenty minutes to make a full and complete recovery.”

“I could be an outlier,” Ro insisted grumpily.

“You most certainly are, Lieutenant Commander Ro, but not for that reason,” Sular said with the tiniest of smirks. “You are avoiding the question.”

“What do you want me to say? That I’m selfish? That my fear of spending the rest of what remained of my life in prison was greater than my sense of patriotic duty to StarFleet… to, in fact, all the living beings of the United Federation of Planets suffering during the war? As it happens, I came to that very conclusion myself before the end of the Dominion War and I left my husband and children behind to re-enter active service as a medic in the trenches, deep, deep in space, so far away from my family, with retirement just on the horizon.”

Ro let out a long frustrated breath.

“The work was horrible,” he continued. “It was frightening to be under fire, day in and day out, but what scared me the most was just how much I enjoyed it. How good I was at it. How easily I rose in the ranks. How natural it felt to be in command, to fight, to lead, to advance on an enemy, to conquer.” Ro took a deep breath. “That, dear Counselor Sular, is why I feel guilty over snapping at an oddly attractive weasel man.”

Sular made a little noise of… surprise? Amusement? It was gone so quickly, Ro could hardly believe he’d heard it. “Indeed. That seems like a notable place to end our first session.”

It was only hours later, when his PADD informed him of a scheduled appointment, that Ro realized that Sular had said “first session,” as if he intended that this one was just the first of many….

I've got this abandoned fic on AO3.

It is a series of series of Bleach fic that I added to faithfully for literal years. I abandoned it when the manga series finally ended in August of 2016 and the canonical end ships broke my pairing. I haven't written on it since.

It was, however, for a long time a fic that a lot of the Byauka/Renji community hung out in. I still get a LOT of pleas to finish it. I have successfully ignored all the of the angry, demaning ones, but I've noticed a shift in the past several years. More and more people who reach out to me around that fic have been very patient and loving. They tell me how grateful they are for the effort I put in and are far more understanding that I may never finish it.

Weirdly, this has made me look at it again.

So, the thing I'm wondering is: do other people do this? Do you ever re-read your own fan fic? It's not terribly embarrassing to me to be doing it in this case, as a sort of research, a prelude to considering writing more. But, I've also re-read finished fics of my own for pleasure. Do you? It feels kind of weird because I'll get caught up in my own work and be all, "Damn, this is GOOD." I feel like I should be more cringe. Like, I'm supposed to look back on the things I wrote and sigh: Ah, my youthful indiscretion! My juvenilia! But, I wrote all this stuff as a full adult, and during/post my professional career as a novelist, so....

I dunno.

I just want to say? That junko on AO3. Helluva a writer. Highly recommend. *wink*

And not a terrible artist, either.

Vizard Renji

Image: in which I drew fan art of my own writing. This one isn't the Byakuya/Renji fic, however, but one that I wrote with my friend Josey, called Shattered Souls in which this character, Renji, becomes a Vizard.

...and me without my Pokeball. :-)

But, yes, so the plot of the Annexation War continues....

=====

April 6

Just outside of the enemy encampment,

South of Breckenfort

Dearest Ave,

Yesterday, as we surveyed the Fey military encampment, I spotted a figure that I long feared I might see in the enemy’s ranks: an Elf. As strange as it may sound, I was grateful to see that she was a prisoner.

I, of course, insisted that we not leave any Elf behind.

The Caravan hesitated, however. To be fair, the odds were not in our favor. This was no small outpost. Below the vantage point of the ridge we’d snuck along, we could see hundreds of troops, including cavalry. It was noted by Zavala, that while we might easily free a prisoner, getting away from mounted riders would be another feat.

Besides, what guarantee did we have that this Elf was friendly? Also given the sheer numbers we faced, wasn’t it smarter to return with Philip’s men? Or simply abandon her to her fate? No one said the latter, at least not out loud, but I could sense it in their continued reluctance. To be fair to them, I, too, had a brief moment when we scanned the enemy's banners where I wondered if the Travorian sigil might be flying among them, and if so, what would I do? And the desire just to run was high.

My heart could not be moved in this matter, however.

Especially since the way the form leaned against the iron bars, it was clear she suffered. I made my case that, friendly or not, this was an enemy of our enemy. That, in itself, should be sufficient reason to free this captive. After all, they would have intelligence we could use, one way or the other. We could always sort the rest out later, if it came to that.

And so it was agreed that with the aid of Nyrs’s invisibility spell, Bellamy would approach the prisoner and try to determine allegiances. I will tell you, Ave, as I waited in the shadows of the trees with the others for Bellamy’s report, I was making plans for what I would do if The Caravan chose to leave this person behind for failing a test of loyalty. It’s one thing to ask me to slaughter Fey, but quite another to turn my back on an Elf, full stop.

But, to my grateful surprise, Bellamy returned with the former captive in tow. Getting a closer look at her, I could see she was a dark-haired High Elf. Papa Bernard healed her and fed her goodberries. I gave her extra rations for her pack and the cloak from my shoulders. She was finally able to introduce herself as Eva… and I was startled to hear a child’s name. I tend to forget how unusual it was of me to have declared my own adulthood at only eighty. It’s always difficult to tell with our kind, but perhaps she was in her fifties? She was already very jaded and hardened by war, it seemed, because, though it was clear it broke her heart, she was willing to leave behind her familiar.

Again, I would not. And in this, the Caravan was in full agreement.

Once Eva confirmed that the hag, Ethel, was not present in the encampment, we decided to attempt to sneak into the command tent to see if it was possible to retrieve her fire lizard familiar.

If I needed further proof that the followers of the Queen Below are evil, it was made abundantly clear when we discovered both Eva’s familiar and a púca vivisected in the hag’s tent. I had already been on the verge of one of my furies, Ave, but seeing this brutality… ignited a burning desire for revenge. As we released the poor, dead creatures from their final disgrace, pinned like specimens to a board, I scrawled into the dirt floor my vow that, for these unconscionable crimes, the hag would die by my hand.

Eva was, of course, inconsolable. Poor thing.

We took what we could of value from the rest of the tent, including the treasury box and any battle plans we could grab. There was a brief skirmish with an animated bearskin rug, but my only memory of that was Grigor’s voice cutting through the battle fog telling me to put away my weapon as Nyrs, who was trapped inside the rug, seemed to be taking injury every time we struck true to the beast. I apparently had enough wits about me to switch to ripping at the beast with my bare hands. With heroic effort from the entire Caravan, Nyrs was freed and the… rug defeated.

As I write these words, it all sounds so ridiculous. Try not to laugh at the image of your brother fighting an animated rug and trust me when I say it was a harrowing fight. Yet, when the rug bit me, I will say that I briefly wondered if there was such a thing as a were-rug, and whether or not I might find myself on a full moon, laid out flat, adoring some hallway.

We found our way out of the tent and discovered that the hag had been terraforming the Prime Material. To feed the mounts, which I have previously failed to mention were giant Fey toads, she was growing a vast garden of mushrooms, tended by a mushroom-person. Opting against subtly, Zavala let loose a fireball and, we hope, struck a crippling blow to the maintenance of the invading Fey army.

Papa Bernard, who had chosen to stay outside with his dog sled team, led the goblin guards on a wild goose chase from all accounts. We were only able to guess his location due to one of his terrifying spells--one which echoed with the sound of a wolf howl and caused a beam of moonlight to focus a kind of death ray on the pursuant goblins.

But, with his distraction and that of Zavala’s fireball, we were able to make a clean escape.

My companions are sleeping now without the comfort of a fire, as Eva and I trade off keeping watch through the night. With the need to stay silent and alert, I have not yet found the time to truly talk with her. I would love to know more about how she came into the service of the Autumn Queen, the Fey ally that you wrote to me about, especially as Eva is clearly from this plane of existence, her village being local to this area. Are there other Elves in this war, after all? Have they allied with the Autumn Queen of the Oaks?

And, if the local Elves have made a stand, where is Mother in all of this?

Which reminds me, I should probably warn Eva that the cloak around her shoulders is fastened with a clasp of the obsidian dagger and silver ouroboros of the House of Travorian, in case that might be troublesome… or of some use. As I fully intend for her to keep it, it occurs to me to note that I’ll be finally rid of everything that connects me to our family.

Ah.. yes, I neglected to tell you my last letter, but I secretly left behind my signet ring with the Witch of the Western Marsh. Not... in the way you imagine, though I would, of course, be honored if she were to accept such a love token from me. But more, again, in case it might be of aid to her should the winds of war shift.

After all, you and I both know that no matter who ends up on the top of the heap at the end of all this dirty business, Mother will be there in the shadows behind the throne.

I hope that wherever you are right now, you are well away from any fighting. Seeing Eva here, curled in meditative sleep, one hand unconsciously reaching towards the body of her lost companion, I can’t help but think of you and what I would do to anyone who caused you this kind of distress.

Your ever protective, older brother,

Idyril

When Ave reads this letter, she's going to be muttering to herself, "Drama king, much, brother??" Idyril is the perfect barbarian because all his feelings are so very, very BIG.

========

March 16

The Sloshing Boot

Brendlefort, Kingdom of Shira

Ave, my sister--

Where am I meant to send these letters now? I suppose I might as well continue to direct them to our home in The Beech Wood. Mother has spies everywhere, after all. Once she or her secretary scans our personal correspondence for secrets that she can later use to manipulate us, my notes can be sent to your hidden monastery of the assassins of Lesh. Perhaps Mother is even capable enough to track down your wandering drunkard of a master. I would put none of it past her.

It seems typical of my luck lately that we were both adventuring in different parts of the FeyWild and yet managed to miss each other completely. I’m particularly saddened to have missed your hug.

I could sorely use it.

In fact, if I could, I’d move heaven and earth only to see your face again, Ave, to watch your dancing eyes, and to bemusedly listen to your chaotic spill of delightful conversation. I, too, fear that when next we meet, I’ll be counted among the dead. That feeling has only been heightened by recent events.

The news of Chittering Lucy’s death has already spread like wildfire among the Fey. We were scarce hours returned to Prime Material and already confronted by an ice-wielding FeyWild spy intent on killing me, it seems, in particular.

Apparently, the information about Lucy’s death is incomplete. While I may have struck the final blow that ended her life, I’m in no way capable of countering such a powerful hag on my own. It took the combined forces of the Caravan, of course, but in specific it was the massive power of our cleric, Theophina, and the fire she could call down from the realm of the gods themselves that lay the witch low.

Yet, I understand how it is that I came to be the sole target of their ire.

They see me as a traitor to our race.

Ironically, despite my once divided loyalties, I can hardly deny such an accusation. Its truth is born out by the fact that as my companions shopped for new wares and sold off the spoils of war to various apothecaries, alchemists, and witches in town, I was called upon by the town guard to act as translator for a FeyWild captive--the very cartographer turned assassin who had attacked me.

I suspect that because I’m quick to anger and the fact that his man did me grievous bodily harm, Thompkins' guard presumed me a good bet, an ally. I was wounded by this IceFey, after all. Perhaps I had a beef with him?

But, everyone misunderstands what fuels my fury. I hold no grudge against anyone who raises a hand to me. Or, perhaps, it’s more accurate to say that I feel there is no blame when a soldier fulfills their duty.

No, what lit the unquenchable fire in my belly was that I was asked to stand in a room while they tortured a man who looked very much like me, who cried out for mercy in the language of my heart- a language shared by no one in the room but him and me.

And even as I grew angrier and angrier at this cruel twist of fate, the gods betrayed me by sending out dark tentacles of Wild Magic, causing dancing Faerie lights to encircle my form and, Ave, even the floor of the stone prison itself erupted, briefly, into gnarled, ancient roots of oak and ash. And to what end? Why do the gods curse me so? Do they delight in the irony? Is it some fine trick to them that it was my very Fey ancestry that so perfectly served to terrify the Faerie captive that he spilled every secret he’d sworn to keep for the Queen Below and laid them at my new masters’ feet.

For surely my fate is sealed and bound by force to the Humans now.

Where once I might have turned my gaze toward our most ancient of homelands, I have no choice but to stand firm where I am, here on the Prime Material. I’ve done too much for them now, Ave. I have served them far too well. There’s no going back.

So rejoice, my sister. If I fall in battle now, it will be from a Fey arrow, aimed true, cutting straight through my heart.

Your brother,

Idyril

Random things happening in my life include....

Mason coming home today. He had a flight that came in around 8:00 am, which was good, since a storm was predicted today. The morning started out weird because I was at the coffeeshop picking up a coffee for the both of us and I realized that I'd FORGOTTEN my phone. I didn't want Mason to be panicked, so asked to borrow the phone (I know, how 1973 of me!) at Claddaugh to call our landline (it's the only number I have memorized) and leave a message telling Shawn to let Mason know that I'd just head to the airport and circle until he could meet me. It all worked out fine? But, this was one of the many weird things that happened today.
The other EXTREMELY weird thing that happened today was that I was planning on Monte Cristo's for dinner and so I made a special trip to the grocery store to pick up ham. My store has a little quick deli where things are pre-packaged so you don't have to wait at the deli counter. Anyway, I grabbed the last of the packages labeled ham. Now, I have had a problem in the past where things aren't in the right slots, like the little label on the refrigerated shelf will say "ham" and it will actually be bologna, and so I have gotten in the habit of actually also reading the label. Label very clearly read ham, so I threw it in my cart and didn't think about it again... until I opened it to put in the Monte Cristos...and I thought, "Mmm, is this right?". But, like, I kept thinking, "Huh, well, it says it's fancy ham, so... " and I actually made them... and then my family was like, this is roast beef. It was totally roast beef. WTF, Kowalskis. WTF.I can't say dinner was ruined, but it was very UNEXPECTED.
The whole day was filled with this sort of thing--nothing truly disastrous, but, like, I ended up having to go back to the grocery store because I forgot to buy maple syrup. HAD I BUT KNOWN ABOUT THE BEEF... but, yeah, for a day that started with really strong, delicious coffee, it sure went off the rails pretty quickly.
A check from the Loft seems to be lost in the mail. I ask the post office to do its "informed delivery" where the sorter takes a picture of things that are being sent to my address. So, I always know what's SUPPOSED to be in the mail. This check is now two days late. I'm going to take the image to the post office tomorrow and see if they know where it went. If they've lost it, I'll have to call the Loft and ask them to void that one and recut me a check. SIGH. I could use the money, now actually, but that's always how it goes, isn't it?

Much more random things, many of them fannish...

I finished up both my Yuletide assignment and a treat. I rarely sign-up for Yuletide officially, but I really enjoy pinch-hitting. I've lucked out both this year and in previous ones and got fandoms I really love. I had actually started my treat some time ago because I noticed a fandom on the list that I also adore and have always wanted to write about. When I turned in my assignment, I decided to quick finish up the treat. So, that's done and dusted.
I got invited to a CY-Borg one-shot on Thursday night so I am currently working on a character for that. I'm pretty sure the point of the game is that we all die, but... well, I'm in these things for the character, so I might as well go all in.

I should probably pull together some thoughts for those of you interested in cat integration. Rhubarb is really settling in, but there are still some random banshee screams (claws don't seem to come out as much?) between the ladies, but generally things are quieter. There's a bit more to it, but I don't feel like I have a huge amount of spoons right now to detail it all.

Like many of you, I imagine, I've been suddenly getting a bunch of spam on my AO3 fics. It only finally occurred to me yesterday to ask someone more in the know and check their Twitter account to find out what I could do about it, besides hitting "spam" on each of the comments individually. I have over 400 fics on AO3, so the "change all" did not work for me. I spent several minutes last night doing small batches of "registered users only" comments.

Hopefully, that will help.

In other news, work on the kitchen continues.

Lyda with a power tool and crazed expression

Lyda with a power tool and crazed expression

Image: Lyda with a power tool and a crazed expression.

Yesterday, however, I had a break from the physical labor of it all because Shawn had her long-awaited cardiologist appointment to see if someone could figure out what the heck has been going on with her fluctuating blood pressure/strange heartbeats. Right now the doc is speculating that it is either pvc tachycardia or pac (which Google seems to think is the same thing, different name)? But, no one seemed super-duper worried at the moment, which has de-stressed Shawn a lot--though, I'm not particularly any less stressed, since no one has offered an explanation of why this might have suddenly started.

HOWEVER, Shawn got to come home with a heart monitor, which she gets to wear for two weeks so that they can get a good picture of what her heart does all day. They gave her a burner phone that is installed with a single app that is transmitting the information to the cyborg mothership, I think? I dunno, I missed the details of that, but the point is, if something goes awry, they will know and call.

Other than that, life proceeds apace.

I am hoping to be finished with this revitalization kitchen project by this weekend. This weekend is kind of the deadline because Mason is home from university on Tuesday next already, and we have a tree that is currently barren of all decorations. Shawn and I would really like to trim the tree before Mason gets here. I mean, if either of us had any energy left after dinner, we could probably do it any night this week, but, yeah, no... that has not been happening.

In other news, my Star Trek gaming group is celebrating year FOUR of its on-going mission. It's hard to believe, but I love that group so hard, it's not even funny. (I am reminded that I should write some super-meta fan fic that one of the characters will write of a fictional TV show that is often referenced in our campaign: "My Space Love.") And tonight? My poor beleaguered elf barbarian is going to discover that he's even more fey than he thought he was... we are leveling up, and I've decided to go with the Wild Magic barbarian sub-class, which basically involves him leaking Fey Wild magic while raging... which should wonderfully complicate everything for everyone in the party (the GM is on board, never fear. I would never make a choice like this without checking in that it goes along with any planned story elements.)

Anyway, I apologize for my days of silence. I think I should pre-plan that my New Year's resolution should be to be better about journaling.

Not much to report from last night, unless you're interested in what desert I made? I found a recipe that used a can of pumpkin, and so I made these kind of cakey pumpkin-spiced and chocolate chip things that Dan announced were, "half way to scone," and I think he was right about that. I wasn't thrilled with that part of them, but they tasted great. So, I will consider them at least a partial win.

The story of The Caravan continues below in Idriyl's latest letter home.(Also, if you're wondering why I am bringing characters not in the party into this story it's because we are using a character tree as part of this game, so I have pre-generated Idriyl's sister Ave and the bastard son who is mentioned in this missive as PCs, in case Idriyl dies or... I guess the party gets tired of him, or we want to switch out for funsies, etc.) Also, I keep not knowing how to spell my own character's name, thank you dyslexia. I think I've settled on this spelling since I am pronouncing it: ID-RE-YELL.

-------------------

November 2

Sloshing Boot, the Port City of Brekenforth

My dear sister Ave,

I am cursed.

I’m sure you imagine me prone to melodrama--particularly after my previous letter--but I must assure you that in this case I am being perfectly literal.

There is so much to relate. Fortunately, The Caravan was paid and I have plenty of paper and ink once again. Likewise, I’m comfortably ensconced back at the Sloshing Boot. I’ve nothing but time on my hands since, unlike my human and halfling companions, I have little need for eight hours of sleep. (I have no idea what our Triton friend, Nerys, does at night. Perhaps she rents a bath?) Aiyu, my bar cat friend, is curled up in my lap, snorting the adorable snores of felines, and, together, we sit by a crackling fire in a nearly empty, pre-dawn tavern. It’s nothing like the fine and gentile life I once had (and which I pray you are still living) but it is, for the moment, quite pleasant.

If only I weren’t under a mysterious curse.

Let’s see how well I can retrace the steps that brought me back here. When last I wrote, I believe I was coming down off one of my furies, as we had just defeated a number of the puckwudgies in their underground den. There was, to our misfortune, more of that cavern to explore. Retracing our steps and following the opposite fork in the path, we discovered a rope-locked door. Bellamey, the nimble-fingered farmer, untied the complex knot with no trouble. Inside, we found two, long suffering, hogtied hunters. We freed them and I shared my waterskin and rations with them. Once we were assured they could walk without aid, we took them with us further into the interior of the underground tunnels, since they were missing another of their party, a hunter named Gretchen, and had grave concerns regarding her safety. As we were still carrying weapons from the archer puk-wudjies, we outfitted them for battle, despite their wretched state.

It was good that we did.

Despite Xavala proclaiming to the hunters, “Rejoice, my brothers, your savior has arrived,” I am not sure who, in the end, did the saving.

For we almost immediately stumbled upon an unworldly scene. In this otherwise crude cave that seemed to have been dug out by a large mammal, there was a boulder-like altar in the center of the room. All around it were tall, pillared platforms, almost like an amphitheater. We could see the poor woman, Gretchen, on the altar, tied, with two porcupine-like puckwudgies apparently on the verge of some dastardly deed. As the first one in the room, I could hear the mutterings of a spell being cast.

After that… well. I’m afraid details become murky. Just at the sight of those fey creatures my blood boiled. Once again--twice in one day, Ave!--I flew into a blind and unstoppable rage.

When next I came to, our enemies lay wasted, all dead except for the giant weasel that Papa Bernard seemed to have somehow charmed. I think, too, that once again I owe Xavala my life, for at some point in my haze of battle, I remember a cool and soothing touch. Even so, dear Ave, I must admit I was barely clinging to life. The battle must have been quite fraught; I believe Papa Bernard said something about it being a matter of who missed the least. I have a sense of having once been keenly focused on murdering the spellcaster, only to suddenly no longer seem interested in targeting her. I can only imagine that much dark magic was afoot, which caused our blades to not strike true.

You might assume that this sinister and wily spellcaster was the cause of my woes, but, instead, it was during the puzzling out of the aftermath that I became cursed.

Our monk, Gregor, immediately freed the bound woman. I offered her a blanket from my bedroll to cover herself and food and drink, but she was quite sick with poison. Even so, she was able to paint a picture for us of the dastardly deeds she and her companions had endured.

The altar, which later revealed runes to this nature, was some kind of sacrificial conduit for siphoning the energy of Souls. This Soul-energy was then being transmitted into a gate or a doorway, much, I suspect, like the kind you and I often traversed in our youth, that might take an Elf between The Beech Wood and the Feywilds. All of this unholy preparation was being done, according to our survivors, for one of the Fey court rulers. A mysterious figure known only to us as the Queen Below.

Between the Queen Below and the Hag, I fear the number of our powerful enemies are increasing tenfold.

The monk astutely suggested that this was no longer a minor incursion by the Fey for trinkets and baubles any more; this was clearly a preparation for all out war, a full-on invasion.

In our concern that this altar was a means for transport into the Kingdom, Gregor and I attempted to mar the runes written upon the altar’s base. We, perhaps, should have been more cautious, as the mere attempt to deface these fiendish markings caused us to feel a pulse of energy that took something from the both of us, though, at the time, it simply felt like a little wave of nausea or illness.

Since we could not destroy the altar, it was decided that, after coaxing the weasel and her kittens from the room, we should collapse the entrance to that space. Though it will not likely serve as a fully impenetrable deterrent, perhaps we have slowed down the Fey army’s immediate advance. Hopefully, too, the disrupted ritual will cause them to abandon this gateway.

On the trip back to the hunter’s camp, I finally heard tales of our final battle. It seems that Gregor is in possession of a magical blade. Even on obvious misses, it shoots out crossbow bolts with stunning and deadly accuracy! It apparently even works this way, when only being held? This story seemed to me the most preposterous, but Gregory insists that he had thrown a spear he thought had only done minimal damage, only to see a bolt come out of nowhere and kill the archer he’d struck.

I did notice Bellamey’s smirk as that last story was being told around the campfire. Yet, it seems to me that if an altar can curse a person with bad luck, it is reasonable that a mysterious short sword given by one’s venerable monkish master might also confer good luck. Still, I do agree that “a bolt out of nowhere” is a bit of an odd power for a sword to possess (although I did see columns of fire drop down from the sky apparently directed by the gods that Theophania calls her own). Anyway, I don’t know how Bellamey can be so judgmental when, once again, he disappeared for most of the fight.

The next morning we left the hunters and returned to the city to tell our tale to the Captain of the Guard, Thelma Thompkins. She was pleased to hear that the hunters were, for the most part, recovered alive, and, after Papa Bernard’s coaxing, she granted us an additional boon. It seems her relationship with the half-elf Captain of the Watch is strained, and so she gave us a writ of passage and tasked us with reporting the news of the Fey invasion to this Philip person, who is stationed two days to the north of Breckenforth.

This means, dear sister, that we will finally be allowed free passage out of this wretched port town. I can not tell you how tired I am of these streets and how grateful I will be to be on the open road once again.

But, first, we will detour to the marshes to the south to see a Witch, who lives there. We had attempted to ask a priest of Pallas for aid regarding the curse, but--and I hate to speak so unkindly of a holy man--he was a scam artist. He meant to charge us 250 gold per person to lift the curse and he could not be bargained with. The best we could afford was 50 gold a piece just to discover the nature of this curse. It is, he told us, simply bad luck.

I feel this is the sort of grifting even I, who has no natural charm, could manage--wave my hands around for five minutes and claim that a person suffers from ill omens. Bad luck. Dark juujuu. Honestly, I knew as much already, given my life to-date.

Fifty gold may seem like nothing to our family, my sister, but out here far from home, it is a fifth of the cost of a pot of ink. Think of the letters this charlatan has denied you!

Priests.

They’re now on my list of things that make my eye twitch with a burning rage, right after the Fey.

At any rate, it is at The Caravan’s insistence that we turn south to see this Marsh Witch. Neither Gregor nor I feel particularly oppressed by this curse, but there is some general curiosity among our party as to the nature of this Witch and so, if the majority wishes us to see if our affliction can be relieved, so be it.

At least the cheating priest did seem to get some kind of celestial vagaries regarding the number eight.Thus, it is believed, perhaps, that this curse has some kind of time or “use” limit--we are uncertain. Again, I’m probably foolishly inured to the dangers due to the inhuman invulnerability I feel when possessed by the savage madness, but it seems a waste to have to go so directly out of our way.

However, I have decided that I will put that annoyance aside for the excitement I feel at the prospect of the open road. And to be headed north! Each step I take, I shall imagine myself that much closer to you and to the home I miss so dearly.

I do hope you’re faring well. I have quite a collection of letters in my pouch that I have been unable to send, due to the barricaded nature of this town. Once we are outside the walls, I will endeavor to seek a courier. Perhaps someone under the Captain of the Watch’s command might be hired to send these missives on their way. I hate to think of what you must be imagining has befallen me since that fateful day that I was so shamefully cast out.

Speaking of home--are you behaving? Have you finally decided to declare adulthood? I feel so foolish writing to a sister who is only younger than me by a decade and still using her baby name. You could finally become Avelynn, you know. You’re a hundred and fifteen already, and you have responsibilities! Especially given my protracted absence and the lack of any other suitable heir, you should consider finally taking the big step to adulthood.

Since we are on the subject of inheritance, have you heard any more about mother’s supposed bastard? When I was still enmeshed in all the politics of home there had been some hope that perhaps he might have been caught up in all of this Pact War nonsense. I had not really understood the implications at the time, knowing as little as I do of matters outside our political sphere of influence. I only remember that the sense of relief at the thought of his demise was palpable throughout the court. Now I understand a bit more why, given how the priest reacted to the presence of Nerys, who is very clearly a warlock.

Can you imagine? Mother must be beside herself if the rumors are true and a love child of hers has taken up a dark pact! The shame of it must almost be equal to knowing that her firstborn has a temper that makes him unsuitable for diplomacy… and a perfectly capable daughter who refuses to grow up.

Humph, cursed, indeed. This family of ours seems quite well acquainted with bad luck.

From one failed Trevalian to another, I remain--

Your brother, Idriyl.

My last day of Virtual Chicon was actually Saturday, which is two days ago now, but I'll my do my best to recap for those that are interested.

I had a great couple of panels on Thursday, despite being ten minutes late to the panel I was most excited about "Satoshi Kon: a Retrospective." The panel moderator was Alina Sidorova and she was very kind in that, despite my late arrival, she gave me an opportunity right away to dig into my theories about the transness of some of the reflective images in Kon's work. This sparked a very lively conversation. I think, generally, this was a really great group of individual fans, each with their own unique perspective. I wish, in fact, we'd had more time to explore Osawa Hirotaka's point that Kon, himself, has said that he was deeply influenced by music, and that there is often a connection between art and music. I know nothing at all about music, since I'm not actually much of a fan (I always dread the classic author interview question which is: What kind of music do you listen to when you create? My answer: none, are you nuts? How can I hear my characters talking over someone else's lyrics??? But NO ONE likes that answer. I'm supposed to have a playlist. I fail playlists.) So, I mean I would like to hear from people for whom music and their art are intrinsically linked, and we ran out of time before we could go deep on that. I was also on that panel with Nick Mamatas, who was also on my later, much more chaotic panel "Noir and SF/F."

The Noir panel was rough for me for a couple of reasons. First, my internet decided to be deeply unstable. Second, while I wrote a noir cyberpunk, I don't actually read or watch a lot of it otherwise. So, every time there was a question like, "What are you reading now in the noir genre that you would recommend?" or "Are there noir SF stories with alien detectives?" I had no clue how to answer. But, luckily, both the moderator T.C. Weber and Nick had a lot to say on pretty much everything (<--I say that with a smile, I really liked the both of them a lot.) Marissa James and I stayed out more often than not, though me more intentionally that she, I think.

Virtual panels seem to come in a lot of varieties. I actually saw at least part of one "Cyberpunk in Different Cultures" that was set up like an Academic presentation, where each expert actually ran a power point presentation. Then, after each person gave their separate speech, they would come together and discuss as a group. I am not a super fan of this? I mean, I feel it can be quite good if it's a survey topic, like "Cyberpunk in Different Cultures," where what the viewer wants at the end is a list of books or materials to consume.

There are others, like the "Noir" panel where everyone talks whenever they feel like it and it's in constant danger of devolving into chaos, albeit a fun chaos.

I actually thought that our "Satoshi Kon" panel was a good hybrid in that, while we didn't have a power point prepared, it was clear that each of us had a THING that we wanted to say about Kon's work. But, instead of waiting until the end to discuss, when ideas might get lost, we would each say our piece, have some excited cross talk, and then it would be the next person's turn. I absolutely credit the moderator for being able to orchestrate this kind of discussion. Alina was really good, too, at making sure everyone had an equal voice and ample time to speak.

It's really hard to make an online panel as fun and informative as an in-person one, but I feel like I had two really decent experiences, even the more chaotic "Noir" one.

I will say that I find that there's something about video conferencing that makes a lot of panelists into expressionless robots. I don't know what causes this, but some people go really flat, like they're staring into a TV screen. I notice that very few people smile or nod along and that brings the energy down. In an effort to counteract that I always make it my habit to smile, nod, and turn off my mic so that I can say the "uh-huh" noises to myself without breaking up their audio. It's an effort to stay engaged, but it's not that much more of an effort than it is in Real Life (tm) in my opinion.

I watched the Hugo Award ceremony on YouTube and I have opinions on that, too, but they're probably not for public consumption. The only thing I can say about it is that I think there's something very insular that happened this year. Same people, different award happened more than once. That being said, I was so happy to see Neil Clarke get a Hugo this year. I also want to be clear that I feel everyone nominated was very deserving, winner or not, it's just that... well, I had to wonder this year how much "ah, I know that name!" went into the voting decisions of WorldCon members. Though who knows what happened given that the Hugo's are decided with the run-off ballot style. Perhaps what I noticed was a matter of people winning a majority in the number 2 ranking. Who knows?

Anyway, it was still lovely to watch. Someone's speech always makes me tear up a little, and this year was no exception.

In other news, I spent far too much time today debating with a reader of my fan work about why I was not writing their favorite character the way they saw them. I tried to answer with the simple, "Because I'm writing my vision of the same character." To which they responded, "But why, though," and then dropped me a (and I kid you not) THREE PAGE GOOGLE DOC letter. The letter might have been more useful to me, but it seemed to mostly be comprised of "Why did you write him this way, when he's obviously this other way?" without any supporting documentation. This is fan fic, show me where you get this idea from canon. I want page number and panel, so I can reconstruct your thought process and reasonably discuss our differing takes on the same moment in canon. I am always, 100% up for that.

Me, discussing Bleach canon:
The conspiracy guy from "Sherlock," I believe

The conspiracy guy from "Sherlock," I believe

Image: The red string conspiracy guy from "Sherlock," I believe.

It's that, or accept that you just like Soft!Aizen and there isn't canon support for your preference and you don't care (but then don't argue with people who write Hard!Aizen.)

This person also seemed upset that my story had "an agenda." "You were trying to paint the villain as a good guy!" I had to break it to this fan that every story has an "agenda." It's called a "theme," in your English class. If a writer doesn't have something they're trying to say, they probably will run out of steam before it's finished. But, the theme or agenda it doesn't have to be as big as my exploration of "What if Aizen was evil, but also not wrong about the Soul Society and Ichigo helped him win?" It can be, "What if Ichigo really liked knitting?"

Both of these are "agendas," because the fic writer is probably also saying something about why Ichigo might like knitting or why knitting is cool. In the story, they'll PROBABLY CENTER KNITTING. (This person was really upset that I centered Aizen, and I was like, well, that's because to make the case that Aizen is evil but also not wrong, I have to let him talk about it???) But, the point is, all writing is about SOMETHING. It's also not illegal or wrong for me to want to make a political statement in my fan fic, even if canon doesn't support it. Fic writing, for me at least, is about the exploration. You've got this world you want to play in for some reason, often because you find something gnarly or toothsome in it and you want to chew on it. That, I explained to them, is the point of it all, and what that might end up feeling like is an "agenda."

I have a very bad feeling that I, at 55, might be arguing with someone who is, in point of fact, 12. I am trying to be emphatic, but not rude. Twelve or twenty or two hundred, I felt really compelled to explain that I don't owe anyone their vision of this character we have in common by the happenstance of fandom. This is fan fic.

If I want to write non-canonical, out-of-character stuff in my fan fiction, I'm actually allowed? I actually prefer to write as in character as possible, but that's my preference. It's not a requirement of the format.

...that I spent 9/10ths of my free time today writing not only Star Trek fan fic, but fan fic specific to my role-playing game??!?

By chance, I was trying to find one of my older fics. You would normally just go to AO3 and start scrolling, but I have a lot.

I mean, A LOT.

So, it is actually sometimes easier for me to just Google my own work. So, I popped in the title I was looking for and discovered that TWO of my Bleach fics were featured on a PODCAST.

"Berry Barista" and "The Loss of More Than Power," were called out as part of the "Ichigo's Harem" by The One True Podcast, Episode 19 (you will have to scroll down, I could not find a direct link. Not that I expect anyone but me cares to listen to this whole thing). The first part of the podcast just explains what Bleach is and why there are so, so many ships that sail with Ichigo, the main protagonist. The story that the guest speaker talks about wishing she could write, is, in fact, "The Loss of More than Power." and then she gets into her recs. And, let me tell you right now, there is literally nothing quite like being simultaneously called out as "I don't think they have updated in a long time," and "It is so good. SO GOOD."

Yep.

My fan fic career in a nutshell.

At any rate, the other thing I forgot to tell you all about is that as part of Shawn's work, she is doing a course in "Design Thinking." It's one of those certification programs that requires a lot of projects. One of them was to design and BUILD a tinfoil hat, I have to admit that I kind of dig the craft parts of this course? Previously, Shawn and I had to do a brainstorming session with post-it notes. I mean, I say "Shawn and I' because technically these are supposed to be "team" projects, but, of course, no one is in the office right now. So, she's been tapping me to be her team.

The good news is that I kind of dig it.

Here's me modeling the cooking tinfoil hat, for the discerning conspiracy theorist who likes to cook and is fond of anglerfish.

anglerfish cooking tinfoil hat

It has a recipe hook, a fancy fish tail counter weight, a spoon holder, drip pockets, and so much more!!

Also, as my friend Laurie Winter pointed out when I posted this to Facebook, the other feature of our hat is that the aliens can not implant their recipes into your brain! Bonus!

We sent a series of these pictures to Mason, who left for college and Connecticut the day we sat down to do this with, "Here's what happens when we are left with an empty nest." We got back, "??? ARE YOU OKAY?'

If you thought that somehow, thanks to the pandemic, you wouldn't be hearing stories of my adventures in idiocy, you'd be VERY WRONG, my friend.

Yesterday, I realized we were completely out of cat food and so I grabbed my teen, our masks, and headed to the car. I put the key in and... "rrr?" was all I got. I tried again, "r?" and then "..."

We got out of the car and came inside to call triple-A. That was new and different, because I was asked very explicitly if me or anyone in my family had been exposed to COVID-19. Since I presumed a certain amount of closeness and current-ness and certain-ness, my answer was "no." I mean, of course, I could have been recently and I wouldn't know for several weeks, and we were one-removed from a known case, but that was literally over a month ago and that person who was in contact with the confirmed case never developed any symptoms. So... I felt fairly confident in my answer, and, at any rate, it was enough to get them to send someone. I also promised to be wearing a mask, which I did.

The triple-A guy was a hoot. He really wanted to understand the problem before coming out. So, I described everything again and confessed that it was, in fact, QUITE POSSIBLE that I'd forgotten to fill-up with gas. Thing is, a lot of my car is electronic, and it has a little warning beep it gives me when I am running low on fuel. HOWEVER, when I'm low on something else--say, washer fluid--it really, really wants me to know about THAT over everything else. We are low on wiper fluid. I have not bothered to get any because: SNOW. So, I may have missed the indicator that warmed me about low fuel. Yes, yes, I have a gauge, but it's exactly 100% accurate, so I have been relying on the reminder.

Guess what?

I WAS out of gas.

On the other hand, the triple-A guy and I did a lovely social distance ballet while working on the car together. I left my AAA card and my driver's licence on the trunk, got into the car, he check that. He looked under the hood while I tried the car, made the determination to try the gas, while I stayed in the car. And, like this until the car started. We yelled at each other from across the road when everything was done (yelling, because masks really muffle your voice.)

Anyway, it was weirdly entertaining. Then, since I was already wearing the mask and I wanted to make sure the battery was charged, I went to Target by myself, got the cat food and was impressed with Target's social distancing and constant sanitizing. They literally wipe everything down between customers. EVERYONE was wearing a mask and gloves working there, and there were social distance markers on the floor to indicate where customers should wait in line. MOST of the customers were also wearing masks, some had gloves, and everyone was being really conscientious about how close they were to each other. Except, of course, family groupings, which was fine.

In other news, my sour dough starter has really started to percolate, so perhaps Vera wasn't quite as ready as I thought she was before. Today, I am making rolls and regular bread with her cast off.

I also decided to be silly and made myself this "fancy" desert:

a wine glass full of orange Jello and orange slices, just how grandma used to make it, only fancy!

a wine glass full of orange Jello and orange slices, just how grandma used to make it, only fancy!

Image: wine glass full of orange Jello and orange slices--just how grandma used to make it, only FANCY!

Haters gonna hate, but I'm here to tell you: IT WAS DELICIOUS AND I REGRET NOTHING.

Also, I posted my cooking/food fic today, I hope my requester likes it. It is super fluffy and full of the smell of food, the preparing of food, and the eating of food. ALL THE THINGS I LOVE.

I just spent a good part of the morning attempting to make a short video of myself reading from Unjust Cause. It actually went pretty well, I was able, in fact, to post it all over: Twitter, Facebook, and even on Tate's old blogspot blog. So... if you're interested in watching me touch my face and instantly freak out about it, feel free to check those spots, or you can follow this link to directly to YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=viTDMRvqmME&t=9s

I may do this again, because I can't do readings otherwise.

So, other than that, how have I been, you ask? Pretty good, I guess? I've been cooking a lot, as previously mentioned. Today's big sourdough adventure was adding the starter to my usual cinnamon rolls. They turned out quite yummy, so that's a win.

Minnesota still has snow on the ground, so I have not been for my usual walk, unfortunately. The sun is quite bright out there right now, but I'm not sure if I'm willing to brave the temperatures. Yeah, no I just asked the lady of the house the current temp, and she tells me it's 23 F / -5 C. (The lady of the house is what we call our Alexa when we want to talk about her without triggering a reply. Sort of like He Who Shall Not Be Named, but slightly less menacing. Certainly feared and ubiquitous, however. I think we decided to name her that so that when, on those rare occasions, when robo callers ask to speak to "the lady of the house" we can put Alexa on.)

Yesterday signaled the last day I was able to go without repeating a meal. Alas.

On a positive note, I got my assignment for the food fic exchange. I have until Saturday to write something and I already started. Whoot.

rachelmanija just sent me a link to a fic exchange is so perfect for me that I ran out and signed up for it immediately.

Honestly, I'm not sure there has ever been a fic exchange more tailor-made for me than this one: Flash in the Pan: A Food Flash Exchange. I literally JUST WROTE a fic that is entirely based on two characters in Bleach forging a friendship by sharing food and poetry for the Moon Viewing Festival. Honestly 9/10ths of my fic involves scenes over food or food prep. When I was regularly writing my epic ByaRen soap opera, I would occasionally get comments that would say, "Damn it. Now you made me hungry." or ask, "Why do you write so much about food??"

The idea of this one is a little different than, say, Yuletide. The fic only has to be 300 words at a mininum long (hence: flash) and rather than focusing on characters or pairings, it is almost exclusively structured around fandoms and prompts (in the form of tags). So, for instance, you might chose the Marvel Cinematic Universe as your fandom and pick from the tag set "A food fight so intense it causes property damage" or, if you just want fluff "buttered toast." The tags really do run the gambit like that, including things that could obviously become the entree (pun intended!) into sexual situations, like " a preposterously juicy mango" or "choice of desserts." There are mysterious ones, too, like "the Noodle incident." So, you can really have fun with this one, if you join us.

And you should join us.....

The cool thing is that if you don't see your fandom on the list, you can still add it. If I'm reading the FAQ right, they are basically accepting nominations right up to when assignments go out tonight. Oh, that's the only other thing.

The deadline for signing-up is TONIGHT.

Doooo eeeeeet with me! What is 300 words?? It's hardly even a half a page. You can do it!

And, anyway, with the snow falling outside, I'm ready to snuggle under my half-finished quilts and do some fic writing. Seriously, I can not believe the amount of snow that is falling from the sky outside my window right now. The weather forecast, which I almost never look at except in a very general "will I need an umbrella?" way, tells me that it is SUPPOSED to start warming up after tomorrow. I would enjoy it for what it is (ridiculous and sort of pretty), but I am worried about all the plants that bravely started to poke up from the ground. I had some bloodroot and some wild ginger sprouting, and, I LOVE those plants and I would be very sad if they died thanks to this snow.

On the other hand, I have no desire to go anywhere with all the white stuff coming down.

What are you up to today?

a close up of the close of a letter, which reads: signed... followed by a five pointed red flower, the Scarlet Pimpernel

Picture: a close-up of the close of a letter, with cursive "signed" followed by a stamp of a five-pointed red flower, the Scarlet Pimpernel.

I was looking for juvenilia to read at Minicon and I came across a series of letters (and notes passed in Algebra class, written with the code "to Mme de Valois, with haste!") between me and my friend Mary Anderson Dupont, in which I write to her as none-other-than the Scarlet Pimpernel. We had read the novel in class, watched the movie, and become instant fan grrls. My mother even had a stamp designed from my art, so that I could officially stamp all of this missive fan fic. I remember how heartbroken I was when the purse I'd been carrying it in was lost.

Some of these letters are legit in French.

Mary and I were serious, serious nerds.

Unfortunately, I'm not sure I have enough of my replies to piece together anything I could read. Most of what I have, naturally, are my partner-in-crime's letters to *me* and I have no idea how I replied, except in a few cases where Mary gave me back some of the letters some time after college as a memento to our friendship. But, there are very few and far between. I would feel weird reading only her stuff, so I may have to set this particular option aside, unless I stumble across a cache of my own replies somewhere. (I have been looking, because I've unearthed a LOT of other things in the meantime.)

Like, I want to know how I dealt with this:

September 23, 1793

Monsieur Pimpernel,

I have very disturbing news to transfer, but please do not be overly alarmed.

I was walking with 'Yves' in the old market place, when a short, ugly man with stumpy little legs accosted me. He called me a filthy whore and traitor. When he was almost through with tirade, he screamed names at me, "Mary Valden, ha! Jeanne Fayaille, ha! Louise-Anne Montetine, a joke! You are only a poor milkmaid's daughter and do not deny it, spy for the Pimpernel. Well, you tell him this: Phillipe Chauvelin lives and will hunt him down like a dog! Au revior, Madamoiselle de Valois!"

Who are these women he mentioned? I am sure I have never heard of them, but Mms. de. Valois was your greatest woman-spy, was she not? I am curious, M. Pimpernel. Please write quickly,

Lienne Duprey

She's curious, is she? SO AM I!

I wonder how I replied to this! Are these spies of mine also my lovers? Am I cheating on this poor woman??? How did I reassure her and keep her in my league? Knowing me, I probably defused and redirected by telling Mme. Duprey that I was far too busy running from this Philippe character to answer such trivial questions.

It's hard to believe we were fifteen, at most.

That is, until I hit some of my other fan fic, holy crap. I was very prolific. I have a ton of Katherine Kurtz Deryni Chronicles fic, some Anne McCaffery Dragonriders of Pern stuff, and LotR, from before the movies existed.Oh, and Thieves' World.

Here's a sample of that:

The night held a hint of foreboding as it passed over Sanctuary, for a Hellhound walked the streets of the Maze. Only two of the palace guard, known more commonly as hellhounds, dare walk the Maze: Tempus and Zalabar.

It was the tall blond, Tempus, who walked through now....

And the repetition repeats itself repetitively.

I was talking about this to an online friend earlier today and I think I am grateful that the Internet didn't exist when I was twelve, because, if it had, it would mean that all of this stuff would be archived somewhere. I mean, there are a lot of things that make me wish the internet HAD been around when I was a kid. Probably, I'd have come out a LOT sooner. Probably, I would have fallen into fandom HARD (that one could be another double-edged sword, because I might never have wanted to try original fiction, if I'd had a community who appreciated these early attempts.)

This has been an interesting trip down memory lane, though.

I also think that I should strive to be more famous, generally. I have a metric ton of correspondence dating back to the early 80s (and earlier) between myself and my various friends--including a long-distance boyfriend in Georgia that I picked-up after my trip to France in high school, and I feel like at some moment in the future, the history that these letters represent might actually be of interest to someone. As it is, they fill boxes in my basement. Some future grandchildren might Marie Kondo them into oblivion, and that feels like a loss? As someone who has worked in history, I can tell you this kind of average person's correspondence can be the most interesting stuff. Thing is, if I were more famous, generally, some archives, somewhere, might be convinced to house it/preserve it.

Alas, I'll get on the fame thing.

In the meantime, if you were thinking about coming to Minicon, you totally should, because I'm not the only author doing this! We'd wanted it to be held in a bar, since I have a feeling strong drinks might make the experience easier on the audience (and ourselves!) but I don't think Minicon managed that. It should still be a hoot, however.

I got an email from my contact over at the Loft.

So far, they have exactly ONE student signed up for my SF/F class that starts at the end of this month. It's called The Final Frontier: Writing Science Fiction and Fantasy in the Modern Era. It's the same class I always teach, but the Loft does these "themes" and this year it's "Boundaries & Borders." At any rate, I'd love to teach again this year, so if you know anyone who could make it to a class in Minneapolis and would like to learn from me, please pass this on to them. I will be the first to agree that the price is steep, but the Loft does offer scholarships to at least one of the attendees, so that could be you (or your friend). Just be sure to ask for a scholarship application.

Otherwise, my life continues apace.

My family spent the weekend mostly chilling out, though Mason ended up having to go to robotics on Saturday. Normally, he would have been at work, but his KAYSC team decided not to make anyone come in because of the snow storm. We were predicted to get anywhere from 6 to 12 inches, but we probably only got 6. Nothing to write home about, alas, but Mason's work cancelled the night before, so as to give people time to make other arrangements and whatnot. Mason was really looking forward to sleeping in and having a pajama day, when his robotic's folks texted with the "Are you coming in???" messages. He was VERY unhappy, but also felt like he couldn't say 'no,' since with his college class schedule and work, he doesn't make it to robotics very often.

Sunday, Mason spent most of the day with his friend Dalton.

Monday, there was more robotics. He told me this morning that he was weirdly happy to be getting back to his regular schedule because all this social stuff was wearing out my little introvert. I sympathized, because, even though I'm extroverted by nature, my introverted family has taught me the value of spending a weekend (or longer) doing absolutely nothing.

For Shawn and I, the three day weekend was pretty relaxing. We finally got around to seeing "Inception," which I am surprised to say that I feel dumb for not having seen before now. What a good film! What excellent science fiction! We also watched the first "John Wick," which was... a lot of shooting. In fact, I got kind of tired of the violence? Also, for some weird reason, I'd gotten it into my head that the franchise involved magic? Like, I don't know why I thought that? Maybe I just thought a guy named John Wick sounded like he should be a magical boi/wizard, and, at any rate, I am here to tell you I AM VERY DISAPPOINT. All guns, no spells makes John Wick a very dull movie!

Otherwise, I did a little "stamping" and a lot of fic writing.

Shawn did a bunch of cutting, sewing, and looming.

All around a good weekend, I'd say. I can't believe it's Tuesday already, however. That part's crazy.

The exciting news of today is that I officially accepted a pinch hit for Yuletide.

Yay!

I adore pinch hitting. It's funny, because, even though it means that I won't receive a treat myself, I don't think I'll ever go back to officially doing the Yuletide exchange. There's just something about the whole process of pinch hitting that I love. Everything from watching the requests for pinch hits roll in to the adrenaline rush of taking the plunge and putting your name in for an assignment... it just makes me happy somehow. It's weird.

It's hilarious in its own way that I've accepted an assignment because I feel very behind on writing--letter (aka "snail mail") writing. For those of you just tuning in, one of my actual, honest-to-god hobbies is pen pal-ling. I joined the International Pen Friends some years ago and have regular pen pals around the world to whom I write personal, snail mail letters. But, I currently have a STACK of unanswered letters on the dinning room table. I'm thinking that the holiday break will be a good time to finally catch up with everyone. I think it's acceptable to send holiday cards any time before Christmas all the way through to New Years, right?

What else can I tell you?

Oh, I know! I'd wanted to give a quick recap of anime night, mostly so that I can remember what I watched.

I ended up going late and leaving early, so it wasn't the usual marathon sampling session, but we did watch another episode of ReLife and the whole of Your Name. Your Name you may recall is something that I'd listened to on a Japanese language immersion learning podcast. It was very surreal to finally see the movie. I didn't realize the extent to which my brain had made up pictures in my head about what I thought was going on. To be extremely clear. I don't think I understood more than a half a dozen words in the entire two hour podcast (and the majority of the words I did understand consisted of "arigato" and "domo," so nothing that should have given me any hint of the story). It makes NO SENSE, therefore, that my brain would have filled in anything in any kind of detail. However, sound effects are surprisingly contextualizing. For instance, I knew there would be a scene in an underground cave (echoing dripping sounds for the win!). I had no idea why we were there or what exactly transpired in the scene (except that something magical[??] got drunk), but it was weird to be watching the movie and KNOW that I'd "seen" this in my head before. Very weird. But, the experience also made me want to find a way to do more of this kind of passive listening/learning. To that end, I've been looking into ways to purchase Drama CDs from Japan. Because, why not, right?

Eleanor and I are planning to try to go see Terry Garey at the nursing home again this week, probably Friday. We'd initially planned to go Monday, but, having seen her the Thursday before, I had to tell Eleanor that I just wasn't emotionally ready for it again so soon. If you've been following along with the detailed journal on Caring Bridge, Denny does a pretty good job of explaining some of Terry's issues, but, some of what he leaves out is that memory wards are just hard. There are people there who just aren't there. You see them just staring at the walls in the dining room, not even seeming to notice the food in front of them. There are people who randomly yell or moo (seriously.) That being said, it's absolutely true that Terry needs visitors (just, you know, be prepared for the atmosphere if you come during a meal time, in particular.)

She always perks up to see people. One of the issues Terry has been having is with getting enough to eat and, last time we were there, Denny offered everyone a cookie from the ones his family had brought and Terry ate, sort of perfunctory (perfunctorily?), to be sociable. Last time when we were there, she also was cheerfully explaining that because she was an army brat, it was easy for her to get used to this place. I suspect that was true (I know the army brat part is,) but also the sort of thing you say in front of company, even when you're bored and want to go home.

So, I don't know--I do hope people who are close and who remember Terry consider visiting. Those places are boring and dreary. My dad had to spend a serious amount of time recovering in one of them and they just kind of suck.

It makes me think a lot about Fandom (capital-F, as in the local people who go to cons, etc., as opposed to one's small-f, fandom,) and about casual friendships. I feel like I know a lot of people, yet I'm not sure how many of them I know all that well... I mean, people I could call in an emergency, etc. And, yet, I think I'm actually fairly well connected to actual, real people, thanks to a bunch of things like my local, in-person writers' group. I'm not sure what I want to say about this other than to repeat something Eleanor has been saying a lot: "stay socially connected."

Anyway.

I should start plotting out a story. Plus, I have to hop up in about twenty minutes to go collect Mason from his job at the Science Museum.

rachelmanija and

naomikritzer both noticed the reappearance of a certain novel in the Yuletide list of nominated fandoms:

screenshot of Archangel Protocol on AO3 and its tag set

screenshot of Archangel Protocol on AO3 and its tag set

Picture: a screenshot of the AO3 nominations page showing Archangel Protocol Series (my novels) on the list. Whoo~

As I'm signed up to be a pinch-hitter again this year, I'm in the dubious position of hoping that someone defaults on their assignment to write something in my universe. Regardless, I'm going to be keeping an eye out for whoever requests this and potentially write them a treat.

I have already slashed my own universe and I should maybe consider posting what I wrote to AO3. What's weird? I've never read what's out there. I should take a look, honestly. It's far enough in the past that I don't think it's going to effect the way I feel about these books. But, maybe not today, as I need to be writing on Unjust Cause.

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lydamorehouse

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Day in the Life of an Idiot

Journal of Lyda Morehouse

Entries tagged with fan fic

My Miniscule Reading List

A Day Without Fighting

Now the Sister Has Her Turn

Now For a Different Kind of Fic..

Do Other People Do This?

A Wild Elf Appears!

Big Barbarian FEELINGS

Random Stuff

Spam, Painting, and Life

Post D&D Storytime...

Virtual Chicon 8 Con Report (Day 2)

Is it Weird...

Tinfoil Hats and OTPs

Thank God(dess) I'm Still Stupid...

Videos and Life

Snow and Fic Exchange

Earliest Fanfic of Mine?

Loft Class and other news

As Promised, I Return...

Yuletide!