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What Kind of a Day Has it Been?
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.
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The Migraine Song
The Migraine Song (to the tune of "If I Had a Hammer")
If I had a migraine
I'd have it it in the morning
I'd have it in the evening
All goddamn day
I'd have it at breakfast
I'd have it at dinner
I'd have it when I'm onstage trying to figure out my next line
Allllll goddamn day
If I had a migraine
I'd have it in the classroom
I'd have it at rehearsal
All goddamn day
Can't see out of my left eye
Can't turn my head too fast
I'm going around begging everybody else for advil
Allllll goddamn day
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Okay, guys, it’s time to talk about fanfiction, fandoms, or really any sort of apparently “nerdy” passion that you really love.
This is a sad but true story about real adults.
Just recently, I was having a conversation with a very close friend of mine (one who isn’t aware of what I get up to on the internet.) We were talking about a mutual friend of ours, named K.
“You know” said my friend, “K sent me this weird fanfiction story the other day. It was about my little ponies. She’s totally the type of person who’d stay up all night in her bedroom writing sad fanfiction, don’t you think so? That’s so lame.”
“I don’t think there’s anything lame about it,” I said. “What’s wrong with fanfiction?”
My friend seemed surprised.
“Well,” she said, “it’s just weird, isn’t it? I mean, isn’t fanfiction usually written by lonely, angsty twelve year olds who fall in love with their favorite fictional characters and have nothing better to do? It’s like something obsessive outcast teenagers do while sobbing and listening to sad music. It’s just kind of creepy.
“Oh,” I asked, “really? I had no idea. See, the way that I’ve always seen it, fanfiction is actually an excellent and healthy bit of creative expression; a chance to use popular media to help inspire ourselves to create our own stories. Fanfiction can be used as an excellent teaching tool in the classroom as well; in fact, we use it in schools all the time. Every time your teacher says to you “write your own story based on the book we just read,” or “tell me what happens next in this story,” they’re utilizing a sort of fanfiction-based education tactic. It’s mind-expanding and encourages critical thinking.Writing fanfiction also encourages us to improve our writing skills at all ages from the early childhood writing skills of sequencing and story structure to the more advanced writing skills of word choice, diction, and various grammar rules.”
My friend tried again.
“Well,” she insisted, “people who write fanfiction are usually bottom dwellers who don’t have any friends and don’t know how to interact with other people, so they’re weird.”
“Oh,” I asked, “really? I had no idea. See, most of the people I know who write fanfiction are really interesting people with strong opinions and wonderful stories to tell; many of whom are struggling with important and valid things in their personal lives which lead them to want to write to ease their minds of the stress and the burden of the real world. They’re often very inspiring people who are fascinating to talk to, because they analyze things a little more carefully and think a little more deeply about the way that people interact and the way that we influence our world. Writers of all kinds usually are deeper sorts of people.”
My friend had now finally come to the correct conclusion.
“Wait,” she asked, “do YOU write fanfiction?”
“Why yes,” I said. “I do. It’s a lot of fun. I really enjoy it.Oh, and by the way, I’m a nearly-thirty-year-old woman with two education degrees, I’m the owner of a small business and I have many friends and successful real-world relationships that I deeply treasure; but of course, you already knew that.Therefore, I don’t think I fit into any of your made-up categories for “the kind of people who write fanfiction.”
I’ll be honest with you, dear readers: although this conversation did definitely take place, I may h ave paraphrased it a little bit, here (it was several days ago, my memory ain’t THAT good), but the moral of this story is:
Don’t let anybody shame you for liking what you like.
Don’t let anybody tell you that you’re weird because of what you enjoy.
I have no idea why we as a society enjoy shaming or trying to embarrass people who get deeply involved in an activity or interest.
If you are doing what you love, then you are doing something wonderful and healthy.
*mic drop*
Thank you for listening to my rant.
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1 note = 1 pixel for your fandom’s symbol (shown above) in an art piece I'm making
If you would like to see all of the fandoms, look through these posts
IF YOU DON’T SEE YOUR FANDOM, send me a message saying what fandoms I missed and I’ll add them
If you would like to know more about the project, read this post
FOLLOW ME TO KEEP UPDATED ON THE PROJECT/SEE THE FINISHED PROJECT
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Tongue Tied
Dag: I don’t want to go by my real name for t his podcast we’re doing.
Me: Okay.
Dag: I don’t want to go by ‘Dag” either.
Me: Okay, so you need a new penname.
Dag: Yeah. How about...T. X. Echidna?
Me: You cannot be serious.
Dag: I am totally serious. It is an awesome name.
Me: Yes, it is very awesome.
Dag: Right.
Me: But this is a podcast. Meaning it’s an audio recording.
Dag: Right.
Me: I will have to actually say “T.X. Echidna” out loud every time I talk about or introduce you.
Dag: Yes.
Me: Dag, I have brain damage. And a lisp.
Dag: Oh.
Me: Pick something else. Srsly.
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But wait, there’s more:
Me: Dagget.
Dag: What now?
Me: We have to have a serious interventional conversation about your overuse of elipses.
Dag: Pfft. That’s the pot calling the kettle black.
Me: What?
Dag: I bet if we counted all of the times you use ellipses, and then counted all of the times that I use ellipses, we’d find out that you use it more often than I do.
Me: That is so not true:
...we are both still counting. Stay tuned for the results.
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Why Do I Do This to Myself?
Me: Dag, this is a really fantastic story you’ve written.
Dag: Aw, thanks!
Me: I’m only on page one, but already it’s a MASSIVE improvement from the last thing you sent me. I’m really enjoying it.
Dag: Yay!
Me: I’ve only made 63 corrections so far.
Dag: ...what. On the FIRST PAGE?!
Me: Yes. But we haven’t even hit the triple digits yet! You should be happy! I’m happy.
Dag: ...right. Okay.
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Singing in my room at four AM. Honestly, at this point I’m just trying to suck less at singing. I really need to just be practicing more, especially if I ever want to start doing musicals again.
This is “A Little Bit of Everything,” by Dawes. Song always makes me think of my grandfather, Jacob Moriarty.
Do me a favor. Keep both Grandpa and my father, the Illustrious Doctor Moriarty in your thoughts. Age and mortality are a terrible inevitable consequence of living.
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But unfortunately, then things got silly.
The Amy Winehouse recording was SO BAD that I got curious as to whether or not singing in my high register would be better or worse. I’m clearly in no state to be singing, so logically I decided to sing one of my hardest, highest audition songs, because that makes sense, right?
Man, I need some tea and some sleep...
Hahahah...hahaha...dear lord.
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Where Are We Going?
“To tell you the truth, Jeanette, I think I’d better not exercise today.”
“Is there anything I can do?” She puts her arm around me. “Are you not well?”
“No, Jeanette, I’m just not happy. I’m afraid I haven’t been happy for some time.”
I don’t blame the ladies in the locker room for how I feel. I don’t blame any of us. We’re all concerned, intelligent, good women.
It’s just that I feel stranded. And I thought that the whole point was that we wouldn’t feel stranded. I thought the whole point was that we were in this together.
-The Heidi Chronicles, by Wendy Wasserstein
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I can’t sleep so I texted my brother
Me: Hey I miss you.
Archie: I just called, though. Like two minutes ago. You didn’t pick up.
Me: Yeah because I have strep. Can’t talk.
Archie: Wow. That bad?
Me: I missed rehearsal for it.
Archie: THAT bad.
Me: Yeah.
Archie: I had an allergic reaction to my desk.
Me: What
Archie: Yeah. So now I have meds.
Me: To your desk.
Archie: Yeah.
Me; Should I send you my desk?
Archie: No.
Me: It’s metal.
Archie: You can’t send me a desk.
Me: Yes.
Archie: What will you write on?
Me: I’m sending you my desk.
Archie: You can’t send a desk go to sleep Ari.
Me You go to sleep.
Archei: I can’t, I’m having an allergic reaction to a desk. It’s itchy.
Me: Come home it’s less itchy here.
Archie: Ari. Go to sleep.
Me: Come home.
Archie: I don’t live there anymore.
Me: You could though.
Archie: Goodnight.
Me: Can’t sleep. Sorry you’re itchy.
Archie: The itch never bothered me anyway. *tosses long blond hair and retreats to palace*
Me: Hahahahahahahahahahah ow ow ow that hurts ow throat.
Archie: Goodnight.
Me: Okay.
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Diego/Maya Freewrite
Author’s Note: The following is a quick character vignette that I wrote after a conversation with writer’s block with my friend and fellow fanfiction author JustCharles.
He gave me the song “Piano Man” by Billy Joel, and encouraged me to free-write about it.
This is what I came up with during the free-write.
Note: This little passage falls sometime during or after Chapter 10 of my Ace Attorney Story, A Time for Turnabout (part Five of To Turnabout Eternally. )
Late at night, at the Borscht Bowl Club in downtown Los Angeles, there were never terribly many customers. The atmosphere didn’t lend itself to pleasant, jovial social gatherings.
The place was dark; so dark that you could barely see the person sitting across the table from you. The food was terrible; so terrible that most people didn’t bother ordering any. Most people came here for the chance to get away from whatever was bothering them; their pasts, their lovers, their obnoxious or difficult home life, or, in some cases, crimes that they were afraid of being caught and convicted for.
In Phoenix’s Wright’s case, it was all of the above. He was here trying to avoid the sins of the past, the ghosts of one particularly potent ex-lover, and the intimate sorts of bedroom crimes that had ultimately been the death of that relationship. He was here to forget and ignore everything, which was exactly what the Borscht Bowl Club was best for. At the Borscht Bowl Club, nobody ever asked any questions…if they knew what was good for them.
There were, at the moment, only two other people in the club who weren’t entirely minding their own business. While Phoenix Wright plunked mournfully and quite terribly away on the rickety wooden piano, Maya Fey sat on top of the instrument with her medium’s skirts tucked around her ankles like she was some kind of famous crooner, listening to the awful music and enjoying the fact that this, at last, felt like something normal; something she was used to from the good old days when Nick had stuck around and made this city so much more liveable.
Nearby, at the closest table, Diego Armando sat and tried as hard as he could not to listen to the piano music. Instead, he sipped at a cup of only barely drinkable coffee that the establishment had grudgingly provided, and watched the head spirit medium of the Kurain Channeling School kicking her feet and gazing fondly down at miserable Phoenix Wright.
He’s got enough pathos right now for three Trites, thought Armando, frowning to himself. Unfortunately, all the sadness in the world doesn’t seem to be improving his playing…or this coffee. We can’t seriously even call this stuff ‘coffee,’ can we? It’s as dark as night and as bitter as the sneer on Phoenix’ Wright’s face…but it tastes terrible. There’s a balance, you know, in everything…especially in the way you brew the beans. Why did I come here, anyway?
Of course, he knew the answer to that question before he’d even finished thinking it up. There was only one real reason that he ever left the apartment nowadays; now that he really had everything he needed all holed up with him in his caffeinated little underground hideaway. The only reason he ever ventured out of the blessed, covering darkness and into the harsh light of day was the Master of the Kurain School herself; the little girl with the smile like sunshine and the laugh like the foam settling at the top of the perfect light latte.
Maya Fey, he thought sadly, watching as she started to yawn, and only remembered halfway through to cover her mouth. My heroic little Tiger Kitten.
It had been a dark, gritty sort of unbroken nighttime after Armando’s release from prison; with the bitter aftertaste of poison and Mia Fey still settled permanently on his tongue. At least, it had been that way until the Little Kitten had come along, full of so much energy and bursting with a sort of exuberant flavor that even curmudgeonly old Armando hadn’t been able to resist for long. She’d forced her way into his life without any grace whatsoever, and now that she’d made her way in, Armando found himself trying not to imagine what life would be like without her, when she got bored of waiting table for a half-dead, grumpy old man, and decided that it was finally time to go off and find something more wonderful out there in the real world, still full of the kind of possibilities that he’d passed up on his single-minded quest for vengeance.
“Gee, Nick,” announced Maya as Phoenix paused to try and figure out a tricky fingering. “I think you’ve gotten better! You know what they say, right? Starving, sad, struggling artists are always the most talented.”
“I’m not starving,” muttered Phoenix, testing one of the keys to see if it would give him the sound he was looking for.
“But you are struggling,” countered Maya. “And you look pretty sad to me. Um…do you maybe want to go home, soon? I bet I have just the thing to cheer you up! I know exactly where Pearly stashed all of my old Steel Samurai reruns! What do you say, huh? The action! The excitement! The romance! That’d be a lot better than just moping around this place and feeling sorry for ourselves, am I right?”
“Let it go, Little Kitten,” muttered Armando, shaking his head. “A man’s gotta grieve in his own way.”
“But…I don’t want him to, uh, grieve,” replied Maya. “Don’t you think he’s been sad for long enough? It’s sure not making hi feel any better.”
Armando looked at the fixed, unfocused look on Phoenix’s face, and remembered what it felt like to lose the person he’d loved the most.
Maybe there’s not enough grief in the world to overflow this mug of sorrow, he mused to himself. Maybe that’s just a part of life. You’ve experienced enough loss in your time, Miss Maya. I’m surprised you don’t know that by now.
Then again, he realized, glancing over at the slightly exasperated, genuinely worried look in Maya’s eyes, maybe that just wasn’t how Maya looked at the world. She’d been through more misery than probably him and Phoenix put together, but she tackled the rest of whatever life threw at her with a smile.
I wonder if she’d waste much time mourning the loss of a half-man like me, he thought bitterly. She’d probably just go on living her life, finding reasons to stay positive…and sooner or later, I’d be nothing more than the dregs of a cup she’d finished a long, long time ago. It’s probably healthier that way. She’s got no room in that pretty little airhead of hers for too many regrets. That’s how it should be…no doubt about it.
Still, he thought, listening to the misplayed notes and mismatched excuses for chords that kept inexorably clanking out of the piano, he knew that sooner or later, if he waited too long, he’d be the one playing the blues.
Maya might have been ready to give him up and move on with her life at a moment’s notice, but Armando himself suspected more and more as time went on that if he let her go the way Wright had just let Edgeworth walk out of his life, he’d end up regretting it for the rest of forever.
Fin.
Author’s End Note: And thus ends my fun little romantic Diego/Maya one shot. And now…I have to get some sleep, or I will regret it. Maybe not for the rest of forever, but definitely for most of tomorrow. Night, friends!
se
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Here’s a thing that I found on the amazing book of faces that applies not only to naturally sensitive people, but also to people who suffer from TBI. TBI can create/exacerbate mood disorders that result in some of these same symptoms.
Knowing is half the battle! Stay educated and be an advocate!
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Happy Fourth of July to all of you!
It’s midnight now, so it’s technically the fifth - which means it’s now officially my survivorversary! Ten years today, and I’m feeling pretty good about it.
I know that all of you, every single one of you, has overcome something signficant this week, this month, this year or this lifetime as well. I hope you’re able to celebrate that victory today and every day.
“I tried to pass for nothing....but my dreams gave me away.”
- Conor Oberst
Lets have another wonderful ten years together. Thank you all for everything...sincerely.
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John Adams: Do you mean to say that it is NOT YET FINISHED?
Thomas Jefferson: No sir. I mean to say that it is not yet begun.
(We’re talking about Firebird and Resurrexit, here.)
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“Heaven and Earth” is a fifty page short steampunk gothic story by Ari Moriarty. It is the first in a serial of stories called th “Old Ghosts” series, chronicling the exploits of Inspector Jack Godwin, his intrepid dressmaker niece Judith, and Beatrice Munroe, the briliant but potentially mad leading soprano at London’s only airborne clockwork opera house.
The story is now available from Amazon Kindle EPublishing for computers, tabletes, kindles and phones. It costs 99 cents to download.
Please consider supporting my further literary endeavors by purchasing my short story! It’s may only be a dollar to you, but it would mean so very much to me, and it might get me just a few steps closer to refurbishing my computer, buying myself a new writing desk for the big move, and maybe even eating more than a meal per day!
If you’re interesting in downloading the story, you can purchase it from Amazon HERE: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B010W7TN3A
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