#And most years I'd get about a dozen of those emails a year with one of 'em usually resulting in a gig

[kalamity-jayne]

In case you were wondering where things are at in the film and television industry here's how post-production folks (editors, VFX, Colorists, etc) are doing. These screenshots are from The Blue Collar Post Collective's FB page (they are an International professional network for folks working in post).

This one is from a few months ago...

These are all from the past few days (from 2 separate Anon posts re "where to find jobs")...

My former post-supervisor really fucked me over and I've been unemployed for months. At this point I'm applying to jobs in grocery stores cause it's just dead dead dead out there. Winter is always the time of year you don't want to be without a film or series to work on but this just abysmal.

#Post-production #Film and Television #Unions and the strikes #documentary film and series #Movies #An assistant editor speaks #I work in the documentary sector which you would think wouldn't be affected by the strikes (for good and for worse) #but when the reality tv sector of the industry is doing bad then that means *everyone* is completely boned. #Also It's a reputation based industry #so 90% of the jobs I have had came from people cold emailing me ''Hey you came highly recommended from so&so. Are you available?" #And most years I'd get about a dozen of those emails a year with one of 'em usually resulting in a gig #not so this year😩

[star-anise]

are we talking about broke therapists yet?

I've been out of things for a couple of years now, which is why I'm willing to talk about it, and maybe the pandemic has helped things a little, but holy shit the counselling and psychotherapy field is not equipped to help its practitioners in the gig economy.

Of all my interests and talents, I pursued a degree in psychology because being a therapist is supposed to be a safe, stable, well-paid job. Every therapist I met who was registered before 2008 worked and lived under that assumption. And oh boy are all the fee structures--registration, supervision, continuing education, conferences--set up for that scenario.

After getting my Master's, I struggled like hell to get a job. It was especially bad because to get my license, I needed a supervisor to take me on. To take me on, most supervisors wanted me to already have a caseload and client base. To get a caseload and client base, I needed a job.

Friends: Every single job I heard back on wanted me to have my license before I could even land an interview.

Professors and career advisors and professional development specialists all advised me very earnestly to just keep cold-calling people on the supervision list, and it began to feel a lot like my parents' friends telling me to hit the bricks and hand out resumes. That's what worked for them, right?

I finally got a supervisor who agreed to take me on, and I'd be able to use her clinic for advertising and workspace, and we were doing the paperwork to send in with my registration, when she called me up and said, "Is this job going to be your only source of income? If you're trying to depend on getting clients and building your practice for your basic needs, this is not going to work out. This has to be something you're doing on top of a basic salary. Okay, so you're not working anywhere else right now? I'm sorry, I can't move forward with this."

Even once I landed a supervisor and a job building my own private practice, I struggled. I have ADHD and am not great at self-promotion, so trying to do all my own advertising, scheduling, bookkeeping, billing, and records management (on top of counselling) was an enormous strain. One my bosses, supervisors, and other senior professionals watched with a slightly critical eye, but consoled me about because in their early days, their clinics had had business managers, receptionists, filing clerks, and accountants, and getting used to doing everything online yourself was a bit of a learning curve, wasn't it?

I counted my pennies very carefully, because I had to pay my supervisor roughly $180 for their services every 6 hours of in-person counselling I did. This meant that to break even I had to charge my clients an average of about $30 (plus room rental and service fees) an hour--and my clients, being people with complex trauma, were frequently poor, disabled, unemployed, and had no health benefits, so even $10 or $20 a session was a lot for them.

Maybe it would have been easier if I could have taken some of those nice comfortable organization positions where they find clients and funding for you and you work 40 hours a week and get benefits and a pension, but I had to be disabled into the bargain, so working 40 hours a week just isn't possible for me. I start passing out from stress and exhaustion. Older colleagues gave me serious-faced advice about approaching my employer and asking them for some flexibility and accommodation in my schedule, and I tried to explain across the gap between us that employers simply did not hire me if I made the slightest noise about the workload. They weren't going to invest in me as a person; they were hiring 40 units of work a week, and if I wouldn't do it there were a dozen applicants after me who would.

At one point I broke down enough to email my licensing body because the Annual General Meeting/Professional Development Conference was coming up, and I wanted to attend, but I could not produce $500 to do it with. Was there some kind of way I could attend anyway? I felt ashamed to have to ask, and then absolutely mortified when the response came from the organization president, who needed to personally sign off on me being too poor to attend the single most important event in my profession's calendar year.

I honestly felt so ashamed all the time at how I was apparently failing to be a successful therapist, failing to be rich and successful, and every time I mentioned it around mentors and bosses, I could feel myself shrinking from a person to a problem to be solved. My closest therapist-friends and I have reflected on how much more difficult, poorly-paid and underworked, our various career starts have been than we were ever warned about. About the classmates and coworkers who couldn't get disability exceptions when they fell behind in their registration requirements, or burned out and left the field, or dropped their registrations and took up as life coaches, or moved their whole family somewhere exceptionally remote or rural because it was the only good job available, or worked for some godforsaken app skirting the bounds of malpractice like BetterHelp.

I like those conversations, because I feel less like an absolute fuck-up in them. There's less "Hey Lis, you were so talented in grad school, I really admired you, what are you doing now?" "Oh, I, uh... am professionally disabled, so I get government benefits, and I... sell embroidery patterns on Etsy now."

My own therapist kept asking if and when I felt like going back to being a counsellor, and I finally told him: I don't, actually. I don't want to go back and do it like I was doing it before. It was a profession I loved to the depths of my soul, and it profoundly did not love me back. I can't even imagine what would have to change, in me or it, to make it have a space in it that could fit me.

All of which I was way too scared to admit to at the time, because the more I let people know I was struggling, the more they hinted that maybe I just wasn't in a place in my life where this was a job I could do, and I needed to take a little break and wait to come back until money and disability just weren't issues for me anymore.

Eventually my cups of doubt and exhaustion did overflow, and I quit. I'm here now, living a much different life. And at the very least, all my years of helping people in bad life situations set me up perfectly for my own. I already knew what form to fill out for financial assistance, which student clinics to access for mental health support, and which government agency would, if pressed, cough out pharmacy coverage for the genuinely destitute. It gave me that much.

I hope this is just me being in extraordinary circumstances, sitting at the intersections of a few different shitty life situations that most people skip right past. Because it's on one level comforting, but another deeply infuriating, if I'm not, and I've just missed it or we've just all been too afraid to admit it to each other.

#staranise original #therapisting

[dnalt-d2]

Christ alive can anyone get a break right now??

(Ahem)

Update time, once again!

Also once again, it is a mixed bag

So to start off with, as most everyone knows, Pomme and Dapper's admins have resigned from their positions. This is incredibly unfortunate, and I honestly don't know what it's gonna mean for the French Creators who said they wouldn't stay on QSMP if Pomme's Admin was fired. Since she technically left of her own volition, I really don't know what they're gonna do

(Edit: I talk about Quackity's stream here but I don't speak Spanish so I can't personally say what was said exactly. Thankfully, it looks like someone JUST POSTED an English Translation so I'm just gonna drop the link here for anyone who wants to read it)

On another note: Quackity has finally given a slight update. For obvious reasons, he can't say anything specific, and I wouldn't have expected him to. But according to the translations I've seen so far, basically said that he can't update because the leaks that happened are creating added complications in the restructuring process. I'm assuming his reason for that is that he simply doesn't want anymore information to be leaked out, but unfortunately, that's just counterproductive to the miscommunication problem

AND SPEAKING OF MISCOMMUNICATION???

So as you all know, I've been in support of the French Union getting involved with this. As I've stated a dozen times now, Unions are meant to be resources, people who inform employees of their rights and do what they can to help them get those rights. As far as I know, one of the main things they do is mediate between the employees and the employers. But APPARENTLY the Union has not attempted to reach out to Quackity outside of Twitter. Which REALLY isn't all that professional. Twitter is a NETWORKING site. Meant to START building connections. Afterwards, people typically move onto email or even discord, which are way better equipped for the long-form communication that's about to have to happen

So even if Quackity WAS active on Twitter, which he isn't. And even if the Union DIDN'T know that, which they do. This isn't the right route to communicate. They have stated that he "has their email" and has to "reach out to them." They are apparently working on the logic that SOMEONE would have had to pass on the information to him by this point, which isn't a fair assumption at all, considering that we know there were Admins ALREADY hiding information from him before all this

They're acting like Quackity is the CEO of a major corporation, with COUNTLESS RESOURCES on-hand. Yeah he's the CEO of this business, but he's also a 23-year-old Twitch Streamer who in all likelihood is learning a LOT about running a business for the first time AS WE SPEAK. I'll tell you right now, when I was 23, I didn't know jack-shit, and I'd still say I don't most of the time. And the only reason I LEARNED jack-shit was because someone would actually TELL me about it. When someone makes mistakes, it REALLY helps them learn when someone is able to not just point out the mistake, but also HOW to fix it. I don't know how they're expecting him to grow from his miscommunication mistakes when they aren't willing to give him the chance to

And yes, there are MANY problems that need to be fixed, as I've said before. But Quackity did outright confirm some of the other things I've said too. That things ARE happening, and we aren't hearing about it. That we aren't GOING to hear about it. Which is fine. It makes sense. We aren't the people who need to know every step of the process. But he is going to have to figure out a better system for talking to the Admins. It's a real problem when he's communicating with people like Aypierre that Pomme's Admin has her job still, but didn't tell the Admin herself

There's still lots of problems, and I know it sounds like I'm just repeating myself, saying to wait and see, but in reality, there isn't much else we CAN do besides that and voice our support

This might be the last time I make a post on this for a bit, because this has been a little draining on me. Which I would normally be able to handle SUPER easy, I'm pretty good at handling stuff like this well enough. But now I've also got real-life stuff reminding me that no matter how much better things SEEM to be getting for me, something's gonna come smack me in the back of the head to remind me that actually things suck, and I just should've known better! And unfortunately that stuff requires my focus more than this. I'll still be here, watching everything, maybe commenting on stuff, but I might not be quite as vocal as I have been

Once again, I remind you all, take care of yourselves first and foremost. Whether it's physical, emotional, or mental, or whatever else. You matter more than the events taking place here right now. My support goes out to all of you, as well as the Admins who VERY WELL COULD BE SEEING THIS APPARENTLY. So I guess this message goes out to them as well lol. You guys rock and I've enjoyed all the contributions you've made

Anyways, see you all later

#qsmp #qsmp admin situation #admin situation #qadmin situation #quackity #qsmp quackity

[somejazzinthemorning]

tightrope. 03

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Original Female Character Warnings: Language Word Count: 7.241 Previous chapter: 02.

Drowning myself in work is my go-to coping mechanism for more than half of my problems.

I'll either resort to racing or tracing brand strategies in an attempt to avoid having to face whatever problem throws my way and, that night, being 11 pm on a Wednesday, my laptop and the small whiteboard on my desk became my saving grace.

Despite the burning eyes and my aching back, after hours sat at my desk, my mind was still racing, high on whatever feelings the brush of his lips had evoked in my body. I fell asleep to the memory of his eyes and the velvet lips.

There was no way to escape it. We were already falling.

I woke up late, the next day.

My phone had a full wall of notifications ready to present me. A single text in the middle of the dozens of work-related emails, most of them answers to the ones I’d written during the night and scheduled to be sent in the early hours of the work day. I only realised I was smiling, probably high on my own expectations, when I felt my smile drop, after seeing who sent the text. Amanda. Not him.

“those updates on the project at 3 am??? r u okay?”

“sorry! i remembered to schedule the emails, but forgot about the notes on the project.” "got some good work done, tho”

"need to take a moment to reread all of your incoherent notes” "all that rambling is… wow” "BUUUUUT come to the office” "the things from the berlin store just arrived, you will love them”

"can’t make it today” "send pics!”

"come tomorrow, then! ill get churros for breakfast”

My phone went back to the nightstand and I pulled up the comforter, wrapping it around myself in an attempt to find some security and calm of mind. I peered out from under the comforter, staring at the dark room, only lightened by some streaks of light created from a gap in the blinds. I was still tired from the night, and my mind scrambled from everything we had shared.

Eventually, I left the bed. My mom was downstairs, and a copy of Shadow of the Wind rested on the kitchen counter while she cooked lunch. Frank Sinatra played on the old record player in the living room and the music continued to stretch around the house as we ate together. Luckily, her birthday party was keeping her busy; busy enough that she didn't remember to ask me about the dinner from last night.

Truth be told: I'm a terrible liar. I would never be able to escape her questions.

At the end of the day, I met Rocco for a workout, in a nearby gym. He was waiting for me, leaning against the reception counter, teal Puma t-shirt paired with an amused smirk; I knew he was more than ready to put me through my paces. And I was right. It only took me a couple of exercises to lay on the floor, panting and sweating."Have you thought about what you're doing next season?" I looked up, in the direction of the voice. Rocco was standing in front of me, holding my water bottle.

I sat up straight and extended my hand to grab it. "Not yet," the water was cold and refreshing. Just what I needed. "Maybe a third year in the Challenge and," I paused to breathe. "You know, the reserve seat. Not ideal, but yeah."

He frowned, sitting down on one of the plyo boxes near me. "But yeah?"

"Yeah. Works." I answered, laying back down on the green turf. The small fake grass ticklish on my legs and arms. "Not much, but it's racing."

"I think I'll pretend you didn't say that."

"Why? It's just how it is."

He cleared his throat, the deep sound making me open my eyes and stare at him again. "Up," he commanded, refusing to help me get up. I brought the hand I'd just held up to the floor, to help me get up.

"I thought we were done," I said. He didn't even need to say anything to make me understand that we were, in fact, not done. "Are you mad?"

“Annoyed,” he turned back to me. “What the heck was that answer? Of course, a third year in the Challenge and a reserve seat in WEC are not ideal. I was hoping for a real answer, not some… whatever that was.”

“It’s the reality,” I shrugged. Instead of turning back and going back to do whatever he was about to do, he just kept looking at me. Not the conversation I was hoping for today.

“You had a plan. What happened?” He asked.

“Nothing happened. I had a plan. And it’s going as it’s possible.”

"Excuses, Eva," Rocco exclaimed. He stepped forward and looked me in the eye. "You have a plan. You know what you want. And you have the talent."

“Congrats, you just solved gender inequality.” I gave him an ironic thumbs up, my mind still scrambled from the efforts of the workout and the encounter from last night. This kind of conversation was not what I wanted.

“You’re more than capable of getting a decent seat next year.”

“As we know,” I wiggled my finger between both of us, “It’s a tough path. Being capable won’t get me a seat. ”

“Locking yourself in an office keeping track of TikTok trends will?” I sent him a look. He held up his hands in defence. “You’re making excuses. There are other drivers fighting for the same things as you are and they are not taking no for an answer.”

“Neither am I.”

"Come on," he chortled, eying me carefully. I could tell that he wanted the best for me, but I was not really in the mood to discuss this at the moment. "When was the last time you actually planned something for yourself, and not just some new fashion designer or boujie vegan chef?"

I felt a little bit of annoyance creeping its way up my spine. I had been pushing myself so hard for the last few months, and I was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed with all the pressure.

“Can we focus on the races I have left to win?” I asked, my voice taking on an exasperated tone. “We can talk about this after I win this championship?”

“Sure.” He bent down to grab a 15 kg power bag from the floor and dropped it off at my feet. "This wasn't planned, but that self-pity is annoying me."

“A punishment?" I took my hands to my hips, a light chortle abandoning my lips. "Burpees and never-ending lounges? That's what you think I need right now?"

"No, no burpees," he said, his grin widening. "But maybe a few extra lounges wouldn't hurt." He was clearly enjoying this. I rolled my eyes and glanced down at the power bag in front of me.

“It was not—”

He cleared his throat, cutting me off, and I went silent. Then, looking at him, I saw that he was grinning at me once again, content. Yeah, it was self-pity. Yeah, the future is scary, especially when you’re a 25-year-old woman in motorsports and your career seems to be stuck.

I took a deep breath and bent over to pick up the bag, the cold weight of it dragging my body down to the ground. Rocco took a few steps back and then motioned me with his head to start.

"Andiamo," he said. “20 steps back and forth. Three series.”

So I did. I started lounging with the bag, back and forth across the green patch of turf on that side of the gym, trying to keep a steady pace. With each step, the pressure of the bag weighed me down. I kept going, pushing forward and gritting my teeth against the pain. When I finally reached the twentieth step, I dropped the bag and breathed out, my body aching from the effort.

By the end of the third series, I had pushed my body to its very limits and back. I sunk down onto the cool grass beneath me, feeling the relief of the softness beneath me—my muscles aching and my body dripping with sweat, my hair matted to my neck and temples.

Rocco sat near me, guiding me through a couple of moves, helping me to loosen my tight muscles and stretch out my body. Despite the big (and somewhat threatening) muscles he had a gentle touch.

“What’s on your mind?”

"Hm?" I frowned, my eyebrows furrowing together as I closed my eyes, feeling his hand pressing down on my thigh, pushing it firmly against the hard floor. I could feel the pain radiating through my body, but I tried to focus on the sensation of his grip.

“You always complain this hurts,” he said. I opened one eye. Now, I could feel the pressure from his grip. Probably something shifted on my face because he instantly asked, “Now it hurts?”

"It hurt before, I was just distracted." I shook my head, closing my eyes again and focusing on the sensation of his grip. “I’m free to feel like shit when things go badly." I let out.

“Things are not going badly,” he sighed, leaving my leg and switching to the other. “You’re simply letting yourself fall behind.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, my head falling back against the floor. I stayed there for a few moments, my heart pounding against my chest and my thoughts racing a million miles per hour. When I finally opened my eyes again, I looked up at Rocco, this time because I felt my thigh burning with discomfort, he was still looking at me, waiting for an answer.

"Too much." I glanced below while patting his arm. He raised an eyebrow, implying more pressure. "Ei!" I scrunched my nose. He just arched a brow. Sadistic fucker. “What? Are you going to hurt me until I hold someone at gunpoint and ask for a seat?”

“You talk like you don’t have good offers, Eva.”

“What is a good offer? Driving against 19-year-old boys in Formula 3? It’s humiliating.”

“W Series?” He suggested.

“I want to race with men and show people I can win against them.” I sat down. Rocco took his hands from my legs. My muscles tingled with the same intensity my thoughts did. “I like the Challenge because I’m showing them I can do it. But the team does not have a budget to race in other series. And I can’t be a reserve forever. So I can do another year and hope things change.”

“See? You’re choosing to fall behind.” He took a deep breath, understanding my frustration. "You can always look for sponsorship," he said, his eyes focused on the floor. "You have the talent, the connections—"

“I spent my teenage years sending letters and desperately trying to talk to people. You saw how that went.”

“You have results to show them, now. In two weeks you’ll have a championship.” I dragged my hands over my face. Instant regret. Both my hands and face were tingling with the same intensity my thoughts did. “W Series will give you exposure. Will give you points. You need points..”

“Why are you so interested now?” I arched an eyebrow, feeling a bit suspicious. “The year is long. Anything can happen. A lot can change.”

“I just don’t see you planning ahead.” He deadpanned, his expression unreadable. “What if you can’t do another season of the Challenge? Will you be content with just being a reserve in WEC?”

“Why so many ifs?” I asked, still feeling a bit apprehensive.

“Motorsports are unpredictable,” he replied, his voice steady and sure. “I’ve been around long enough to know that. And I’m your coach, not just a trainer. It’s kinda my responsibility to do this.”

“Nah, I’m not having it.” I paused, still not entirely convinced. “Do you know something I don’t?”

Rocco just shook his head. The dark strands of his hair moved in unison. “Eva—” He shrugged. I could see the wheels turning in his mind. Whatever he was about to say, it seemed like it wasn't completely true. "One," he continued; his tone shifting. "I don't want to be left without a job when you get bored of racing." I threw my towel at him, though I knew he was only joking. Unfortunately, he dodged it. "Two," he continued, "you're racing like a pro. You should race with the pros."

At least, in one thing he was right. I was racing like a pro.

On the other hand, I was not acting like one.

My team and my dad, the main sponsor, were the only support I had. Despite having other offers, none met our expectations. I had been a third, fourth, or fifth driver for too long. I had spent too much time in the garage, running simulations, and taking part in test sessions. Years of it. Each of these experiences had demoralized me.

Racing in the Challenge, learning with my team, taking time to understand the car and driving it to a podium made sense to me. Standing in the garage and hoping for someone to get food poisoning or COVID was not only morally wrong but also quite dull.

“Did you make this whole drama when Rio told you he wanted to stop racing and just go to college and become an engineer?” I asked, getting up from the floor and picking up my towel, still lying on the ground.

“It was worse actually,” my trainer said, following me. “I think I almost killed him when he told me.”

“We make quite the pair, don’t we?”

He smiled and nodded. “Yes, you do. Your poor father has his hands full with you two.” We stopped walking when we reached the locker room. “Go have a shower and get some rest.”

The second I reached my locker and opened the wooden door, I reached for my phone, looking for a message that hadn't arrived. Pathetic. A part of me considered taking the initiative and being the one to call or text him but, to be honest, what was left for me to say?

I had already told him everything by asking him not to kiss me and I might have told him even more by refusing to let go of him.

The office smelled of churros, so I knew Amanda was around. Either that or someone else had the same idea as her.

Familiar faces smiled back at me as I crossed the corridors and the work areas until I finally reached the common area and took one of the available seats. Since I had chosen to work remotely, and only visited the office casually for occasional meetings or when I needed a place where I could focus, I wasn't given an office.

The room was filled with the buzz of people chatting and the occasional laughter, making me feel a bit out of place. I knew most of them (read: I knew their names and which projects were under their purview), but rarely talked to any of them. Amanda, one of my friends from college, and the one who had introduced me to this agency was the only one I regularly talked with.

I sat down in my chair and pulled my laptop out of my bag. After talking with Rocco yesterday, I decided to take action on my career and spent last night looking at emails and reading my dad's notes on the sides of those he considered important enough to print. So, when I opened my laptop, my screen showed me my Notion board, which honestly felt like a showcase of my own failures. Not the first thing I wanted to see that morning.

A knock on the glass divider of the office made me lift my head up and find Amanda on the other side of it. A beautiful purple jumper highlighted her beautiful curves; her hair was pulled up in a ponytail. In her hands, a white box.

I waved at her.

“Vamos,” she motioned with her head. “Before anyone tries to steal these from me.”

I smiled and grabbed my laptop, zipping it up before getting up and walking towards her. “You know I have an important weekend ahead, right?”

She laughed, opening the box. “A churro won't weigh you down, don't worry.”

I took one of them and walked near her to the cafeteria. The morning light was soft, and the day was not too warm. Ideal to sit on the balcony and talk for a while. So, that's what we did. I grabbed coffee for both, while she walked outside.

The sunshine on my skin was just a slight warmth as I leaned on my chair, and the smooth breeze of the morning cooled off my skin. Traffic sounds in the background, the ruffle of chairs and the occasional bark of one of the dogs playing on the balcony of the start-up that shares the building with us.

While having a sip of her coffee, I noticed Amanda's eyes widening, and I could practically see the bell ringing in her mind. Instantly, my brows were drawn together. Brace yourself, Eva.

"So, I heard on Twitter dot com…" I rolled my eyes at the last part, and despite provoking a small chuckle from her, she didn't stop talking and her gaze still remained twinkling mischievously. "Carlos was in Mugello last weekend."

Oh, for fucks sake.

"If that's what Twitter says, it must be true."

"Yes. So," she paused. Her head tilted slightly, honestly looking like a pup who saw a threat in the distance. "Did you two talk?"

I shook my head; my fingers busy on the handle of my mug, desperately trying to seem unbothered by the question. "Nah, we didn't talk."

"You sure?" She asked, her eyebrows raised in suspicion.

"Yes, I'm sure," I said, my voice steady. "It's not like we're friends or anything."

"That's too bad," she murmured, a hint of disbelief in her voice. "It's not like Carlos and your brother are still like, the best of friends and maybe— maybe he went there to visit him and you end up talking?"

I sighed. "Stop it."“You're a terrible liar, Eva.” Amanda said bluntly, her gaze intense.

“Amanda,” I said, my voice stern and my eyes piercing. "Stop it."

“So, you talked.” Amanda gave me a knowing look. "I knew it. I saw those tweets and I realised we had barely talked this week, and that only happens when you're too busy overthinking. And then boom, I woke up to dozens of notes made at 2 am? You always go to bed early." She crossed her arms, her gaze still intense. "Come on, just tell me what happened. If it’s not him, it’s anything else. That worries me too. I'm here for you, no judgement."

I sighed. "Fine," I said, setting my mug down and leaning back on the chair. "We talked. A lot. We actually had dinner."

Amanda's gaze softened, but then she frowned again. “Dinner? The three of you?”

“The two of us.”

"Just the two of you?" Amanda's eyes widened in surprise, lips smiling brightly. I nodded to her question. "What did you talk about?"

A part of me wanted to end it there. The other part of me needed some guidance. And Amanda was a friend, she always had good advice. On the downside, she loved to gossip. But we were friends. Guidance. But gossip.

I shrugged. “Just normal things. Racing.”

“Okaaaay, that’s good.” At this point, her lips were curving up like she was the one having dinner with him. I couldn’t decide if her reaction annoyed me or made me happy. "So, what now? Are you going to keep in contact with him?"

I shook my head. "I don't think the dinner changed anything.” Liar.

“Eva,” she propped her elbows on the table. “You’re a terrible liar. Spit it out. What happened? If you don’t want to talk about it, tell me that. Just don’t lie.”

Talking about it would make a big deal. A bigger deal, actually. I dragged my hands over my face, tired and confused. Thinking about it was challenging enough and I truly didn't want to transform all my confusion and emotions into words. Amanda, on the other hand, couldn't hide the fact that she wanted the truth, her gaze so strong it almost made me melt over the iron (and obnoxiously red) chair I was sitting on.

So I told her. Every single detail. From the glorious vision of him under the bright lights of my garage, which for a second made me feel like I was living in an alternate world, through the call at dawn, to his gauze under the beautiful sunset glow. His warm, velvety lips brushing against mine. I told her about the “I think I might have loved you, too”, and the way that even in my dreams I couldn’t seem to forget his scent when he hugged me goodbye.

I felt so exposed, so vulnerable, as I spilled my heart out onto that small table, and when I finished all I could hear was the sound of her sigh. A ridiculous rom-com kind of sigh.

“I just feel like we messed it up because of pure desperation,” I said, crossing one leg over the other and looking around. “He messed it up. I think we just missed each other so much we… I don’t know. Got confused on the feelings?”

“He messed up?”

“I didn’t kiss him back. I just asked him to please, don’t.” It was more ridiculous saying it out loud now than when I recalled the moment in my mind.

“You’re even stupider than I thought,” was her answer. I arched my brow. “The guy cooked for you, at his place, told you he “thinks he loved you too” and tries to kiss you and now you’re mad because he didn’t text you?” She paused. “What the hell will he say? Of course, he won’t text you. What would you say to someone after being denied a kiss? Text him yourself.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Why not? I asked myself the same question. Because I can’t trust him to stay. Better, because I can’t trust him to not leave. “Don’t be stubborn, come on. Just by looking at you, I know you’re dying to get that kiss.”

“Can’t we go back inside and talk about work?”

“Oh, no, missy.” She shook her head. “Those AB tests can wait. I want to talk about you and how you’re so dumb you might lose the chance of your life.”

“You’re exaggerating. As always.”

“Eva.” She was stern, her eyes burning on me. “He was your best friend. At least try to mend that friendship. Even if you don’t want anything else. Whatever the reason.”

I sighed, bowing my head in defeat. Amanda had a way of making me see sense, even when I didn't want to. "And if I can’t see him as a friend but still can’t give a step in the other direction?”

“Then, you give it time. Just don’t give it too much space.” She got up from her chair. Mug on one hand. The empty white box on the other. “Remember how that worked up last time.”

Fact one about Amanda: she was probably the most curious person I knew. Any arguments in the office, celebrity rumours or gossip of literally any kind she knew by heart, down to the last detail. And while that was remotely irritating, especially at exhausting times, like during Amber and Johnny’s trial, or when (especially when) the news broke about Pique and Shakira's divorce, it could also be a blessing. At least from my point of view. Perhaps all the stories contributed to her having a broader view of relationships and, as a result, being so good at giving advice. Fact two: there was no one more insistent than her, so, evidently, she couldn’t leave the office without reminding me to text him.

It was 5 pm, and I was utterly absorbed in the presentation for the new restaurant. I was head down, consumed by the details of culinary and marketing analytics, and, to tell the truth, my mind was so focused on this project that I couldn't really think of anything else.

Amanda was getting ready to leave. Jacquemus purse over her shoulder and a strong pink lipstick on the place where a less saturated one had been during the day.

“You stay?” She asked me.

“Aham,” I briefly made my eyes leave the screen to look at her. “I need to finish this. Next week I’ll be too busy.”

“You leaving for Italy on Monday?”

“Tuesday,” I corrected her, my eyes going back down to the laptop. “Don’t want to leave this to the last minute.”

“Okay. I’ll try to have a look at it before you leave. Also,” my eyes went up again. “Send the man a good luck text.”

I sighed, rolling my eyes at her. "He doesn't need my luck text.”

Amanda nodded, her eyes still twinkling mischievously. "Okay, send him a whatever text, then. An emoji. Like his Instagram story.”

“I’m afraid liking his story won’t work.” I leaned back on her office chair, which I had taken in the middle of the day when she needed to leave for a meeting and left me to use her small office.

“Text him, then. Anything. I wouldn’t let Carlos Sainz escape, but you do you, babes,” she shrugged, turning her back to me to walk to the door.“Enjoy the weekend. Besos!”

“Bye!”

I didn’t text him. Of course. In the same way, she was insistent, I was stubborn.

Actually, let me rephrase it.

I didn’t text him then.

Mid-afternoon, Rio had called inviting me to dinner, and when I asked about the kids, he told me he had booked a nanny, so they would stay home. It was either business or pleasure. I didn't need to ask; as soon as he mentioned my dad was invited, I knew we'd be discussing business. And after Rocco's worries last night, I knew it was partly my business, too.

My nerves were on edge as I prepared to leave the office. They only worsened as I neared the restaurant - a way too fancy place for a Friday dinner with the family.

Crossing the sidewalk, my heels clacking on the cement, my head spinning from the long hours in front of my laptop, and the anxiety building in my chest, I looked inside. My dad was seated at the end of the table, with an empty seat to his right - the seat I was supposed to take. Marjorie was already waving at me. Smiling politely to the man standing at the door, I said, "They're waiting for me." He nodded and let me enter.

My eyes drifted to their table, and I allowed myself a few seconds to study the mood. They were laughing, but my palms were still sweating as I settled in for what would surely be an uncomfortable conversation.

"Sorry, traffic," I said, punctuating my apology with a kiss on each of my parents' cheeks. "Am I too late?"

"No, no," my dad said, his voice warm and comforting. "Your brother was about to tell me something, but you just distracted him. Go ahead, Fabrizio."

I turned to him, curious.

"I'm sure we can wait a bit more. Just... after the food," he said.

"Why are you so nervous?" Marjorie asked, her violet fingernails softly laying over his arm in a gentle caress. "It's something good," she said to me. "Don't worry."

"Are you pregnant again?" my mom asked.

"No! No, no!" my sister-in-law responded quickly, her voice almost echoing in the room. Even Rio seemed surprised by her rapid response. "It's Rio's news. Not mine."

“After the food, then,” my father said.

“I hate it when I do that,” I muttered to my brother, grabbing the menu from the table and letting my eyes drift through the print. “You haven’t ordered yet, right?”

My dad shook his head. "We were waiting for you.”

I glanced at the menu one last time before setting it back down. My dad's hand called for a waiter and, after the young man left, the conversation resumed. As usual before any Grand Prix, the race weekend was the matter on the table and, that night specifically, Carlos' penalty was the urgent matter. Ferrari had the pace and Carlos had the skill, but as I sat there, hearing my brother and dad's input on how wise the choice had or hadn't been, my attention diverged to the DNF he had suffered in Austria, less than two weeks ago. Vivid images of the flames engulfing the car, the heartbreaking words on the radio, and the cheers that echoed through the crowd as his teammate stepped onto the top step filled my mind.

One feeling the glory, the other one consumed in ruin.

“Good luck out there this weekend.” "Don’t pull another Austria. That one was scary.”

Done. I’d texted him. For better or for worse, it was done. And I didn’t have time to put the phone back in the purse before it vibrated again in my hand.

“Thank you. I really need it.”

I checked the time.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I’m resting." "Listening to my teammate rant about food, but resting.”

“Why? Did you tell him about the cheese-less pasta you tried to feed me?” “If I expect Leclerc to teach you something is how to cook pasta."

"He’s a terrible cooker.” “I’m better learning it from you.”

"I’ll be sure to give you a lesson someday."

"I'll hold you to that."

  "What are you smiling about?" Marjorie asked, my attention immediately being grabbed from my screen to the table.

"Nothing, sorry," I said quickly, tucking my phone back into my purse. "Amanda just texted me about the work I was finishing.”

"Ah, Eva, if you put that effort into racing…" he said, as the waiter came back with our food. I tried to ignore him, especially because there was no use fighting back his comment.

Even with the food on the table and the anticipation to find out about Rio’s news tugging on my chest, the conversation didn’t go further from Formula 1. My dad, a lifelong Italian Ferrari fan and a very biased Carlos supporter was ranting over the lack of professionalism he was sensing from the team and how the choices they repeatedly made ruined not only the drivers but the prestige of the team. Nothing new. Rio and I have been listening to the same tirade for a long couple of years and nothing seemed to change, even after the amazing start to the season the team had.

“I had my reservations at first, but you could be a nice fit for the team, actually”, my dad said, pointing at Rio, with the knife he was using to cut his steak. Rio looked confused at him, and then, at me. “Have they given you an answer?”

What?

For a moment, I felt like I’d fallen on a different table, a completely different conversation. My gaze shifted from one to the other, confused by my father’s question.

“Who’s they?” I asked. Marjorie was biting her lip; her violet fingertips on my brother’s arm, once again.

“Ferrari,” my father responded, clearly stepping over my brother’s feet. Rio seemed bothered; clenched jaw, restless fingers that Marjorie tried to calm by positioning hers over. “Are those the news?” He asked him.

Rio nodded, his jaw unclenching and his lips transforming to a slight grin. "Yep. They offered me a job." He looked around the table, his gaze caught mine for a second but quickly left again. “I need to let them know my decision until Monza.”

“You applied for a job at Ferrari?” I asked. Honestly, I was so confused I couldn’t piece all the things together. “We’re doing so good at the Challenge, you could have waited for just one m—”

“Eva.” My dad interrupted me. The strong stern voice pulled my attention. The authority value of his words over the sweet comforting voice of the beginning of the dinner. The mood had definitely shifted “Wait? You’re the one that’s always urging the team to aim for higher heights.”

"Exactly. The team won't do that without Rio."

"But your brother will. And so will you." I tried to interject but with no success. He continued before I even had the chance to talk. "You can't possibly think your brother would stay with the team knowing he could have this huge opportunity."

"I didn't know about any opportunity." I was replying to my father, but my eyes were directed to Rio. "What about the team? And the Challenge?" I inquired.

"In less than two weeks, the championship will be over. I have no doubts you will win it. You're just losing time there," my father's tone was bothering me, but the fact that he was still cutting his steak as he talked was really aggravating my temper.

Rio, on the other hand, didn't react. His expression didn't even shift. He remained silent, eyes shifting between mine and dad's face. In his silence, though, he was telling me much more than he thought.

"This is not a formality," I said to my father. "Can you please look at me while you talk about our future?"

Finally, he put down his cutlery and remained silent for a few seconds. Deep blue eyes looked up at me, cold and serious.

"There's no future for you if you're afraid to take a serious step," he said finally. "I won't let your brother get stuck in the Challenge when I know he can do so much more. I won't let you make him fall behind because of you."

"Because of me?"

"Why else would he stay at the Challenge?" I stayed silent, feeling my fake sense of confidence being stripped away with the weight of my dad's question. The answer that my conscience gave me was selfish and I refused to say it out loud. I was afraid of staying alone, rather, I was afraid to see Rio flying solo in the higher aims I ambitioned for me and not being able to carry along. Only if he waited, we could jump up together. "Why would he choose anything less than Formula One?"

"So, you have it decided, then?" I asked Rio. "How did that even happen?"

His tongue crept in between his lips, eyes wandering on my face, afraid to reach my eyes. It was making me nervous. Not just because he was about to leave me, but because he didn't tell me about it, prior. My dad knew about it. He even thought that I knew about it. And like a lightning bulb lighting up on my head: Rocco knew it, too.

"It was proposed to me. The job. At Silverstone, a few weeks ago." Even though Rio was stuttering, and his words barely constructed a sentence, piece by piece it all fell together. "Apparently, Carlos talked to someone about you. About the Challenge. And he mentioned me, my results..." he explained. "Carlos invited me there for the Grand Prix and surprised me with an interview."

Why didn't it surprise me? Carlos. The “right time”, of course.

"Your results? Why hide this from me?” I asked, looking around the table. “Clearly, everyone else knows.”

“I wanted to tell you, but didn’t get the chance to do it.”

“But what?” I asked, half defeated, half annoyed. Angry, even. There was so much going on inside me, I couldn’t think straight. “You just said you had the interview in Silverstone. Weeks ago. You had plenty of opportunities.”

“I knew you would snap and react like this,” Rio tried to justify himself.

“Snap? I’m not—” I paused and took a deep breath. At this point, I was seething with anger. “I’m asking questions. I’m not… snapping.”

“You should be happy for me,” I would if I didn’t feel betrayed. “I know you well enough to know that you would react… badly to the news. Especially if you knew Carlos was involved**.**”

Even though his name was blinking on my head, in bold red letters, I tried to set apart his involvement in this story. So, I carried on,

“And you’re just going to do it? Leave the team, the whole project and ditch us? Without even consulting me?”

He shrugged. “I’m consulting you now.”

“This is not a consultation, Rio. Please.” A pause. “This is you telling me what you’re going to do, without even considering my opinion or the team that’s behind your great results.”

“Go ahead.” He made a gesture with his hand. “What’s your opinion, then? You are the one that’s always telling me to aim higher. This is my dream. Always has been.”

“What? Formula One? I thought your dream was to drive in Formula One. Or was that before you noticed you’re a shitty driver? Enlighten me.”

“Eva, enough,” the deep voice cut me off.

I felt like I was going to burst. I wanted to scream, to cry, to express my anger somehow. But my dad's stern gaze kept me in my place. I felt completely helpless and unheard.

“You’re being ridiculous,” said Rio, cutting through the silence. “Childish, even. Ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful? I’m not the one leaving.”

“Why does leaving need to be bad?” The question settled in for a second. “Grow a bit, and maybe you’ll get some good opportunities too.”

“Sure, maybe then my friends will get me jobs, too. Is that what you mean?”

“Enough.” My dad's fist hit the table, loud enough to silence us, but not to the point of attracting too much attention.

My gaze lingered on his clenched fist on the table. I nodded, forcing myself not to say anything else. I placed my napkin on the table and got up, making sure my chair wouldn’t make any noise when pushed back. Before turning around, I paused briefly, my gaze now resting on my brother. “Good luck with your new job.”

  *

  It didn't surprise me when I saw Carlos fly through the track the next day, setting amazing times in the qualifying session, despite the penalty waiting for him for the race. He was dancing with the car, tracing beautiful lines within the colourful ones Paul Ricard was known for. Carlos would start P19 the next day, only ahead of Magnussen, who also had a back-of-the-grid penalty.

I traded the interviews for a dip in the pool and lingered there for the remainder of the afternoon. Perhaps because I was not the best person to have around that day, my parents had left just before lunch and didn't get back until after dinner. Alone, with music echoing throughout the house and the crippling anxiety the events that week had provoked, I felt myself get lost in the doubts and uncertainties.

My phone rang when I was already getting ready for bed. On my nightstand, the name Carlos appeared over an old photo of both of us. Like I couldn't control it, I walked to the phone and sat on the bed. I let it ring a few times before picking it up.

“Hi,” he said. I just looked through the window, to the dark backyard. “No good luck text today?”

“Guess not.”

“And why's that?”

“Did you know Rio had an interview to work at Ferrari?”

“Yes...?” He paused. “Is that a problem?”

“Did you know he got a job offer?”

We both fell into a moment of silence. A long sigh stretched through the line. I closed my eyes, not sure what to expect from the conversation. The next time his voice was heard, it was more serious.

"Can we stop asking questions instead of answering them?"

"The timing is funny," I said. "Just that."

"What do you mean?"

"You coming to Mugello? Was that a coincidence?"

"Eva, what?" Carlos was silent for a few seconds. "Don't make this into a drama," he said. "Rio is talented and if he got a job offer it's because he earned it. The things are not remotely related."

"I'm not complaining about him getting the job."

"Then what are you complaining about?" Carlos asked.

"That it took you years to finally come back and talk to me and it happened just when he got a job in your team. Did you really want to talk to me or did he make you do that?"

"I didn't do it for him," Carlos said. "I did it because I wanted to see you."

"I wish I could believe you."

"And why don't you?"

"It's been three years. Coincidences don't just happen."

I could hear him breathe. Silence weighed down my chest. He wasn't denying it. He wasn't telling me why he was there, that night. "Can I see you this week?" He asked me, before a long sigh.

"No."

"I'll be in Maranello for a few days." I bit my lip, shaking my head to the void. "You'll be in Imola, right? I can go there—"

"I don't want to see you." I talked over him and then paused for a brief second. "Don't show up there, please. It's an important week and I don't really need more distractions."

“Eva, por favor.”

“Good luck tomorrow.”

I put my phone away and let myself sink into the bed, feeling nothing but the warmth of the comforters on my skin and the instant sense of security that came over me. I allowed my eyes to close and my mind to drift away, and before I knew it, a prayer for Carlos came into my thoughts.

I prayed for strength for both him and me, for us. I knew that, whether we were on or off the track, we would need to find a way to get through whatever was to come.

Next Chapter: 04.

Thank you for your support in the previous chapter! Carlos will become a more present character in the future. Pinky promise. Don't abandon me until that happens, please! <3

#tightrope #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz #f1 imagine #f1 one shot #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #f1 x reader #fanf1ction #carlos sainz angst #carlos sainz fluff #carlos sainz jr

[evoldir]

Fwd: Other: ProteinFolding.and.Recessivity

Begin forwarded message: > From: [email protected] > Subject: Other: ProteinFolding.and.Recessivity > Date: 16 August 2022 at 07:23:22 BST > To: [email protected] > > > dear and reputable dears of the evoldir dir, > > it's been ~21 years since I shared with evoldir a few lines describing > (for the first time?) the molecular mechanism for "genetic" > recessivity at the protein-folding level (i.e., for all proteins, not > only enzymes). > > the email (minus typos plus some readability edits) is further below. > > and here's the machine-gun version: > 1) misfolded proteins tend to be toxic, > 2) the cell refolds/degrades them, > 3) most aa-replacement mutations misfold proteins, > therefore > 3) mutated proteins are refolded/degraded too, > 4) (3) makes mutated coding regions recessive and WT ones dominant, > regardless of encoded protein (at most hemi-dosage effects). > further, > A) most misfolded proteins are caused by peptide-chemistry accidents > so that recessivity is a side effect of the machinery that clears > accidentally misfolded proteins. > B) molecular accidents affect RNAs too (rRNAs) and thus rogue RNAs > must be a major challenge too. > C) homozygous recessives should behave like gene knockouts. > > in 2010, while browsing nick barton's "evolution" CSH text book, i > learned that some researchers had weakened a major chaperone activity > in an organism and many recessive mutations became "symptomatic". > > this showed that chaperones are sufficient for genomewide recessivity, > as my 2001 email proposed. > > I shared my 2001 email with barton and he agreed with my mechanism and > interpretation, [etc]. > > this month by chance i googled "recessivity and molecular chaperones" > and the only hit was my researchgate "re-pre-publication" of the 2001 > email. > > this is too bad, because it shows that for 20+ years most students and > researchers worldwide have been denied a chance to learn about the > mechanism (only a few dozen people heard it from me after 2001). > > i am nearing retirement and i doubt i may ever get to formally publish > the mechanism. > > in all sincerity, i never thought i deserved a formal publication for > it, since coming up with the mechanism took no effort on my side > beyond sitting at susan lindquist's seminar (and at hundreds of > others, ruining so my "productivity" and career) while scribbling and > sending those lines to evoldir required only a few minutes. > > furthermore i thought then and still do now that the mechanism is too > illuminating and important for it to be invidiously sociologically > claimed by a single person. > > so i'd like to kindly ask you to start sharing with as many people as > possible, including non-biologists but especially your students, the > (20+year-old) news about the protein-metabolically and > molecular-mechanically straightforward basis of "genetic" recessivity, > whenever you get a chance and even w/o making my name. > > thank you very much > > best > > m > > ==========Subject: recessivity and "variation capacitors" > From: marcos antezana

#IFTTT #Email

[not-close-to-straight]

Hi!

So, I wrote this as a comment on the last chapter of Soar but I also wanted to send it to you here because I can't think of another better way to thank you and to let you know about all my feelings. You don't have to do anything with it, I just wanted you to know.

😍😍😍xxx

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

OK, so I was so excited for this last story but I was also terrified. I normally squeal when i get an email that you've posted and then wait until I have the perfect time and space to read it and give it my full attention. With this one, I knew I had to be in my best place mentally and emotionally because it was going to be both wonderful and heartbreaking to read.

Firstly I'd like to say thank you. Thank you K for all of yourself you've put into this series (and everything else you write) it is a joy to be able to read your writing and I am constantly in awe of the way you bring us with you when you write.

Secondly, I went through so many tissues but I also giggled so much as I read this last piece! Gosh you have a wonderful way to just make people FEEL so intensely.

Thirdly, here is a list of my absolute favourite lines from this...

- "but I am here to tell you now that if all you do for the rest of your life is love the people here the way you do every day? Then you have not wasted your life, and I am proud to be a part of it.” 

- “I’ve always been domestic and sappy.” Tony scoffed teasingly. “I just never had a big enough family to show it all the time.” 

- “I told him our babies were here and he told me ‘those kids aren’t yours, you got a knot off and Clint worked his ass off for the rest of the time, that isn’t equal at all’.

-  “Pep, right now for these little ones, my arc reactor is proof that I have a heart and I don’t know how I feel about changing that.” 

- Christmas at the Compound was equal parts strictly observed tradition and utterly restrained chaos. 

- “Pep, I’m worried about jostling one of these Christmas present towers and being buried beneath the avalanche of ribbon until spring thaw.”

- “Look man.” Sam laughed at him. “I’ve got a whole group of Omegas, two sets of twins, actual demigods and a handful of super soldiers to bake for this year. That isn’t counting you Alphas and have you seen that Parker kid put away food? Those three dozen cookies over there are just for him and his crazy mate. I’ve been baking since Wednesday and I’ll be baking for another two hours. It is not my fault if you eat your body weight in snickerdoodles.” 

- A home full of people I loved

- Rhodey watched his best friend with a smile that was thirty years of love all in one motion. 

(Spoiler, I made myself cry again rereading these as I copied them into this comment 😭)

Lastly, I think that people will forever continue to reread and love this series. It encompasses so much of what people are genuinely striving for. That home full of love where they are accepted and cherished for who they are. Where the joy of finding and having each other is the most important thing, where found family is the strongest of bonds, and where love wins every time.

Thank you, thank you so very much.

😍😍😍xxx

This comment just straight up made me cry. The Broken Wings Verse means so much to me personally and like I said in my author's note on the chapter, I'll never be over just how many people ALSO related to it.

All these lines are my favorite too! Yinsens conversation with Tony especially post EG made me sob and the whole scene with Pepper promising proof of his heart and I just really love the way he and Rhodey stayed together all these years. It is just Very Good for Tony to have someone who was always there for him, cheering him on and holding him up and I can't even imagine how much Rhodey must love him, how after thirty years he gets to see his very best friend get happier and happier every single year and how it must do amazing things to Rhodey's heart.

I hope people go back and re-read any of my fics, but especially the ones like BW, anytime someone tells me "I'm re-reading!" it always makes me happy because I'm one of those "Read it once, will never read it again" readers and I only have a handful of books I've ever enjoyed enough to read more than once, so if my fics make the "Re read" list for people, that's about as big a compliment as I can get!

(BTW I really loved the Christmas Card you sent me! And idk if you have a book order in right now or not but I'm going to put a note next to your name on my email list to send you a free book this round!)

[genuineformality]

Febuwhump: What I Learned

I've mentioned before that I'm a writer returning to fandom spaces after a long absence. I never stopped writing, exactly, but my creative outlets were very different (I was playing a lot of roleplaying games) so the type of writing I did changed.

Roleplaying writing is an intensely collaborative experience and there are as many ways to do it as there are people who play games. My sweet spot is play by email or chat, with long, intense one-on-one scenes in which each player takes turns steering the scene and the other reacts to their prompts and gambits.

I promise this is relevant. More under the cut.

There is little time to overthink in a roleplaying scene with someone else. Your partner is literally waiting on you to write the next piece of dialogue, the next description, the next thing to force the scene to move forward. You can't really second guess yourself and once you click send, it's gone to your partner to take the scene where they will. Even if you talk to your partner ahead of time and come to some conclusions about how you want the scene to overall go, people are full of surprises and sometimes they go in delightfully unexpected directions. And for those of us with chronically low dopamine, having the near-instantaneous dopamine feedback loop is amazing. Five stars, highly recommend.

I haven't had opportunities for this kind of writing for a long time and I have really missed it. On the occasions when I've had willing partners, I've been a depressed wreck of a human being and unable to create much of anything. When I've been in better positions for it myself, they've been depressed wrecks of human beings. Or the games they're playing aren't games I'm interested in, or, or, or. There have been dozens of reasons and most of them have meant that I just stopped writing creatively.

Enter fanfiction.

I am not a regular in fandom spaces. I tend to consume media and then leave it behind. The fandoms I've actively consumed fan-generated content for are relatively few and rare, but they do exist and I'm glad to find others who write what I want to read and share it with the world. Sometimes I'll get into a fandom briefly, find what I'm looking for, and then leave. Sometimes I'll get into a fandom briefly, discover that the community is not for me, and leave.

This isn't shade; this is just an acknowledgement of what I want out of my fandom spaces and I'm old enough that I no longer have an interest in doing things I don't really want to do. Konmari your brain space as much as your physical space. Don't keep things that do not spark joy, especially in your hobbies.

Netflix Shadow & Bone came out and I saw it at exactly the right moment. I half remember throwing out the first of the Grishaverse books some years ago (and shortly afterward swearing off all YA fiction), but fuck if the Six of Crows cast didn't just suck me right in. I'm a sucker for a disabled protagonist, tons of trauma, and clever crime. I wanted more of that more or less immediately.

If you've been reading my blog, you know the rest.

Long digression aside (I swear it's relevant), I started writing again, but when you haven't been writing for a long time, writing is hard. Moreover, when you don't have an outside person to bounce your ideas off of, how do you even know where a plot is going to go? By the end of January, I'd published ~8K words between two SOC stories, but written almost 20K that I tossed into a scraps file (in case I decide to go back and reuse some of that prose or dialogue).

So I went looking for inspiration in the form of writing prompts and when Febuwhump came along, I thought, "Hey! This could be a good thing to encourage some writing. Write a little bit every day with a daily prompt, indulge my desire to just read about beloved characters having a hard time of it, have a reasonable goal... let's do it!"

Having that just little bit of outside impetus - the prompts - did me a world of good. Doing it in the form of a challenge meant that I had to stop obsessing over each word. The goal is to churn out some amount of word count, it doesn't really matter how much, and make a story each day, even if it's only a few hundred words.

And daily posting gave me that little kick of dopamine every time I got a like on Tumblr or a kudos on AO3.

But here's the thing.

I quickly realized that the first two stories I posted could very well be sequels to each other. And because I didn't just play roleplaying games with my friends, but I played years-long campaigns where narrative arcs are built on crazier, zanier shit than the Febuwhump prompts... writing a cohesive narrative was actually more compelling to me than just an exercise to write 28 disparate stories.

The way I wrote these prompts was often frantic extemporizing the night before I posted in the morning. At that point, the goal was not just to write something kind of whumpy, but to create a story, in the same way I would if I was steering a roleplaying scene and someone said, "wouldn't it be cool if-" and left it up to me to figure out how to get us from point A to point B where we can reasonably do that cool thing they thought of on a whim.

As it turns out, I *love* that.

I won't be doing another prompt challenge soon, because I have finite time for writing and I would very much like to get back to my SOC AU and the Deus Ex character study and the Yentl Fix-it Fic, not to mention the sewing and cross stitch projects that are currently languishing. I would also like to read more fic, which definitely went by the wayside while I was working on this.

But this was fun (and hard and sometimes torturous) in a way writing hasn't been in a few years. If nothing else, this recaptured my desire to just write again. And for that alone, I'm so grateful to have had the experience.

#writing about writing #about the author #febuwhump #fanfic

[tronrpg]

what are Sirens?

what are Sirens? we just don't know.

but i'm getting ahead of myself.

To my knowledge, there has never been an officially-released Tron pen-and-paper RPG. There certainly would have been a market for it around the original film's release, had it done better at the box office. And assuredly there have been dozens of homebrew splats and rulesets shared between fans and friends over the years. The Fract, in an ideal world, would eventually be a complete RPG system, enough to fill up a corebook and run a game. But in thinking about worldbuilding, I've run into a storytelling problem that, if not unique to the world of Tron, is certainly still a sore-thumb kind of issue.

Tron--that is to say the OG 1982 Grid, the New Grid, and whatever metatextual setting that the Fract takes place in--is neither science fiction nor science fantasy. For those who aren't clear on the delineation between the two, the plainest I can describe it is to say that "Star Trek" is (generally) science fiction, and "Star Wars" is (generally) science fantasy. Science fiction is nominally supposed to adhere to scientific rules or at least bend them to a reasonable degree in order to tell a story. Science Fantasy bends and breaks those rules, sometimes with impunity, because space wizards waving laser swords around speaks for itself.

The setting of Tron, taking place as it does outside the Grid, is a simulacra of a modern-day "real world" as we know it, with science and computers behaving the way we know they normally do. Except for in the Grid itself. We have to assume that both the Old and New Grids were special in some way, or at the very least that Grid-like systems with sentient programs are few and far between; because computer systems and programs as we know them do not behave like they do on either Grid. If they did, why would Flynn have bothered to create a new one if there are Grids within every computer in the world?

And that's where the science fiction of Tron falls down. Stephen Lisberger and Bonnie MacBird were not computer experts, and they wrote the original screenplay during a time when computers were widely known but not widely understood, particularly by the common person. They can be forgiven for leaning hard on the fantasy and spirituality elements that make Tron a work of more consequence than oh, say, Computer Warriors. But by the time Legacy was released, the world was a very different place, and the ubiquity of computers and technology meant that the average person had a basic knowledge of how a computer works and what it can do; and the OG Grid does not fall into those parameters. So it's hard to say that Tron is strictly science fiction, where rules have meanings, or science fantasy where rules are up for grabs, because each of us carry around a real-world analogue to the Grid in our pockets all day and by now we are all pretty sure that Google Chrome does not, in a metaphorical or spiritual sense, fight for us.

(This, incidentally, is where I feel Legacy did the right thing by having Flynn starting from almost-scratch with the New Grid instead of attempting to apply real-world IT logic to the Grid like Tron 2.0. Divorcing the fiction from things like emails and spreadsheets allowed Legacy to retain some of the spirituality and potential of 1982; and inasmuch as Tron 2.0 is a great game that I intend to revisit soon, I find the "real computer" stuff to be kinda cringey.)

And here's where we come around to Sirens, finally. What the hell are they? Aside from being conventionally-attractive female-coded Programs in white vinyl outfits who appear to have largely representational or ritualistic roles in the New Grid, it's not entirely clear what they do or what separates them from a garden-variety Program. We see Gem and the three other Sirens in Legacy, there are a handful of Sirens in Uprising, including Lux, who appears to have been a...battle Siren? Maybe?

When it comes to putting together an RPG, you have to lean on rules. You have to nail things down and say, outside of GM fiat, a dice roll does that and a stat means this and an attack is performed thusly. So in thinking about squishing the world of Tron into an RPG format, which unlike most video games does not contain a single linear storyline; you have to think about making the world digestible and processable by squaring the edges and making definitions. You want the players and the GM to be able to exercise the vastness of their imaginations, but you want to set the parameters of the playing field, or else why have a themed RPG at all?

That's where I started thinking about how Tron's mish-mash of science fiction/fantasy elements make it a unique challenge to format as an RPG setting. Would it be better to emphasize the fantasy theming, or would players prefer a more grounded approach with real-world computer elements? Is it possible to have a balanced approach? How do you color in the missing information about how the Grid and Programs work, the stuff that the original works never really explained? Just what the HELL are Sirens anyway? Is there some sort of unspoken caste system in the Grid? Are there male-presenting Sirens? Can they suit up and play in the Games? Can they all do that synchronized-walking-backwards thing? Do Sirens just show up when Programs are about to compete at something? Why so much eyeshadow? Why does it rain in the Grid? Why did Flynn serve Sam and Quorra a roast suckling pig? Why does Clu 2.0 look more like Lord Farquahd than Jeff Bridges? WHAT HAPPENED TO RAM? IS HE PART OF THE JUNKY RECOGNIZER NOW OR DID HE TURN INTO THE BIT OR WHAT? KEVIN FLYNN, WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

...okay, got that out of my system, thanks for bearing with me. The point is that there are a lot of fill-in-the-blanks when it comes to worldbuilding lore in the Tron universe, and that may be by design. I love Star Wars, but the industry that has been built up over the last 40+ years to make sure every puppet, alien and CGI blob with a nanosecond of screen time has a full backstory and Wookieepedia entry, I find, largely detracts from the magic of the original movies. Not having everything explained adds to Tron's lasting allure. On the other hand, it makes a project like the Fract a product of guesswork and blue-skying.

So let's say I was creating a Tron RPG, like you do. And I wanted to make Sirens a playable class (which I intend to). Based on the information given to us by the canon, which isn't much; I'd say that Sirens are, first and foremost, specialists. They have specific skills that they hone and adhere to and do not deviate from to take on other roles, which makes them in-demand as bodyguards or enforcers but their specialization limits a players' build choices. They are also largely recognized in the Grid as having ritualistic or shamanistic public roles, perhaps representing the link between Programs and Users. (Maybe Dumont was a Siren 1.0. He could have had on a white vinyl singlet under that getup, who knows?) Maybe they're like priestesses or shrine maidens, maybe they take vows like nuns. This might make them like Monks in D&D.

You see how narrowing the possibilities of what Sirens are in order to fit them into an RPG character class box also reduces their potential in canon--but of course canon's not being contradicted here; this is a fan work and is not intended to overwrite the creative work of others. I just hope that if it ever gets completed, it plays enough like the work that inspired it, so that other fans can get the same rush of imagining what it's like to be on the Grid.

#tron #tron 1982 #tronblr #tron lives #tron legacy #rpg #flynn lives #worldbuilding

[xtruss]

A Muslim Writer on Finding Her Voice in Post-9/11, Post-Trump America

— By Aisha Sultan | 09/01/21 | Newsweek.

A new generation of Muslim Americans is making its mark. Spencer Platt/Getty

Like most Americans old enough to remember, I know exactly where I was and what I was doing on September 11, 2001 when the first hijacked plane hit the World Trade Center in New York City. I was showering when I heard my husband yelling for me. Dripping wet and wrapped in a towel, I watched in shock, along with tens of millions of others, as the Twin Towers fell, killing thousands of people inside.

Emotions from that day feel so much closer than two decades ago.

My stomach turned in revulsion. My body tightened with fear for my relatives who worked there. Dread settled like a heavy rock on my chest. Like other Americans, I wondered, who was attacking us. But as a Muslim, I had other questions too: Did the attackers claim to be Muslims? And, if so, what would happen to the rest of us?

I quickly got dressed and headed to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, where I worked as an education reporter. I talked to stunned school officials and students while still trying to process what was happening.

That evening, I checked in with my family in Texas. My brother, then in middle school, had been in class when his teacher broke the news. He became nervous and, in the teacher's eyes at least, asked too many questions. "Is this World War III? Did they bomb downtown? Are they going to bomb our town next?" The teacher told him to shut up and leave her classroom, that she couldn't bear to look at his face.

Riz Ahmed attends the "Mogul Mowgli" press conference during the 70th Berlinale International Film Festival Berlin at Grand Hyatt Hotel on February 21, 2020 in Berlin, Germany. Ahmed recently criticized “dehumanizing and demonizing portrayals of Muslims" in films. Andreas Rentz/Getty Images

My mother's co-workers at the department store where she had worked for years suddenly refused to speak to her. Cops escorted my hijab-wearing cousin off her college campus because it was no longer deemed safe for her to be there.

In the immediate aftermath of that day's horror, my grief and anger as an American was so compounded with my fear and anxiety as a Muslim that it compelled me to do something unthinkable for me: I poured my heart out to the readers of the Sunday paper.

Back then, it was unusual for a news reporter to pen a personal response to a national tragedy. This was long before social media made us all performative, confessional animals. I needed my neighbors in the Midwest to know that while Muslim Americans shared their grief and anger, we also feared whether our country would turn on us.

I ended that column with the questions my college-aged sister had asked me: "Will the government come after us like they did with the Japanese? Will other Americans stand up for us?"

I told my readers the same thing I told her: I don't know.

I wasn't sure what to expect but dozens and dozens of readers responded to her question with expressions of support: Yes, we will stand up for you, you and your family are one of us, they said, in one way or another, in message after message. There were just two negative, Islamophobic emails in the bunch.

Such an overwhelmingly positive response seems inconceivable now, given how polarized our discourse is now and how normalized hate speech has become—an irony, when you consider how heightened anti-Muslim sentiment was at the time.

Key moments after 9/11 also feel unimaginable now. Back then, a Republican president, George W. Bush, visited the Islamic Center in Washington D.C. days after the attack to tell the American people that the attacks violated the tenets of Islam—"Islam is peace," he famously said—and to defend Muslims as equal citizens worthy of respect and protection. Our last Republican president, by contrast, touted a "Muslim ban" across the country. Even my state, Missouri, now bright partisan red, was a swing state back in 2001, where Democrats sometimes voted for Republicans and vice versa.

Coming together after tragedy: U.S. Muslims sing "God Bless America" at an interfaith memorial service in Pasadena, California for 9/11 victims two days after the attacks. Lucy Nicholson/AFP/Getty

It was against this backdrop that I felt moved to share my vulnerability with readers who may never have met a Muslim before.

Their responses reassured and comforted me, but the expressions of support didn't always—or even mostly—translate into action on a national scale. Instead, the Muslim community bore the brunt of the fallout of 9/11 for years. The government targeted Muslim communities with surveillance, questioning and confinement. It seemed law enforcement and the media used the label of "terrorism" for heinous crimes only if the perpetrator was Muslim. The number of anti-Muslim hate crime incidents reported to the FBI rose from 28 in 2000 to 481 in 2001— and those are just the official numbers. Countless incidents are never reported to the FBI.

Yet, in those ensuing years, creative work by Muslims also bubbled up in the country. A trio of Muslim comedians—Preacher Moss, Azhar Usman and Azeem Muhammad—launched the "Allah Made Me Funny" comedy tour in 2003. Writer Laila Lalami's debut novel, Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits, was published in 2005. Actor Aasif Mandvi began appearing on The Daily Show in 2006. G.Willow Wilson published her first graphic novel, Cairo, in 2007.

People who had lived as Muslims in America prior to 9/11 became American Muslims, more engaged in its civic, cultural and political institutions. Muslims creatives were reclaiming the narrative and telling our own stories instead of responding to the false dichotomy of victim or villain told about us.

I was among them. Seven years after the attacks, I began lobbying my editors for a features column, a departure from a decade of straight news reporting. I had become a mother with two small children. I was trying to make sense of the confusion and isolation that parenting provokes. My first column in 2008 described a bleak winter day when I was sleep-deprived and frustrated and feeling slightly suffocated by the tight bonds of motherhood.

The author: St. Louis Post-Dispatch syndicated columnist Aisha Sultan. Elizabeth Wisemen

Again, readers in the heartland responded with overwhelming support and commiseration. I wasn't making any overtly political arguments. As readers got to know me, they appreciated the commonalities in our parenting experiences despite our differences. I wasn't trying to be an ambassador or spokeswoman for my faith or an ethnic community. I was sharing my observations and struggles as a suburban, middle class American mom who happened to be Muslim and of Pakistani descent.

An older, childless white man who lives in a conservative exurban county wrote to say I was the only Muslim he knew besides the attackers on 9/11. He said he had changed his perspective on Muslims in America after reading my column for years. We weren't just a faceless enemy to him anymore. He saw me as a person, my humanity very real to him.

We've stayed in touch for more than a decade.

Over time more Americans have become like that reader, increasingly comfortable with the idea and presence of Muslims—as neighbors and even family members. Yet simultaneously, the conservative right turned Islam into an effective political weapon and used it to bludgeon Muslims who have sought greater representation and political power.

These opposing forces once again became evident in the correspondence I got from readers, The tone and tenor changed notably in the summer of 2016 as the political rhetoric of the presidential campaign came to a boiling point. Public writers have always had our share of angry critics. But the criticism I received turned increasingly vitriolic, with a deep undercurrent of anger. People who disagreed with what I'd written weren't merely looking to dissent but to silence me.

Increasingly, pushback was laced with profanity, racial slurs and calls to go back to where I came from. Anonymous writers called me a 'raghead c*nt' and others told me to "get out of America, you towel head bigot b*tch." One reader mailed a handwritten letter after I wrote about talking to my children about the killing of Travyon Martin, the Black teenager fatally shot by a white member of a neighborhood watch patrol in Florida. She said she would make a point of cutting out my column photo from the paper every weekend so she could put it in the toilet and piss on it.

After the 2016 election, the heightened anxiety about personal safety I'd felt right after 9/11 returned, even stronger and lasted for years. It's not hard to understand why. During the period between 2015 and 2016, the number of assaults against Muslims rose significantly, surpassing the aftermath of 9/11, according to a Pew Research Center analysis of hate crimes statistics from the FBI. Over the following years, disinformation and conspiracies began taking hold in America at a level I'd never seen before. White rage was palpable online and eventually, on the streets.

The memories and feelings associated with the events of 9/11 continue to play a role in attitudes toward the American Muslim community in some quarters. Here, the annual 'Tribute in Light' memorial in lower Manhattan near One World Trade Center. Spencer Platt/Getty

And yet during this period, Muslims in America continued to create art and cultural capital at an unprecedented level. Playwright Ayad Akhtar produced his Pultizer-winning play Disgraced. Hasan Minhaj reclaimed the title Patriot Act, launching a show that became a cultural touchpoint for a generation of American Muslims too young to know firsthand how that legislation was wielded against the Muslim community. Ramy Youssef won a Golden Globe, Mahershala Ali won two Oscars and Lena Khan is directing Hollywood films. Models, pundits and Olympic athletes came into the spotlight while wearing a hijab.

At some point, I too decided that whatever the costs of speaking out, far greater was the cost of silence. If someone was going to attack me for speaking out against white supremacists, that was a risk I was willing to take. I couldn't back down from writing about controversial issues that I knew would provoke an angry backlash, even when it felt reader abuse could possibly escalate to violence.

What I've observed and experienced over the past 20 years, as a columnist and as a Muslim, perhaps boils down to this: As the politics of exclusion grow more strident, parts of the culture embrace inclusivity. Each force is a reaction to the other.

Certainly this has happened in my own relationship with readers. Even as the negative emails ramped up in intensity and bile, I still have far more readers who send words of kindness and encouragement than hatred. Many reveal their own secrets and most vulnerable stories.

My goal when I began writing a column was to give a voice to parents struggling to raise kids in this digital, social media saturated age. I hope I've done that but along the way something else important happened: I found my own voice too.

My youngest sister, who was in college when I wrote my first personal story in the aftermath of 9/11, decided to attend law school after she graduated. She eventually ran for state judge in the 113th District in Houston and was elected in 2018 as part of the record-setting number of Muslims who won public office that year.

With the benefit of two decades of hindsight and the insights I've gained from my interaction with readers over the years, I realize I could have given her a better answer when she turned to me as a frightened college student in 2001. I could have reassured her: Yes, there will be other Americans who will stand up for us.

More importantly, we will learn to stand up for ourselves.

— Aisha Sultan is a syndicated columnist based at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.

[topicprinter]

About the app: I've been working on this app over the last couple of years, though the idea has been around in my head much longer. It's for rating meals (scale of 1-5) at restaurants. That's saved along with GPS coordinates for the place so the next time you go, you can see what you liked and what you didn't -- whether it's the next week or the next year. You can also share those recommendations with a friend (or all the meals you've had at once restaurant) via email or text or whatever. Right now, I don't have a place for comments or pictures in the app, though people have mentioned both of those. I want to get more users and more feedback, because it really sucks to build things that I think people might want only to find out they don't really care or won't use them. Adding pictures also starts consuming bandwidth and increasing potential cost of running the app, which is next to nothing, at the moment.Why did I make it? This app is something that I've wanted for a while both for myself and my family, and as I've talked to other people about it, they wanted to use it as well. I've had a couple dozen users beta testing it over the last few weeks on iOS and Android and it's been well received. I do note that most of the apps that have done this in the past are not around anymore for various reasons, whether it's being bought and/or part of a lawsuit or pivot or just dying. I'm not too worried about all that, though... right now, it's still just me and I've got a day job several days of the week that pays the bills, so I can take the marathon approach and I'm not going to freak out if it doesn't get a bajillion users next week.How's this different from Yelp/Google/TripAdvisor/etc? All those places focus ratings primarily on the restaurants themselves. You can find specific dishes to try in the reviews, but I'm not going to leave a review there just so I can remember that I like dish X everywhere except restaurant Y.Target market: People that go out to eat, especially those who travel for work (and dine out all the time, maybe only in the same city a few times a year) and it's good for places with a lot of options (e.g. sushi).Monetization: The app will primarily be free with some IAPs (in app purchases) for some premium features (like profiles for different people/family members) and I've got some other monetization options I'm considering, but I'd love to hear ideas. I'm absolutely not going to put banner ads at the bottom. The initial version won't have any ads whatsoever, though down the road, I may add in location based ads during the few seconds while the GPS locates you. (right now, there's a food quote or fact for the 5 second wait)I was using Google Places to get a list of restaurants nearby, but due to their recent API changes and insane price increase, someone will have to type in that restaurant's name the first time someone visits it. Then it'll be there for everyone else. I'm thankful that only the beta users will have that feature removed of all nearby restaurants.I'm planning to launch it in the next few weeks so it's available for people as they travel over the summer. I don't feel like it's ready, but I'm running with the theory that if you're not embarrassed by the first version, you waited too long.I'd love feedback on the idea itself as well as ideas on how to reach potential users. It's a lot harder to find online gatherings/subs of foodies than it is for people who play disc golf, or whatever, I've found. I think the nature of the app lends itself to some degree of virality, as foodies hang out together and dine out together and theoretically, if they find something useful, they'll tell other foodies about it. I've at least got that going for me, I think. I do plan on putting $100 or so into ads each month to help build up a userbase.About me: I'm an app developer by trade and have been building apps pretty much since the app store opened, and have been doing database stuff for quite a few years before that. I've done more than one startup (to various degrees of success and failure) and spent a lot of years doing freelance as well. I'm bringing all that together to launch some apps over the next few years. This is the first one.The app is called Fave Noms (as in, favorite things to eat) and the website is FaveNoms.comTL;DR: I can't always remember what I ate and whether I liked it or not, so now there's an app for that. It lets me rate the dish I ate, see what I got last time, and send those recommendations to other people, if desired.

#/r/entrepreneur #reddit

[evoldir]

Fwd: Other: ProteinFolding.and.Recessivity

Begin forwarded message: > From: [email protected] > Subject: Other: ProteinFolding.and.Recessivity > Date: 16 August 2022 at 07:23:22 BST > To: [email protected] > > > dear and reputable dears of the evoldir dir, > > it's been ~21 years since I shared with evoldir a few lines describing > (for the first time?) the molecular mechanism for "genetic" > recessivity at the protein-folding level (i.e., for all proteins, not > only enzymes). > > the email (minus typos plus some readability edits) is further below. > > and here's the machine-gun version: > 1) misfolded proteins tend to be toxic, > 2) the cell refolds/degrades them, > 3) most aa-replacement mutations misfold proteins, > therefore > 3) mutated proteins are refolded/degraded too, > 4) (3) makes mutated coding regions recessive and WT ones dominant, > regardless of encoded protein (at most hemi-dosage effects). > further, > A) most misfolded proteins are caused by peptide-chemistry accidents > so that recessivity is a side effect of the machinery that clears > accidentally misfolded proteins. > B) molecular accidents affect RNAs too (rRNAs) and thus rogue RNAs > must be a major challenge too. > C) homozygous recessives should behave like gene knockouts. > > in 2010, while browsing nick barton's "evolution" CSH text book, i > learned that some researchers had weakened a major chaperone activity > in an organism and many recessive mutations became "symptomatic". > > this showed that chaperones are sufficient for genomewide recessivity, > as my 2001 email proposed. > > I shared my 2001 email with barton and he agreed with my mechanism and > interpretation, [etc]. > > this month by chance i googled "recessivity and molecular chaperones" > and the only hit was my researchgate "re-pre-publication" of the 2001 > email. > > this is too bad, because it shows that for 20+ years most students and > researchers worldwide have been denied a chance to learn about the > mechanism (only a few dozen people heard it from me after 2001). > > i am nearing retirement and i doubt i may ever get to formally publish > the mechanism. > > in all sincerity, i never thought i deserved a formal publication for > it, since coming up with the mechanism took no effort on my side > beyond sitting at susan lindquist's seminar (and at hundreds of > others, ruining so my "productivity" and career) while scribbling and > sending those lines to evoldir required only a few minutes. > > furthermore i thought then and still do now that the mechanism is too > illuminating and important for it to be invidiously sociologically > claimed by a single person. > > so i'd like to kindly ask you to start sharing with as many people as > possible, including non-biologists but especially your students, the > (20+year-old) news about the protein-metabolically and > molecular-mechanically straightforward basis of "genetic" recessivity, > whenever you get a chance and even w/o making my name. > > thank you very much > > best > > m > > ==========Subject: recessivity and "variation capacitors" > From: marcos antezana

#IFTTT #Email