I’ve loved all of your thoughtful responses to the wall of text I left up Friday before I vanished for the weekend in a hurricane of swing dancing! I’m still making my way through replying to everyone, but rest assure I’ve read everything and I will reply because I think it’s an issue and a conversation worth having and dissecting and I love talking to you guys away so this is just one more excuse. I’ll have a huge post with proper replies up sometime either today or tomorrow (because there’s things to do today, too, but a busy life is a happy one? Or something). This is just me saying thank you and I’ll have a response for you soon! :D
Damn word limits... Fanfictions that have deepened my love of and understanding of my favorite characters. I don't understand the disconnect between art and fiction in fandom, either. I have to say, though, that in the Sherlock fandom there seems to be a strong mutual respect between artists and writers, and quite a lot of amazing collaboration.
As I said (and it’s probably extremely evident by the fact that since I started writing fanfiction this January, my blog pretty much exploded in volume), I love fanfiction. Writing it, reading it, a well-done fanfiction is a thing of beauty and, yes, can become close enough to my heart to be very much like one of my favourite novels. I just don’t understand, and I want to understand so I can start thinking of how to change, the disconnect between fanfiction and fanart.
I’ve gotten that feeling from the Sherlock fandom, actually, and it’s a nice and welcome change. I also personally get that feeling from the Red vs Blue fandom, though that might be because of how invested in it all I am, and how often I write for it. It’d be nice to write something substantial (and quality, hah) for Sherlock again sometime and claw my way into the fandom bit by bit, and experience this feeling of camaraderie firsthand. :)
Ree! I was wondering if there was a fan-writer's tumblr for RvB? I mean, exclusively writing. Like a coalition of authors and readers of RvB stuff. If there was anyone to ask I thought it would be you! Actually there's a bunch of people I could have asked, but I like to bother you...tis fun...
You say “bother” like I’m not actually ridiculously happy to get messages from you in my inbox…
There’s a fic archive I had going for a while, but busyness and lack of life consistency has caused me to fall way behind on it. I basically reblog fics that people have written. It’s roosterfic.tumblr.com and one of these days I’ll queue up a bunch of posts again (I try to do them chronologically, so it takes me a bit to hunt things down and tag them properly).
Mumblybee has started awesome-inspiring-shit.tumblr.com which is more prompts for creativity rather than just for RvB or just for writing, but it’s a nice interaction where you can take them as RvB prompts.
Other than that, there’s not really an organized community - I post things and a handful of people will always read them and like or reblog or comment or whatever, but it’s not as organized, just a loose feeling of fandom and fanfic appreciation. I’m sure delkios, mumblybee, completelysane, laughingalonewithrvb, and other tumblr writers have the same experience - ichidou and runawayballista (and more, I’m sure) both post their fics to ao3, so they might have more of a network there? I’ve been trying to move over but then aforementioned problems with organization and everything, haha.
As I get used to the idea of being a writer, slowly and hesitantly and with a giggle of self-doubt, I find myself disappointed. And, much like all disappointment, I really wish I didn’t.
I write fanfiction. I love writing fanfiction. I write original stories, I plan out webcomics full of original characters, I write autobiographical essays, and I write things like this where it’s just lipservice (wordservice?) for me to air out my problems or issues or even happiness.
I don’t understand why fanart is held on such a different level than fanfiction. I don’t understand why there can be movements of art galleries of fanart that are seen as a benefit to the show and a way for the fans to converge, yet putting out a magazine (even where all profits go to the show or to charity) of fanfiction is not only illegal but also probably not going to gather nearly enough interest.
I appreciate art. I do it myself. I know how hard it is to do, to do right, to do in a satisfying way. I know how much time it takes to get something perfect, and I know how you can sell fanart at conventions for profit from your hard work.
So why isn’t fanfiction the same? Is it any harder to find that one perfect, poignant line to tie your piece together than it is to choose the color palate that will give your drawing a drastically different feeling? Is it any different to spend hours thinking of the right word, the right paragraph, the right idea and how to express it than to sketch and sketch and sketch until you finally have the right line work? Or to think of the perfect opening sentence to draw people in, to entice them to keep going, because as a writer you need the reader to want to invest in your work, not just money, but a chunk of time. Is it any different to pour my feelings out through a pen and keystrokes and a collection of words, a frame of a story or an apt metaphor or a new combination of unlikely words, than to pick up a brush or a pencil and draw until I feel satisfied?
It upsets me that it’s not as easy for fanfiction authors to profit from their hours of hard work. That we can’t just sell a book of short fanfictions the way an artist can sell an art book of fanart sketches. That we can’t sell original drafts or printed copies of a story the way artists sell a single sketch or commission? Why is it so odd for me to think of commissioning a writer to write something for me? Why is it a foreign thought?
It feels like there’s a disconnect where one is inclined to say something like “well, this style of art is only something so-and-so can do”. But it’s not. Pick up any book in my library, read one page from it and I will tell you who wrote it. Writing styles and quality writers are just as unique as artists, and yet there is this disconnect in the rules of how writers are able to show appreciation for their fandoms. How they can’t profit off of it. And I don’t mean just monetary profit, I mean recognition, appreciation, relationship with the fandom. Pick a fandom, and name your favourite authors and your favourite fanartists. Unless you’re an author for the fandom yourself, I bet the artist list is significantly longer.
I don’t understand it, and no one has been able to give me a clear answer I can’t refute. I don’t like it, because this stigma and the way writing and fanfiction is treated, not just within the fan community, but also by the world at large, makes me feel shame every time I talk about something I truly love to do, something I’m so glad I’m inspired to do.
What’s the difference between a fan comic of a series or a book or a movie, bound and sold as an art book or a short comic or whatever, and a novella or a collection of short stories inspired or based on that book or movie or series?
“We are all unkind from time to time. We all do things we desperately wish we could undo. Those regrets just become part of who we are, along with everything else. To spend time trying to change that, well, it’s like chasing clouds.”— A Great and Terrible Beauty by Libba Bray (via fuckyeahgemmadoyletrilogy)
The hallucination looked uncomfortable. “Sammy, I’m as happy as a clam seeing you talk to me, but that’s not on the list of approved subjects.”
"You’re an angel. Archangel. You should have wings." Sam pressed on, partly out of curiosity but mostly out of spite, out of pleasure that he found something to hold over the devil’s head.
"You don’t play nice and I’m going to start singing," Lucifer warned. "And never stop," he added after a moment.
"I’m curious. You’re living in my head anyway, might as well tell me. If we had killed you - really killed you, would you have left those wingprints like the other angels."
Lucifer stared as if this line of questioning would end with a bit of intense eye contact. Then he leaned back in his chair and grinned at Sam, looking more like himself for the first time in this conversation. “Have you ever read Good Omens?”
"What does that have to do with-"
"Well, they got a bunch of things wrong. Of course. Humans always are bound to screw things up. But they had a moment of true insight - true enough that I thought one of them might have actually seen an angel before. They said that demons still have wings, they just happen to be better groomed."
"So, you have wings, they’re just prettier?" Sam said, leaning forward in his chair.
Lucifer frowned and in a blink and a sharp, violent sound, was face to face with Sam as he said, “well, they have to be good for something. I can’t exactly use them to fly.” Another loud slamming of a crackling noise and he was gone, retreated into some burrow of Sam’s mind.
Sam sat back, breathing out in relief he shouldn’t be feeling towards a hallucination, a trick of the mind, and tensing up ever-so-slightly in apprehension of what it means that he just pissed off his own personal demon. Or, sorry. Archangel.
Only replace travel with art. Is there a word for that already?
It should be an easy fix. Pick up a sketchbook, a tablet, a canvas. But a blank photoshop file is so much more daunting than a blank page.
But all I want to do is draw. The delicate balance between wanting, needing to crate and knowing this need is too much pressure, that it’s so likely that I’ll fall short and get upset with myself and my perceived lack of skill that it’ll end in anger and frustration and so not where I want to be right now.
“I’m sorry I made you cry!” she says, and I want to tell her she didn’t. I want to tell her it’s okay, it’s not your fault, just don’t ever hurt me again or I will leave you. I’ll let you lay in the dust because the sun hurts me too much. I will use my weakness as my strength. The strength I know is a wiry, weaselly way.
Memory is unreliable, like an old car. It makes a loud bugle one moment, a hoarse-throated whisper the next.
I remember her sitting on the lawn in the summer, her long legs stretched out and her backpack rubbing at her thigh where she had propped it. I measured my way down the concrete stairs. The leaves glowed like clouds with the sunset behind them. She looked up at me and said that wordless phrase we say to all strangers. It gave me permission to pass by.
“A cold engine uses more fuel than a warm engine.”
Mostly I just want to curl up next to someone in a small room with rain outside and (maybe we are in Seattle, maybe some nameless city) and not be afraid.
“Cut down on the number of cold starts.”
I stay up too late, because my friends live in other time zones. She lives in a different time zone. We talk in the dark, three thousand miles apart. She tells me she is doing well, she’s seeing someone who inspires her to write three hundred words a day she does not show him.
Oh man, this is just too lovely. I think my favourite line in all of it is “she’s seeing someone who inspires her to write three hundred words a day she does not show him.”, and I know a large part of that is relate-ability, but also how perfectly that sentiment is worded.
But really, all of it. All of it is my favourite part and the way you work everything in and how you just make it all flow in such a natural, effortless way (which is all manner of holy-shit-impressive).
“When copywriter Robert Pirosh landed in Hollywood in 1934, eager to become a screenwriter, he wrote and sent the following letter to all the directors, producers, and studio executives he could think of. The approach worked, and after securing three interviews he took a job as a junior writer with MGM.
“But there’s this word, this word Phil Wrayson taught me once: weltschmerz. It’s the depression you feel when the world as it is does not line up with the world as you think it should be. I live in a goddamned weltschmerz ocean, you know? And so do you. And so does everyone. Because everything thinks it should be possible to just keep falling and falling forever, to feel the rush of the air on your face as you fall, that air pulling your face into a brilliant goddamned smile. And that should be possible. You should be able to fall forever.”—John Green and David Levithan, Will Grayson, Will Grayson (via durianquotes)
“Humans think they fall in love with different people. It’s never the case. They fall in love once, with one person, they give themselves away over the smallest hint of something, and that’s it. Everything else is an echo, it’s them falling in love with love. The other half of the relationship is just a placeholder for something they don’t know they’re missing”—How To Sell Your Soul (A 12 Step Guide)
Wash was never quite sure what he expected. He only knew, simply, undoubtedly, that it hadn’t been this.
He never dreamed he’d get to the military and rise through ranks and missions to a top secret government project. He never dreamed he’d have the time to notice anyone else on this ship as anything other than a teammate.
He expected her to be kind. It was war, didn’t he deserve some kindness? A soft spoken word of encouragement, a gentle, secret touch on the shoulder. He expected her to smile when they were alone and kiss him softly when he was hurt.
He thought she’d smell like flowers. Maybe it was past experiences creeping up, girls who liked perfumes and lotions that bottled the essence of summer. He thought she’d smell like home, like manufactured scents of seasons long gone and irrelevant in space, she’d smell of familiarity and she’d help him forget the sweat and blood and machines and smoke that he brought back from every mission.
He wanted her to smile like she’d just remembered a joke she’d heard days ago. He wanted her to laugh like she forgot what was funny. He wanted her to light up when she saw him, to have that moment where their eyes met and she would grin at him, or look away, or hold eye contact and outright smile or laugh at something she just remembered but wouldn’t tell him about even though he’d spend the next five minutes asking.
He figured her skin would be flawed. He figured, like a normal person, she’d have blemishes and old scars. She’d need to have indentations where she scratched at scabs, maybe an odd curve to her nose from when it was broken, rough hands and tough, taut skin, bottom of her feet littered with blisters. He figured her fingernails would be short and stubby, maybe even like her fingers, kept their length by an impatient biting habit and a dislike for nail files. He figured her hair would be frizzy and barely kept under control, impatiently braided or puller back and sticking out in the hints of a curl, or straighter but tangled with impatience that comes from someone in the army. He figured it’d be long enough to securely fasten back in place and away from her face, because she was still a soldier and she still would have to be efficient.
Wash expected, thought, wanted, and figured, all of the concepts not clear enough to be known, but plain enough to know when they hadn’t been met.
CT was disappointing, and somehow that made him love her even more.
"Are you okay?" the woman asked, helping Wash settle himself into a chair. He had grabbed the nearest stable thing, the wall, and staggered a few steps back when she had greeted him in that impersonal, polite way bar patrons greet each other - a nod of the head.
"Yeah," Wash struggled to get out through the haze of memories. "You just… really remind me of someone." He paused to look at her. "Have we met before?"
She considered him, his face and graying hair and lines where he’d spent too much effort not smiling. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember you, and I have a pretty good memory for faces.” She extended a hand, in an odd and slightly uncharacteristic show of what resembles friendship. “I’m Allison.”
Wash froze. Epsilon had been out of his head for months now and yet the echo of his mantra remained - Allison is dead. Allison is right here. Memories floated up, memories of this woman and this face, slightly younger, this hair, longer and darker, those muscles that hid beneath her thin shirt, the nights that Epsilon remembered where all he could do was feel her next to him in the darkness. Wash’s fingers prickled with the sensation of her warm skin as he gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles turning white. “A-Allison?” he repeated.
"You sure you’re alright?" she said, a skeptical brow making its way north.
"David," Wash coughed out. "I’m fine," he said, the response mechanical, practiced, convincing. He was fine enough to be ordered on shore leave. He was fine enough to have two weeks of rest after his reintegration had completed. He was fine enough to be on vacation, which he knew was just another test to see how well he deals with life now. One he wasn’t sure he could pass, staring at this woman, at Allison. "He thinks you’re dead," he said before he realized the words had formed.
She studied him. He didn’t expect shock or fear or worry, because he knew this woman, he knew Allison. He knew her reaction would be calm. Collected. An inspection. “Who?” she finally said, the word lowering the temperature around Wash’s skin. Were those goosebumps?
"Leonard." He didn’t see any way around it.
Her eyes widened, for a second, a glimmer of recognition, of-of fear? Fury? Denial? Wash wasn’t sure. “You’ve got the wrong girl,” she said with such finality that it betrayed her lie.
"No, you’re Allison. You’re the one." He stood up, willing his instincts to ignore the warning etched on her face. "You have to tell him. You have to show him you’re alive."
"I’m not that Allison.”
"He still loves you!" Wash blurted out, desperately. He reached to grab her arm to drive his point home, but found it had already moved, was already moving, the fist connecting with his face, the blurred vision into darkness, the vague sound of footsteps leaving the spot.
He woke up, having collapsed in the chair, the bartender handing him a glass of water. “Where did she go?” he asked quietly, wincing at the tender skin around his cheek bone. That’s going to bruise in the morning.
The bartender looked at him. “You guys lovers or something?” he said, pushing the glass of water up to Wash’s mouth.
"Something," Wash muttered, knowing his two weeks of "vacation" just got very specifically busy.
York leaned back in the hospital bed. He didn’t hurt, despite Wash’s occasional frenzied glances at the chart on the table just inside the door. York just needed to be checked after an accidental spacing, which had left him shaken, and, now, mostly bored.
York was pretty sure Wash was beginning to regret that York didn’t have an injury slowing him down right now, seeing as the banter had started at the speed of light.
“I was rushed!” Wash protested. “We were in the middle of a firefight!”
“You turned off the gravity, man.”
“At least I did my half of the infiltration.”
York raised a hand. “Now hold on. You’re going to blame me for…” He lowered his voice. “D tossing me out the window?”
“You turned off the —”
“It was an unfamiliar system!”
York chose not to mention that most of the systems they worked on were unfamiliar, and how he specifically had been unfamiliar with the first-hand effects of a grenade to the face, and would Wash like to hear about that. But he refrained, because CT had left that morning. York thought she was selfish, traitorous, and a lot of other words he wasn’t going to call her in front of Wash, but that wouldn’t help.
okay so i know there are people on here who follow the rvb tag. and that’s because rvb is fucking amazing!
what i am wondering is if any of those people would be able to link to to some good fic? i’ve been looking and looking and i’ve not been able to find much at all. there must be a hidden cache of rvb fic out there somewhere, i just need help to find it. fanfic please?
there’s the livejournal community which has a shit ton of quality RVB fic although it’s pretty much all shipping and there is porn so if that’s not your thing then meh? There’s quite a lot of york/Delta, though! In porn and non porn. I’d recommend the fic ‘Locks and keys’ if you don’t mind a human delta. On top of that there are many users here who have tons of high quality silly and serious fanfiction, the first one that comes to my head would be Reeberry but don’t be afraid to do some digging!
Go to the RVB fic archive. it’s a bad place to be.
ichidou, meganrme, runawayballista, embersownmatt, laughingalonewithrvb… there’s plenty more, roostertumblr is full of talented writers.
zeus you are too nice x(
There’s some fanfiction over on AO3 under the Red vs Blue tag; not sure if there’s any York/Delta there but it’s worth looking. As far as on-tumblr goes, it’s hard to track, but I’ve reblogged a bunch under my fanfiction tag. Most of those writers have more posts on their blogs, as well. <3
Oh! We also have a tumblrfic directory, but it hasn’t been updated in a while. Still full of good stuff.
Thanks for the mention, Fanta <3
The tumblrfic directory is very out of date (sorry guys, I need to sit down and fix that sometime soon), but there’s a list of contributing authors under the tag page that would be helpful! :)
Did you like the book? For God’s sake drop me a line and tell me one way or another. You can’t hurt my feelings. I just want to get a few intelligent slants at it to get some reviewers’ jargon out of my head.
Ever your friend,
”—Scott Fitzgerald to Ernest Hemingway, 1934 (the book was Tender is the Night)
"Firefly," Wash said easily and without hesitation. He followed that answer with a happy, proud smile.
Connie looked at him from across the table, confused. “What? I always called them lightning-bugs.”
"No, the show. Firefly." He paused, dramatically, and leaned over the table in his most serious voice. "Have you never seen Firefly, Connecticut?"
She laughed and playfully, gently slapped his face away and back until he was sitting down in his chair again. “I told you, if you want me to call you Wash, then you have to call me Connie.”
He grinned at her, slowly, letting the smile stretch as his eyes took in her face. She looked at him and ignored the warning flag a look like that would usually send up. They were flirting. Nothing wrong with flirting.
"I haven’t seen Firefly, by the way. But I bet you haven’t seen Mythbusters.”
"Nope, never heard of it!" Wash said happily.
She leaned an elbow on the table and pointed at him with a grin, closing one eye as if she was keeping him in her imaginary sights. “Alright, then, Wash. We’ll do a trade. I’ll show you my show, and you’ll show me yours.”
"Sure, Connie," he said, and she pretended not to smile at how he said her name. "How many seasons are there of Mythsmashers anyway?"
"Mythbusters,” she corrected. “Seventeen total. Not counting the specials. And Firefly?”
"Only five," Wash said with a slight frown. "I could probably find something else to watch to make up for the remaining twelve seasons of difference."
"I’m sure we can find a way to fill the time," Connie said with a smirk that made Wash’s ears turn pink. He was going to respond with something clever (at least he hoped it would be clever), but South walked into the room and she started talking to Connie, so Wash just sat there and smiled to himself, counting how many hours he’d just signed away to be in the company of this strange girl with odd hair and a dislike for helmets.
I sometimes wonder if I wouldn’t have had an easier time moving someplace else.
Somewhere that I didn’t already have a circle of friends, where I’d be alone and scared and probably couldn’t afford it. Somewhere that would take me months and months to get to any point of comfort. Some city that’s too big or too busy, too many people and too many cars. Or some suburb that’s too far from anything of note, where I’d have to buy a car because that’s the only way I’d ever be able to get around, not knowing anyone else.
Or maybe some place like Atlanta or Philadelphia, some place where I had a few people I already knew. Some place that would make moving not quite so scary. Maybe some small town in New Jersey, an apartment I can’t afford but still try to, a roommate I might get along with and a pet who is genuinely happy to see me come home. Maybe I would’ve packed up my tiny bank balance and meager job history and moved to Europe, probably until I bankrupted myself, but for a handful of months it would have been glorious. Or maybe I should have taken a shine to California or Hawaii and hidden in sunny weather and beaches, or even to Seattle and listened to the sound of rain against a window of an apartment too small for one person, but crammed with two. Maybe it would have been better if I lived in Chicago, the only city I remember even remotely liking, where I’d spend my days in parks and lake shores and public transportation. Or maybe visit San Francisco again, more permanently, and struggle to keep afloat in the high cost of living but console myself with hills and cable cars and the kind of colors I’ve never seen in a city so big.
Hell, maybe I should have moved to New York and bitten the bullet of living in the city I hated, surviving off of ramen noodles and visits back home for quality meals, living in some tiny apartment far away from midtown in the kind of neighborhood that makes me think I need to learn how to shoot a gun. Maybe I should have been lost in the sea of millions of people, every day feeling like I’m not hurried enough, not doing enough. Maybe I could live in this well-documented city that’s the setting for every movie you can think of, and so many novels, this city that never sleeps and therefore dictates that you can’t, either. The city everyone I meet pines for, hopes for, talks about living in for just a few years in their twenties or something, just to say they’d done it. Maybe I could live there because I’d get lost in a sea of women in high heels and classy skirts and long, fashionable coats, I’d have to work hard to be noticed, but I’d have the certainty that, most likely, no one else in my circle of friends would know the same people I did.
I wonder this because it’s so hard to feel inadequate next to someone you can’t bring yourself to hate or be angry at, and every slightly insulting or self-pitying thought at their expense makes you feel guilty, in case you weren’t feeling like crap enough already.
I wonder this because the best and worst part of moving here was knowing that you’d be here too.
“As if to build a fence around the fatal emptiness inside her, she had to create a sunny person that she became. But if you peeled away the ornamental egos that she had built, there was only an abyss of nothingness and the intense thirst that came with it. Though she tried to forget it, the nothingness would visit her periodically— on a lonely rainy afternoon, or at dawn when she woke up from a nightmare. What she needed at such times was to be held by someone, anyone.”—Haruki Murakami (via durianquotes)
[Collaboration with Shaherazade-21c! She wrote the last three songs and helped enormously with the…er, what passes for a plot in this thing.]
Wash woke up a bit later than usual – seven-forty-five rather than five-fifteen. Normally this would have horrified him, but today the Director was off-ship on business and so normal operations were temporarily delayed.
In other words, they had the day off.
This did not particularly please Wash; he preferred action and structure to a day of aimlessly wandering the ship in search of something useful to do. He rolled over in bed and sighed, looking for Maine, but his bunk was already empty. Wash frowned a little – usually Maine took any opportunity to sleep in. He sighed and sat up. Better get out there, grab a cup of coffee, and see how badly everyone had messed up the library in the common room.