fahye | WIP VENTING POST

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WIP VENTING POST

In my experience, there's nothing like a) sharing your frustrations and b) showing off your tiny successes to get you motivated to finish a fic. So: this post is for everyone who is currently in the middle of a fic. (Or even many fics!) I know there are a lot of you out there.

Don't care which fandom, don't care how long or how silly or how unpolished it is, don't care if you've just started or are almost done: this is a post for you to tell me what you love about it so far, or the stupid block that you've hit, or why the premise is hopelessly on crack, or how your characters are misbehaving little twerps who just won't stop talking.

Post a snippet! Post the bit you're most proud of, or an illustration of your complaints, or the bit that makes you giggle whenever you scroll past it.

(1)

Somehow the space in her office is bent all out of shape; something about the way Sweets leans his elbow on the arm of the chair and tilts his head to the side makes it seem as though she is on the wrong side of the desk. She itches to stand up and do something: flick through one of her books, perhaps, or adjust the angle of a lamp, though she has no idea why she should want to do this.

I love this fic's premise A LOT but it has no plot, and unfortunately all the gaps that have been left in between the therapy sessions and the kissing and Brennan's awesomely retarded emotional processing...are gaps where plot needs to be. THIS IS AN OBSTACLE.

(2)

Even in a chronic state of alert and surrounded by devastation, Sasuke gives off the impression that he'd rather be breathing the air on a higher plane.

"But you're walking in the dirt," Naruto says aloud. "Just like the rest of us."

There is a very small break in the rhythm of Sasuke's steps, barely noticeable, and Naruto chuckles to himself.

I like this fic a lot more than I expected to -- no, that is a lie, I always knew that I would love writing anything apocalyptic -- maybe I like the character portrayals more than I expected to. Current major obstacles include the dastardly proliferation of semicolons (it's, like, breeding season or something for the little buggers) and the fact that I find myself suddenly unable to get a hold on two of my major POV characters, DESPITE THE FACT that I have already written half an epic in the voice of one, and a shorter fic in the voice of the other.

~

Your turn! Share. It's good for the soul. And feel free to give each other tips on managing unruly characters or gathering the nerve to delete unnecessary scenes, or just leap on someone's snippet and exclaim I LOVE IT OMG WRITE MORE!!!!1 in the worst ff.net way, because in the right context (read: not ff.net) that can be enormously helpful :D

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In no particular order ...

(1)

The first Christmas after he leaves the service, Tom Quinn sits in the flat that he leased in his own name and watches the lights latticed up the sides of his only window flash: blue, red, yellow, green. The primary colors plus one.

(2)

As soon as she considered it possible, Alice's mother returned to work, and she was left five times a week in the capable hands of her grandmother. Her grandmother, who lived in a corner of the city, near the park, did not speak English very well. She cradled Alice in strange syllables: round, discrete, little bubbles of sound. Alice stretched her mouth up at her grandmother's fallen face; she tasted salt on the fog that crawled in at the window. For long weeks her eyes were a delicate robin's egg blue, as if rolled by a cuckoo from the nest into foreign sockets. Each gave sometimes the appearance of movement independent of the other. As with most disturbing traits in infants, this was considered normal; she pulled at the empty sky with fingers like earthworms, and waited, anxious, for the world to fall down into her reach.

(3)

Thom experiments. He casts a bodydouble -- or triple? -- into Court, cloaked in an invisibility spell that will appear hasty, and watches it from his rooms, in a glass. After some hours a mage undoes the cover and says, "Dear me. Has the Lord Thom condescended to spy on lesser mortals?"

The mage's face is ugly with triumph. The bodydouble looks at him calmly. In Thom's voice, it says, "Well, for a fee, of course."

It bows to the mage, to the small crowd around them, and leaves. Thom watches it proceed through the corridors and opens the last door by hand, lets the thing in. He lets go the illusion of substance and touches what's left with idle curiosity. His fingers puncture the image: no resistance.

(4)

The only common fantasy between them being British, they call the flat Cair Paravel in the end. Ada smuggles home a bottle of reasonable claret and -- reasonably -- they smash a glass of it against the boarded-up window before drinking the rest. It's been long enough since they had alcohol that this is sufficient to make them tipsy.

Method of choosing: these are excerpts I am not humiliated unto death to let other people see.

(1) I was going to write this while listening to "Sister Winter" on repeat as we had agreed, on the plane home for winter break, but then I realized that it would be very very depressing. I thought I would be all right with this. However I had a vision of anonymous someones shrieking at me and suppressed Tom Quinn's total neurosis. I don't know much beyond these lines except he is absolutely alone and a little insane.

(2) Fahye knows what this is already.

(3) I once promised to write the definitive story of Roger/Thom, according to me. If I ever finish, it will be a surprise. This is one of the newest bits. It is from January. That should give you some idea.

(4) I have no comments ... Fahye?

(1) You write sublime Tom Quinn, my dear, but I do fear a little for your health while you are doing so.

(3) IT IS SO BLOODY DEFINITIVE, YOU MUST FINISH IT, not that I can really talk considering me and my 'definitive' Good Omens prequel that has been dragging on for years now.

(4) The obstacles here are, I think, our combined inability to write in straight lines & timezones & the fact that we retain too many nerves about each other's characters. That said:

"Put on your dancing shoes," Ada commands, and Sophie recognises the pleased flush of her cheeks as one signalling some exciting new coup in the trading world.

"I don't have dancing shoes." She smiles. "If you say you got me some dancing shoes, we're going to have to have another talk about cows and magic beans."

We should really actually work on it. Yes.

Edited 2008-03-16 00:42 (UTC)

(1) He needed more time before he could find inner zen! This is why I didn't write the fic from BEFORE he finds inner zen.

(3) I want it to be DONE ... I don't want to DO it.

(4) But the magic beans enable theft!

(1) SCC

The man circles them, his eyes wild. “I’m insane? You people are insane. You’re the great leaders of the human race and you’re fucked in the head. It’s not just that you keep sending people back, dividing families and decreasing our numbers. It’s not just that you run our lives, telling us when to breathe, when to eat, what to do. You’re infatuated with the enemy. It’s sick, Connor. You keep infiltrating our ranks with your science projects, your beloved pets – reprogrammed metal that mess with your head. They look like us, Connor, but they’re not us. And so many of them, so many of them have gone wrong. You ask us to believe in what you’re doing and we follow you blindly because you’re both so damn good at convincing people to follow you blindly. You’re worse than the machine. You deserve to die.”

John takes this in, his worst fears realized.

Kate replies, “So in the future, we suck, I get it.”

(2) SGA

"I have news," Michael says, sitting cross from her and pouring the tea. "Of another member of your team."

"Dead?" Teyla asks.

He hands her a cup. "Yes."

He's impressed with her as she makes no obvious reaction, not even a blink. (He remembers her tears, sobs and curses at the death of John Sheppard, but that was years ago and so shortly after the birth of his son.)

"Who was it, Michael?" she asks, showing mild interest.

"Colonel Samantha Carter. She died very bravely, I hear. TOok out three of my ships in the process."

"Ah."

He enters her mind now, curious for a reaction. She stares at him innocently. And he realizes: She already knew.

(3) Moonlight

Three weeks later, she escapes into the night and smells something, someone AO negative nearby. She aches for it, a gnawing sensation in her belly and a quickening in her slow beating heart. Mick told her the hunger would be severe, something she would have to learn to control. Her tongue slides along her lower lip and she decides to ignore her lessons, intoxicated by the scent.

Beth finds him, a child of twelve on a bench outside of a library, waiting patiently with his arms around his knees.

He smiles at her when she approaches (she is so very pretty after all), and she smiles back.

*

She's never felt so full, so alive, so satisfied.

(4) Tin Man

"You're a woman, alright," Glitch says, bumping her shoulder with his own. His tone is low so that their companions can't hear. "And you've fallen for the oldest trick in the book: unabashed, unrestrained masculinity. I'm ashamed of you." He laughs and presses his finger against her nose.

"Quiet," she says sharply, and then more kindly: "Please."

"Be patient with him," he says quieter. "There's not much left in that heart of his, just a rusted old ticker that refuses to keep time."

She leans against him, enjoying that strange sensation of familiarity about him. "He's a good man," she says.

"A good man, and true," he replies.

(4b) Tin Man

Days become weeks and she finds her captivity very tiresome. They keep her in darkness, letting her out only at night. The drugs keep her sedate and too unfocused to use magic, but she has wits enough to make conversation with Zero, testing the tenuous hold he has on his sanity.

(She always had wondered how the tin suit would work on a weaker man than Cain, and now she knows.)

"I miss the sunlight," she tells him, plaintively. "I'm so cold."

He watches her with hungry eyes. “You are the master of escape, princess. Don’t think I don’t know you." His fingers caress the curve of the silver locket around his neck.

The nepenthe flowing through her veins slow her speech but she concentrates on each word: "What would my sister say if she knew her general betrayed her?" she whispers, gesturing to locket, knowing it to be hers. "What would you have done to the man who betrayed Azakadellia?"

He shudders at the name, the memory, and looks away.

(5) Tin Man

His cage rattles from the outside and the iron door holding him in noisily moves. A sudden draft of cool, night air whispers across his skin and he can smell a wooded forest.

Something, someone, touches his cheek – soft fingers sliding along the dirty stubble and dried tears mingled with sweat. He can barely see who it is, but with an intake of fresh air, he knows her and feels overwhelmed with shame.

"I failed you, sorceress,” he says – voice hoarse from the screaming, and then days of saying nothing at all. He does not expect clemency.

(6) Foyle's War

Sam led with her leg – (she had mentioned in the car that all the low class dames in Hollywood films lead with the leg) – and followed through with a shake of her hip, a sly smile and the curl of her hair. He could only follow her, helplessly sucked into the role of the aloof sugar daddy.

With his hand at the small of her back, he surveyed the rough crowd, looking for any familiar ruffian face.

"Oy, no ladies allowed in here!" said a gruff voice from the center of the group.

With eyes all madness and too much drink, Sam laughed and seemed to draw the attention of every man in the room. "I'd leave him outside if you like, sir, but he happens to be carrying my money." A pout grew on her lips and he felt the room get ten degrees warmer. "I just have a devilish wish for a gamble or two tonight."

(7) Angel

There are creatures in this place, Wesley finds, put there by the great god-king who enjoyed petty torments and mass destruction. They avoid him. And call him marked.

He enjoys the vague semblance of persecution in this holy place, it comforts him in the familiarity.

Edited 2008-03-16 00:51 (UTC)

OY. I WANT YOUR BONES FICS LIKE CRAZY. I AM A FAHYE-FIC JUNKIE AND I WANT I WANT I WANT!!!!!!!!!!!11

FINISH THAT SCC FIC THIS INSTANT, YOUNG LADY.

I WANT YOUR TEYLA/MICHAEL BECAUSE IT IS SO CRAZILY PERFECTLY EVIL.

& once again I wish I watched both SCC and Tin Man.

HAI. YOU AGREED TO BE A BETA, SO, LIKE, YOU HAVE BETA RIGHTS TO DESERVE TO SEE THE REST OF THE WIP RIGHT NOW?

(3) Oh man, do I ever know that feeling.

\o/ SOUNDS GOOD TO ME.

I LOVE TEYLA/MICHAEL SO MUCH OMALSDJflaskdjfa.sd

You would love SCC. OMG. You would love it. However, I mostly want you watching the current season of LOST as YOU WOULD SO LOVE WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THE SHOW'S WACKY SCIENCE.

Tin Man, not so much; but secretly the guy in 4b and 5 is Leoben, SOOOOOO....!

1:

It was a tragic house, and the real estate said that she was required by law to say, but really it wasn't a big deal, and it was such a lovely house, but once upon a time someone died in the sitting room and once upon a time, their daughter killed themselves in the bathroom upstairs.

"Bathroom?" Jo asked.

"Well, bathtub," the real estate agent said.

2:

It was a bright day, the type of day that made Dean wish their hotel had a pool, even though he hated swimming. Pulling sunglasses out of his pocket, Dean looked over at Sam.

"Little harsh on Marc," he said.

"He's a Satanist, Dean," Sam said, frowning a little.

Dean shrugged, "Nobody's perfect."

The Impala gleamed and Den ran his fingers over her hood before settling into the driver's seat. Sam tossed his bag in the back before sitting next to Dean. Something in the set of his shoulders reminded Dean that he hadn't taken his gun out of his jacket.

"The Colt's a little much for some guy that might have been a Satanist," Dean commented. "A little bit of overkill."

"What if it'd been Lillith playing a trick?" Sam asked, and took out the gun, put it into the glove.

"She doesn't seem like the type to pull this sort of thing," Dean commented.

Starting the Impala, listening to her catch, he snorted, "I mean, you remember the motel in Butte-"

"She razed it to the ground, Dean," Sam said. "I think that I have a right to take fucking precautions."

3:
"Hey," Sheppard said. He nodded at Ronon, a familiar greeting. "Sorry you got stuck."

Ronon shrugged, it wasn't Sheppard's fault. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement and smiled at Teyla, her grin wider than Sheppard's but no less honest.

"Ronon," Teyla said. "I am relieved you are home safely."

For the past few days, he'd been comparing how Jones interacted with the survivors, the way she talked to them all as though she knew what was best. In the evenings, when she allowed herself a few moments to sleep she reminded Ronon of Teyla, weighted down with leadership.

"How did you get home?" Rodney asked, finally coming down from the control center, a scanner in hand. "This couldn't fit that many people."

Sheppard coughed pointedly.

"Yes, yes, good to see you," Rodney said. "Did it feel like a wormhole?"

"He was concerned while you were trapped on the planet," Teyla assured Ronon. "Were you alright?"

Pushing Daisies (I was feeling this story had no real idea behind it, which is why I stopped, and after talking it out with Rawles the other day I feel better on that score, but it's currently on pause because I feel kind of terrible about the way Olive is treated by the story and I'm sick enough about women in other fiction that mistreating one in my own story isn't really palatable.)

It was Olive, sneaking into Chuck’s bed with her. Chuck emitted a tiny giggle. “Don’t wake Ned,” she warned, soft and conspiratorial, and Ned felt his entire body stiffen. He couldn’t let them know he was watching. He let his eyelids droop, tried to simulate the heavy breathing of deep slumber. Through the tiny slit that framed his field of vision, he thought he saw Olive turning her head and scrutinize him, and he wondered what she could see of him in the relative dark, but it mustn’t have been much.

“Dead to the world,” she reassured Chuck. “Hey - hey. What’s that?”

The next several minutes were lost to his comprehension, just susurrant breaths and soft-spoken strings of words he could never make out, curls of brief laughter pealing out before one or the other shushed her partner to near-silence. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and Chuck and Olive, so distracted, seemed to dismiss his possibly waking up as a threat. He no longer existed as far as they were concerned, and when Olive sat up on the far side of Chuck from Ned, leaned over, and kissed her lingeringly, he knew she had no idea that he was watching her do it.

SCC (doubting my time-travel mechanics, worrying that somebody else has already written it better)

It comes to him on the 405, on a ten-lane loop in the system of concrete veins that ties Los Angeles in retrofitted arterial knots. That is, it comes to everyone at the same time - the apocalypse is gentle in this way - but there is a mushroom cloud rising above the exhaust, below the smog, and in his car John feels an unsurprising thermonuclear invitation. Hello, it says, come with me, it says. I’ve waited so long to meet you.

The Office (this isn't really a WIP, and has no story attached, it's just an example of the random snippets I write when I'm trying to get my motor running. I haven't even fixed the wonky tenses!)

The phone would have rung at three, maybe four in the morning, and startled Jim into wakefulness he didn't realize he'd lost. Here he thought he'd never sleep again and already he was napping his heartbreak away.

How embarrassing it would be.

"I'm in love with you too," she'd gurgle, sounding choked and anything but loving. "Me too."

He wanted to say, "What?" He wanted to cry. (More.) He wanted to hold her again and kiss her again but here it was, this unimaginable moment plucked straight out of his dream life, but he was still half-asleep and so confused and he could hear Pam snuffling miserably, and he just lay back and shook at his head at the ceiling, the phone curling by his jaw until either is ready to speak again.

the apocalypse is gentle in this way

!!!! Okay, that's it, SCC is being downloaded as soon as I get home.

:D

(Oh Fahye! Had you not heard... about the apocalypse?!)

Oh, I'm familiar enough with the franchise to realise that it is mostly apocalyptic, I'm just on an apocalypse KICK at the moment so I got overexcited.

So I started writing this because of a single joke I wanted to make, and I have two pages written if unbeta'd, and then I stalled out in a combination of lack of time and paralyzing self-doubt about whether Yet Another SGA AU was necessary:

1) “This is an insult. It’s a massive, monumental insult to my massive and monumental intelligence,” Rodney snapped, stomping out of the assignment meeting.

“It is cover story, Rodney,” Zelenka said in a soothing tone.

“Which, by the way, only makes it more insulting because no self-respecting journalist would ever decide that a male model was worthy of a cover story. This is ridiculous! No one has ever won a Pulitizer Prize writing about a man who ‘does his little turn on the catwalk.’ I can’t believe my investigative skills and mastery of the English language are being wasted on some idiot who’s probably only marginally smarter than his hair gel.”

“Perhaps you are jealous that he still has hair to gel?” Zelenka suggested, abandoning the soothing tone as they reached their desks.

Rodney glared, tossing the story file down disdainfully. A few glossy headshots spilled out. He picked one up, nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Please, I’d rather have a manly cropped cut than completely vertical hair.”

At second glance, Rodney was forced to admit that the eyes weren’t bad, but he wasn’t saying that to Zelenka.

“And what kind of a name is John Sheppardlander anyway?”

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANTS. CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAVES. COVETTTTTTTTTTTTTS.

Hello, it says, come with me, it says. I’ve waited so long to meet you.

FUCK. I LOVE IT. OMG. YES. YES. THAT EXACTLY.

SENT.

HAHAHAHA OH EMMY <3333 NEVER CHANGE.

1: This is about Jo being... upset after nearly being raped by Sam. Because I think that's she really independent now, but she's also really human and really young - a lot younger than the Winchesters. So, she buys a house and it's haunted.

2: Um. Big Bang. That's all I got. It's going to be about what it means to kill evil and how you live with the very gray definitions of it.

3: I decided to try switching some of the viewpoint on the Martha in Atlantis sequel and it's working out. Except that I have to work hard to keep Ronon's voice. Martha and Ten are still doing their awesome buddy thing and breaking Rodney's worldview.

(SPN, Jo-centric)

You go out when you can and practice with your daddy's knives. You can't go as often as you like because Mommy keeps an eye on you, keeps buying you school supplies with unicorns on them. You repeat a hunter's story about a unicorn in France goring five people before somebody put the thing out of its misery. Secretly you think you could do that. Maybe not kill a unicorn, but go around putting people out of their misery, hunting just like your daddy. It's something to keep you going when you miss your target nine times out of ten, something to keep you going until it drops to eight, then seven, then four.

Mommy catches you, of course, but she doesn't say anything at first, just goes sad and quiet like she's been more and more lately. "Joanna Beth, you better be careful with those. I don't want any dead squirrels on my conscience."

(HP, Ginny/Tom)

She counts her freckles each as a point of pressure which may cause her to fly to pieces when tapped in the correct way. These little orange circles of seeming innocence are thick on her shoulders, her nose, her cheeks, her left knee but not her right. But counting these, counting out the rest of her remaining days in the patterns on her body--these prevent her from seeing the shadow in the mirror, the handsome danger whose smile knifes out in the darkness when it is late and her gaze falls inevitably upon the mirror hanging on the wall.

(Heroes, Elle-centric)

Unlike the doctors, who practice some sort of living, you practice death. You practice it upon insects at first, acting as a glorified bug zapper. (If that's what they're called; you have trouble remembering the outside world. You have trouble remembering a lot of things--but no more of that.) You love making your father and the doctors happy. You love the delicate unfolding of lightning from the palm of your hand, right where the scar is. You grow to love the destruction for its own sake, to beam at the way things jerk for a few moments after they die.

"Daddy, when do I get to practice on people?"

The question catches him off-guard, deep in conference with Mr. Bennet. He stammers and looks strange before he starts looking like Daddy-at-work again, all reasonable tones and important decisions. "You're not going to practice hurting anyone, Elle. You might have to use your powers on missions in the future, but we don't hurt people on purpose unless they need it." He taps your nose. "Understand?"

You scrunch your face in disdain, trying to find words to say that everyone needs pain to know who they are. And if the pain of knowing who you are is too much, well, better to die.

I have it all planned out, Fahye! SG-1 makes cameos and there is a motherfucking walk-off, I just need to write it.

*eyes open Word doc, pokes at*

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WIP VENTING POST

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I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT ALL THREE WIPS

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