Haven’t posted for a while, but Lexy (Gone For A Walk) asked for a drawing of an unimpressed Goat for her story.
This is what I spent an hour or two on.
Haven’t posted for a while, but Lexy (Gone For A Walk) asked for a drawing of an unimpressed Goat for her story.
This is what I spent an hour or two on.
Just what it says on the tin.
Or, on the blog as it so happens…
One of the things I find… if not irritating, then at least disappointing, is when people comment on my ongoing stories and they don’t actually have anything to say.
And no, I’m not talking about the people who leave one worded things, like “Nice!” or any other bit of smallish feedback, because that’s actual feedback.
It’s when any of this happens that I get frustrated.
“When are you going to update?”
and even the occasional
“Have you forgotten about this story?”
No. No I haven’t.
I just haven’t had the chance, the inspiration, or the right mindset to write for this fandom, to write in this ‘verse, to write this particular fic.
And no, I don’t know when I”m going to update.
Some authors can do the scheduled update thing–and kudos to them.
But unless I have most of a chapter written out, the most I can give you is a rough estimation–and if I know that, I’ll mention it at the end of the last chapter I posted.
So why I appreciate the thought behind it, the implied “I like your story so much I’d like you to continue!”, there isn’t much I can say to that.
(and I do like talking, responding, to reviewers, so if I have ever not responded, either I’m late in replying, or I have nothing to say to your not-really-a-comment-on-my-story review.)
Again, I like the thought behind it, but it’s not really necessary to, oh, I dunno, remind me to continue the story.
If you want to say something about the story, you’re welcome to it… just please keep in mind that in most cases adding an “UPDATE!” at the end isn’t cute.
If you really feel the need, maybe try less of a demand and more of a “I hope you get a chance to update this soon,” or “Hope you get inspired!” or something positive and supportive. It may take a little bit longer to type out, but hey, you’re already taking time out to comment, so…. why not?
I dunno, I hope this doesn’t seem rant-ish, but it does get disappointing, for multiple reasons, when I see that I’ve gotten a new review, or a new comment, or any sort of feedback, and it’s one line demanding more… especially when I’ve just updated the story.
Honestly, if it’s really too much to write…
I’m going to put it out there that I’d even prefer a smiley face, or any sort of emoticon over an update demand.
Because even if you give me a
or even a
it’ll give me more feedback than “UPDATE!”, and won’t bring to mind a faceless being shouting at me, demanding for more.
I don’t get paid for this (oh, but what a world it would be if I were), and you aren’t my boss. Please stop shouting at me to get work done.
So, I haven’t watched the last two episodes of Hannibal… yet.
But while I’m loving the show, one thing keeps coming back…
Yeah, he’s a douche.
And yet I still love him…
And then there’s Will.
So, I wanted to do a continuation of THIS story I did, where the prompt was to use the sentence “Rossamund was a boy with a girl’s name”… and then I did.
Simple enough, I think.
This is set far into the future, beyond its prequels middle school setting, and I hope you enjoy
Anyone but Rosa
He turned, smiling, and accepted the pat on the back as Rudy slid past him to the bus. His rucksack was full to bursting, same as Jackie’s, and he shared a look with Monroe. He and Monroe had packed the suggested amount of clothing for the trip, had packed the weather-specific pieces in the fairly full suitcase the four of them were sharing… and they were likely the only ones who would be able to travel comfortably on their hitch-hike around Scandinavia.
“Ross, why do you still let him call you that? Why do you still go by that nickname?”
He shrugged, and helped the driver get their suitcase into the storage compartment, handing over his backpack and then Monroe’s.
“That’s the thing about nicknames… they tend to stick.” Sadly. Tragically.
He’d gotten used to it.
“Mundy, get in the bus already! I’m not sitting next to tuna breath over here!”
He’d also gotten used to Jackie. She had a unique way of addressing people, in that she never used their actual names.
He did end up sitting next to her on the bus, and so got the honor of listening to her snore for most of the ride.
He sighed, and looked over her head out the window.
He thought it would likely be confusing for any friends they met along the way… because what would they call him? He had so many names to choose from.
His parents called him Rossamund, as that was the name they put on his birth certificate; from that Jackie called him Mundy, and through that nickname his classmates (including Rudy) stated calling him Tuesday, and later in college he was known primarily, as Monroe called him, Ross.
He was a man of many names…
But, Rossamund, Ross, Mundy, or Monday, at least he was consistent in his personality.
Jackie, once she’d moved on from her identity of the Tomboy of the class, had jumped from protest to protest, each cause greater than the last, with the latest being the injustice of feminazi’s trying to say tampons were Anti-Feminist.
She was currently very against feminazi’s giving feminists a bad name.
Rudy had shed his quiet-boy skin from middle school and had reveled in how genetics had favored him, finding sports more challenging and more extreme to throw himself into… it occasionally meant he also found various things to throw himself off of, the higher the better, and this trip was his way of trying to find himself.
He wanted to be able to throw himself entirely into his occupation, and to do that he had to settle on one thing.
He could only hope that finding himself didn’t turn into Rudy getting the rest of them lost.
He wasn’t terribly worried though, as Monroe had everything in their trip planned out, maps and back up maps on hand and in backpack and in pocket…
From what he’d gleaned, Monroe had been a bit of a bully as a child—a fact, he supposed, that would likely explain why he was so sensitive to his various nicknames. Now he was the very definition of a gentle giant, but once upon a time he’d likely have been one of the boys to make fun of him for having a girl’s name.
He’d met Monroe in college, sharing a room and then an apartment with each other… Monroe didn’t understand how he could introduce himself as Rossamund, offer the option to call him Ross, and be entirely fine with a manic girl crashing into their dorm calling him Mundy, and another guy shouting out for him, for ‘Tuesday’, across campus.
“Look, if they’re bothering you,” he’d once started, concerned and protective and likely thinking back to his own days of bullying, but he’d waved him off.
“I have a strange name, for a boy, and there are worse things to be called.”
He always remembered that. There were worse things to be called.
When signing things, he always signed his full name. He signed Rossamund, because at the root of it, that was who he was.He didn’t think he’d changed all that much
Ross was from Rosaamund.
Mundy was from Rossamund.
And, strange as it was, Tuesday was from Rossamund as well.
Okay, it was from Rossamund after taking a side trip through the mind of a dozen thirteen year olds, but the origin was there all the same.
Now, he looked out at the passing landscape, down to the blur of faces alongside the road, and wondered what other nicknames he would get here.
He was looking forward to it, actually, what different people with different languages would do with his name… because as ‘bad’ as any of them could end up being, there was always something worse.
Because Rossamund could be Ross, or Mundy, or even Tuesday, but he would never, ever again allow himself to be Rosa.
So, hope you enjoyed that, and look forward to more fiction
I’m looking forward to the next prompt
I don’t know why, but after I post a new chapter to a story, or even after posting a short story like I did before this post…
I feel kind of bad.
Not in a moral or physical way, but sort of emotionally bereft? I dunno.
I just spent ages and ages working on this thing, and there, I just posted it…
I just posted a new chapter for my story Too Tired To Wink, which I actually don’t feel like linking to, you can find it on Archiveofourown.org if you feel the need, and for this story I decided that I would post a chapter only once the word count has reached 10k…. this way I have a set limit, and since the limit is so large, I get a couple of things out of it.
1) I don’t feel like a shit person for making people wait so long for an update and gave them 3 pages of nothing
2) Though I do anyway, in 10k a lot of plot happens and I have to keep thinking about what will need to happen for this or that to happen, so I have a chance to put reasonable foreshadow in
3) I don’t go through any of that waffling of if something’s done or not. When I’m reaching or have surpassed 10k, I find a place to stop. It’s like reaching that point of night where you’re like “Well, this book doesn’t actually have chapters….” and you just figure out the best stop to hold off at.
But though it’s good to finish a chapter–good to finish a story–there’s still some weird blankness after posting.
I feel like having a break from writing, and I want to hear feedback, and… and I really don’t feel like doing much else.
So, in the wake of T3W’s third chapter, I’m writing this.
Just feeling a bit morose. Inexplicably sad.
So hey all
Yeah, I won the prompt! I got to choose the next one! Sam asked that I find a first line from a book.
And I chose…
Any Day of the Week
The thing about trying to choose your own nickname is that it never turns out the way you expect.
Not when you’ve got a group of dedicated thirteen year olds on hand.
When he’d changed schools he’d thought that perhaps he’d go by Ross—in fact, he’d gone to his teacher before hand and had told her that he’d prefer to be called that.
Because that was a suitably masculine rendition of his name.
But instead, his name got called out and yes, he got teased…
And gained a nickname just about immediately.
It was just from his new friend Jackie, who said she actually liked his name, and though it was only her who called him it while the rest of his classmates gained perverse delight in calling him by his full name, he thought it was pretty cool.
Rossamund was a boy with a girl’s name.
He didn’t know what his parents were thinking when they were naming him, though there was a strong possibility that it went along the lines of ‘we wanted a girl,’ but there it was.
There he was.
With a girl’s name.
Being called Mundy wasn’t all that bad, really, especially compared to the Rosa he’d gone by at his old school… it wasn’t great, and made him think of cartoon characters, but it wasn’t bad.
He still introduced himself as Ross, still got introduced by Jackie as Mundy, and still got called Rossamund by the rest of his classmates, and for a while it was good.
Until, of course his real nickname was decided on.
Because someone finally said Jackie’s nickname, and thought it was funny.
“Mundy… Mundy? Hah! Like Monday?”
“Mundy, Monday… yeah! It’s like Monday with a western accent!”
“Mundy, Tuesdy, Wensdy, Fraaaahdy, Sayturdy, hahaha, Sundy, hahahahaha…”
So, of course, his nickname had to be born from this masterful bit of wordplay.
It had to come from this in-depth thought process.
It just had to work out like so.
Because obviously, when Rossamund became Mundy, which sounded like Monday, it obviously meant that the best nickname for him would be…
Hope you enjoyed And this propmt is due by July 23rd, so you have time to write your own… *cough* you should do it *cough*
I’m looking forward to the next!
EDIT: Now with a sequel. Click HERE to see how Rossamund turned out as an adult
So if you read this post, you know that I got my wisdom teeth out and was panicking.
You should also know from it that I remember nothing of the ride back home (thanks dad and the drugs), but I was just looking at my phone and found that, in my drugged state, I had tried to text Lexy and my mom to tell them I was done.
So… I’m getting my wisdom teeth out.
In… 8 hours.
All four of them.
Freaking me out.
Edit: 7:40am. The worst thing, right now, is I can’t freaking anxiety eat.I have to have 8 hours of empty stomach.
I would love to now give you a picture of me chubby cheeked, as now the operation is over, but I don’t even remember how I got home.
My dad drove me, btw, I didn’t just hobble and stumble my way home with my mouth bleeding and probably asking about the random shit that comes to mind.
But I don’t remember the ride home (Yay drugs! Huzzah for the good stuff!), I don’t remember falling onto the couch nicely made up for me, I don’t remember then snoozing for a couple of hours…
But the snoozing was apparently long enough to get rid of the chubby cheeks.
My mouth still hurts.
Here’s a pic anyway.
I am too tired to smile, and besides that, my mouth hurts.
Smile on your own time. Or, you know, check out my Other Friday Post for a laugh.
Happy Survival Day!
Last Edit: Thank god my interview was YESTERDAY. I feel like I would have been sullen and uncooperative and generally unpleasant if it was even a week from today.
*Actual last edit. Thanks Lexy, for leaving when I was too drugged to say anything. Same to you, Mom, Emma… and you took the dog! I need me some Gwynn lovin’!
Anyone remember this show? Anyone remember this episode?
I used to love this, and I didn’t even catch this message when it came out…
Miss this show, and I miss these sorts of messages
Happy Friday people!
This is what I think goes on through my dogs’ head while he’s having doggy thoughts.
Also featuring the Corgi Calvin, who we are dog-sitting.
Here I sit, inside, peering out at my domain. The back yard.
I remember each and every spot I have ever peed, so long as I am able to get a good sniff of the place, and I am content.
I sense a disturbance.
My sight hones in on the problem—my Person, The Boss, is petting the Interloper.
I sit up and start barking, wishing to go Outside and also get the pettings, and Boss Speaks.
I stop barking.
Tilt my head.
What was I…?
Oh, yes, the pettings. Calvin should not get all of the Boss’ pettings!
Boss is not moving, and so I take up barking again, wishing to Be Outside Right Now, and another of my People let me Out. It is the Cheese Man.
I wipe my nose on his hands in thanks and bound outside.
I must get to Boss, must get to pettings!
Boss calls out a greeting, and I no longer remember what I was looking for, what I was aiming to get…
Ah! There’s Calvin!
He pants and twitches his ears in my direction, and I pounce in his direction, my feet landing just short of his paws as I dip down into a stretch.
Boss gives me a pat on the head, and I dip my nose down to bop Calvin on his head.
He does not look impressed, so I do it again.
He makes what Boss calls his Gremlin Noise, which is actually Calvin saying Back Off. Or, well, when he’s directing it at me, that is.
I do not.
Because when Calvin makes that noise at Boss he means Pet Me, and I want that to happen to me, so while Boss’ fingers scratch Calvin on the short fur on top of his head, I sniff at his face and welcome Boss using her other hand to scratch me around my neck. It is a good scratching.
Calvin makes the Gremlin Noise louder when I lick his face and nose, and he snaps at me when I lick over his eye.
I do not understand why he will not play with me.
I jerk my face back form his, and consider him for a moment.
Play with me.
I bark right in his face. Right by his extra large ears, which I am not at all jealous of, not when Boss likes my own so much as to call them my ‘pigtails’, and Calvin turns and catches my whiskers in his mouth.
When I jerk back, he has a tuft of my fur in his mouth. I’m pretty sure this means he loves me.
I make a sad noise at him, and turn to Boss to find her smiling… Boss is happy! Boss is Happy! She is also close
She stops smiling when I lick her teeth, but then, when I lick Calvin’s mouth he stops smiling, too. Most dogs, I find, do not like me licking their mouths.
Most dogs also don’t like it when I lick their genitals, either.
I wonder when I will once again see Sadie.
I love Sadie.
Sadie’s Gremlin Noises were much more impressive than Calvin’s.
I wish Sadie were staying with us instead of Calvin.
Calvin is preoccupied with trying to get my fur from his mouth, so I curl myself around Boss’s feet.
It is not as comfortable as curling up in her lap, or even in curling up in the mysterious bed that showed up at the same time as Calvin—it even smelled like him, mysteriously enough, as it is obviously My Bed, the same way My Crate is My Crate…
Everything in the House is Mine.
It is My House.
I sigh, and am happy.