A Kaleidoscope, Including a Few More Things About Fic, and a Ramble About Early Childhood
Let's get the fic stuff out of the way first. I've been trawling rec sites because I am so vain as to hope desperately that some kind stranger has discovered my fic and liked it. Also, I wanted to get an idea of who in my fandoms is generally acclaimed. At the moment I'm feeling rather discouraged, not so much that my fic remains unreviewed by any but my core readers, but more that I dislike my writing at the moment. Sometimes I wonder whether I'm losing my touch, whether what I put out there is really not that special anyway. Usually, if I think such things, I brush it off by thinking that I'm Just A Writer, and the important thing is to write so that I'm pleased with it, and wherever I fall in the continuum of talent -- doesn't matter. At the moment, however, I embody a little, vain scream: Somebody please tell me I'm good!
Now, here's a story I always end up telling eventually, so if you haven't heard it before, you must be (relatively) new in my life. Or else I unaccountably forgot.
When I was in first grade, we lived in Colorado, where winter meant snow. Specifically, the kind of snow that hangs around for days, that melts a little under the sun and refreezes to a crust during the night. Needless to say, the rule at my school was You DON'T Throw Snowballs. EVER. And, needless to say, this rule got broken quite often, despite the lectures about bits of ice in refrozen snow and lawsuits and devils with pitchforks. One day my best friend and I were enjoying our recess, and this kid (his name was Shane, I still remember), creamed my friend with a snowball, right in the face. She cried, because dadgum it, it hurt; her face was all red and she was lucky not to have any damage to her eye. My eyeballs were red, but more in a Voldemort way: I wanted justice: I wanted revenge. But I didn't get the chance, either to tell the teacher's aide on duty or avenge my friend, because the whistle blew to call us into our lines. We all lined up; I noted Shane's rust-colored coat one line over and several people up. I reached down for a small handful of snow from a stray pile on the pavement. I threw, almost half-heartedly, as if knowing it'd never properly make my point; it flipped the bottom hem of his coat before dropping harmlessly to the ground: he didn't even notice. Mrs. Anderson did, however. So I spent the rest of my afternoon crying in the hall in impotent rage. "Why won't you just admit you were wrong?" the teacher's aide said at one point. I just wept and glared at her: Because that wasn't the point! The point was, my friend was served up with a massive iceball in the face, and my snowball didn't even register, and yet who was in trouble? I think my mother was called on this occasion, but nothing ever came of it; I was so upset that they could hardly make me suffer more by way of punishment.
I tell this story because it is the defining anecdote of my life. Dramatic irony and mild good luck weave through my whole story, point-counterpoint: if someone is to be caught out, it will be me; and the resultant hell I put myself through constitutes pretty much the entire weight of the episode. I am still that six-year-old child crying, "It's not fair!" -- only now it's with multisyllabic words and a phalanx of logical statements.
Just once, I'd like to have hit that kid in the face with a real snowball, and gotten some more bang for my buck. Because frankly, I'm not saintly enough to take the high road, and lurking timidly along the low road is even worse than striding down it.
In more encouraging news, Gene Robinson's confirmation to the bishopric of New Hampshire has passed the House of Deputies at the Episcopal General Convention, leaving only the House of Bishops left to vote. I understand that he was elected by the diocese because he is a good priest and they think he would make a good bishop; what's controversial is that he has a committed union with another man. I have a lot to explore on the topic, as I have been thinking about it a great deal; but not tonight. No; later, when I feel a little bit less like a first-grader.
Off to work on Chapter 20, which so far includes the following: rain, the Doublemeat Palace, an omelet, a dream, and Giles's yummy moss-green sweater.
Let's get the fic stuff out of the way first. I've been trawling rec sites because I am so vain as to hope desperately that some kind stranger has discovered my fic and liked it. Also, I wanted to get an idea of who in my fandoms is generally acclaimed. At the moment I'm feeling rather discouraged, not so much that my fic remains unreviewed by any but my core readers, but more that I dislike my writing at the moment. Sometimes I wonder whether I'm losing my touch, whether what I put out there is really not that special anyway. Usually, if I think such things, I brush it off by thinking that I'm Just A Writer, and the important thing is to write so that I'm pleased with it, and wherever I fall in the continuum of talent -- doesn't matter. At the moment, however, I embody a little, vain scream: Somebody please tell me I'm good!
Now, here's a story I always end up telling eventually, so if you haven't heard it before, you must be (relatively) new in my life. Or else I unaccountably forgot.
When I was in first grade, we lived in Colorado, where winter meant snow. Specifically, the kind of snow that hangs around for days, that melts a little under the sun and refreezes to a crust during the night. Needless to say, the rule at my school was You DON'T Throw Snowballs. EVER. And, needless to say, this rule got broken quite often, despite the lectures about bits of ice in refrozen snow and lawsuits and devils with pitchforks. One day my best friend and I were enjoying our recess, and this kid (his name was Shane, I still remember), creamed my friend with a snowball, right in the face. She cried, because dadgum it, it hurt; her face was all red and she was lucky not to have any damage to her eye. My eyeballs were red, but more in a Voldemort way: I wanted justice: I wanted revenge. But I didn't get the chance, either to tell the teacher's aide on duty or avenge my friend, because the whistle blew to call us into our lines. We all lined up; I noted Shane's rust-colored coat one line over and several people up. I reached down for a small handful of snow from a stray pile on the pavement. I threw, almost half-heartedly, as if knowing it'd never properly make my point; it flipped the bottom hem of his coat before dropping harmlessly to the ground: he didn't even notice. Mrs. Anderson did, however. So I spent the rest of my afternoon crying in the hall in impotent rage. "Why won't you just admit you were wrong?" the teacher's aide said at one point. I just wept and glared at her: Because that wasn't the point! The point was, my friend was served up with a massive iceball in the face, and my snowball didn't even register, and yet who was in trouble? I think my mother was called on this occasion, but nothing ever came of it; I was so upset that they could hardly make me suffer more by way of punishment.
I tell this story because it is the defining anecdote of my life. Dramatic irony and mild good luck weave through my whole story, point-counterpoint: if someone is to be caught out, it will be me; and the resultant hell I put myself through constitutes pretty much the entire weight of the episode. I am still that six-year-old child crying, "It's not fair!" -- only now it's with multisyllabic words and a phalanx of logical statements.
Just once, I'd like to have hit that kid in the face with a real snowball, and gotten some more bang for my buck. Because frankly, I'm not saintly enough to take the high road, and lurking timidly along the low road is even worse than striding down it.
In more encouraging news, Gene Robinson's confirmation to the bishopric of New Hampshire has passed the House of Deputies at the Episcopal General Convention, leaving only the House of Bishops left to vote. I understand that he was elected by the diocese because he is a good priest and they think he would make a good bishop; what's controversial is that he has a committed union with another man. I have a lot to explore on the topic, as I have been thinking about it a great deal; but not tonight. No; later, when I feel a little bit less like a first-grader.
Off to work on Chapter 20, which so far includes the following: rain, the Doublemeat Palace, an omelet, a dream, and Giles's yummy moss-green sweater.
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