I'm a quick study (knock wood)
Nov. 25th, 2002 04:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vulgarweedA hundred words here, a hundred words there. My office is drafty and my computer is creaky, but that's OK - I like to keep multiple projects going at once. There's the regular-job writing, for one, as always. NaNoWriMo was a big bust for me this year. I made several mistakes, mostly involving not planning enough and starting off with a partially autobiographical setup that just didn't hold my interest enough to motivate me in the long run.
To make myself feel better, here are some teasers from fics in progress.
Dark Tolkienslash, The Ring and the Crown:
They say this is the Gift of Men, to be less substantial than dust, wasted upon the gale and then heard no more. To strive, to build, to grow, and to die: The Glowing Ones, the Whores of the Valar, have dressed the ugly truth in their pretty words which they hand down from their groaning palaces on the grave-mounds of Time. But this is the truth: the sons of Men live for ever striving with Death upon a field of honour in which no honour is possible, and They watch us like mighty lords entertained by the blood-sport between slaves. They would never stoop so low as to feast and take pleasure amid our flesh and bones, instead they grow bright upon the wreckage of our souls.
Love this world or despise it, it matters not - to corruption our bodies aspire, and our souls to oblivion.
My father told me stories of our homeland: he said there was a hill upon which none may walk save the King, at the sacred times; a place where none may speak and only the lord of Men was deemed worthy to offer up his worship. There we practice our silence, our lot for time to come, and we have mastered it well - kneeling thralls, bending down for those who deigned to bless us with a cruel brief shimmering of life and only tantalizing tastes of power. Let them be. My father died for his folly, in battle - there were none to see, and none to know whose sword it truly was who brought him to the dirt.
And from the Potterverse, het, from the first of the round of stories that will follow up the Ravenous series:
"Petra. For heaven's sake, no one's holding your grief against you, but can't you even tell us what you've done? The Ministry's not here. No one's judging you--"
Petrovna turned around to face them, and all the gathered ones moved back just a little at the grey chill that seemed to emerge from her as she drew herself to her full height. There was a bit of subtle shifting as, nearly unconsciously, Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, and Albus Dumbledore jockeyed for position to step protectively in front of one another. Dumbledore, highest in status, wound up in the heroic front. "No, Albus? You're not? You're quite sure?" Petra said. "Step out of yourself, great leader, and into my boots. Imagine what you could become if you failed."
"I cannot indulge that," said Dumbledore. Minerva's hand was a gentle thing upon his shoulder.
"No, you're right, you cannot, not yet," Petra said, a stony sob in her voice. "But I must."
And don't worry, challenge fans - I'm keeping that Harry/Madam Hooch bunny warm on the burner, for one of those times soon when I gotta ditch this deep tension stuff and just write some smut.
Going insane because getting that last paragraph off the italics is being a LOT more difficult than it should be, and my browser ("stoppeth one of three") isn't helping.
To make myself feel better, here are some teasers from fics in progress.
Dark Tolkienslash, The Ring and the Crown:
They say this is the Gift of Men, to be less substantial than dust, wasted upon the gale and then heard no more. To strive, to build, to grow, and to die: The Glowing Ones, the Whores of the Valar, have dressed the ugly truth in their pretty words which they hand down from their groaning palaces on the grave-mounds of Time. But this is the truth: the sons of Men live for ever striving with Death upon a field of honour in which no honour is possible, and They watch us like mighty lords entertained by the blood-sport between slaves. They would never stoop so low as to feast and take pleasure amid our flesh and bones, instead they grow bright upon the wreckage of our souls.
Love this world or despise it, it matters not - to corruption our bodies aspire, and our souls to oblivion.
My father told me stories of our homeland: he said there was a hill upon which none may walk save the King, at the sacred times; a place where none may speak and only the lord of Men was deemed worthy to offer up his worship. There we practice our silence, our lot for time to come, and we have mastered it well - kneeling thralls, bending down for those who deigned to bless us with a cruel brief shimmering of life and only tantalizing tastes of power. Let them be. My father died for his folly, in battle - there were none to see, and none to know whose sword it truly was who brought him to the dirt.
And from the Potterverse, het, from the first of the round of stories that will follow up the Ravenous series:
"Petra. For heaven's sake, no one's holding your grief against you, but can't you even tell us what you've done? The Ministry's not here. No one's judging you--"
Petrovna turned around to face them, and all the gathered ones moved back just a little at the grey chill that seemed to emerge from her as she drew herself to her full height. There was a bit of subtle shifting as, nearly unconsciously, Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, and Albus Dumbledore jockeyed for position to step protectively in front of one another. Dumbledore, highest in status, wound up in the heroic front. "No, Albus? You're not? You're quite sure?" Petra said. "Step out of yourself, great leader, and into my boots. Imagine what you could become if you failed."
"I cannot indulge that," said Dumbledore. Minerva's hand was a gentle thing upon his shoulder.
"No, you're right, you cannot, not yet," Petra said, a stony sob in her voice. "But I must."
And don't worry, challenge fans - I'm keeping that Harry/Madam Hooch bunny warm on the burner, for one of those times soon when I gotta ditch this deep tension stuff and just write some smut.
Going insane because getting that last paragraph off the italics is being a LOT more difficult than it should be, and my browser ("stoppeth one of three") isn't helping.
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no subject
Date: 2002-11-26 02:22 pm (UTC)...Asfaloth/Shadowfax would be a really, really good ship, actually. Apart from the bestiality issue - or does that only apply if one half of the ship is human?
no subject
Date: 2002-11-27 12:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-11-30 08:00 pm (UTC)Wow, Jean M. Auel writes beastiality, then. Of course, the purple prose is enough to squick me off her either way.