a fool's musings

Fool, said my muse to me, look in thy heart and write...

Warning: Adult Content achromatic unfinished fic graveyard recs journal new stuff recent stuff my back pages January 2004 December 2003 November 2003 October 2003 September 2003 August 2003 July 2003 June 2003 May 2003 April 2003 March 2003 February 2003 January 2003 December 2002 November 2002 October 2002 September 2002 August 2002 July 2002 June 2002 May 2002 April 2002 March 2002 February 2002 January 2002 December 2001 November 2001 the five Ws, or, all about me profile e-mail victoria my livejournal the original P&R comments current mood: "pathological and unbalanced" Items of Interest People LiveJournal folks Baraita bishclone claritylit Jintian Kat Allison Kit Mason metablog mix-tapes Neil Gaiman Nestra Sarah T. Seema Shrift Sundry Mourning zendom Music Walk On - U2 Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen If I Can't Change Your Mind - Sugar Sick of Myself - Matthew Sweet Town Called Malice - The Jam One - U2 The Space Between - DMB Books Lord of the Rings Catch-22 The Neely Trilogy Absalom! Absalom! Possession: A Romance Foucault's Pendulum Dreamhouse LA Confidential I Capture the Castle Sandman Waking the Moon Shows Angel Buffy the Vampire Slayer (in reruns) Alias West Wing The Simpsons webrings < ? fanfiction ! > < ? writers ! > diaryreviews.diaryland.com NYC Bloggers Comments by Haloscan.com all links, if I haven't screwed up somehow, should open in a new browser window

2002-04-10 - 11:50 p.m. tonight's game I'm not even bothering with LJ tonight. It's obviously fucked. So since none of my friends could make the game, and none of my other options panned out, I went by myself. The seats were phenomenal. I think I might have even been on camera once. The camera man was right there, and he was filming kids and stuff, and then he looked right at me, but I didn't look back at him. I didn't want to look like I wanted to be on tv. Weird, I know. Anyhow, Row G - 7 rows from the ice. Amazing fucking seats, which is why, in the end, I went, even though I was by myself. I left after the second period, 'cause I wanted to take the subway home [after spending $8 for a bottle of water and some overly salty popcorn, I didn't want to spend $30 to get home], and I'm glad I did. They lost 7-2. Poor BLackburn. How old do I feel when I find out he's 19? Dear god, I'm old. Anyhow, random observations: I don't know why everybody hates Petr Nedved so much. Every time he touched the puck, and I mean literally every time, they booed him something fierce. And chanted, "Nedved Sucks." Now, it's one thing, and I find it oddly comforting, when the "Potvin Sucks" chant goes up, but Nedved's one of our guys. I'm still not sold on Pavel Bure, but watching him play is... he's a thing of beauty on the ice. Seriously. Even if he does wear Graves's #9. I shouted at Eric Lindros at one point to keep his head up. He worries me. I'm not too thrilled about him, either. For such a big guy, he's so fragile. Personally, I think he should retire. I used to have sex dreams about him fairly regularly, though I don't even find him particularly attractive. I don't know what that is. So he's this huge hulking guy, and then there's Theo Fleury, who won me over tonight. Fleury is all of what? 5'6? And he's out there challenging bigger guys to fights, laying mean hits on guys, drawing penalties... I admit I still think he's a chemistry risk, what with the rehab and the weird disappearances and all, but damn, he's feisty. I love a small, feisty hockey player. Mark Pavelich, anyone? *g* Anyhow, I enjoyed myself a lot. I love hockey, even if the Rangers do suck. I'll be rooting for the Devils come playoff time. If you're interested, I had a Michael Rosenbaum in drag (ala Sorority Boys) dream last night. More details in the LiveJournal. [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2002-04-10 - 2:35 p.m. Why all must worship TR Pearson As promised, two excerpts from Blue Ridge by TR Pearson: This one made me laugh out loud on the train. Paul, the narrator, is telling the story of his first trip to NYC for an actuarial conference, and how his co-worker booked them into some really seedy no-tell hot sheets motel that rents by the hour: "Me and him," Lowell told the manager. "Three nights," which proved sufficiently intriguing to prompt that swarthy little fellow and the customer both to consider us in studious silence for a time. They were helplessly constrained, I have to think now, to imagine me and Lowell engaged in some manner of middle-aged white-boy sexual congress, seventy-two prepaid hours of swampy actuarial love." And this part is a masterful bit of story-telling *and* characterization of both parties (I'm not jealous or anything): Lizzie lingered over me for maybe half a minute-long enough, I guess, for the gestation and birth of her brand of dramaturgic love. Then she leaned close and kissed me, a bit tepidly at first but with advancing abandon and passion. "Oh, Paul," she told me, lifting back. It came out in hot breath and quivering emotion. Lizzie considered me tenderly, relocated a tuft of my hair and managed to seem, for all the world, smitten. I didn't trouble myself to wonder what in the hell was going on, why she seemed of a sudden to adore me. I did instead what any man would do-drew her to me, that is to say, and readily believed her. Lizzie moaned and kissed my neck, spoke my name with breath alone. And not once, I recognize now, did she spoil the mood and giggle in the way that most women in the throes of passion will. Your average female can hardly hope to go from self-possessed career woman to wanton seductress without some stripe of transitional comic snort. So ordinarily-and I'm speculating here-a competent and capable female will find herself bedded with a fellow she has deemed agreeable, some hairy lumpen thing with all the natural romance of a tree squirrel who, prone to either hunger or arousal, has been for the moment persuaded not to eat. She'll touch him anywhere, and he'll groan with pleasure. Then she'll snicker and make-it's been my experience-some sort of deflating remark. In one sense, it's women who account for the thriving state of prostitution as men sometimes need a partner who'll take money not to laugh. Lizzie, though, was all grinding kisses, pelvic thrusts and breathy moans, and I had cause to believe that we were on our way to the sort of union that I'd lately only hypothesized at home in my half-bath about. Lizzie drew free from me to switch off a lamp and tune in her stereo to the station that I had to believe I'd awakened to on the rug back at the Duke. Baby, baby, baby. Baby, baby, baby, baby. Then she mounted me after a fashion. We were still each of us dressed at the time, but Lizzie straddled me nonetheless, and she rocked and gyrated with her eyes shut and her hands uplifted, with her fingers in her hair. She quivered and quaked a little and loosed shortly the manner of moan that most men only hear after an hour of rigorous instruction, violent cowlick distress and temporary paralysis of the jaw. She flopped down on top of me, quivering still, and nuzzled against my neck. We were quite plainly finished, and I had yet to emerge from my trousers which I was laboring to formulate a declaration about when Lizzie set in to complimenting me on my considerable prowess and applauded me for the pitch and quality of her orgasmic spasm which, as commentary goes, pretty much served to stave off talk from me. I'm far better suited to discussing the underlying mechanics of ion propulsion which I happen to know absolutely nothing about than engaging with a woman in intelligent talk on the topic of her sexual release. While I may have seen an actual photo of Lizze's nether parts, I had reason to know that I was unfit to operate them. So Lizzie lay heavily against me, dozing and apparently satisfied, and I chose to be convinced that I had pleased her without having gotten dislodged from my briefs. I realize now that the sex itself had been essentially cinematic-the low lighting, the sultry music and the economized climax with no lubricated plumbing exposed. She simply behaved as if we'd joined together in intimate union, as if there were a special tenderness between us and a bond that supplied her the authority to guide and to instruct me, served to make her interests mine and to make my interests hers. Can you tell why I love this man's writing? He's funny and true and his characters are sharply drawn and observed. He needs to write more. It was seven years between this book and the last, though between this one and the newer one only 2 years, so... maybe he's found his groove again. ~victoria [current mood: sated] [current music: Enter Sandman - Metallica] [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2002-04-10 - 11:46 a.m. put on the red light So I didn't get online at all last night. Didn't even touch the laptop, let alone turn it on. I can just see the screaming headlines now: Victoria P., Noted Internet Junkie, Stays Offline for One Night Says she "read books" and slept instead see inside for the shocking details! Heh. Well, I make myself laugh, anyway. So I was a bad girl yesterday. I went to the bookstore after work last night, for no good reason other than to see if they'd have the Sandman books - at least the first one (see, I listen to recs. They didn't have it, but Amazon did, so... I'm so sadly addicted when it comes to buying books. Sigh. I don't like library books. You have to give them back. What kind of insanity is *that*?). The B&N downstairs is very good about letting people sit down on the floor and read without purchasing, so I figured I'd grab Preludes & Nocturnes and see if I liked it enough to buy. Except, no Gaiman. but... new TR Pearson. Have I mentioned that TR Pearson is a fucking GOD of writing? He is. I love his writing desperately, and hadn't seen anything new from him in *years*, so you can imagine how excited I was when I saw the new hardcover, Polar on the shelves under new releases. When I looked it over, I saw it had the same characters as another book that I'd somehow missed, called Blue Ridge, so I had to get that, as well. And I picked up something called The Old Limey which is, according to numerous reviews on the back cover, hilarious and riproaring, The Dirty Dozen as written by Waugh. How could I resist that? And also The River King by Alice Hoffman, which I'd been wanting for *ages*. I was good, though. Stopped myself from picking up a bunch of Doris Lessing novels. Had to show *some* restraint, after all. I have this terrible habit of buying *everything* available by an author even before I've read them, or based on really liking one book. Got burned by Cormac McCarthy, who is, let me tell you, way overrated. Anyhow... When I got home (having jumped right into Blue Ridge on the commute home], I found my copy of The Golden One - the latest Amelia Peabody - had arrived. Amelia! Ramses! Emerson! How could I resist that? (sensing a theme here? *g*) So I didn't even *touch* the laptop last night. I did some reading and went to bed by 11. Hee! Of course, I still couldn't get out of bed this morning, but I think that's because bed is so cozy warm, and my apartment is... not. Anyhow, if you were missing me last night, that's where I was. If I get a chance, I might have to transcribe some of the best bits of Blue Ridge for you -- Pearson is freaking hilarious and yet so descriptive in a non-intrusive way. I mean, he talks about "the scorched crisco smell of the kitchen" and stuff like that, that really puts you there - that appeals to your *senses*- without all the rhapsodizing about furniture or clothing or weather that I find so tedious. He's described on as "neo-Faulknerian" and while his themes and writing are somewhat lighter, I'd definitely go with that description, which may explain why I love him so much. So yeah, books. Go me. I figure my tax refund, instead of paying my first, last and security deposit on a new apt. will go toward funding my book habit instead. *g* Ooh, and on the recs tip - Elizabeth Hand. Read her. Love her. At least, read Waking the Moon, which rocked my world, and Black Light, which is almost as good. Old gods. Ancient rituals. Acid trips. Small funky upstate NY towns. What's not to love there? Go. Read. I'll wait. *g* ~victoria [current mood: silly] [current music: Roxanne - The Police] [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2002-04-09 - 5:00 p.m. yo, ho, blow the man down Sigh. Rewriting the blowjob scene. I had the conversation all worked out in my head weeks ago, but now, it's not coming out that way. Of course, it'd help if I could remember the words. I mean, yeah, I know the gist of it, but I could hear them speaking and I, like the dumbass I am, didn't write it down. I think I was in bed, half-asleep, so who knows if it actually made any sense, but at least I'd have something to work with, instead of this... grrr... Here's the Rogue POV piece, and the beginning of the Logan POV: She heard him thrashing in his sleep. She knew the nightmares, had his and Erik's on top of her own. After seeing -- experiencing -- what had been done to them, she understood Magneto's impatience with Xavier's dream, as well as Logan's almost desperate need to believe in it. It wasn't something he'd shared with anyone. She figured he probably didn't even realize it himself. But underlying his fear for her when he'd saved her had bee the deep desire to do good, to do *right*. He feared he was nothing more than an animal, and a predator at that, a killer, and every mission with the X-Men, every kid rescued was another tally on the plus side of the ledger, another small weight to balance the scales of justice for what he'd done as Weapon X. A hoarse "No" snapped Rogue out of her reverie. She scrambled out of bed. She could help him. She knew the best was for him to shake the nightmares was sex, and that was the one thing she was really good at. She hurried along the corridor to his room, careful to stick to the shadows to avoid any prying insomniac eyes. Sidling into his room, she stopped in the doorway, struck again by how beautiful he was. He lay with the sheet twisted around his waist, his perfect chest bared to her gaze, seemingly carved of bronze in the moonlight. Her heart raced and she admitted to herself that her plan was not entirely altruistic. She wanted him to touch her again as he had in the atrium. She wanted to feel his hands on her body and know that she was desirable. In less than a moment, she was at his side, softly calling his name. "Logan. Logan, wake up." He lunged upright, roaring, claws unsheathed and slashing. She barely swung out of the way in time -- one sleeve of her pajama top was slit from wrist to shoulder, though her skin was untouched. "Shh, Logan. It's all right. It's me, Rogue." His eyes, still glazed from nightmares and sleep, scanned the room wildly before settling on her face. She climbed into the bed beside him, cupping his cheek in her gloved hand. "What?" he asked, still confused. "Let me help you," she whispered, stroking his face gently, then running her hands over his chest. She smiled as she felt his muscles flex in response. "I'm going to make you feel good," she crooned, straddling him. Using the sheet to protect him, she began pressing hot, openmouthed kisses to his chest, applying subtle pressure, coaxing him to lie back. She could feel his erection pressing against her ass, and her body responded with a rush of wet heat between her legs. "It's all right<"s he repeated. "Rogue's gonna make you feel good." She eased down his body, taking the sheet with her. She was slightly disappointed to find that he wore boxers; it wasn't what she'd expected. Shrugging that off, she reached in and freed his cock, stroking him firmly from base to tip. Her other hand played with his balls, rolling them between her fingers, then stroking the sensitive skin underneath. He growled in response, and she felt her own arousal grow. Covering him with the sheet, she took the head into her mouth, sucking lightly. "God," he exhaled, his hands sliding into her hair. She swallowed him, humming softly, one hand still playing with his balls while the other slipped along his perineum to stroke his ass. His hips bucked off the bed and his hands tightened in her hair, pulling her head up. "What the hell are you doing?" he ground out, panting. She stared at him in shock. "I know that wasn't your first blowjob, Logan." He shook his head. "That's the not what I meant, and you know it. What the hell are you doing here?" She pulled back, suddenly afraid she'd done exactly the wrong thing for some reason. Her right hand rubbed the pearls at her neck, and she heard him curse softly. "Logan, what's wrong?" *** The nightmare was the same as always. Straps holding him down. Water. So much water everywhere, and the tube down his throat making breathing painful, coating everything in a gauzy green haze. The hum of the lasers as they cut him to the bone. Their laughter as they toasted their success. The smell of his own charred and bleeding flesh overlaid with antiseptic, expensive champagne and molten metal. And then he caught a new scent, one that drowned out the horrors of the lab. He cursed himself as he felt his body respond to it, knew it had to be just one more elaborate torture they'd arranged for him. He'd promised Rogue she'd never be taken to a lab again. And he'd failed. Because she was here. He could smell her. He bolted upright, enraged that they had taken her. And then she was there with him, touching him, soothing him. He couldn't ever remember his nightmares suddenly turning into something good, but then the heat of her mouth engulfed him and he couldn't think. He let the sensation wash over him, the cotton sheet providing extra friction as she worked her throat around him and -- God, he was going to come, he was going to come in Rogue's mouth and it was good and, and -- It had to stop. He had to stop it. He pulled her head up, harder than he should have, and she mewled a little, staring at him in shock. He finally managed to calm his coursing hormones enough to say, "What the hell are you doing?" An eyebrow rose, mocking him. "I know that wasn't your first blowjob, Logan." He shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around the situation and push down his body's demands that he let her finish what she'd started. "That's the not what I meant, and you know it. What the hell are you doing here?" She pulled back, her right hand rubbing the pearls at her neck, which gleamed dully in the moonlight, outshone by the luminescence of her skin. "Shit," he muttered. She was paying him back. "Logan, what's wrong?" "You don't owe me anything, Rogue." "I owe you my life," she responded. "You *died* because of me, because you saved me--" "I'm still here." "But still... I can make you feel better. I can make your nightmares go away. Logan, please. Let me help you the way you helped me." *** And that's where things get weird and stuck and ... not good... Still, it's almost 1200 words, which is the most I've done in one shot in a long time. Okay, yeah, a good portion of it was handwritten last week on the train, but still, I reworked it. Of course, I shortened it *snerk*. But it counts, right? I so need a nap right now, it's not funny. I'm falling asleep at my desk. My boss was trying to explain something to me earlier, about grace periods and year-end financial statements and my eyes just completely glazed over. My brain does NOT want to absorb this financial information. It bores me to tears. I don't want to understand it, therefore I *can't* understand it. Sigh. In other news, added a link to my wishlist, so for all of you wondering what to get me when my birthday rolls around (or as a Secretary's Day gift ;), now you've got somewhere to go to find out what I want. Yeah, it's crass and tacky and I don't ever expect anyone to buy me anything, but go judge me on the merits of my literary taste. *snerk* Useful suggestions on the fic (or the wishlist) are gratefully accepted. Go here to make 'em. You know you want to. ~victoria [current mood: exhausted] [current music: Comfortably Numb - Pink Floyd] [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2002-04-09 - 10:07 a.m. Selfishness will bring us to perdition Dreamt last night that Aragorn (as played by Viggo Mortensen) worked for the phone company (still not King, eh? *g*), and Jennie Garth was after him to marry him or something, and I wanted Faramir, who wouldn't give me the time of day. There was a wedding at the beach, and the Alvin Ailey dancers performed at the reception, and then there was much splashing around in wading pools. Sometimes my mind is a very cool - yet scary - place. *g* *** I think I might have to worship Neil Gaiman even though I've only ever read Neverwhere and Good Omens (Which was mostly Pratchett, no? *g*) (I have Stardust on the pile on my coffeetable, which means it's closer to being read than the other piles of books on my bookcase *g*). Anyhow, Mr. Gaiman basically gives his okay to fanfiction, as long as there are disclaimers included, credit is given, and no profit is made. He's also got some other interesting stuff to say. Especially this: Wishing that time were more, well, rubbery. [...] Everything would be okay if we just had rubberier time. If you could lean against a week so it would have ten or fifteen or thirty days in it. That's all we need. I completely agree. And I love the use of the word "rubberier" which I don't think actually *is* a word. And Knight Rider slash *is* weird. I don't care what anybody says. David Hasselhoff squicks me majorly. hee! I really ought to add his blog to my regular reading list... And, anyone want to educate me about Sandman? *** I was right. Cassis is a liqueur. A black currant liqueur to be exact. *** Okay, serious stuff now. There's been a big discussion recently about race in fanfic. I've mostly stayed out of it. Why? Because the characters I write most frequently are white. I admit that writing Storm is a challenge, but I've never thought of it that way because of her color or ethnicity - her character (as portrayed in the movie) was simply so flat and opaque that there's not a lot to hang a story on. I've gone mostly from cartoon and second-hand comics knowledge when writing her, and her being from Africa has never really struck me. Which is good in a way, as I'm not seeing her as "The Black Woman" or something, but is probably bad because I'm not letting her experience as a woman of color in America inform her character when I *do* use her. The one time I wrote Gunn, I didn't think of his race, either, just his speech patterns and his role as the one who extracts the exposition from Wesley by questioning. The one time I wrote Frank Pembleton, again, it was more about his interaction with Kellerman, and his belief [since betrayed] in Bayliss. Both stories were really short, with no real place in them for race to be a factor, though it was certainly an underlying thread throughout Homicide's seven years on television. As Frank says, "Baltimore is a brown town." The chief of police, the lieutenant, numerous detectives and perps are black. It's a function of the environment, and rarely did the show flinch from dealing with it, most explicitly in "Colors." The best Homicide fanfic will deal with it to, at least on a subtextual level, and the best fanfic *ever* in my opinion, "Adena 1950" makes it a textual thing - the story in fact deals with the institutionalized racism of the Balto PD in the first half of the twentieth century. (Ooh, that reminds me, I should rec that on zendom. *g*) Anyhow, apparently there was a fic posted to Clark/Lex (I originally typed "Led" which is funny 'cause Led Zeppelin is on the radio, then "Les" which makes me think of Les Nessman, and that's a very scary place to go with slash) that apparently had a very racist portrayal of the villain. Since I haven't read it, I cannot comment, but please, read Te, Witchqueen on 4/3/02 and 4/4/02, and various others on the subject of Characters of Color in fanfiction, and in media altogether. *** Seen on the subway this morning: Selfishness will bring us to perdition Sometimes, the graffiti is profound. ~victoria [current mood: pensive] [current music: Midnight Rambler - The Rolling Stones] [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2002-04-09 - 12:30 a.m. goal-oriented. yeah, that's me. *snerk* I was really hoping to have some fic snips to post tonight, either more NotDL or the blowjob scene in Consumption, but I've decided I have to totally rewrite that, because Logan can't let her go through with it. He has to stop her to make the conversation afterwards meaningful and not just a cliche. I also have to make the switch in POV, I think, so it starts with Rogue going to his room, but then as soon as he's fully awake, switches to his POV. I'm not sure though. I guess I should try to write it out, huh? *g* So since I'm lacking in fic snips, I'll give you some more links so you have interesting reading material. * Jenn gives us achingly poignant CLex future fic * ins makes some great points about stepping away from the keyboard when online stuff gets to be too much. Dot and I were talking about that today when we spoke (Squee! I finally spoke to Dot in person, by phone! Hee hee! She's so cool!) and she said the same thing. And I'm learning that. * Melymbrosia has some book recs for y'all, including some of my favorites, like Elizabeth Peters (my copy of The Golden One shipped today!) and Sarah Smith's Reisden trilogy: The Vanished Child, Knowledge of Water, and Citizen of the Country. Beautifully written, and sometimes heartbreakingly poignant, they concern Alexander Reisden, who may or may not be a child who vanished years earlier from a wealthy Boston family. That description doesn't do it justice. Go read it. Now. *g* * Lori's two entries for today (or yesterday now) are both interesting - she discusses the banality of evil, or not evil, per se, but the moral bankruptcy of men like Tony Soprano, who love their families and want to see justice done, and yet can turn around and kill a guy with their bare hands for betraying them in business. She also talks about "Round Robin syndrome" and how knowing the end of your story when you begin can help in the writing of it: There is a reason round robins are often ludicrous and full of loose ends -- no one working on them really knows where it's going. [...] Round robin syndrome is why, when writing a story, the easiest thing to do is decide how it ends first. That way, while you're writing, you can have the characters go here instead of there, set up subtle foreshadowing, do all kinds of preparing and tension-generating to build up in the first draft a framework of what you want to happen. And then if something better comes along, a nifty plot twist or really great scene, you can change your mind about the ending, but odds are because you've been working around a framework already that the change will actually work with the draft in progress. It saves a lot of editing. You don't have to pare away entire pages that become irrelevant with the new plan. This is what I've been trying to do with Consumption. I'm not doing it very well, but since I haven't posted any of it, I've been able to go back into the earlier parts of the story and rework in things I realized I was going to need for later parts. And I do have an image for the very end, so I think at some point I may write that down. It helps me muchly to have an end in mind, even if it's just a line or a scene. If I can have an opening line and a last line, I feel much better about the fic when I start. I think it probably also helps me with not rushing the endings, as I'm prone to do. When I was writing Soiled Dove I had the whole fountain scene written very early on, probably one of the first things done, and it was just a question of getting there. Same with Best-Laid Plans -- I knew the bathroom scene was going to be the climax, even though I didn't write it until I got to it in the story. I knew I had to get there somehow. So maybe that's my goal for tomorrow. Rewrite the blowjob scene, write the last scene as I picture it in my head, and try to get the Logan-Bobby and Bobby-Kitty convos done in NotDL. Hmm... If work doesn't interfere, that is. Ah well, it's always helpful to have a goal, no? ~victoria [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2002-04-08 - 6:00 p.m. Interesting linkage Some interesting discussions I've found, that you might enjoy: A rant on Spuffy by someone I don't know, but she makes a lot of sense. *g* Andraste on Giles and why a Buffy/Giles relationship might/might not work. This was my response: Andraste wrote: Let's face it: Giles is not blind. Buffy is alluring. I've read plenty of stories that convinced me he's attracted to her on some level, and some that persuaded me that he consciously fantasises about her. I just haven't read anything that makes me believe he'd act on any feelings he's got for her, or that doing so wouldn't be deeply wrong. I responded: While I have on occasion read B/G that works, the thing that squicks me about it is not the mentoring relationship or any of that. It's that Giles and Joyce had sex. Twice. Even if it was under the influence of magical candy. I find it hard to fathom a healthy 17yo girl (or 21 year old or however old B is now) who would choose to have sex with a man her mother has slept with. I mean, on Jerry Springer, sure. And Buffy is definitely in need of a strong father figure, which can often be an attraction for a young girl to be with an older man. I have nothing inherently against the younger woman/older man combo (something I've written about quite extensively in my own fic ;), nor am I as bothered as some by the mentor/student relationship becoming sexual *in fiction*, which I know disturbs many, due to balance of power issues. But in the Whedonverse? I don't think so. I think that sex between Giles and Joyce derails any B/G nookie, and any desire for it on Buffy's part. And for me personally, it gives B/G a squick factor that say, Giles/Oz or Giles/Willow or (and I like this one) Giles/Cordelia wouldn't have. I also wonder if there's any Giles/Tara fic, which would be quite interesting, if you posit Tara as bisexual instead of lesbian, which I don't, generally, but... So, uh, is there any Giles/Tara fic out there? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? *g* And this is worth reading just for the digression on Entsex: Kielle on sex in Lord of the Rings. Here are my comments, but you should go read the whole thing. You both make a lot of sense, and this possibly goes to explaining my own complete and utter *lack* of interest in any sort of LotR fanfic involving sex (of any variety, het, slash, hobbit/elf etc.). Sex has its place in Middle Earth, but its place is not out in the open and is probably highly euphemised - consider the great lovers Beren and Luthien - they procreated, and probably that passion burning in their breast was actually quite a bit lower *g* but in grand epic/heroic/romantic/courtly style of poetry, such things are not discussed. The Elves, as "higher beings" are also possibly above the physical needs of the body more than humans or hobbits or dwarves are. They're more analogous to angels in that way, though not, obviously genderfree or of religious significance. Okay, I admit, I only quoted my own comments so this would look like a meaty entry - you could have gotten all this stuff from reading the entries and responses at the links. Why am I still at work? Because I just spoke with my Maleficent Goddess, who is enjoying her natal day today. It's so great to finally speak with someone after knowing them online for god, it must be at least two years. So I'm geeked. Yeah. Have fun reading the links. I've got to go home now. ~victoria [current mood: giddy] [current music: Behind Blue Eyes - The Who] [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2002-04-08 - 12:25 pm groping for a topic Gagak. I've been trying to add an entry for the past two hours, but technology obviously hates me. Stupid annoying technology. Anyhow, just random ramblings this morning, because I'm too tired to think of something witty or interesting. I wish there were a Monday something or other, like the Friday five (no numbers start with "M" until you hit million? Can that be right?) so I didn't have to think of stuff to write. Anyhow... let's see what spills from the old subconscious this morning... I can't believe it's been 8 years - that's right 8 YEARS - since Kurt Cobain's suicide. Man, that impacted me something fierce. Probably the most important celebrity death of my life, up to and including John Lennon. No, I was not more than mildly interested in either Princess Di's or JFK Jr.'s death. In fact, I think both were made far more of by the press than was actually necessary or commensurate with the people they were and the lives they lived. I mean, Mother Teresa died the same week as Princess Diana, and she was far more worthy of press coverage and international mourning, but since she wasn't young, royal, rich and beautiful, she barely merited a mention. And, ahh... a topic... The other day, Jenny-O, in response to Sarah T's entry on morality in fiction wrote about real life evil v. fictional evil, and how one can get a huge charge from writing about the darker, uglier sides of people - even - perhaps, especially - your heroes, as well as the villains, and that should not reflect on your real world morality, because it's fiction. I'm not getting involved in that particuar argument. It makes my head hurt. Because I can see both sides of it, and I waver between which I agree with. However, Jenny also wrote this: Fiction is not real. It's so not real that I don't like following actors' careers outside of shows because it smacks of stalking. And that utterly, utterly squicks me because it breaks the reality boundary. Fictional evil is not real evil and doesn't need to be real evil if people could tell the difference between fiction and reality. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's *stalking*, though it can take on those connotations on occasion. I've mentioned before that I prefer not to know much about the actors on a show I love, because it pulls me out of the fictional world, and then when I fic them, it makes it harder to see them as nothing more than fictives, because I start thinking about the real people involved, and that's never good. Because that's when you start crossing boundaries that should never be crossed. [...](which is why I don't give a shit about RPF. RPF is the unwanted bastard child of historical fiction. It is closer to legitimate fiction than any other set of fanfiction. I still think it smacks of tacky, but morally wrong? Give me a fuckin' break. Goddamn Possession was on a level about Christina Rossetti and Robert Browning (I think) fucking. Names changed.) This is the point I think is the heart of the post. Well, aside from all the interesting stuff about evil and morality. *g* What I mean is, is that yes, on some level RPF is simply a type of historical fiction, but with one large difference from most historical fiction. The characters involved are not dead. And they're not being used in some grand historical epic to lend verisimilitude to the story because if you didn't use Custer at the Alamo or Napoleon at Waterloo, you'd look like an idiot. I've read fabulous historical novels that took as their protags real life historical personages [Lord of Two Lands by Judith Tarr pops to mind, focusing on Alexander the Great (or Alexander the FABulous, as Omar G. calls him. Omar is so our boyfriend. *g*), and his friendship of sorts with an Egyptian girl, but that could just be because I've got Lex on the brain and there's always that Lex-Alexander connection], or the aforementioned Possession by AS Byatt, which is one of my favorite novels ever. But as I said, these people are long dead. Less recently dead people pop up all the time, too; most often, in the fiction *I* read, JFK and RFK and Marilyn Monroe and various mobsters and politicos who may or may not have been connected to them. But, still dead, you know? And I'm not as up on reading as I used to be, funneling quite a lot of my reading energy into fanfic and blogs and such nowadays, so it's possible that there's now a trend in fiction to include real, live people in protagonist roles in novels, instead of as sort of window-dressing. Correct me if I'm wrong and this is so. So I don't think RPF is quite analogous. Because if one of these guys in *NSYNC or U2 [yes, it scares me, too, but there is Bono/Edge slash out there] or the LotR cast gets online one day to have a goof and types their name into Google, you know they're going to find the RPF/RPS eventually. Even worse, if someone has a *kid* who gets into fandom and gets online, you think *they* won't find it? I mean, type in the words "Orlando Bloom" or "Elijah Wood" and see how many pages it takes to stumble across the words "fan fiction." Would you really want their *mother* reading this? (since both are fairly young and it's doubtful they have kids old enough to get online at the moment. But really, with the internet, it's possible that some of this stuff will still be around somewhere in some archive 10-20 years from now. Who knows? I mean, did we really expect that Usenet posts would still be available from 7-8-9 years ago? I certainly didn't.) To me, that's crossing a big line, and not a line I personally feel like crossing. Maybe I'm splitting hairs in order to justify writing explicit fanfic of characters played by actors, rather than comics or cartoon characters. I dunno. I don't think so. Because writing fictional stories about fictional characters having fictional sex is less... disturbing to me on any number of levels that writing fictional stories about real people having fictional sex, and having it with people who are not necessarily their real-life significant others (let alone their *declared* preferred gender. Not that it's okay to write about Sir Ian and his pretty boy, either.). It just smacks of an invasion of privacy, and while I understand that in some ways it's more protected than regular fanfiction under the law, I can't help but feel that it's worse, Because it's not just some corporation or rich fat-cat Hollywood screenwriter (*snerk* - if such a creature exists) whose copyrights are being infringed upon. It's people. Real freaking people, no matter how much you tell yourselves that they're celebrities and they've given up the right to privacy and anyhow, their public persona is mostly fictional anyway because we all know they're masters of spin, and actors ferchrissakes, so of course what we see in interviews and in concert isn't real. So yeah, against the RPF. And while I see the application of the historical fiction model, I don't necessarily buy it. The roman à clef model - which is basically a more "cowardly" yet morally acceptable version of RPF - is more problematic, but still... there's some sort of cachet to being fictionalized - to becoming a whole new character, while just being fictionalized under your own name and public persona seems... hinky. Oh, I can't explain it, it just squicks me, all right? *veg* I try to be logical about it, but I can't get past the huge honking mental neon sign flashing, "It's WRONG." In other news, my back is killing me. PMS is a bitch. Have something to say? Feel free to share ~victoria [current mood: irrational] [current music: Strawberry Fields Forever - The Beatles] [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ previous - next DiaryLand Disclaimer: Reading this diary is not required by law. If you do not like or agree with the contents herein, or find them to be offensive on more than one occasion, please go elsewhere and don't come back. Management is not responsible for any adverse reactions to content within. The painting is "Boreas" by John William Waterhouse. Again, not a muse, but I like her. She suits the color scheme. The quote is from Sir Philip Sidney. This site is best viewed with IE4+ | 1024x768 | true color | verdana | tables