The other day I wrote a piece of fanfiction for the first time in a few years. It’s kind of a big deal because I used to think I would never go back to writing fanfiction again. I started writing fanfiction when I was about 12 and am wrapping around to my 21st birthday in a few months here.
Don’t get me wrong, I grew a lot as a writer (like, a LOT) by writing fanfiction, and I am grateful for all the feedback that I gained through that time. But I think that as a whole, there’s kind of an unhealthy environment in the FF community that celebrates pain. If you consider the genre of hurt/comfort, it’s quite dehumanizing and throws the spotlight on the trauma instead of the recovery required.
I wrote ‘Until I Burst’ as a kind of second-look at the very real issue of human trafficking, to bring into focus the humanity of the people behind it. There is a line between fiction and reality, and while we can’t all fight crime and kick down doors, we all can champion victim’s rights and support the recovery effort.
I’m not a fan of the hurt. I am a fan of the comfort.
And I will devote my life to the celebration of freedom and bringing victims out of darkness and into the light, both in a physical and spiritual sense.
So the link is below to the story I wrote. It’s set in the Numb3rs genre, between season 2 and season 3 (because that’s where I’m at in the series so far- haven’t seen past that point). I’m very happy so far with seeing page views and knowing that there are people in France and Germany and India who are reading this. I had some fun playing with the third-person limited perspective of a fairly intoxicated intellectual. So far it’s a one-shot, but if I get really inspired I might write either the other character’s perspective, or the actual case behind it. Let me know what you think!
It started with scissors.
I hate going to a hair salon because I feel like all the ladies there have all this secret knowledge acquired through dark rituals (probably). They even speak another language – with words like layering and ratting and texture. Unless I speak the secret code words, I’ll identify myself as a non-hair person and they’ll probably give me a purple mohawk.
You might scoff, but something similar happened at my brother’s wedding. My soon-to-be sister-in-law was getting her hair done gorgeously, and all the other bridesmaids (and me) made a pact that we would just have out hair done simply, ‘pinned out of the way,’ so as to keep all the attention on her.
So I sat down awkwardly in the hairdresser’s chair and declared that I wanted my hair simply ‘pinned back’.
She looked at me like I was a Martian, straightened my hair, stuck a couple of bobby pins in my hair and said, “Like that?”
Not knowing any better, I shrugged and said, “Sure.”
I hopped out of the chair and turned around to see ALL of the other ladies with their hair twisted and braided and curled in ways I didn’t know possible. And my sister-in-law had this magnificently complicated bun with stray curls framing her face and flowers interwoven between the strands and her veil magically attached to the back of her neck.
And me with my bobby pins.
See what I mean about code words? Continue reading
(What follows is a huge dump of what’s been on my brain these past like 10 days and lurking for five months before that. Detour down heartbreakingly Real Street. And followed by a huge image dump. Post shortened for convenience.)
Sometimes I look at all the things I say I want to do and get overwhelmed by how very
very much I don’t even measure up to my own standard. Let alone God’s.
Grace, come find me in my moment of need. I feel like a failure
sometimes (read: often) and though I know all-too well how very much is demanded of me, I can’t help but try to push those thoughts from my mind because I’m afraid of failure, of what other people think of me, of living at my full potential.
God help me, I am so afraid. I know what I’m called to and when I think about it my heart soars.. but when I see how little I have now and how much I fail with this little scrap I’ve been entrusted with.. my hopes come crashing down to earth once more. Continue reading
I take my 300 where I can get them. The following not quite supposed to make sense outside the context of the novel. Nevertheless… behold.
Moonlight spilled through the shredded drapery, which fluttered softly in the autumnal breeze, casting long, wavering shadows across the floor and over the motionless figure of the king, like avaricious fingers attempting to pull the corpse into the black.
Gideon stifled a bitter curse and settled for a sigh of resignation as he pulled his hand from the rapidly-cooling body. They were too late.
“Blood and sand; if that idiot had just listened, he’d be alive right now!” Jaster growled quietly.
“There’s nothing we can do here now. The counter-revolution must learn of this immediately if they’re going to react in time to prevent all-out war.” Gideon replied in a low, steady voice.
Jaster nodded. “Shall I arrange a messenger?”
“No. News of this nature demands a more personal touch. I think it’s time for the counter-revolutionaries to meet their benefactor, don’t you?” Something faint and warm reflected in his tone as Gideon stood and strode to the window, examining the ledge outside. It was no more than two hands in width and was slightly longer than the window was wide. However, the hall was as old as the kingdom itself and built of stones that had weathered the ravages of nature and time itself. The gaps between the stones were enough to form rough handholds… if the climber in question feared neither heights nor unfamiliar surface and could make a vertical descent of four stories in the dark. If, for example, they happened to have earned their living scaling masts and climbing ratlines sailing for the Pirate King. Continue reading