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reenkaUm. I was all "eh" and depresso, slightly, from going to the campus bookstore. Bookstores still make me happy like nothing else, but it's always disheartening to realize that all these published writers, all this wastage of paper, and it looks like nothing I'd ever want to read, all of it. I mean, this isn't to say it's -crap-. Exactly. It just looks like crap to me, but what do I know?
Especially having spent way too long staring in morbid fascination at Anne Rice's most recent novel, remembering Ivy quoting her as saying she doesn't use editors. Oh man.
Anyway, there's this silly veneration towards being a "published author" and being a "best-selling published author", no less, which makes me sick. Before fanfiction, where it's semi-accepted that a lot of it is bound to be crap, I was completely well-aware that a lot of books (and paintings and songs and so on) are bound to be crap, too. But I haven't read much actual bound matter lately, and it surprises me now to remember that Yes Virginia, Published Authors Can't Seem To Write For Egg-salad Either.
It's funny because people ask me "so are you published" when I say I'm a writer, and looking at the kind of stuff that -does- get published and put in the general literature & best-seller section (not to mention the horrendous crap-pile that is the fantasy/sci-fi section), I don't -want- to be part of that. It makes me not want to be published. I don't feel any particular honor in it. I do want to be read, but the idea that it says something about me, whether I'm published or not, is completely ludicrous to me at this point. All my favorite authors in fantasy lit are barely known. I do like -some- popular stuff, but I mostly don't, and quite the opposite in fact. I know I shouldn't judge the state of literature today by the awful bestsellers section of my smallish college Barnes & Noble, but it's -there-, and it's square, man.
So yeah, I hate hype, I dislike promoting books and the idea that promoted books are -good- books. I think you should find your own gems, discover your own Americas-- that's an important part of the pleasure of reading, the quest to find the gems in the sea of dross.
Thus it is with reservation that I whole-heartedly implore anyone who has the vaguest trust of my taste in fiction to go out right now and get themselves a copy of `The Liar' by Stephen Fry.
It was apparently a huge best-seller in England when it came out more than 10 years ago, but who cares, right. It's hilarious, it's touching, it's cutting, it's challenging and entertaining and just brilliant in every possible way. The language sparkles, the characterizations are unforgettable, the surprises keep coming. It's the story (so far, I'm barely a quarter through it!) of Adrian Healey, 15-year-old fop in a boarding school in Cambridge. He's disillusioned with humanity & doesn't quite believe it exists, he's both flamboyantly insincere and facetious and angsty about it, and he's in love with this glowing specimen of male beauty called Cartwright, and he's basically fanon!Draco done one better and drowning in the awful Muggleness of the world.
The snark is killing me. The Englishness is killing me. The funny is killing me. THE GAY IS KILLING ME >:O I have found the Snarky Gay English Schoolboy Book Of All Time!!1 JOY TO THE WORLD!!1 This book could singlehandledly restore my faith in the state of literature today :D :D :D
~~
The darkness was all around as Harry walked through Quidditch pitch down towards his dormroom, random thoughts of blowing crossing his mind.
He had been shocked earlier when Deliara had told him she often dreamed about Snape involved in rimming with a thestral, but each to their own, she didn't know about his fantasies involving Draco.
One day he would discuss his feelings with Weasley, but not yet, he still hardly believed how aroused he could be by just thinking of Draco masturbating himself with a lube.
The night air was fresh and he sat down in a quiet location and began to stroke the fork he was carrying with him. Would Draco's cock feel like that to his arse?
What would Draco think of him if he knew how his cock grew hard as he thought of eating potato pie off Draco's beautiful nipple?
Harry rubbed the fork against his cock whispering Draco's name to himself. He knew he should stop and wait until he got back to his dormroom but desire overtook him and he came, screaming Draco's name into the night.
Meanwhile, Draco had not been able to sleep and had decided to go out in the night air. Quidditch pitch was such a beautiful place at this time of the night. He took a bite of the potato pie he was carrying and leisurely scratched his cock.
He jumped in alarm as he heard a voice in the distance. Was that Harry calling his name. He must be in trouble to shout for him with such desperation. He dropped his potato pie and ran towards the sound of his kitten's voice.
Draco stumbled through the darkness towards Harry. Panicked thoughts ran through his head. Was his kitten being attacked by a thestral. Was he about to be raped by Lucius dressed as Snape? His heart beat faster and he felt the pulse throbbing in his arse.
Harry, Harry, my kitten, screamed Draco. It's alright, I'm coming, I'll save you! Harry leaped to his feet in panic, dropping the fork and trying to untangle his trousers from around his ankles. He fell over, his bare nipple pointing in the air.
Draco! Harry gasped embarrassedly. What are you doing here? Weasley said you were in your dormroom engaged in some blowing with Deliara.
No, I was alone in my dormroom with nothing but my lube for company. I couldn't sleep for thinking how beautiful your nipple was, and how I would like to stroke my cock against it, and have you kiss my arse, and now I see your nipple for myself I realise that not even Snape has a nipple to compare with yours.
Oh, kitten, Weasley said you felt that way but I never believed him, I thought you loved Deliara.
What! That old thestral, I'd rather get involved in rimming with Lucius, a fork and potato pie than dream of blowing with her, Ooh, the very thought makes my arse curl.
Oh, Harry!
Oh, Draco, my kitten!
Cue soft music, sounds of blowing and rimming, soft focus and fade.........
~~
*laughs until she cries*
Here, make more. Let the arse-curling be fruitful and multiply :D :D :D
Especially having spent way too long staring in morbid fascination at Anne Rice's most recent novel, remembering Ivy quoting her as saying she doesn't use editors. Oh man.
Anyway, there's this silly veneration towards being a "published author" and being a "best-selling published author", no less, which makes me sick. Before fanfiction, where it's semi-accepted that a lot of it is bound to be crap, I was completely well-aware that a lot of books (and paintings and songs and so on) are bound to be crap, too. But I haven't read much actual bound matter lately, and it surprises me now to remember that Yes Virginia, Published Authors Can't Seem To Write For Egg-salad Either.
It's funny because people ask me "so are you published" when I say I'm a writer, and looking at the kind of stuff that -does- get published and put in the general literature & best-seller section (not to mention the horrendous crap-pile that is the fantasy/sci-fi section), I don't -want- to be part of that. It makes me not want to be published. I don't feel any particular honor in it. I do want to be read, but the idea that it says something about me, whether I'm published or not, is completely ludicrous to me at this point. All my favorite authors in fantasy lit are barely known. I do like -some- popular stuff, but I mostly don't, and quite the opposite in fact. I know I shouldn't judge the state of literature today by the awful bestsellers section of my smallish college Barnes & Noble, but it's -there-, and it's square, man.
So yeah, I hate hype, I dislike promoting books and the idea that promoted books are -good- books. I think you should find your own gems, discover your own Americas-- that's an important part of the pleasure of reading, the quest to find the gems in the sea of dross.
Thus it is with reservation that I whole-heartedly implore anyone who has the vaguest trust of my taste in fiction to go out right now and get themselves a copy of `The Liar' by Stephen Fry.
It was apparently a huge best-seller in England when it came out more than 10 years ago, but who cares, right. It's hilarious, it's touching, it's cutting, it's challenging and entertaining and just brilliant in every possible way. The language sparkles, the characterizations are unforgettable, the surprises keep coming. It's the story (so far, I'm barely a quarter through it!) of Adrian Healey, 15-year-old fop in a boarding school in Cambridge. He's disillusioned with humanity & doesn't quite believe it exists, he's both flamboyantly insincere and facetious and angsty about it, and he's in love with this glowing specimen of male beauty called Cartwright, and he's basically fanon!Draco done one better and drowning in the awful Muggleness of the world.
The snark is killing me. The Englishness is killing me. The funny is killing me. THE GAY IS KILLING ME >:O I have found the Snarky Gay English Schoolboy Book Of All Time!!1 JOY TO THE WORLD!!1 This book could singlehandledly restore my faith in the state of literature today :D :D :D
~~
The darkness was all around as Harry walked through Quidditch pitch down towards his dormroom, random thoughts of blowing crossing his mind.
He had been shocked earlier when Deliara had told him she often dreamed about Snape involved in rimming with a thestral, but each to their own, she didn't know about his fantasies involving Draco.
One day he would discuss his feelings with Weasley, but not yet, he still hardly believed how aroused he could be by just thinking of Draco masturbating himself with a lube.
The night air was fresh and he sat down in a quiet location and began to stroke the fork he was carrying with him. Would Draco's cock feel like that to his arse?
What would Draco think of him if he knew how his cock grew hard as he thought of eating potato pie off Draco's beautiful nipple?
Harry rubbed the fork against his cock whispering Draco's name to himself. He knew he should stop and wait until he got back to his dormroom but desire overtook him and he came, screaming Draco's name into the night.
Meanwhile, Draco had not been able to sleep and had decided to go out in the night air. Quidditch pitch was such a beautiful place at this time of the night. He took a bite of the potato pie he was carrying and leisurely scratched his cock.
He jumped in alarm as he heard a voice in the distance. Was that Harry calling his name. He must be in trouble to shout for him with such desperation. He dropped his potato pie and ran towards the sound of his kitten's voice.
Draco stumbled through the darkness towards Harry. Panicked thoughts ran through his head. Was his kitten being attacked by a thestral. Was he about to be raped by Lucius dressed as Snape? His heart beat faster and he felt the pulse throbbing in his arse.
Harry, Harry, my kitten, screamed Draco. It's alright, I'm coming, I'll save you! Harry leaped to his feet in panic, dropping the fork and trying to untangle his trousers from around his ankles. He fell over, his bare nipple pointing in the air.
Draco! Harry gasped embarrassedly. What are you doing here? Weasley said you were in your dormroom engaged in some blowing with Deliara.
No, I was alone in my dormroom with nothing but my lube for company. I couldn't sleep for thinking how beautiful your nipple was, and how I would like to stroke my cock against it, and have you kiss my arse, and now I see your nipple for myself I realise that not even Snape has a nipple to compare with yours.
Oh, kitten, Weasley said you felt that way but I never believed him, I thought you loved Deliara.
What! That old thestral, I'd rather get involved in rimming with Lucius, a fork and potato pie than dream of blowing with her, Ooh, the very thought makes my arse curl.
Oh, Harry!
Oh, Draco, my kitten!
Cue soft music, sounds of blowing and rimming, soft focus and fade.........
~~
*laughs until she cries*
Here, make more. Let the arse-curling be fruitful and multiply :D :D :D
