May Hope Find You From The Pages of A Good Book

I started vibrating with excitement. The rest of the players were not suspicious.

Our warlocks imp started approaching and tried to enter the cabin and I started whisper chanting, “Baba yaga, baba yaga!”

A giant chicken reared it’s head and promptly ate the imp.

My betrothed then rolled out a photo they made of this baba yaga hut, which was just a chicken with an MS paint cabin on its back.

So our ranger fed it good berries with Sanctuary protecting him while my rogue ran around tying up its feet.

Once we had toppled it we struggled against its Feather Fluffing to enter the cabin. It shot house tiles at us, but the warlock, ranger, and rogue all made it inside while the werewolf fighter held the rope to keep it down and our paladin hid in the trees.

We got what we came for and left in peace. Goodbye baba yaga chicken hut, I loved you.

So while my rogue went to gather up party members we left recuperating the paladin, ranger, and warlock decided to try to impersonate the lich and transfer ownership.

They dressed the paladin as the defeated lich and then he cast Alter Self to appear to be the lich and convince the chicken he was selling her.

But then my rogue came up and was like holy shit the lich is back and shot the paladin and the other characters got mad but I was like she literally wasn’t here for this plan and it’s a lich of course she shoots!

Eventually this plan succeeded and we got the chicken to accept the warlock as her new owner.

A: Once I truly begin to write, I work obsessively, in twelve-hour days, punctuated by days of long sleep and vivid dreaming. Starting time and ending time are no longer important. I might begin at 9 A.M., or after noon or at eight in the evening. I go from there. I turn on the computer and write, write, write.

My room is a mess. Notes are scribbled on the walls so that I can look up at them at the appropriate moments and insert the date, the name, whatever, when I need it. Books are stacked so high that people have to search for me when they come into the room. Opened books with marked-up pages are stacked on top of one another.

I become suicidal. I go through a horrid despair some time or other before the final page, during which everything seems mean-ingless-from the dawn of history to the very hour in which I am writing. I'm intolerable to live with. But I spread myself thin over a number of loved ones and staff members so that no one person has to put up with how intense, hysterical, and miserable I am.

When I get elated and talk fast and furiously about wonderful aspects of history or the characters, or good developments in the story, people run away from me. I don't blame them.

While the novel is being written, I try to avoid dressing for out-doors. No one can make you go out if you don't have shoes on. Not even in the south. I wear long velvet robes and soft velvet slippers. I refuse to go out. All food is brought in. I eat hamburgers because they are easy to hold with one hand while reading and holding the book with the other hand.

In the middle of the night I read, sometimes on the carpeted floor of the bathroom, just because it's warm. I am wretched. I don't care anymore about being abnormal. Writing is everything. Everything. It seems impossible to write the book. It seems impossible to lift a hairbrush to brush my hair. But I do it. I put on mascara every day that I write.

This period of intense work lasts about six weeks. It's best that way. My imagination is overheated, and my memory clogged with data of varying importance. If I go over six weeks, I begin to forget things; I feel the loss of intensity and information and I become all the more self-destructive and obsessed.

The end of the book is a big event for me. A big event. I start screaming. I put the hour and the date at the end of the last page. I expect everybody to understand, at least a little. It's a triumph! The darkness of destiny has been driven back for a brief while. I celebrate. I scream, eat chocolate, and sleep.

Right near the end of writing The Vampire Armand, I realized I had to return to Italy, especially to Florence, and at once I began to make preparations for the trip. As soon as the novel was finished and off to the publisher's, as soon as it could be accomplished, I flew to Italy. That gave me hope, a way out of a life threatening darkness that often follows the climax of a book. But I still ate chocolate and screamed.

While writing, I don't want to rest. I don't want to sleep. Why sleep? It seems stupid, except when weariness overcomes me like a giant cloud of poisonous vapor. Then I sleep fifteen to twenty hours. I tell people to go in and out of the bedroom and ignore me lying there, as if I were dead. I won't talk on the phone. I won't open my eyes if I don't have to. I dream terrible, upsetting dreams. I want to kill myself. But I can't. I can't do it to other people, and I have work that must be done, novels that must be written. So I don't kill my-self. Besides, I don't think it's good to kill oneself. It's a horrible idea. It has a horrible effect even on acquaintances. I think a lot about people I loved who are dead. I think of how dead they are, year after year, ever more dead.

On the structure of the novel itself, I used to outline heavily. I don't now. I can't bear to know everything about what horrors await the characters. I don't want to know. I want-for this phase of my life-to write without knowledge of what is going to happen next. I want to be born again every day at the computer keyboard. I do envision an ending and a reason why the novel exists—a justification for the tale. But it's all vague. I want it that way.

I won't pre-write anymore. I refuse. I'll read and read and look and look in preparation. I'll see my character, his name, his general fate. But I won't pre-write. No notes for scenes. No bits and pieces of dialogue. No. It's too agonizing to move the characters toward a fate that has already been suffered by me in my mind. I'm fresher and better if I don't know for sure what is going to happen.

Heavily outlined and prewritten novels of mine include Cry to Heaven, parts of The Vampire Lestat, very little of The Witching Hour, all of Violin, Memnoch the Devil, The Tale of the Body Thief, and the last fourth of The Feast of All Saints.

The most spontaneous novels I've ever written were Taltos and The Vampire Armand. Almost all of Interview with the Vampire, and most of The Vampire Lestat, were utterly spontaneously written.

The first part of The Witching Hour, the first few chapters, were heavily prewritten. But then The Witching Hour became a runaway spontaneous novel with hundreds of pages taking shape before my eyes. I like it this way now.

I write on a state-of-the-art computer, with the fastest hard drive imaginable, and the greatest amount of memory. I use the old program Wordstar because I know it so well. I print out the work of the day when I finish every day no matter what the hour. I have a super-fast printer that can cough up a whole novel in no time. I always have a hard copy of all the work to date right beside the computer. If I move back to an earlier chapter, which I often do, I throw the old draft in a Ziploc plastic bag marked "old chapter no. whatever" and print out the new draft of the chapter and stick it with the others. I use lots of Ziploc plastic bags. I don't write by hand.

If a revelation comes to me when I'm too tired to really write, I scribble this on the wall of the bathroom or on the wall of my office, using a black Sharpie pen. With a black Sharpie, I write all over the computer, the keyboard edges, and the edges of the monitor.

You extend your hand. “I noticed you’re new here. What’s your name?”

Clark’s introducing her around.  “This is my good friend, Diana, she’s in from out of town.”

Clark stops a few feet away and squints at you worriedly from behind those ridiculous glasses you’re 99% sure he doesn’t actually need, and asks tentatively, “Everything all right?”

You ignore him in favor of staring at the inky dark numerals hovering over the beaming fool gesticulating some fantastic yacht story for a gaggle of secretaries and minor columnists.

Meanwhile, your paranoia gets to you. You start working out. Training in self defense. Studying the Justice League, trying to find its members. Finding out all their identities so you can be ready.

One day you wake up with a ten above your head.

That day you get a call. You recognize the area code. Gotham. Your heart is in your throat. You should throw the phone away, run. They’ve found you. You’re doomed. You might be a ten, but you can’t beat them all.

You pick up the phone anyways.

“Hello?”

“Hey, this is Clark Kent. I was wondering if we could talk.”

Your mouth goes dry. “About what?”

But they’d find you. You know they’d find you. They’re goddamned superheroes. They can carry buildings. They could probably manage finding you.

“Hello?” Clark’s voice returns, tinged with concern, and suddenly you stop. Calm down. They’re the good guys. At least they’re supposed to be.

“Yeah, sorry, just a little shocked you–”

“Caught up to you?” Clark asked. He laughed a little, but it wasn’t teasing. His voice had his regular ease, the same casual tone he would employ to talk about the weather in the break room. “Yeah. Lois noticed your odd behavior, actually. We didn’t realize it was linked to the League until you refused to interview Bruce, and then we knew something was up.”

“Speaking of Bruce Wayne, are you using his phone? Your area code is Gotham, not Metropolis.”

Clark laughed. “Damn. Lois wasn’t kidding when she said you were the best investigator working for the Daily Planet.”

“I just notice things is all.” You laughed nervously. You still can’t shake your general unease. This guy could kill you without any effort. You’re no match for him, or for any of his friends for that matter. Hell, Batman didn’t even have powers and he’d still fuck you up.

“Yeah, and that’s a skill we could use around here. Would you like to talk about joining? Bruce can send you a car, bring you here–”

“No,” you say, sharper than you intended. “Sorry. I’d rather meet in public, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course. Lunch or coffee? It’s still early, but it’s a bit easier to cram all of us in a restaurant than a coffee shop.”

“Lunch, I guess. And no superhero stuff.”

Clark pauses, then sighs sadly. You’ve heard this sadness before in rare amounts. When bad things happened and fear and greed overtook people, he’d always frown and sigh, like someone watching their best friend self destruct, unable to help or save them. “You’re afraid of us. Aren’t you?” His voice is concerned and hushed.

A pang of guilt starts to replace the fear. “You can throw around buildings like a sack of potatoes, Clark. Your friend is powerful on an impossible level, Bruce’s kid is a fucking eight–”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Clark said, the sadness disappearing. “You have a number system for us?”

“Look, it’s a whole thing. I’ll talk about it over lunch.” You grab your laptop bag. “Where are we meeting?”

Clark said something to someone else. “Got any restaurant ideas? They want lunch.”

Bruce Wayne – you’ve heard enough interviews to recognize his voice – said, “Saffron’s pretty good.”

“Jesus,” someone else said. You’ve heard the voice, but you couldn’t place it. “I keep on forgetting you’re rich.”

“You don’t think it’s a little much, Bruce? The pay at Daily Planet is good but not that good,” said Clark.

“I’ll cover their tab.”

“Okay…” Clark returned to the call. “Saffron, in…thirty minutes? You’re downtown, right?”

“You can get a table to Saffron in thirty minutes?” said the strange voice. “Boy, am I glad I made friends with you guys.”

“Yeah, that works.” You’re a bit hesitant, but you swallow your nerves. At least for now. Your thoughts about threat levels made you forget that Clark is a decent guy. All you could do is hope that he thinks you’re decent, too. “See you then.”

“See you then. Be safe. Bye.” Clark hangs up, and you’re left in your room. The worry is starting to turn into something different. Excitement.

They aren’t wearing masks or uniforms, no bright colors and costumes. Clark Kent is in his usual office wear, Bruce Wayne is wearing a tailored suit, Diana Prince dons a nice blue dress, and Oliver Queen wears a nice button down. You don’t recognize two of them – a twenty something in jeans and a hoodie, a man in a green shirt, and a burly guy in a baggy t-shirt and old jeans who looks like he had just washed up from the sea. All of them, aside from Diana, are tens, of course.

Clark Kent stands, shakes your hand when you come in. “Glad to see you made it.” He introduces you to the others, and they all shake your hand quite happily and greet you like a friend. You learn that the guy in the hoodie is Barry Allen, the dude in green is Hal Jordan, and the beach dude is Arthur Curry. Waitresses, all ones, twos, and threes, come in with drinks, and one plops a mug of coffee in front of you, along with a small menu. Clark Kent gives you a knowing gaze.

Once the waitresses clear out, Bruce sits up straight. “Clark, would you rather I do the honors?” His silver watch glitters in the light from the windows.

“No, no, Bruce,” Clark says, setting down his glass of water. “I think it’s best if I ask them myself.”

Within a moment, you piece it together. “You want me to join the Justice League?”

Clark Kent cracks a smile. “How’d you guess?”

“You call me out of the blue, mention the Justice League, invite me to Bruce Wayne’s place, and then here, where you introduce me to a group of people who all look strikingly similar to the members of the Justice League.” You take a sip of coffee. “Subtlety is hardly your strong suit.”

Barry Allen laughed. “They got you there on that one.”

“Well, you’re right. At first Bruce wanted to handle the situation himself,” – you’d rather not think about what handle was a euphemism for – “but I insisted we do some more digging. We did, and what we found was…surprising. To say the least.”

You look at him oddly. You aren’t normal – no one else saw numbers floating above people’s heads – but you weren’t surprising. Your parents were the only ones who knew about your ability, and they’re long gone. You’ve got no checkered past, no odd history–

“You have powers.” Clark’s voice was clearly impressed.

“How did you find out about that?” The fear comes back, forming a knot in your stomach. “I’ve never told anyone else about it.”

“It’s not hard to notice,” Barry Allen says in between sips of soda. “Most of the information we got we got from Lois after she’s hung out with you.”

“I’ve never her told her anything about the numbers, though.”

Oliver Queen sits up, flashing you a confused look. “Numbers?”

Okay, something’s not right here. “The number I see over everyone’s heads,” you say, keeping your voice low. “It ties into how dangerous everyone is. Usually it’s just a one or two, maybe a three or four or five if they’ve got some kind of training or if they work out or whatever. Almost everyone at this table has a ten.”

“Almost?” Diana furrows her brow.

“You have an eleven,” you add.

Diana nods, smiling with a bit of pride and making an “I told you so” face to Bruce Wayne, who rolls his eyes. Oliver Queen clears his throat as Bruce and Hal pass him a couple bills.

“Ignore them,” Barry says, rolling his eyes at the three of them. “What you said was interesting – I might have to ask you a few questions on that later – but it wasn’t what I found. Remember the sensory and memory study you did when you were ten?”

You do remember it. Your parents were contacted by a scientist friend of theirs who needed kids to run a study on memory and stimuli. You remember it clearly. The large sterile room, the tests, the person conducting them, a handsome woman with a four above her head, the questions, the smell of latex gloves and fresh bleach. But you don’t remember the results. You were never told the results, other than that they were good, though with a test like that it was hard to say.

Barry reached in his pocket and pulled out a pocket sized composition notebook and paged through it.

“What was the name?” Oliver demanded as you, and everybody else at the table watched Barry, but you were the only one who didn’t know what he was doing.

“Uh… oh! Me? Sorry. Her name was Irene. Irene Schumer. Why?”

Barry went back a page and then looked up from the book at all of the heroes around him and shook his head sadly.

“When did you last talk to Irene?” Diana asked gently. Too gently. Gentle to the point that you knew something terrible was up.

There was a tightness in your chest as you tried to remember. I guess it had been a while, but not a lifetime ago. You still saw her spouse posting stuff on Facebook with their kid. But now that you thought about it, Irene was always tagged in the picture, but not in them… “It’s been a few years. Maybe… nine?”

After they all exchanged a glance, Bruce said solomnly, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but we have it on good authority that Irene has been killed.”

Shit.

Suddenly the room seemed to dim and all of the Justice Leauge were looking at you, Clark even leaned towards you as if he expected you to break right there. But you had more tact than that.

“You have it on good authority? What the hell does that even mean, Mr. Wayne? Who’s authority is good?”

Clark stopped Bruce from talking and slowly explained, “Once we found out about the… nature… of the experiment, we started trying to track down the results and the participants. Something that Barry found out… well… every year, one person from the trial was killed.”

“Sorry to interject,” Hal suddenly spoke.

That was the first time you actually paid attention to him. His features were nearly as strong as Diana’s and Clark’s, but his hair was much more… shaggy?

“But we thought that maybe the reason they were being killed was because of how dangerous the testers determined them to be-“

He stopped when you snorted.

“Impossible,” you insisted, “Irene was the only fully grown adult I’ve seen with a 1 above her head. I’ve had a three as long as I can remember until recently.”

“Until recently?” Diana repeated.

Oops. Probably best to leave out the fact you were a ten right now.

“Maybe,” Clark said when he saw you didn’t want to answer, “it has something to do with the type of power it is.”

Clark seemed to be trying to put you at ease more than anybody else sitting at the table.

“A person with superhuman abilities or whatever can’t give off a one. That’s… insane,” you started arguing.

“Unless her power was deception,” Oliver muttered. He looked at Barry and asked, “how many people are left from that experiment that haven’t died, disappeared, or become incompacitated?”

He didn’t even look at the book before saying “just one”

Every eye fell to you again.

It was like someone poured something hot over your head. Your scalp burned and tingled and then it trickled down your neck and spine and made your shoulders ache until your arms tensed. You had to decide if you believed them or not. They were supposed to be the good guys, Clark seemed to think you two were friends, but some of the stuff they were saying was… ridiculous. Impossible. Inconceivable. Unbelievable. Just… You picked your coffee up and took a drink. To mask everything you were thinking.

You set it down and tried to lighten the mood by saying, “Might need something stronger.”

That pulled a few smirks out of some.

“Okay,” you sighed, “let’s say-hypothetically- I believe you and I’m willing to go along. What is… I mean, what do you want… what are you gonna do about it?”

“Well, we started with meeting up with you for lunch to see if you’d be interested in joining us. Joining our little team.”

You examined all of them. Perfect, poised, powerful, with some kind of super power- besides Bruce (you assume). You had none of that. You had a history of hapkido, a green belt in tae kwon do, and saw floating numbers above peoples heads. That was hardly as impressive as anyone else at the table.

“Why would you want me to?” You finally asked. “It doesn’t make sense. I’m not a hero. I can’t throw buildings, or fly, I’m not bulletproof, at all. That’s not a… liability? Or a bad idea?”

“None of us think so,” Bruce Wayne leaned forward.

“Mr. Wayne-“

“-Bruce,” He corrected without making much noise.

“Bruce. What do you think I have that somebody else doesn’t have?”

It was a while before he said, “Skill. Spirit. Talent. But more importantly, a calling to be part of our team.”

Destiny.

The word your grandmother had said to you everyday since your parents died until her death echoed in your head. Everything leads to your destiny, but you have to know when you’ve reached it. Was this is? Did you reach it?

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Glancing around, you could see that everybody’s eyes were trained on you expectantly. They were waiting.

Where had your confidence gone?

“I-” Your throat caught on the words. Not a good sign. You tried again, much more successful this time. “I’m going to have to think about it.” You could practically feel the whole table let out bated breaths. Disappointment and something else rang through the air like a gong, reverberating inside your skull.

“I understand,” Clark Kent, a man you’d known for over a year now, nodded as he sought to relieve the tension in the air. “It’s a big decision to make. I trust that you’ll make the best one.”

“Yeah,” Barry agreed. “I mean, my entire life changed the day I decided to become the Flash.” Your attention — and your head — snapped in his direction. So that was who he was? Your realization must have been clear, as he had made eye contact right after saying it with an upturning of the corners of his mouth that read something like: Oops… Well, too late now.

Diana spoke next, “Yes. The life of a hero is very different from that which you have known so far. You must make this choice for yourself.” Sincerity breached her face as she leaned slightly forward in your direction. “But I firmly believe this — the Justice League, with us —  is where you belong.”

Your eyes roamed around the table at everybody who had not yet spoken, taking in the malcontent clear on many of their faces. Guilt pinged in your brain against your will. No, you weren’t allowed to feel guilty. You had as much of a right to deny their offer just as you did to accept it. Besides, you didn’t even refuse yet, just extended the deadline.

You didn’t fail to notice Hal, Bruce, and Oliver’s silence, but right now the anxiety latching onto you was more concerning. Discomfort was racing up your spine and you couldn’t help but be reminded of the values that floated up above everybody’s heads; By agreeing to meet this group of people, you had knowingly put yourself in more danger than you had ever been in before. You rose to your feet and addressed the table once more.

“Thank you for your offer. As you understand, there is a huge choice in front of me and I need time to consider it more.” You nodded at them, receiving a few nods in return. “I will contact you with my answer soon, after I think about it.” You glanced at the two that you knew how to talk to — Clark and Bruce, of which the former was probably the best option — before turning away and taking careful, measured steps past the empty tables in this section of the restaurant.

As you approached an archway that led to a busier part of the restaurant, someone — was that Oliver? — spoke up. “Wait a second, we’re really just going to let them go? Just like this? They know our identities, you can’t tell me that’s not dangerous.”

A different voice this time, one you couldn’t quite make out. “Why wouldn’t they accept? This is a chance of a lifetime and-”

The words faded into obscurity as you got closer to the entryway.

There was so much for you to think about, so much for you to consider. What kind of changes would there need to be if you accepted? What about your friends and family? What would this mean for them? How much would you need to lie to them about this? What would happen if you told the truth? Would they be safe? How much danger would be in store for you? How much danger was already in your life? Your mind wandered to the notebook that Barry carried; Obviously, there was already a lot in store for you if everybody else was-

Your thoughts wandered to Irene. Somebody that you had known for so long and now she was dead. What of the others on that list? All of them were dead too. All of them were kids that you had met back when you were ten. Just kids. And to think that they had been dragged into this just because of something their parents signed them up for? That they were just kids when they were condemned to this fate? When they were sentenced to death? That didn’t settle right with you.

Your feet never carried you any closer to the entrance. Injustice and anger and courage welled up inside of you, replacing the fear and anxiety and uncertainty that had been there before. This was the chance of a lifetime, something that would most likely carry you toward your destiny; you couldn’t just walk away now. Especially when chances were that you were the next target of whoever was behind this. You had to do something, if not for yourself then for all of the others that didn’t have the opportunity to protect themselves. Something was stirring inside you that made you turn in the other direction.

Somebody must have heard your brisk walk back toward the table, because all of them, all of these superheroes, were looking at the doorway when you came through. Fear no longer rose up when you saw these people again; you were a ten too, just as dangerous as almost all of them. You could handle yourself. This was what you were meant to be doing with your life, you could feel it. You stood at the end of the oblong table, next to where you had sat previously, and took a deep breath. Determination coursed through your veins and when you opened your mouth, you spoke the words that changed the course of your entire life:

The first time he cheated death, Sisyphus had just angered Zeus by revealing the location of the Asopid Aegina whom Zeus abducted. Which is super valid, fuck Zeus.

Sisyphus knew that Zeus would send the god of death Thanatos after him, so he prepared a trap and trapped Thanatos in the chains meant for him.

After that, nothing on Earth was able to die so long as Thanatos was in chains. Which meant no animals could be sacrificed to the gods. This angered the gods, who made Sisyphus' life so miserable with pain and illness that he would beg for death. And so he released Thanatos.

But then came the second time Sisyphus cheated death. As he was dying, he asked his wife to dump his naked corpse in the middle of the public square. Denied a proper burial, his soul ended up on the far side of the river Styx, unable to cross.

He complained to Hades and Persephone about how his wife disrespected him, and begged them to let him return briefly to the world of the living to scold her and make her bury him properly. They agreed, and Sisyphus returned to life. He then embraced his wife, and refused to return to the Underworld.

It's only when he finally died of old age that he was sent to Tartarus and punished with the boulder.

I don't remember where I've seen it, but I like the interpretation that Sisyphus doesn't have to push the boulder. He can choose to stay in Tartarus and rest. But he was promised that if he managed to push the boulder to the top of the mountain, he'll ascend to Elysium.

And Sisyphus, in his stubbornness and cleverness, refuses to give up on a challenge.

His wife was actually Merope, one of the seven Pleiades, and she was turned into a star by Zeus along with her six sisters.

There's generally going to be rooms dedicated to and build for warmth, the living quarters, both for nobles and their servants. This will be the central living tower, or parts of it called a Kemenate (literally 'room with a stove'), the great hall and work spaces around the kitchen. You can put the Kemenate on top of the hall to catch the big fires' and daily living's heat through the wooden floor, but you often can't put wooden stuff on top of the kitchens (that's a fire risk). If you have the money and space, you build a whole separate comfy place for living because you don't have to stay in the most defensible part of the castle all the time. These separate living buildings are also called Kemenate and are often build from wood, cob, brick etc.

People used to wear much more clothes indoors, including while sleeping, and those clothes were much thicker and sturdier than what we largely wear today. Every time you think of how cold those stone walls are, think about everyone wearing a linen shift + two-ish layers of wool on all body parts except hands and head + stockings and shoes + some kind of head-covering. In Ye Old Middle Ages, women are probably wearing a wimple, which is kind of like a modern Hijab in terms of coverage. People wear shifts, socks, and a head-covering to bed.

I think people used to radiators also really underestimate how much a large open fire/tiled stove heats up a room. Also, middle and northern Europe (as well as parts of Northern China) had and to this day have beds and benches build into tiled and cob stoves. Those fuck.

Beds are enclosed so you stay warm in them, either by curtains, in wall niches or with wood. There's also a type of bed that's inside a chest (like a coffin) so you can stuff your stuff inside during the day and put down the lid to use it as a bench. That's also another reason for people to always sleep in groups. Depending on the era, one of the jobs of a lady's maid or a retainer might literally be warming their master's bed. In early times and among servants, people also sleep in large groups in rooms together in general even outside a farming context, often with animals like pet dogs, too, which further warms everything up.

Walls are not bare, cold stone, but covered with a layer of plaster or cob, tiles or wooden panels, sometimes layered, and believe me, this makes such a difference. Source: I lived in a Ye Olde German Farmhouse with 70 cm thick stone walls and flag stone floor and all that converted to modern flats for a while.

On top of that you hang tapestries on the wall, which are not like modern printed cloth but basically wall rugs, sometimes several inches thick, and rugs or rushes (like a light cover of hay) on the floor on top of stone, tile, wooden panelling or a cob floor cover that goes over the heave flag stone. Pillows and blankets on all sitting surfaces, often on top of panelling (in the case of benches build into the stone). The roof of a room is also tiled, panelled or plastered. Upper stories will generally have wooden floors. Stories in a tower heat each other upwards, so the nicer rooms are further up.

The inner stone walls of a castle, even if stone and very thick, will heat up a few degrees in comparison to the outside walls if the castle is continually heated/lived in, and also trap heat inside, and this will make a difference. Inner walls might also be thinner and made of wood, cob or brick. You're defending against the outside, after all.

You put stuff in the windows. Holy shit. Screens of wood, horn, cloth or leather/hide, often treated for extra insulation. Why are these fantasy castles all so drafty.

you. you get it.

“Game on, then.”

me, an elder fandom veteran, suddenly having anne rice flashbacks:

no.

NO.

starting to rock back and fourth.

you do not understand.

you were born into an age of peace. i was there Gandalf. i was there three thousand years ago. i remember the cease and desists. i remember authors hunting fanfic writers for sport. i remember when every fic opened with a disclaimer because we genuinely thought it might protect us.

we do not charge money for the copyrighted gay wizard stories.

do not tempt fate youngling.

step away from the paywall.

that is how you summon the ancient evils.

“I…what?” I said, perplexed. “She hasn’t murdered anyone, has she?”

“No, but you know, she’s reclusive, writes her poetry for her…”

It took a little while to sort it out but it turns out my colleague has, until now, believed that Lizzie Borden and Emily Dickinson were one person. 

Which actually makes a kind of sense; whether or not it’s true, both women have been strongly rumored to be lesbians and had pretty unhappy family lives. The narrative arc of a sensitive, reclusive lesbian poet who one day snapped and murdered her parents is a compelling one. 

I know that we strongly question whether Lizzie Borden actually did murder anyone these days, and she was found innocent in a court of law…but just imagine the archetypal murderess Lizzie Borden writing

2. The Delectable Negro: Human Consumption and Homoeroticism Within US Slave Culture by Vincent Woodard

3. "Abolitionists turned the tables on Europeans by accusing them of being cannibals when they ate sugar tainted with the flesh and blood of slaves."

here's the intro

this and also the only difference between fanfic writers and writers who sell their own original works as careers is that fanfics aren’t monetized. that’s all.

being a “professional” writer doesn’t mean your works are inherently better than fanfics. I’ve read so many fics that are more professionally written than some published books.

but there are so many stories i've read over the years that could be summarized into a few sentences of bland-sounding plot, and it's the execution that matters. it's the writing. it's the writing!

a talented writer can turn a bland plot into a story you want to devour. and someone who only cares about ideas can take the most interesting idea ever conceived and make it unreadable/unwatchable.