#language-escapes

2. Which of your own fanfics have you reread the most?

With the caveat that it’s impossible for me to know what I’ve read the most, I enjoy re-reading both Baker Street Papas and Holocene Park. It seems when I sit down to write you a birthday present...

7. Name three stories you found difficult to write.

Freedom in this Union - I had my heart set on writing Kat/Isabelle, but Isabelle is motivated almost exclusively by self-interest, which doesn’t make her easy slashing material. Over the summer I spent many hours tearing my hair out at @amindamazed, while we brainstormed ways to simply get them hanging out together, let alone actually kissing.

Amanuensis - I began this one in 2015, and had to stop when I realized that my plot had run afoul of Great Britain’s interwar drug policy. When I picked it up again in 2018, having at last straightened out the historical elements, I ran smack into two new problems: the planned ending was a fizzle, and also I was going to have to kill off Dr. Watson for it. I ultimately decided on a much earlier ending point, but the story ran a grave risk of getting shelved a second time, perhaps permanently.

THE BEST BEE FIC ON MARS - I began this in 2015, attempting the same devil-may-care, don’t-overthink-it, just-a-lark style that I’d used for its predecessor. Sadly, I overthought it. I froze, and stayed frozen until 2018, which is when I gritted my teeth and made myself goddamned finish the thing even if it sucked. Which, um. It might. Let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?

10. What’s a theme that keeps coming up in your writing? 

That people are hella resourceful in cobbling together some happiness for themselves. Although that theme hasn’t cropped up much in the last year or so: it might have been an artifact of the years-long depression I’d been in.

Lately I’ve been on a kick about how being depressive and self-hating doesn’t mean that you can’t love or be loved. Which, (*cough*) might also have to do with personal stuff I’ve been going through.

13. Name three favorite characters to write.

3    fantasy or sci-fi I lump it all together as "speculative fiction" and read both/all of it. Probably a slight preference toward things that could possibly occur in this reality (sf).

5    Wall shelves or bookcases bookcases. I haven't lived anywhere with built-in shelves and I'm generally too lazy to install wall shelves.

8    Booklr or Bookstagram answered here

15    different sized books or matching sizes if it's a series, I really want them the same size and it irks me when that’s not possible (thankfully it doesn’t happen often). otherwise, no preference as long as they fit on my shelves.

27    series or stand-alones both. I like revisiting familiar places and finding out backstory and parallel stories and other characters, etc (see also what I like about fanfic), but I can also be entirely satisfied by a one-volume tale.

800 words is not inconsequential! 15k is made up of 800 word sections.

MORE OF THEM THAN I WANT TO THINK ABOUT.

@ancientreader said:

^^ Eight hundred words is a LOT of words. I'm taking that spatula back and shaking it at you, because apparently it is the SPATULA OF INSPIRATION along with the POTATO MASHER OF INSPIRATION.

It is not. 3,000 words is a lot of words. 1,700 words is a satisfactory and pleasant number of words. 800 words makes me want to take up a new hobby.

And be careful with that spatula, or I won’t tell you the story of Dr. Equi attacking a cop with her hatpin.

“And, if my deductions are correct, I’m the only Holmes in recent memory to fall in love.”

“Are you still with him?” I paused. “It was a him, right?”

[Leander neatly changes the topic.]

“Wait.” I paused. “You and that guy. Are you two still together? You never said.”

“No.” He touched my shoulder briefly and stood to go. “We never were. He didn’t--he’s married, now. Or was. And is again.”

Leander Holmes not naming names while he talks with Jamie Watson, the teenage son of his university flatmate James Watson, who JUST COINCIDENTALLY was married once, and is again. And oh yes, Leander emails James daily, and meanwhile Leander is paying for Jamie’s school tuition, nothing to see here, folks, nothing at all.

I HAVE NEVER SEEN IT I AM NOT TO BLAME.

SOMEONE ELSE RECOMMENDED THIS TO ME GOD KNOWS WHY.

Hah! You shall not duck blame so easily! 

Most everything I’ve seen about the Richardson adapts has been positive, so I was surprised this set so badly with me. 

But I suppose if your expectations for a Holmes adaptation include “Holmes is the hero, Watson is the comic relief,” and you aren’t particularly sensitive to the Romani stuff or Holmes and Watson turning their backs on Laura Lyons... Then you’re in a position to enjoy the good stuff in that film. Which was in fact there!

Holmes was not yet up and about when I took my seat at the breakfast table, and I idly noted that Mrs. Hudson had once again put the marmalade on my side. It was a beautiful morning; I moved the bowl nearer to Holmes’ place.

“Good morning, Watson!” Holmes greeted me, emerging from his room. “I didn’t know you had family in India.”

“Family in India? Whatever makes you think--” I asked, already casting about for whatever had prompted Holmes’ -- for once, incorrect -- inference.

Ah, the morning post had already been delivered. A thick letter lay on top, addressed to me. “How curious, I don’t know anyone in Calcutta.” 

Holmes shrugged, obviously more interested in the contents of the marmalade bowl than the contents of the envelope.

Several formal documents were folded inside, along with a covering letter from a solicitor’s firm. They respectfully informed me--

I frowned and went back to the top.

I gradually became aware of Holmes putting a cup of tea into my hand, and I took it gratefully. One really shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of thing before tea.

“Bad news, old chap?” he asked.

Still reading, I shook my head. Not in answer to Holmes, but in flat rejection of what was written there on the page.

Sadly, the second page was no better.

“Watson?”

I looked up, still caught up in the ramifications of the letter. Holmes was watching me in open concern. I swallowed back the rest of my tea, burning my tongue in the process, then distractedly glanced about for somewhere to put the cup. Holmes took it from me, and I folded the pages back in their envelope. “I have to go see my solicitor,” I announced, and reached for my jacket.

Holmes already had it in hand, open and waiting. “Would you like reinforcements?” he asked, easing it up and over my stiff shoulder. He turned to our coat stand, his hand poised between his own overcoat and mine.