#so sorry!)

It truly brings me an immense joy to transfer the movies playing in my mind at bedtime down to the written page. I mean, the act itself—choosing the right words to convey the tone I want, shaping out the chapters, staring at a blinking cursor—even when it's miserable, I love it. (Even more, once it's finished, the satisfaction at being able to go back to that fic whenever I want—whenever I'm craving that one particular scene, that one particular kiss, that one particular storyline—is absolutely unmatched for me.)

I also am divinely fortunate to be surrounded by dear friends who are also avid writers. @jadesabre301, @eponymous-rose, @perahn, @servantofclio, basically everyone in the movie night group—they are cheerleaders and soundboards and they love the craft as much as I do, and even if I know I'm about to post something that might get two comments if I'm lucky, running a draft by the group & having Perahn recognize and call out a vocative O or a diacritical é or some other silly flourish I'd never dreamed anyone would appreciate is like hoping for a single daisy and getting a bouquet of roses.

All of that is to say: I just love the darn work, and I have people close to me who also love the work, and that does enough of the emotional heavy lifting even on the long projects that I don't have to depend on comments to feel my efforts have been appreciated.

I'm not sure that's particularly useful, but it's true.

3. I struggle with broad narrative structure.

This has been a weakness of mine all the way back to baby's first longfic (Deathsong, Bleach, 2010). Despite the detailed outlines I always draft before beginning a long project, there's always some narrative throughline I fumble without meaning to, and the only way my beta can catch it is if she gets the whole thing at once.

Honestly, I don't think there's a single >30k word fic in my corpus that doesn't have a note from Jade somewhere alerting me to the bones I've forgotten to build.

I want my stories to be good. Not just fun to read, although I do want that too; I mean structurally, from the ground up, I have a vested interest in constructing something narratively sound and coherent and strong. I really want my fics to be well written, at least to my own limits, and I know overarching theme is not one of my strengths.

Therefore, if I want my final product to be the best thing I can make, I need a second set of eyes (Jade's eyes) on the body complete to identify those weak places so I can fix them. If I'm posting as I go, then there's no chance to fix my foundational issues from Chapter 2 when she's only just recognized them in Chapter 6.

(This is also why I so deeply appreciate her editing. When I know my work is flawed, I need that correction over uncritical praise; and it makes her praise more precious when I've earned it with the fixes. And yes, there have been occasions where I didn't make every change she suggested, but I knew thanks to her comments what imperfections I would be permitting to exist, and I decided I could live with them.)

I would rather sacrifice the reward of chapter-by-chapter comments than end up with a fundamentally flawed final fic.

4. Relying on others' actions to motivate me is very unhealthy for me, and I've actively worked to avoid it in my adult life.

I don't think this needs a lot of explanation (like that'll stop me), but I have found over the years that I crave praise. I like winning awards. I like getting good comments on my student evaluations. I like being recognized for my skills and told I did a good job and having all my colleagues go, "ooh, she's so good at what she does."

In fact, I like it enough that I have to avoid it. I haven't opened my student evaluations in over a year because I get addicted to the praise and unreasonably irritated by criticism (especially if I know whatever they're complaining about isn't accurate), and I know the curriculum committee will tell me about any issues anyway. I know my work is good, I really do. I know I'm good at my job, and I know I'm a reasonably proficient writer. I cannot—and must not—depend on others to tell me so to believe it.

@eponymous-rose and I have talked at length about writing now for Veilguard. We both know this is hardly the most popular game in the franchise, and we've had long conversations about why we're choosing to write in its world anyway, which basically boils down to: we want to. We both have stories we want to tell in its flawed, imperfect, compelling world, and we've both come to terms with that likely meaning a low (or even zero) comment count on AO3.

If that comment count is the only metric of success by which I measure, what does it mean when it measures low? If I get one comment on 30k words I bled to write, have I failed? Have I written something of poor quality? Have I wasted my time, done a bad job, hastened the heat death of the universe with my electronic and digital waste?

I can't believe that. I must believe the work itself was worth doing if I've done it to the best of my ability, even if it goes unnoticed in the broader scope of fandom. I have to derive my satisfaction from knowing I have made something out of nothing & polished it as best as I know how. If I become reliant on others' reactions to inspire me to write—if I'm suddenly depending on a comment count becoming n+1 for every chapter before I can begin the next one—then I've surrendered my creative happiness and motivation to the hands of total strangers.

Understand: when I nobly claim that I refuse to write to an algorithm, what I mean is that like an addict, I have to choose over and over to remove myself from the thing that poisons me. I am too susceptible to praise. If I let the dopamine response of comment counts become integral to my writing process, then I risk becoming dependent on it. The only way I know how to prevent that for myself is to remove it from the method altogether.

That does not mean I don't value reader comments; I do, deeply. I have an entire folder of screenshots saved like golden treasures, hoarded up against the bad days. When this Big Bang fic finally comes out, I intend to advertise it to the point of annoyance. I love comments to a probably unhealthy degree. But knowing that about myself means I have to take steps to ensure those comments stay the gifts they are, rather than the payment itself.

I don't want to burn out. I don't want to stop telling stories. And for me, this is the only way I think of to do it. If I want to make something I'm really proud of, something I can go back and reread years later and still love, the writing itself must be the goal, and everything else has to come second to that. I need to know I can survive even if AO3 were to shut down forever tomorrow.

“What, are you going back to school?” 

You jolted from your studies and looked up just in time to see a friend join you at the table in the break room. You laughed as you greeted her. She was almost right, it certainly felt like you were in school again! Your lunch was pushed to the side, nibbled on, while you were hunched over a notebook and your phone. 

She leaned over the table a bit and took a glance at your notes. “Why German?” You sighed, you needed a break anyways, and started to pick at your food. “Just trying to impress the hot neighbor.” 

“Ooh, is he German? And how hot are we talking?” 

“Austrian,” you answered with another laugh. “And very.” Sort of? Well, even if you had never seen him without some sort of hood or mask on his face, he was still a fine specimen of a man. 

“Want me to help you?”

“You know German?”

“I studied German for years in school and spent some time abroad in Berlin.” 

You narrowed your eyes and hummed as you tried to translate her words. “You said: I something, German, something something, Berlin.” 

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Oh! I know just what to teach you!” 

-

Bzzt! 

You picked up your phone and rolled your eyes before sending a quick text.

König didn’t like it. All night you were half paying attention to him and half paying attention to your phone. “Who keeps texting you?” He finally slipped, unable to hold back the slightly envious (ok maybe a lot) question anymore.

“Sorry,” you winced at how rude you were being. “Just a friend from work. She started to help me with a project and thinks she’s sending helpful tips.” 

Just a friend from work! It didn’t sound like someone he had to worry about (though he wasn’t sure if you were also attracted to women, and so didn’t completely write off this friend just yet). “But her advice is not helpful?” 

You scoffed and shook your head. “Not really. She’s jumping the gun. She’s thinking way too far ahead.” 

"Hm. Well, perhaps I can help you?" Anything to get you to pay more attention to him. 

"Oh, König," you were about to tell him that it was unnecessary, after all you wanted to surprise him, but your phone buzzed again. "You know what, that would be great." You tucked your phone between the couch cushions as if that would stop your friend from texting you.

"Yea? What can I do?" 

You hummed before smiling at him, an idea coming to you. “Can you say something in German?” 

“What? How will that help?”

“Well, it wouldn’t really help so much as distract from-” your phone buzzed, a little quieter now between the couch cushions, just on time. You smiled and gestured to your phone, “from that.” 

He chuckled and nodded, “alright. But, what do you want me to say?” 

“I dunno, something…nice?” 

König glanced away from you to the television, whatever was on was long forgotten by both of you, as he thought about what to say. Something nice? He could write a whole book of nice things to say about you. In whatever language you wanted: German, English, maybe even a bit of Korean that he picked up from Horangi. But what to say? That you were one of, if not the, kindest people he’s ever met? That he noticed how you were frightened of him at your first meeting but you pushed that fear aside because of that kindness? Or that he noticed you liked puns, and would seek out the corniest puns just to hear you laugh? No. Maybe he should tell you that you are the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on? Yea, that was nice, right? 

“Hey,” you interrupted his thoughts in a soft voice before you settled a hand on his knee, which he hadn’t even noticed that he was bouncing his knee a mile a minute until you stopped him. “I was just being silly. If you don’t want to-” 

“What! No!” He shook his head, “it’s not that.” He paused and looked down at the hand you were still resting gently on his knee, then looked back up at you, eyes shining underneath his hood, and took a deep breath before words began to quickly tumble out of his mouth. 

“There is simply too much for me to say, I could not decide! Everything about you is perfect! Even the not perfect things! Ever since you moved here, I have not been able to stop thinking about you! You are on my mind all of the time and I don’t know what I would do without you!” “Whoa! Whoa!” You jerked back at his sudden outburst. “Slow down!” 

He shut his mouth so quickly and hard that the snap of his teeth was nearly as loud as the tv. 

It was quiet for a moment, the two of you just staring wide eyed at each other, before he started again. “I am sorry! I-” “No! No, I’m sorry. Like I said, I was just being silly and wanted to see if I could understand anything. You know, after hanging out with you so much…” 

“Oh…” 

Another beat of awkward silence.

“Did you? Understand anything?” 

You laughed a little sheepishly. “Uhm. I’m pretty sure I can guess what “perfekt” means, soo,” you looked around, trying to spot something perfect and snapped before looking back at him with a grin. No you hadn’t understood much, but you could lighten the mood with an overly ridiculous answer. “So you must have been talking about…dinner? My stroganoff is great, I mean I wouldn’t say perfect, but-” 

He started laughing, dragging you into fits of giggles too, and leaned in a little closer to you, elated that this time you did not pull back.

“So, was all of that actually nice?” You asked once your laughter faded out, though you still smiled up at him.

“Yes. I can only think of nice things to say about you.” 

Oh! Nothing could stop the goofy smile that crossed your face, not the butterflies in your stomach, or the way your heart sped up, not even the blush that heated your face. Still you decided to cover up your sudden over acting nerves with a touch of humor. You played up your reaction, one hand over your heart as the other tapped his arm playfully. “Aww, König, you’re so sweet!” 

He gently caught your hand, running his thumb softly across your knuckles. “Should I try again?” 

“Hm?” “This time I won’t speak so quickly.” 

Him holding your hand like that was not going to return your heart rate to normal! Still you smiled at him, a bit shyly, and gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. “Sure.” 

“You are very beautiful.” He started, but your soft smile turned into a grin and he paused.

“Aww, you think I’m pretty?” You tried to downplay just how intimate this was starting to feel.

“Beautiful,” he corrected as he took his hand from yours and gently held your chin so that you were looking directly into his eyes. “Stunning, actually.” You were especially cute when you looked so flustered like that. He gently traced the bottom of your lip and leaned in even closer, his voice dropping to barely above a husky whisper. “And I want to see these pretty lips wrapped around my cock.” 

You squeaked out a tiny little gasp and pulled back from just enough for his hand to drop. 

König froze. “Did. Did you understand. That?” 

“No!” You quickly shook your head, eyes darting all over the place before settling back on him, though you could no longer hold eye contact. “What, uhm. What did you say?” 

Oh. You were a bad liar. Good to know. He wished he hadn’t said that. He wished he hadn’t said anything! Maybe he should have never come over in the first place! Why was it so hard to say no to you? 

“Nothing!” He abruptly stood up. “I have to go.” He rushed to the door and nearly ran out, but at least stopped himself long enough to wish you a good night before fleeing.

“Ah, König!” 

But he was already gone. For a guy that big, he was certainly fast.

“Oh, shit.” You muttered to yourself, heart still loudly pounding in your chest as you dug your phone out from the cushions.

You pulled up your texts and scrolled through the many, many, English to German (or vice versa) raunchy translations your friend had been sending you. Sure enough, between her translations and König’s words fresh in your mind…

“AHHH!!! I THINK HE JUST ASKED ME TO BLOW HIM!!!!” You sent off a text to her and finally remembered to breathe.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

“Lol! Are you sure? What did he say? I’m calling you.” 

It’s a whole week before you see König again. And you both awkwardly pretend like your last encounter never happened. And you both desperately wish that it hadn't ended. 

[Neighbor König Masterlist]

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