hobbit_feets: (icons || tappity tap)
Today I was reading a few articles- if articles indeed they can be called- from way back in The Day of fandom.  I'm not entirely sure when The Day was, as I wasn't in fandom then, but suffice to say it was a while ago.  Late nineties.  Anyway, I was reading a most enlightening page on 'HOW TO WRITE MARGINALLY READABLE FANFICTION'- full of great wisdom about how to make yourself sound like something other than the kind of teeny-bopper scum who gets her fanfic fix from ff.net.  I was rather surprised, then, when I came to this:

 

15.  Do not write stories about the actors who play the characters you like. There have been some excellent fanfic tales about exactly this--Ms. Nitpicker was fond of a pair of BLAKE'S 7 zines in which first actor Paul Darrow got stuck in the B7 universe, and next Avon was the guest star at the convention Paul Darrow should've attended--but in general it is trespassing on the actor's private life, and very rude, even when well-done. This goes doubly for slash stories about the actor or actress. Furthermore, unless you're a close personal friend of the performer, you cannot accurately portray her/him in your story, whereas the character publicized in the media is familiar and easy to study.

Nowadays, obviously, RPF is a whole section of fandom within itself.  There are some people who have moral qualms about it, or find dealing with real people squicky, but that can be said about pretty much any aspect of fandom, really.  I had not been aware that, once upon a time, it was something frowned on as a general rule, so much that it would be included in a list of things like 'pick a POV and stick to it,' 'show us the action, don't tell us,' and 'for God's sake, use a beta.' 

I'm not hugely well-educated in the history of fandom, but I do wonder at which point RPF became just another part of it and stopped being something taboo.  Anyone know?  I've a notion that hobbitslash and LOTRips were a part of the first big wave of RPF fandom, but I don't know.  I'm sure that was predated by some bandslash- I mean, I know some fans were writing Beatlesslash back in the sixties, but that wouldn't really have any effect on fandom perceptions of the phenomenon.

Also, on another note, my goddamn m key had better stop sticking.  It's mildly ridiculous to have to hit it four or five times if I want to type a word that happens to have that letter in.
hobbit_feets: (icons || tappity tap)
Today I was reading a few articles- if articles indeed they can be called- from way back in The Day of fandom.  I'm not entirely sure when The Day was, as I wasn't in fandom then, but suffice to say it was a while ago.  Late nineties.  Anyway, I was reading a most enlightening page on 'HOW TO WRITE MARGINALLY READABLE FANFICTION'- full of great wisdom about how to make yourself sound like something other than the kind of teeny-bopper scum who gets her fanfic fix from ff.net.  I was rather surprised, then, when I came to this:

 

15.  Do not write stories about the actors who play the characters you like. There have been some excellent fanfic tales about exactly this--Ms. Nitpicker was fond of a pair of BLAKE'S 7 zines in which first actor Paul Darrow got stuck in the B7 universe, and next Avon was the guest star at the convention Paul Darrow should've attended--but in general it is trespassing on the actor's private life, and very rude, even when well-done. This goes doubly for slash stories about the actor or actress. Furthermore, unless you're a close personal friend of the performer, you cannot accurately portray her/him in your story, whereas the character publicized in the media is familiar and easy to study.

Nowadays, obviously, RPF is a whole section of fandom within itself.  There are some people who have moral qualms about it, or find dealing with real people squicky, but that can be said about pretty much any aspect of fandom, really.  I had not been aware that, once upon a time, it was something frowned on as a general rule, so much that it would be included in a list of things like 'pick a POV and stick to it,' 'show us the action, don't tell us,' and 'for God's sake, use a beta.' 

I'm not hugely well-educated in the history of fandom, but I do wonder at which point RPF became just another part of it and stopped being something taboo.  Anyone know?  I've a notion that hobbitslash and LOTRips were a part of the first big wave of RPF fandom, but I don't know.  I'm sure that was predated by some bandslash- I mean, I know some fans were writing Beatlesslash back in the sixties, but that wouldn't really have any effect on fandom perceptions of the phenomenon.

Also, on another note, my goddamn m key had better stop sticking.  It's mildly ridiculous to have to hit it four or five times if I want to type a word that happens to have that letter in.

WORDS!

Aug. 7th, 2009 12:23 am
hobbit_feets: (c'lebs || postmodernism)
Nicked from[profile] mind_the_tardis 

Reply to this meme by yelling "Words!" and I will give you five words that remind me of you. Then post them on your LJ and explain what they mean to you. If you simply wish to comment on something I've said but don't want to participate in the meme, that's fine. I will only give you five words if you specifically comment you with "Words!".

Hokay.  Possibly this will turn into essay-writing time, but there we be.  The words I was given were: slash, courtliness, Oscar Wilde, Delgado!Master, and Britishisms.

Slash

I am a slasher.  I slash.  I corrupt people into the filthy, filthy ways of slash, from which they never return.  It's the way it is.  Really, though, I have very little why I have such an apparent, marked preference for same-sex relationships (generally m/m) in fiction.  It's not a matter of what I do and don't find attractive, certainly; I consider myself pansexual, with a fairly even preference for men and women, so there's none of that straight-woman-writing-two-men-have-sex thing that seems such a phenomenon in fandom (though don't get me wrong, I think two men together is damn hot).  If it's not sexual, then, it must be character-driven; a matter of finding the characters I find most interesting, with the most potential for a dynamic relationship, and pairing them up.  If most of the characters I end up choosing are men, well, that might raise a few questions, many of which I'm sure your average common or garden variety feminist would leap on.  It's certainly not news, though, that many of the most interesting roles in fiction end up going to men.  It's possible that my preference for slash stems from my own gender identity issues during the time I started to get into fandom, but that's a whole 'nother can of proverbial worms, I reckon.

Nowadays, I read slash, het, femmeslash, what have you, but I used to be fairly exclusive to me m/m slash, and I can tell you why that started.  I remember precisely what put me off het.  I was, oh, thirteen, fourteen maybe, in the beginning days of my life in fandom, when I still hung out at the Pit of Voles (which is to say, ff.net) and read chiefly self-insert PotC and LotR fics.  I know, it's shaming.  Anywho, one night I was reading one such fic, a Jack Sparrow/OFC of epic, adventurous proportions.  The girl's name was something like Lilliana Ravenblack Rackham, Calico Jack's mysterious secret daughter, you know the usual tripe, and she had some great secret to a curse or a treasure or, once again, the usual tripe.  And so I read the chapters upon chapters, enjoying it in a shallow sort of way, until I reached the second to last chapter, which was very clearly labelled 'lemon.'  Being an innocent thing, though, I had not the faintest idea what that meant.  I certainly had no inkling that it signified extremely explicit porn.  But so it did, and I remember being so utterly revolted that at one point I actually shoved myself away from the computer, doing a sort of impotent flaily thing and muttering 'Ick, ick, ick, ew, ick.'  What precisely about it was so disgusting, I don't recall, but it certainly was, and it took a long while after that for me to dare the waters of het erotica again.

There are a few het 'ships that I've favoured over the years, many of which tend towards the tragic, bizarre, or twisted (Master/Lucy, Grima/Eowyn, Eomer/Eowyn, James/Elizabeth), but in the main I still tend to slash more than anything else.

Courtliness

That's rather a tricky one, really, as it can mean so very many things.  In this particular instance, I suspect it ties into the next word I was given, and his particular brand of villainy.  More generally, though, I suppose I have an appreciation and interest in old modes of etiquette, the courtliness of gentlemen in the 19th century and earlier, a sort of code, if you like, of saying one thing because it was within the bounds of manners or expectations, but meaning- and having it read as- something else entirely.  It's an interesting convention, at any rate.

Right.  'Cos I'm a lazy fuck, that's all you're getting for the moment.  I shall post with the other three tomorrow, or whenever I have time.

WORDS!

Aug. 7th, 2009 12:23 am
hobbit_feets: (c'lebs || postmodernism)
Nicked from[profile] mind_the_tardis 

Reply to this meme by yelling "Words!" and I will give you five words that remind me of you. Then post them on your LJ and explain what they mean to you. If you simply wish to comment on something I've said but don't want to participate in the meme, that's fine. I will only give you five words if you specifically comment you with "Words!".

Hokay.  Possibly this will turn into essay-writing time, but there we be.  The words I was given were: slash, courtliness, Oscar Wilde, Delgado!Master, and Britishisms.

Slash

I am a slasher.  I slash.  I corrupt people into the filthy, filthy ways of slash, from which they never return.  It's the way it is.  Really, though, I have very little why I have such an apparent, marked preference for same-sex relationships (generally m/m) in fiction.  It's not a matter of what I do and don't find attractive, certainly; I consider myself pansexual, with a fairly even preference for men and women, so there's none of that straight-woman-writing-two-men-have-sex thing that seems such a phenomenon in fandom (though don't get me wrong, I think two men together is damn hot).  If it's not sexual, then, it must be character-driven; a matter of finding the characters I find most interesting, with the most potential for a dynamic relationship, and pairing them up.  If most of the characters I end up choosing are men, well, that might raise a few questions, many of which I'm sure your average common or garden variety feminist would leap on.  It's certainly not news, though, that many of the most interesting roles in fiction end up going to men.  It's possible that my preference for slash stems from my own gender identity issues during the time I started to get into fandom, but that's a whole 'nother can of proverbial worms, I reckon.

Nowadays, I read slash, het, femmeslash, what have you, but I used to be fairly exclusive to me m/m slash, and I can tell you why that started.  I remember precisely what put me off het.  I was, oh, thirteen, fourteen maybe, in the beginning days of my life in fandom, when I still hung out at the Pit of Voles (which is to say, ff.net) and read chiefly self-insert PotC and LotR fics.  I know, it's shaming.  Anywho, one night I was reading one such fic, a Jack Sparrow/OFC of epic, adventurous proportions.  The girl's name was something like Lilliana Ravenblack Rackham, Calico Jack's mysterious secret daughter, you know the usual tripe, and she had some great secret to a curse or a treasure or, once again, the usual tripe.  And so I read the chapters upon chapters, enjoying it in a shallow sort of way, until I reached the second to last chapter, which was very clearly labelled 'lemon.'  Being an innocent thing, though, I had not the faintest idea what that meant.  I certainly had no inkling that it signified extremely explicit porn.  But so it did, and I remember being so utterly revolted that at one point I actually shoved myself away from the computer, doing a sort of impotent flaily thing and muttering 'Ick, ick, ick, ew, ick.'  What precisely about it was so disgusting, I don't recall, but it certainly was, and it took a long while after that for me to dare the waters of het erotica again.

There are a few het 'ships that I've favoured over the years, many of which tend towards the tragic, bizarre, or twisted (Master/Lucy, Grima/Eowyn, Eomer/Eowyn, James/Elizabeth), but in the main I still tend to slash more than anything else.

Courtliness

That's rather a tricky one, really, as it can mean so very many things.  In this particular instance, I suspect it ties into the next word I was given, and his particular brand of villainy.  More generally, though, I suppose I have an appreciation and interest in old modes of etiquette, the courtliness of gentlemen in the 19th century and earlier, a sort of code, if you like, of saying one thing because it was within the bounds of manners or expectations, but meaning- and having it read as- something else entirely.  It's an interesting convention, at any rate.

Right.  'Cos I'm a lazy fuck, that's all you're getting for the moment.  I shall post with the other three tomorrow, or whenever I have time.
hobbit_feets: (f & l || keeping secrets)
There is something entirely obscene about getting up at seven o'clock in the morning merely so that one can wash one's hair and hope it's mostly dry by noon.  Seriously.

And, following that random, pointless observation, have some random, possibly-less-pointless-but-we'll-see philosophy.  The other night I ended up having dinner at my parents' house, and somehow ended up getting into a somewhat heated discussion about the nature of evil.  Whether such a thing is possible at all, if there's such a thing as evil divorced from an outside party to make a moral judgement- and if there is, can it really be applied to anyone with any accuracy?  My mother, bless her, was getting rather nervous as this discussion progressed; I'm not entirely sure she understood that a philosophical argument on my part didn't mean that I, you know, condoned genocide.  *facepalms*

So!  Any thoughts from any of my f'list?  While I'm being pretentious, I figure, I might as well share the wealth.  What do you think about Evil?  I'll give it a capital E because we're discussing it as a concept in and of itself.
hobbit_feets: (f & l || keeping secrets)
There is something entirely obscene about getting up at seven o'clock in the morning merely so that one can wash one's hair and hope it's mostly dry by noon.  Seriously.

And, following that random, pointless observation, have some random, possibly-less-pointless-but-we'll-see philosophy.  The other night I ended up having dinner at my parents' house, and somehow ended up getting into a somewhat heated discussion about the nature of evil.  Whether such a thing is possible at all, if there's such a thing as evil divorced from an outside party to make a moral judgement- and if there is, can it really be applied to anyone with any accuracy?  My mother, bless her, was getting rather nervous as this discussion progressed; I'm not entirely sure she understood that a philosophical argument on my part didn't mean that I, you know, condoned genocide.  *facepalms*

So!  Any thoughts from any of my f'list?  While I'm being pretentious, I figure, I might as well share the wealth.  What do you think about Evil?  I'll give it a capital E because we're discussing it as a concept in and of itself.
hobbit_feets: (icons || victorian fashion)
It's an interesting thing, having to re-learn every winter how to walk on ice.  I was just off walking, as you might have guessed, and was thinking about this.  It's a very particular sort of walking; a marked shortening of the stride, the weight put on the toes instead of the heel, tensing the muscles just above the knee and at the back of the ankle. 

I dunno, I find that sort of thing interesting.  I like being aware of movement, of how the body adjusts to certain environments and stimuli, both internal and external.  I suppose that'd be the acting nerd in me; if you know what the muscles in your legs do when you're, to use this example, walking on ice, you can recreate that same behaviour even when you're not walking on ice, make it look like you are.  I think it's fascinating.  *pout*

hobbit_feets: (icons || victorian fashion)
It's an interesting thing, having to re-learn every winter how to walk on ice.  I was just off walking, as you might have guessed, and was thinking about this.  It's a very particular sort of walking; a marked shortening of the stride, the weight put on the toes instead of the heel, tensing the muscles just above the knee and at the back of the ankle. 

I dunno, I find that sort of thing interesting.  I like being aware of movement, of how the body adjusts to certain environments and stimuli, both internal and external.  I suppose that'd be the acting nerd in me; if you know what the muscles in your legs do when you're, to use this example, walking on ice, you can recreate that same behaviour even when you're not walking on ice, make it look like you are.  I think it's fascinating.  *pout*

hobbit_feets: (Obey)
I am not the sort of person who generally prescribes to existential modes of thought- indeed, while I find existentialism fascinating as a philosophy, as a viewpoint I find it to be utter rubbish.  At least, in the main.  Most incompatible with my own worldview.  What is it about very late nights, though, that so lends itself to despairing existentialism?  Lying abed simply swamped with the notion that the world might well end at any moment, that nothing has any point, that it might as well be better to go to sleep and never wake up, merely because then one would not have to exert oneself in a pointless, useless world.   I cannot account for it, and it's really no end of disturbing.  
hobbit_feets: (Obey)
I am not the sort of person who generally prescribes to existential modes of thought- indeed, while I find existentialism fascinating as a philosophy, as a viewpoint I find it to be utter rubbish.  At least, in the main.  Most incompatible with my own worldview.  What is it about very late nights, though, that so lends itself to despairing existentialism?  Lying abed simply swamped with the notion that the world might well end at any moment, that nothing has any point, that it might as well be better to go to sleep and never wake up, merely because then one would not have to exert oneself in a pointless, useless world.   I cannot account for it, and it's really no end of disturbing.  
hobbit_feets: (Laughing Bertie)
The equations are unbalanced.  Heat, snow- these are incompatible; the weather is capricious, leaning one way then another, never deciding.  Gods play card games with the Earth.  Tiny blue dot in the black, very vulnerable.  It is most inconvenient.

Clocks tick; tick-tock, tock-tick, over and over but mine are unwound.  Unwound and rewound wrongly.  Sleep comes on and off, but eyelids are uncooperative; they want to see the dark, refuse to stay closed, watch cricks and cracks in the ceiling, nightsounds of engine and wind and sleepless students pacing halls.  No sleep.  Not now. 

Voices.  Muse voices in my head, won't shut up.  A Bertie-bird and the Detective and the Commodore; clamouring around in the brainpan, but there is nobody to play.  Girls and boys, come out to play,/ The moon doth shine as bright as day;/  Up the ladder and down the wall,/ A half-penny roll will serve us all.  Rhymes for children, little girls on daddy's lap, but can be useful if the correct interpretation is applied.  But not for Bertie-bird.  His Jeeves is gone, you see.  I try to write, but the words are gone.  Flitter-fluttering around in the high-up blue like birds.  No, bats.  Little winged mice, creeping through gaps in my consciousness, through my fingers when I grab at them.
hobbit_feets: (Laughing Bertie)
The equations are unbalanced.  Heat, snow- these are incompatible; the weather is capricious, leaning one way then another, never deciding.  Gods play card games with the Earth.  Tiny blue dot in the black, very vulnerable.  It is most inconvenient.

Clocks tick; tick-tock, tock-tick, over and over but mine are unwound.  Unwound and rewound wrongly.  Sleep comes on and off, but eyelids are uncooperative; they want to see the dark, refuse to stay closed, watch cricks and cracks in the ceiling, nightsounds of engine and wind and sleepless students pacing halls.  No sleep.  Not now. 

Voices.  Muse voices in my head, won't shut up.  A Bertie-bird and the Detective and the Commodore; clamouring around in the brainpan, but there is nobody to play.  Girls and boys, come out to play,/ The moon doth shine as bright as day;/  Up the ladder and down the wall,/ A half-penny roll will serve us all.  Rhymes for children, little girls on daddy's lap, but can be useful if the correct interpretation is applied.  But not for Bertie-bird.  His Jeeves is gone, you see.  I try to write, but the words are gone.  Flitter-fluttering around in the high-up blue like birds.  No, bats.  Little winged mice, creeping through gaps in my consciousness, through my fingers when I grab at them.
hobbit_feets: (Pineapple)
Why this self-imposed solitude, I wonder?  Why do I choose to remain in my room all day and not socialise with the various people existing on my floor?  Or, if I'm not in my room, I go for a walk.  Alone.  It's a funny thing, really, because for me, being alone does not necessarily equate itself with loneliness.  I'm not alone because I'm being lonely and emo or any various assorted reasons that people of my age might hide themselves away behind closed doors.  No- I am perfectly content to be by myself and write or paint or waste my time online.  Equally, though, I am not an antisocial person; I enjoy hanging out with people, talking, laughing, whatever, but for whatever reason, I choose not to.  Perhaps it is because I'm not really very close with any of my floormates.  I'm chummy with all of them, certainly, I like them, but I'm not bosom mates with any of them.   I'm a curious beast, certainly.
hobbit_feets: (Pineapple)
Why this self-imposed solitude, I wonder?  Why do I choose to remain in my room all day and not socialise with the various people existing on my floor?  Or, if I'm not in my room, I go for a walk.  Alone.  It's a funny thing, really, because for me, being alone does not necessarily equate itself with loneliness.  I'm not alone because I'm being lonely and emo or any various assorted reasons that people of my age might hide themselves away behind closed doors.  No- I am perfectly content to be by myself and write or paint or waste my time online.  Equally, though, I am not an antisocial person; I enjoy hanging out with people, talking, laughing, whatever, but for whatever reason, I choose not to.  Perhaps it is because I'm not really very close with any of my floormates.  I'm chummy with all of them, certainly, I like them, but I'm not bosom mates with any of them.   I'm a curious beast, certainly.
hobbit_feets: (Default)
 I am an interesting sort of being.  A quandary, if you will.  Thus: I am very intelligent- and that's not conceit or boastfulness, it's fact- I know for a fact that I am decidedly on the brighter end of things.  Furthermore, I have an insatiable lust for knowledge.  I love to know things, to find pointless connections, to soak in all the information I can as if I were some kind of huge, anthropoid sponge.  And yet, despite these things, I am more than content to coast through a class.   I'll get really excited during a lesson, if we're having a discussion or some such, but as far as the class as a whole is concerned... I have no drive.  Why is this?   I cannot comprehend it.
hobbit_feets: (Default)
 I am an interesting sort of being.  A quandary, if you will.  Thus: I am very intelligent- and that's not conceit or boastfulness, it's fact- I know for a fact that I am decidedly on the brighter end of things.  Furthermore, I have an insatiable lust for knowledge.  I love to know things, to find pointless connections, to soak in all the information I can as if I were some kind of huge, anthropoid sponge.  And yet, despite these things, I am more than content to coast through a class.   I'll get really excited during a lesson, if we're having a discussion or some such, but as far as the class as a whole is concerned... I have no drive.  Why is this?   I cannot comprehend it.
hobbit_feets: (A Little Danger)
I feel extremely strange- I'm downloading, of all things, various hymns that we sang at me church and school all the time when I was but a wee bairn- Thy Word is a Lamp, Taste and See, On Eagle's Wings, Make Me A Channel of Your Peace.  Fear not; I've not gone all religious, I'm just... enjoying the music.  Curious as that seems.  I dunno if it reminds me of cantoring or what, but it is producing a distinctly fuzzy feeling.  Perhaps just because they were once all so familiar; it's like digging out an old blanket or some such.
hobbit_feets: (A Little Danger)
I feel extremely strange- I'm downloading, of all things, various hymns that we sang at me church and school all the time when I was but a wee bairn- Thy Word is a Lamp, Taste and See, On Eagle's Wings, Make Me A Channel of Your Peace.  Fear not; I've not gone all religious, I'm just... enjoying the music.  Curious as that seems.  I dunno if it reminds me of cantoring or what, but it is producing a distinctly fuzzy feeling.  Perhaps just because they were once all so familiar; it's like digging out an old blanket or some such.
hobbit_feets: (Rain)
Y'know, I've been thinking, and I think I've realised something- I have this odd, sort of unconscious fear that I shan't be able to ever be a really good actor or artist or whatever because I'm too happy.  Just because there's this idea of the mentally unstable but brilliant actor, living in a pathetic little flat somewhere with no friends but an amazing career.  And it's true, really, when you look at a lot of really amazing actors and artists; they're all incredibly fucked up.  Take Stephen Fry- a manic-depressive homosexual who was jailed at seventeen for fraud and suffered a nervous breakdown later in life.  Van Gogh- suicidal, absolutely insane, cut off his own ear.  Janis Joplin- came from a poor family, alcoholic, addicted to heroin and speed, lonely as hell, ended up dying by 27.  What is it with artists?  But I guess that knowledge has kind of imprinted itself in me, and that's where a lot of my insecurity about having no problems comes from.  

Fuck, that's backwards.  And it's not that I wish I had problems, not at all- gods, I'm glad to be healthy and stable and whatever, I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.  I just want to be a good actor, that's all...

And I'm not being emo and angsty here, mark you, I'm just ruminating. 
hobbit_feets: (Rain)
Y'know, I've been thinking, and I think I've realised something- I have this odd, sort of unconscious fear that I shan't be able to ever be a really good actor or artist or whatever because I'm too happy.  Just because there's this idea of the mentally unstable but brilliant actor, living in a pathetic little flat somewhere with no friends but an amazing career.  And it's true, really, when you look at a lot of really amazing actors and artists; they're all incredibly fucked up.  Take Stephen Fry- a manic-depressive homosexual who was jailed at seventeen for fraud and suffered a nervous breakdown later in life.  Van Gogh- suicidal, absolutely insane, cut off his own ear.  Janis Joplin- came from a poor family, alcoholic, addicted to heroin and speed, lonely as hell, ended up dying by 27.  What is it with artists?  But I guess that knowledge has kind of imprinted itself in me, and that's where a lot of my insecurity about having no problems comes from.  

Fuck, that's backwards.  And it's not that I wish I had problems, not at all- gods, I'm glad to be healthy and stable and whatever, I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.  I just want to be a good actor, that's all...

And I'm not being emo and angsty here, mark you, I'm just ruminating. 

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a little bit wildean

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