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Currently writing for Top Gun (1986), Top Gun Maverick, Stranger Things, Masters of the Air, and as of now am still considering requests for Elvis (2022)! Send requests if you’d like, but no smut please! Unfortunately I can’t guarantee that I’ll write them all but I’d love to hear what y’all’d like to read.
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Day Four of ocdynamicsmonth with my Ida and Jules by @sagesolsticewrites. (Tw for mentions of suicide). New York AU
It was so much fun to write Jules and I hope I did her justice. The title for this is a quote from Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks, just slightly changed to fit better! A bit of background information is that the Reichsjugendspiele (mentioned further down) were invented in 1920 and are a sports competition for students in Germany, as such they are not a Nazi invention although they very of course used for ideological reasons during that period. A version of this still exists today. Thomas Mann stood in strict opposition to the Nazi party, after 1933 the family didn't return to Germany until after the war. He spent a lot of time in France and then later, in 1938, immigrated to the US. Eleanor Roosevelt mentioned his books in her 'My Day' column (thanks Sage for that tidbit!). Ernst Toller was a German writer, who had also been in exile in New York; after Franco won in Spain he hung himself. Lastly, in German Gymnasium is somewhat like High School and wedding rings are traditionally worn on the right hand, not the left.
"Looks like it's going to be a wet walk back home," a lawyer from the floor above them said, after they had both come to a halt in front of the door when they noticed the rain outside of it.
Ida had seen the tiny droplets on the window already as she had made her way down the stairs and cursed whoever had moved her umbrella the night before, so that it hadn't stood leaned against the doorframe, perfect for her to tug under her arm when she headed out. Of course, there had been no time to search for it and in the minute or so it took her to walk all the way down into the entrance hall, the rain had gotten heavier.
Not really heavy yet, still only thin drops; but more frequently and in a way which promised more soon.
"It seems so," she agreed, "let us hope it won't get any worse."
"Cheers to that," he said and held the door open for her.
"Thank you," Ida said and stepped out into the rain.
As it seemed to be the norm in New York, it was miserably cold, the raindrops like tiny pebbles, hard and pointy, on her freshly cut, now shoulder lengthed hair.
Just like she had predicted, the rain picked up quickly, the drops growing bigger and the frequency higher; all around her umbrellas were opened and steps quickened, suede shoes and heels hurrying across the pavement that was, now wet, a shade darker than it had been this morning. Her own shoes joined them as she picked up her pace.
No use - she was going to be drenched by the time she reached the subway station; it was better to find some shelter and try to wait it out, hoping that the rain would calm down as quickly as it had started up. There was a library close by, just a few of those massive houses away from her and she broke into a near sprint until she could push open the door and step into the warm space.
Dropping down into the first available chair, Ida set about catching her breath; really for someone who had won the Reichsjugendspiele three years in a row, this was an embarrassing performance. She probed her purse up on the table in front of her and opened it.
Rolled up on top of Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks lay a two month old edition of Down Beat which she had gotten for two cents after fighting with the owner of the Jazz store until he lowered the price from five cents - used and old and you want five cents for it? you are a thief, she had accused and he had told her to take the damn thing and never ever visit his shop again. Her hand hovered over it for a second, as it had done during her lunch break for the last three days and then nudged it aside and picked up the Mann book. She leaned back in her chair, wet clothing shifting on top of her skin uncomfortably and opened the book where she had left off.
For some reason, might it be having been caught in the rain, the long day at work, the ever present headache, the flourished Fraktur letters got on her nerves at that moment. It was ridiculous - she had read her first book in this script and she had never consciously chosen publications in a different font - but right now Ida had a few choice words for whoever had designed it.
She closed the book again.
Thomas Mann was certainly having a fabulous time somewhere in Princeton or whatever elite university he was currently at, the high life of rich German immigrants while she, like Ernst Toller, would have to stay in New York until she'd hang herself in the nice little new apartment they now lived in. Naja. She was being entirely overdramatic and besides, Toller had killed himself in a hotel so she was already past that.
The book landed on the table in front of her with a soft thud and she pulled her pack of Lucky Strikes out of the pocket of her coat, just to make sure that none of the cigarettes had gotten wet. The package was the slightest bit damp, the logo a little smudge as if a few black-ink tears had rolled down the front and yes, she too might cry if her cigarettes were ruined. Not real, visible tears, of course, but she’d get close.
"You're not going to smoke in here, right?" A voice interrupted her musing, a voice that belonged to a young woman sitting opposite to her at the table; despite probably being a little younger than Ida, both the cadence of her voice and the look she gave Ida reminded her of a disappointed school teacher scolding a student who had passed on a note during lessons. It was the kind of look that should be thrown over the top of thinly-rimmed glasses and accompanied by a tight hair knot, not the fashionable dark cut the woman in front of her was sporting.
What was it with those damn Amis and not wanting her to smoke? If that was such an issue there, they shouldn't be selling such delicious tobacco.
"No," she said slowly and closed the pack again (everything had stayed dry, thank the Lord), "I was just looking for water damage."
"You seem to have a bit of water damage yourself," the woman said and then covered her mouth with her hand, as if to stifle a giggle and simultaneously push the word back inside. "I'm so sorry, that was rude."
"It was... accurate," Ida said and pushed a hand through her hair, assessing the damage; definitely wet, definitely not a respectable state for her hair to be in.
The woman winced in sympathy. "I'm sorry. You must have been caught in the rain outside."
"It was really unexpected," Ida confirmed. She balled her hand into a fist and held it up. "One minute, it's drizzling lightly and then next-" she opened her fist, imagery more appropriate for a bomb exploding than rain "-it's pouring.”
"And now you're seeking shelter here?"
"Yes, I'm hoping that it will stop raining soon and I can get on the subway."
"I'm keeping my fingers crossed for you," the woman said and turned back to her studies. The table in front of her was clustered, to say the least, two books open in front of her, a stack towering next to her elbow, pencils and paper strewn across the surface. It was the opposite of how Ida had studied as a child, with one of everything neatly lined up and she suddenly felt a pang of longing for Willi's teeth marks on her pencils and her father's four-fingered hand as he flipped through her exams.
Ida looked through the window, but the rain still fell tightly. She decided to give the Buddenbrooks another try and flipped it back open, this time on the very first page and discovered her brother's hand writing there, underneath the title. Theodor Ernst, Grübelstraße 12, Nürnberg, his ex-libris in faded blue ink. When she had packed the book, she hadn't been aware that it was his, that he must have purchased it with his own money and now she felt bad for taking it. Would he ever get it back?
She sighed and returned to the page she had previously been on, shifting in the chair to try and get more comfortable. An impossible task, since the issue at hand was not the chair but her wet clothing. She gave a little shiver, more to disperse the clammy feeling than to shake off the cold. The downfall of the family Buddenbrooks accompanied her rather bleak mood perfectly but Ida made only slow progress, her eyes dragging lazily across the letters, the words, across Mann's literary effusion on individuality, a passage she might have enjoyed greatly at some other point but now just served to annoy her.
"Are you reading one of Thomas Mann's books?" The woman asked her, looking up at Ida from across her studies. "I heard about him at Cornell."
Ida had never heard the name Cornell before, but if she put two (the woman's studies, her knowledge of Mann) and two (the intonation with which she had said 'Cornell', her age) she would guess that it was some kind of school. "Yes, he won the Nobel prize for this one."
"Do you think the book deserves it?"
Ida shrugged. "I guess you can read it. It's not bad but also not my favorite."
"I'm sorry for being so nosy," the woman said, "I just love books. I want to become a teacher! Oh, and I'm Juliet, Jules for short."
"Ida," she introduced herself, fighting the urge to give her full name, surname first as she might have done back in Germany. Even her boss called her by her first name, which at first had seemed to her a gesture so unprofessional that it made her recoil. "The book is interesting, I suppose, a bit long winded. I usually prefer plays."
"Really? Me too! I just love Shakespeare," she gushed. "I've read every play multiple times."
Ida had never once even picked up a Shakespear play, but there was really no reason to bring that up with someone who was clearly a big fan. "You must be quite the expert," Ida said.
"Oh, I can't claim that just yet. It would take me years more of studying his works to say that."
Ida nodded along; that seemed reasonable. She had hardly ever thought about this: literature and studying and expertise in a subject. She was good at typing and filing and drafting letters and handling documents, that was all she needed. The question of whether she would study had never even been raised and university had seemed to her a place about as far out of reach as mars, which was to say that she didn't even particularly desire to go there.
Although this wasn't entirely true - in her last year of Gymnasium, her German teacher had told her she should try to go to evening courses, make something of herself. Ida had told her she would think about it and never thought about it again.
"Who's your favorite author then?" Juliet, or Jules for short, asked.
Ida blinked and shrugged. "I suppose Goethe? Is it stupid to say Goethe and Schiller when they are just the two most famous German playwrights?"
"Oh no, not at all. I said Shakespear, after all, which is hardly more original."
A bit of rain dropped from Ida's hair onto her neck, sliding, cold and wet, down her neck, underneath the collar of her blouse and rolled down her spine. She shivered again and for a moment considered wringing out her hair right there.
"Oh, you poor thing," Jules said, "here, take my scarf." She had already unwrapped the garment from around her chair and halfway handed it over when she stopped. "No, that just won't do. The bathroom is just over there. Let's try and get you dry, alright?"
The idea of rubbing off at least a bit of the moisture clinging to her sounded heavenly to Ida, like the first note of Oh Heiland, reiß die Himmel auf echoing through church around Christmas time. They grabbed their purses with their valuables inside, and left Jules' books and study notes scattered across the table.
The two young women hurried over to the lady's room, a giggle in their step, the giddiness that came with doing something that was not illegal but certainly unusual.
Jules held Ida to wrap the scarf around her head, keeping her dripping hair contained. "You have such nice hair," she complimented as she tied the ends of the scarf into a bow on Ida's forehead.
"Thank you. I cut it only recently."
For a moment they work in silence, wringing out Ida's sleeves over the skin and using the provided towels to try and soak up some of the rain.
"So, you're from Germany...?" Jules asked carefully. "Because of the authors you like and you have a little bit of an accent, that's all," she added quickly.
"I am," Ida confirmed; there really was no use denying that, "moved here at the beginning of the year."
"With your family?"
"Not really," was all she had to say to that.
Jules seemed like she wanted to pry, find out more but was probably too well-raised to do so. "There you go," she said and gave Ida an approving once-over, satisfied with her work, "now you look presentable again."
"And isn't that just what we all strive towards? Presentability?"
-
"Now," Jules said, when the rain had stopped and they had both left the library, "you have to let me get you a coffee or something like that, to truly warm you up."
Ida would rather chew off her own right ring finger, where one day a wedding band would sit, then ever pass up on something she was offered for free. "I won't say no to that. Thank you very much.”
writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months
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Ao3 version that lets you open the 'director's cut' where I, the author, explain every detail in excruciating detail to you and what it is in reference to.
The iconic white cotton organdy gown, with puffy sleeves and relaxed silhouette, became synonymous with 1930s Hollywood fashion and defined Adrian's reputation as the quintessential Hollywood designer. "Who would have thought that my entire reputation as a designer would rest on Joan Crawford's shoulders?"
the thing they dont tell you about learning to "trust the process" is that you forget and relearn it every single time you make a new piece of art. unfortunately there is no cure either
speaking of libraries and how good and important they are, i drew this last month as a thank-you for the graphic novel and comics round table awards at ALA for naming Hunger's Bite one of their honor books for YA fiction.
librarians are at the front of the fight against book bans and the defunding of libraries, and are an invaluable part of our social safety net. and for authors--they are out greatest cheerleaders and customers. you must respect the library!!! you must!!!!!
go to your local library!! check out books!!! check out MY book and read it for free. i want you to!!!
That ‘comment on your a03 work’ email hits like a line of cocaine every time. unmatched dopamine increase. shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment on fics. you deserve the world
(this came out of a conversation in the comments on a previous post about an author threatening to stop updating a fic because of lack of engagement)
So there’s this idea that fic writers should write for themselves and not care too much about stats or engagement,
and i totally get the sentiment behind that. if writing becomes entirely about stats and external validation, something important does get lost - creative freedom and joy, conviction in your own writing
but i also think:
“i write for myself, but i post for others.”
because posting fic is not only self-expression. it’s social. ao3 is called an archive, but emotionally it often functions as a community space.
people post for connection, for participation, for others to bear witness to their pain and trauma and grief,
and i don’t think most people are asking to be admired so much as acknowledged. there’s something deeply human about wanting another person to encounter something that mattered to you and go:
“ok, yeah, I see what you were trying to say. I see you.”
especially because fanfic is often people processing very real feelings through fictional characters at a safe distance, one step removed,
and then uploading that deeply personal thing into a shared archive and hoping somebody else might connect with it.
And i think that’s why it hurts so much when you summon up the courage and post a fic into the void and you get nothing back,
amandla
theartofmadeline
gamechangershow
yousharknotpass
izzy806
