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Saturday, February 11th, 2012 02:33 pm
So.

The problem with all of these competing Internet services is that they tend to divert you for the shear ease of usage. Actually writing an LJ entry actually takes some devotion, some thought . . . not much, but even so. And so people don't, because it's easier to put a shorter entry elsewhere, and so there's less reason to come to LJ in the first place, which means you end up not updating as much and . . . vicious circle.

But the fact remains that, while other services might be more convenient, LJ still reigns when it comes to having coherent and meaningful and in-depth conversations with people . . . when there are posts to comment on, that is. And when people actually comment. Granted I'm no model as far as that's concerned.

The thing that's been eating up large amounts of my spare time these days is Tumblr; mine is over here, if you're curious. I occasionally write brief pieces inspired by the pictures that I post. Not often, but occasionally.

LJ, however, remains the most convenient place for posting writing, especially as so much of mine is not in a finished form that might qualify it for a place like AO3. Et alors!

xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx


"I thought you might be one of those people. You know. Proselyte-ing-y ones."

She shook her head. "I have two religions, one for my head and one for my heart. Science--" she tapped her temple, "--and poetry." She laid her hand on her breast. "Neither has any particular need to evangelize."

xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx


'Do you want your receipt?'

'You may keep it. Consider it a gift from my heart to yours. I don't know what it says about my heart, that it produces cheap paper and pumps blue ink, or that it considers such things suitable gifts, but nonetheless I hope you'll accept it.'

Rose: your heart does not produce cheap paper and pump blue ink. believe me--i've checked. would you like to see the blueprints?

Me: The blueprints might be handy. Usually my heart produces smooth lined paper and pumps aetheric graphite, so this change is a bit alarming. Of course, it's SUPPOSED to produce vellum and pump egg tempera and gold leaf, but it's never worked quite right from the beginning, so . . .

xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx


I played a random priest in a game set in 1666 London, and he was great fun. Father James Savant: High Anglican/crypto-Catholic, power-hungry and utterly ruthless, but absolutely convinced that he was doing God's work, with a taste for the finer things in life (mainly fine art, but his absolutely simple cassock is blacker than black, and his crucifix is ornate silver, and his Bible's cover is inscribed gold and jems, and his shoes are heinously expensive . . . you get the idea).

I came home from the game absolutely wanting to write stories about him, and despite the late hour sat down to hammer one out . . . only to find that the voices were ending up all wrong, too amusingly lighthearted, and I was actually writing a scene from a fanfic. So after an attempt at repair I sighed, gave up, changed the names, and now it's an XMFC AU snippet and that's it (there's precedent! Marvel 1602 by Neil bloody Gaiman, because he gets to do all the most fun stuff).

Right.

the Consolation of Philosophy

Father Charles was waiting at the door to his cell, his hands wrapped around the bars. Lord Summers found himself running the last few steps and offering his own hands. The priest accepted his offering, then released his fingers with a fain squeeze in gratitude. "You didn't have to come, my son, but thank you just the same."

"Of course I came. How have they been treating you, are you well?"

"The quarters are acceptable," the priest dismissed his cell with a wave of his hand, "but the treatment is terrible. They have given me a book that I may pass the time, see--"

He retrieved a bound volume from the small table inside and passed it through the bars. Alex opened it to the title page. "A side-by-side translation of the Consolatia Philosophiae by Boethius," he read aloud. "Well, I think I remember that from my schooling. I certainly think it qualifies as cruel and unusual punishment."

"I know," Father Charles said, slumping against the bars. "It's torture is what it is. The translation is appalling. And they have permitted me no ink for corrections! I was just contemplating opening a vein and using my blood when you came calling."



. . . let us pray the merciful gods I write no more, at least of this.

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