#I entered a fugue state and finished this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wutheringmights · 28 days

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After I finished reading The Epic of Gilgamesh today, I entered a fugue state where I sat down and read the entirety of Alanna: The First Adventure by Tamora Pierce.

On the record, I have had a lifelong love and adoration for Pierce's Tortall books. I first read the Song of the Lioness quartet when I was 11, and they rewrote my brain. I love them so much. I reread them and the other Tortall books on a semi-frequent schedule.

It's been a while since I reread any of the Alanna books, if only because my sister took our shared copies when she moved out. I've been meaning to buy my own set for a long while now but haven't been able to justify the purchase. The other week, I just so happened to find the first two volumes at my local indie bookstore. I bought them immediately, as well as ordered the third and fourth book. (And discovered that the store owner knows me by name-- when I went to pick up my order, she saw me and said, Hi Frankie! I got your books over here.) (I may be spending too much money there.)

So I have been in a bit of an emotional rut these past few weeks. Work sucks. Life stinks. The temptation to run off to Tortall and curl up in the fantasy story that captivated me as a kid has never been stronger.

Ergo, I ran off to read the first book as soon as I could.

If you're looking for any critique of this book, series, or Tortall in general, I will never give it. Sure, it's problematic and dated, and in many ways imperfect, but someone else can list out all of its issues. They're all perfect to me.

Anyway, the book. I should say something about this book in particular.

One thing I appreciate about Pierce's writing is how she handles school settings in fantasy. Learning and training is so mundane. All of her heroines have to work hard and put in extra hours of study in order to improve, much less keep up with their peers. It's so normal that it circles around to being weirdly refreshing.

Also, there is still no other fantasy author who handles period talk and birth control the way Pierce does. We make fun of the trope of fantasy birth control nowadays, but I rarely see it presented as it is here: as a part of normal puberty lessons and given long before sex is in the girl's radar. And even today with the glut of YA fantasy stories out there, I still have yet to see menstruation be portrayed as frequently or as bluntly as Pierce writes it.

There was a period of time publishers really tried to push the Tortall books as straight YA, which doesn't work for that reason alone. You gotta market them to middle schoolers. They're the ones just starting puberty talks, and getting scenes like this is so good for their brains.

Moving on: I fucking love these characters. Alanna was an icon of brash, temperamental heroines that have shaped my taste to this day. I love how even in the first book, Jon is kinda shitty. I adore George Cooper. Talk about a taste maker the way this man sets a standard.

I just can't be coherent when it comes to any Tortall books. I have no thoughts. Head empty. I am going to binge the rest of this series as quickly as I can before my library book comes in. Then normal book content will resume.

Before I go, I need to talk about the book covers.

Growing up, my sister and I had these covers:

Which, god. I love them. The black is striking. The art is incredible. Alanna looks so good. They were the perfect pocket-size too. I was going to buy the same edition for my copies, but instead I got the 40th anniversary reprints:

Not bad at all! These books have had some seriously bad covers, and these look great! Very anime, which will appeal to the 11 year olds who need to have their socks rocked by this series.

But, man. I really miss those black covers. One day I will splurge and buy a second set of them just so that I can stare at the art.

#having a not normal time on tumblr dot come right now #alanna my beloved #if you were a deity i would worship you #me rambling #me reading #bookish #books and reading #books #bookblr #Alanna: the first adventure #the song of the lioness #tortall #tamora pierce

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gargoyleandgremlinpress · 4 months

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Renegade Publishing 2023 Typeset Exchange: this world is gonna break your heart by lise

So I'd picked up a pinch hit in the @renegadepublishing typeset exchange, and was in the process of typesetting Regardless of the Hardships. One of the other potential fic @admiraltypress had on their list was a shorter fic, that I'd already read. And the gremlin part of my brain started to ask... but what if? What if we typeset another one? It's just little! It will make a great quarto (half-sized) book! It won't take long...

And then I apparently entered into a fugue state, and typeset this in about eighteen hours. Fortunately, @veliseraptor got back to me quickly with permission to include this fic! (The event requires author permission, since the finished files are shared with everyone who participated.)

This Word Is Gonna Break Your Heart is a canon-divergent MDZS fic where Jiang Yanli survived instead of Jiang Cheng, and is the incredibly unlikely pairing of Jiang Yanli/Xue Yang. But... it works. In a tragic, heartbreaking way, it works.

I went with a font called Monument for the title, reminiscent of gravestones, and a lotus motif for Jiang clan reasons. Stark negative images and black and white match the tone of the fic.

I hope I've done the mood of the fic justice!

#fanbinding #ficbinding #typesetting #mdzs fic #this world is gonna break your heart #lise #jiang yanli #xue yang #fic to break your heart a bit #renegade publishing 2023 typeset exchange

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clonerightsagenda · 3 months

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My dad doesn't read 95% of the time but then 5% of the time picks up a book and goes into a fugue state for hours until he has finished it and/or its entire series. He has entered one of these states so the next time I am over there I need to cautiously introduce some books I think he'd like like I am dropping enrichment into his enclosure.

#it's a narrow window of opportunity #my mom reads all the time but our tastes don't really line up #kind of like how both of us listen to podcasts constantly but loathe each other's choices

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carco5a · 6 months

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my pathologic experience was that i entered a sort of hazy fugue state for three or four weeks in april-may of 2020 (lots of free time) and just played it all the time and it was the most grueling gaming experience of my life like that game hated me and i was not doing that good of a job and it was a really breathtakingly mentally damaging time frame to be playing plague game for historically obvious reasons. and then in the middle of changeling route my area started being on fire in real life and everything got kind of real really fast and it became summer 2020 so i never finished it. absolutely bizarre psychological experience from start to finish can’t imagine doing it any other way. and i never played patho 2 either

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lakesbian · 9 months

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Any thoughts on a fitting implement for Blake or Rose? Or for any of the Undersiders?

i will declare right now for my own sake that i shannot discuss the matter of the undersiders as practitioners presently or i will enter an autistic fugue state regarding alec vasil and we will never finish getting through all of the pact questions + resume reading the book. I will continue fermenting my opinions on this matter and return to it at a later date when i have more information to confirm my thoughts.

as for blake: The Stone. no i'm just kidding to make fun of him. it would really be helpful if i had more information on All of the most common implements but i get the gist well enough.

first of all i will state for the record that i do not think blake's aptitude with glamour (as of 3.5) is actually even remotely indicative of his approach to being a practitioner. he's not fucking confident at all with it! glamour is quite literally "fake it til you make it" but magic--if he was intuitively skilled at it, you would expect him to respond to rose's "haha i hope this works or you're fucked!" with "pshh of course it will work," but instead he nervously goes "i hope it works also :(" and then proceeds to sweat bullets the entire time. and despite being constantly paranoid that his glamour is going to be seen through, despite being a complete amateur with it, he gets so into it that it not only holds up largely perfectly but starts seeping into his cracks and emotionally effecting him. as rose put it, It's Not Supposed To Be That Easy. and the fact that it Is despite him...not really being very good at it, i think that indicates more of a weakness he's occasionally able to leverage as an advantage (albeit at intense personal cost) than a genuine talent. that man is getting Corroded. get corroded and subsumed by the violent expectations your family has set for what you were Supposed to be, you fucking nerd.

anyway. as for his actual approach thus far, he's like. hm. as i discussed some during arc 1, he's extremely willing to roll with the punches (& punch back) when he needs to. as much as being humiliated or acting violently upsets him, he can take it And dish it when it's necessary 4 survival. he really really really wants to climb to better circumstances and have a peaceful home and a family comprised of people who are good to him & whom he's good to in return. but ultimately he's extremely familiar with being homeless and beat down and viewed as less worth than dirt, and it's a misery he knows how to force himself through. which is to say his practitioner approach is Miserable Desperate Scrambling by a dude with a Scrambling Degree. he's exceedingly direct so far. he finds out how faeries work and then immediately fights a faerie by literally just telling her how faeries work. he's not, like, utterly lacking in self-preservation during negotiations, but he's pretty direct about attempting to State How Something Is in a convincing manner instead of attempting to mislead people. he responds to finding out that maggie killed his cousin by telling her to fuck right off instead of using her guilt to get a better deal like he could've. etc. ultimate move of Hit You With Pipe or Try To Call The Cops On You (Again) because he simply does not have enough of a knowledge or power base for anything more indirect or clever as of yet. not inherently opposed to trickery per se but thus far he's preferred to feel like all of his actions are some level of morally justifiable, and he's distinctly targeting people who have made the most notable moves against him.

i was sort of hoping that writing all that would make an idea magically pop into my head or brain but it did not. it would be cool if it ended up being a mirror. i can't defend that statement but i think it would be cool! let me see. i think something unique and somewhat decorative in a way that bolsters his personal identity would be fitting, because he stakes a lot on personal identity. he values his body being His to exist in and express himself with, he likes art, he likes having nice new things. i think an implement which bolsters his own sense of self & makes being a practitioner something more comfortable + confident would be a good balance to how thus far it's just sapped him and degraded his identity. something stabilizing, in a way. is that anything. but a talisman doesn't fit, because he Is pretty brash and concerned with the real. something unique and somewhat decorative but with a clear purpose and very direct/blunt application? still struggling for precise objects here, but i think talking abt the Idea behind an implement for him instead of just naming an object is fine.

#ask #pact time #my god that was a lot of words to say not much at all

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nichiperi · 1 year

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emotions are social

I was not anticipating to actually finish this today, but whaddya know. I guess anything is possible when you enter a music fueled fugue-state. XD

I listened to Emotions are Social on loop while painting this. I just had this scene in my head while listening.

@scentofsteam @banana-zim

#scentofsteamcontest #illustration #my art #gouache #gouache painting #angel #landscape painting #aesthetic #tw injury #tw blood #tw eyestrain #Spotify

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noxexistant · 1 year

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Okay okay okay

I’m here on my knees

BEGGING

For ostracized transfem!Oscar only making it through life because of her brother. They both rely too heavily on each other and are def the only reason they both still have the energy to live

Please

okay looking at this now this might’ve been an art request and if it was i am sorry and pls feel free to ask me again. BUT i saw transfem oscar and entered an excited fugue state and just started writing, so. pls take this. i love transfem oscar and i love the delanceys and i love u

cw for period-typical bigotry/misogyny, one mention of animal death, abuse, and maybe a little bit of period-typical ableism

—

Oscar was maybe four, the first time she can remember Pa told her she wasn’t a man. He’d been trying to drag her out into the fields to help him kill a cow, ‘cause this was before Morris was old enough to help - he could hardly walk, though looking back Oscar’s fair sure that two or so is plenty old enough for a kid to be walking - and she’d dug her heels into the ground and screamed, “No!”. She never liked touching the farm work, especially not the animals, but she was damn sure she didn’t wanna kill any of them neither, but Pa, of course, wasn’t having that. He’d grabbed Oscar harder and tried to drag her, so she’d started screaming. Morris had started crying then too, those big baby wails that both Ma and Pa hated, ‘cause even as a baby he’d had his big sister’s back.

“I thought you was a boy,” Pa had hollered at Oscar over the noise, holding Oscar’s wrist way too tight, pulling her hard, “But you’re actin’ like a little girl.”

Oscar’s resentful to admit that Pa had been right, as she’d figured out some fifteen years later. Not right in any way that really matters, mind - Oscar ain’t a girl because she hadn’t wanted to kill a cow when she was four, she’s a girl because she just…is. She knows she’s a girl. She feels like a girl.

Morris, of course, had been the first person she’d told. Right when she’d first been able to put those feelings into words that felt half-right, when she was nineteen.

They’d been backstage at Medda’s place, sat in one of the empty dressing rooms after all the girls had left for the night, ‘cause Wiesel had flown off the handle over something stupid and almost bust Morris’ skull against the kitchen floor. Oscar had grabbed her brother and ran right out of there, like she’s done countless times before, and come straight to Medda for somewhere safe to hole up for a night or two. Medda’d offered, but Oscar had insisted on patching Morris up herself, so Medda had left them to it. She’d left the parts of her costume she’d been stripping off too, laid out on one of the vanities, and Oscar couldn’t stop staring as soon as she’d finished cleaning and covering Morris’ new cuts and bruises. She’d never seen any of the costumes so close up before, they were always on the girls who were always moving, but suddenly the bundle of bright pink was right there. All sequins and sparkles, silk and lace and feathers and velvet. No function, just form. She desperately wanted to touch it, lift it up and feel it in her hands, but she didn’t dare - as if her very touch risked ruining it somehow.

That in itself wasn’t damning, though. Morris liked the costumes too. He was always fascinated by the sparkles and ruffles and everything designed to catch the eye, always stared dazzled just like Oscar knew she did, and - just the same as Oscar - Morris’d never dare touch them. Although, his reluctance wasn’t out of some feeling that his touch would taint the beauty, but rather just insistence that the texture of the fabrics - velvet and lace, sequins sewn in tight rows, silk ruffles bound tight like fish gills - “hurt” to touch.

“Bad,” he’d mumbled, after one of the girls had noticed him staring innocently and offered to let him touch the fabric he was interested in, but the second his fingertips had brushed the velvet at her hip he’d flinched back and started wiping his hand on his trouser leg like he’d touched something gross. Oscar’d had to apologise for him, swearing her brother didn’t mean anything by it and wasn’t trying to be rude, but thankfully the girl had only giggled.

Oscar knew there were countless things she didn’t and couldn’t understand about her brother, couldn’t explain either, and had wondered helplessly then how Morris would react if perhaps there were some things about Oscar he wouldn’t be able to understand either. Because, where Morris’ gaze stuck to the pretty costumes and patterns and sparkles, Oscar’s wandered to the mess of makeup and perfume and pretty things on the other dressing tables. Hair brushes - horsehair and boar bristle bound to ornate handles made of carved wood and silver and brass - and ribbons and little pots of creams, pretty and sweet-smelling.

“Sometimes I wish I could dress up like them,” Oscar had said, very quietly, daring to reach out and tentatively pick up a hair brush from the nearest tabletop. It was heavier than she’d anticipated, an entirely different weight and balance to the flimsy comb she used every day. She ran her fingers over the bristles and found them softer than she’d expected. Morris watched her curiously.

“Dress up like the girls?” he’d asked. “Miss Medda said some men do that, in the shows.”

Oscar hoped that would make her feel better to hear, but it hadn’t. It had just felt…wrong.

“Not like that,” she’d whispered, more honest than she could usually stomach being. “I don’t…I don’t wanna be a man dressed as a girl. I don’t really want the flashy stuff, neither - the costumes and all the bright makeup. I’d look stupid in red lipstick.” She’d huffed a laugh then, as Morris had giggled just like she’d wanted him to, but it still didn’t stop her feeling like she was choking when the joke faded and she was still staring at the tubes of lipstick on the vanity closest, wondering if maybe she might look okay in something lighter.

“I just…I just wanna…I wanna be one of them.”

For everything in the world Morris can’t understand, he’d understood Oscar without issue. Or, at least, accepted her, the same as Oscar accepts every part of Morris.

For Oscar’s twentieth birthday a couple months after that talk - well, the day Morris’d decided Oscar’s birthday was that year, since they didn’t know the actual date - he’d clambered under their bed to the loose floorboard where they hide most precious things, and brought out a bundle sloppily wrapped in old papes.

“Mo, what—“ Oscar had asked, feeling an odd mix of overjoyed and sick at the sight of what was undoubtedly a gift, despite the sweet little excited look on Mo’s face as he clambered to his feet with the package in his arms. What had Morris gotten her? How did he get it? How could he afford it? Mo’s no good at stealing by himself, he must’ve paid, but how’d he count the money? He can’t do that. Had he had help? Who was Mo talking to?

“Stop worryin’,” Mo had ordered, nudging Oscar in the shin and holding the gift out. “‘S’yours. ‘S’your birthday. Open it.”

Oscar did.

It was a hairbrush. A beautiful horsehair one with a wooden handle, brand new.

“Mo,” Oscar had said shakily, trying her damnedest not to cry as she stared at the thing in her lap in a crumpled mess of black and white newsprint. Morris nudged her in the shin again, then sat down beside her on their creaky little bed - close enough that their shoulders and hips and elbows were all pressed together - and rested his head against her shoulder like he always did, right from when he was tiny. Oscar screwed her eyes shut, shaking all over.

“For my big sister,” Morris mumbled, nestling closer, and stayed all sweet and boneless as Oscar tossed the crumpled papes to the floor and wrapped her arms around her baby brother and held him tight enough to hurt, her new hairbrush clutched in one hand. She loved him - loves him - so much it aches, like a big awful bruise inside her chest, and felt her throat squeeze like she was being choked because she couldn’t say it, not a word of it. She didn’t know how, doesn’t know how, but Morris didn’t seem to mind. Doesn’t.

It’s dawn before distribution, and Morris is half-asleep like he always is in the mornings despite the fact that he never actually sleeps. Oscar’s helped him get mostly dressed, done up his shirt buttons and clipped his suspenders for him, and she’d combed his hair for him too like she always does ‘cause Morris only hurts himself if he tries to untangle his own curls. Then, she’d dressed herself - same outfit as always, wool trousers, buttoned shirt, waistcoat over the top, boots laid out next to Morris’ beside the bed where he’s sat, ready for her to put them on and then help her brother with his laces. Right now, though, she’s in front of the beat-up little mirror on their dresser, brushing her hair with her hairbrush - the newest part of her routine.

It’s hardly necessary for her to brush her hair. It’s not long, still cropped short to her head everywhere except on top like it has been since Wiesel took them in and took her for her first haircut since the last time Ma did it, already years ago then. And she has to comb it too anyway, because her curls are even tighter than Morris’ and have to be untangled, but brushing it just…feels nice. A little ritual, not exactly needed but just to feel good. A little girlish luxury. Holding her hairbrush that her brother had gotten just for her, running it from her hairline back over her scalp like she’s seen Medda’s girls do, not looking at her reflection but imagining one that looks a little closer to how she pictures herself in her head.

“Get your shoes on,” she tells Morris once she’s done, crouching down and hiding her hairbrush at the back of the middle dresser drawer - where it lives when it’s not in use, safe from being seen and taken by Wiesel. When she shuts the drawer and turns around, Morris has pulled his boots on, and he rubs at his eyes sleepily as Oscar crouches down again to tie his laces for him.

“What?” Oscar asks, feeling her brother staring down at her as she pulls the bow taut.

“You look pretty,” Morris tells her. “Look all…soft, when you brush your hair out like that. ‘S’pretty.”

Oscar ducks her head to try and hide the stupid smile that comes to her face. She knows she doesn’t actually look any different, apart from maybe the slight difference in her hair that only her brother could ever notice, but she feels pretty. As long as Morris thinks so, that’s really all that matters.

“You look pretty too,” she says, reaching out to pinch at her little brother’s cheek, and laughs as he kicks her gently in the ribs.

“Shut up.”

He pulls himself to his feet and pulls his jacket down from the back of the door, yanking it on before peeking back at Oscar.

“You ready to go downstairs?”

Everything’s still exactly the same down there. Oscar’s still Wiesel’s nephew, one half of the Delancey brothers, a young man. But Morris calls Oscar his sister when it’s just them, calls her pretty, and that’s already more than Oscar could ever ask for.

“Yeah,” she says, and slings her arm around her brother’s shoulder as they leave the relative sanctuary of their bedroom. She doesn’t mind being a brother for a while if she’s Morris’.

#newsies #oscar delancey #morris delancey #my writing #cw abuse #answered #sparkedblaze #transfem oscar

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chantillyxlacey · 1 year

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So I saw this art that Abby Howard posted on twitter: [https://twitter.com/AbbyHoward/status/1601958920255307783] of Reese and Truck, and I entered a fugue state and wrote these little ficlets at work instead of... uhhhh working lmao.

One:

It takes every ounce of strength you possess not to burst out laughing at the tableau you find waiting for you upon entering your apartment.

“If you’re going for a whole ‘seduction’ angle, the cat kind of ruins the effect a little bit,” you say as you shuck off your jacket and drop your keys into the little dish by the door. You even manage to keep the threat of laughter out of your words– well, mostly. It’s an admirable effort, at least.

Reese deflates, but only a little. He makes a sound between a disgruntled grumble and a laugh of his own, quiet but so low that you swear you can feel it resonate through the floor into the soles of your feet.

“I was doing my best to work around it,” he says. “I couldn’t just push him off– I mean look at him.” He gestures at Truck, currently sprawled over his thighs, and scratches delicately behind his ear with the tip of one long claw. Truck blinks at you, looking distinctly smug. You cross the room, shaking your head.

“Yeah, well– I can.” You unceremoniously push Truck to the floor. He sneezes on your foot to protest the indignity, but you ignore him.

You insinuate yourself into the freshly vacated seat in Reese’s lap, draping your arms over his shoulders and leaning close, delighted by the rush of color into his inhuman but comfortably familiar face, and by just how easy it was to turn the tables.

Two:

“You know, neither of us will get to eat tonight if you keep letting him distract you like that.” The admonition is blunted by the poorly disguised amusement in your voice.

From his perch atop Reese’s shoulders, Truck lets out a jubilant and unapologetic caterwaul, which turns vibrato when his stage is jostled under him as Reese laughs. The sound this time is a low, rumbling hiss that makes you think of an alligator.

Your upstairs neighbor, apparently unappreciative of Truck’s aria, pounds on their floor in protest. Reese reaches up and thumps the ceiling once, with enough force to rattle both your kitchen and the one upstairs. Your neighbor doesn’t offer a return volley, and you like to imagine there’s a meek, intimidated quality to their silence.

“Sorry, buddy.” Reese scoops up Truck in one enormous hand and curls his long fingers into a loose cage around the cat. Truck looks a little put out at the loss of his glorious vantage point, but he doesn’t attempt to wriggle free. Apparently, he’s content enough with the fact that Reese is technically still paying attention to him.

Even with one hand occupied Reese deftly finishes dredging and breading the slices of calf’s liver that still need it, passing them to you and the hot pan you’re monitoring on the stove. He’d learned to do a lot of things one-handedly, he told you once, from days when he’d gotten so immersed in his art that it was almost literally impossible to pry the brush or pencil from his grip.

That talent was mostly utilized for Truck-wrangling these days. He’s also told you, his voice soft and sheepish and sweet, that he hasn’t felt that consuming compulsion to exorcize himself onto a page or canvas nearly as often since he’s been here with you.

Three:

You watch your companions surreptitiously over the top of your book, your grin hidden by it. Truck chatters at Reese so purposefully that you can almost imagine he’s saying real words. Reese humors him and murmurs back, too quiet to make out his words any better than the cat’s.

Truck rears up and plants his front paws on Reese’s chest, then lunges forward for an affectionate headbutt the likes of which has nearly given you a black eye in the past. Reese, however, seems wholly unperturbed at being besieged by a ballistic missile of feline friendship.

At the moment, he looks almost exactly the way he did when you first met him. The only clue to his true nature is the way his teeth press outward against his lips, straining against the skin like his jaw is just a little too large and a little too crowded to fit quite right. He almost never dulls his teeth anymore when he isn’t out in public. No– that’s not exactly right, actually. When you first met him he’d been– duller? More faded? He’s still pale as milk and thin as a leather cord, but there’s a lively color in his face now, and his cheeks are no longer hollowed and gaunt.

Truck blinks slowly and deliberately at Reese, and Reese blinks back in the same way. You wonder if he did it consciously or not.

Reese’s eyes are different these days as well. The bags under them are still there– that’s just how his face naturally sits– but they no longer look like bruises. There’s a light in them now too, other than the literal glow that lingers faintly even when he otherwise looks entirely ‘normal’. They have a spark in them–

They’re looking right at you, catching your own and holding fast.

Reese blinks at you, too, and those eyes of his are warm and soft and heavy with so much– so much, just in general, and it’s all aimed at you.

Heat floods your face and you duck back behind your book. You don’t hear his laughter so much as feel it, like infrasound. Lowering the book just enough to stick your tongue out at him, you prod at his bony hip with your big toe.

Truck apparently takes this as a declaration of war and launches himself at your foot, teeth-first.

Reese laughs again– aloud and full-throated this time– at your misfortune and the cartoonish yelp you let out, but he comes to your rescue anyway.

#Scarlet Hollow #Reese Kelly #Scarlet Hollow MC #Truck the Cat #Scarlet Hollow fic #Reese x MC #lacey writes #my personal hc for why the cat's name is Truck is because he fuckin' comes at you like one #whether he loves you or hates you he's going to hurl himself at you with enough force to reduce you to the consistency of creamed corn

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