#I’d rather have a career in art than spend another fucking year in a hole in the wall with weak pay and rude men
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I need to apply for scholarships more often! I hate that the main reason behind getting this job was to pay for classes but working for 8 months has gotten me no closer to my goal. In fact its taking my time for granted while barely paying me enough to afford weekly bills
#WEEKLY BILLS IS SUCH ASS#everyone send me scholarship links pls#idk I used to be really good at school and now I’m not wut happened#oh yeah the *points at everything*#but the years keep coming and they don’t stop coming#and I hateeeee working for others I *hiss* I hate having a boss#in a field that I only find joy in doing as a hobby (cooking)#I’d rather have a career in art than spend another fucking year in a hole in the wall with weak pay and rude men#and we have no hr so the harassment is fucking ridiculous#I need to get good at school again lol#plus my boyfriend is a teacher ssssssssooooooooooooooooo I’m like huh. I’m really dating a teacher. I really like school that much I’m such#a DORK#but like y’all cmon learning is so fun lmao look at all the idiots on a DAILY and tell me you wouldn’t rather be in an institution designed#to get you to sit down and focus on reading comprehension and critical thinking like bro it’s Mecca#it me
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The Cold Ones (Doctor Strange fanfic)
This is a story I've been working on for a while, but haven't really come close to finishing yet. This fic is my side piece, basically.
It's the sequel to Spark and Fade (and also Children of the Old Moon, but not as much) so it might help to read SnF first. I thought I would start posting bits to Tumblr as I finished, mostly because I hate having WIPs on AO3, but I have a lot of unfinished things and I get restless, so... I'll post this to AO3 when I finish it, which will be in approximately three years.
Anyway, most people following me are Dr. Strange fans, so why the F not? Here's the first bit. I'm not doing a summary.
Also, I apparently can't do 'read more' line breaks anymore on this hellsite, so y'all just gonna have to scroll past this shit if you don't want to read it.
The Cold Ones, ch 1
Fandom: Doctor Strange, MCU
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Stephen Strange/Karl Mordo
Genre: magical mystery, angst, smut, action/adventure
Characters: Stephen Strange, Wong, Karl Mordo, Everett Ross, Original Characters
Warnings: nah
***
He swore he’d rather spend an eternity in a tentacle-infested swamp dimension than ever come back here, but here he is.
Stephen looks around at the blank white walls, the sealed door. He scratches at an electrode that's pulling irritatingly on the hair on his chest. There's only one window. He can see Everett Ross and his assorted techs and minions sitting behind the glass, staring at him. He stares back. "Don't you know any other magic people you can torment?" he calls.
Ross's cheerful voice comes through the intercom. "None half as charming as you, Strange."
He snorts, he can't help it. Ross is a bastard, but at least he's an amusing bastard. Occasionally.
There’s not much to do in here except walk in circles. Stephen steps carefully around the only other thing in the room with him—a plexiglass box, about one foot square, sitting in the center of the room. The hinged lid is locked and there are small holes in the sides, almost as if it might contain something alive. It doesn't, though, he can tell. Still, he keeps a wary eye on the box, says, “You guys don't have the budget to give me a chair?”
“Any unnecessary objects in the room might interfere with the test.” Dr. Thompson’s voice this time. She strikes Stephen as one of those people who excelled in medical school only to discover she was just slightly too much of a sociopath to ever be a good doctor. Experimenting on people is probably a better career choice for her.
He finishes another circuit of the room, lets the silence stretch on until he can't take the growing restlessness anymore. And, still, nothing happens. “What exactly am I supposed to be doing in here?”
“Relax, Strange.” Ross again, and then Dr. Thompson, “We’re just finishing up some final calibrations.”
He sighs and nods. The fact that he’s trapped in here is entirely his fault; he asked for this.
Just two weeks ago, he was sitting at a booth in his favorite coffee shop, waiting for Ross, and trying hard not to fidget.
He'd always liked this place—the coffee was good and the servers were quick and efficient. The place was never crowded. He could sit and think without worrying about being bothered. And the alley out back was always empty and didn't stink too badly, so opening a portal there was never much of a risk.
He lifted his mug of coffee with both hands—too sore on that damp, cold day to fold his stiff fingers around the handle—and took a sip, watched the people hurrying past the window in the rainy street outside.
He didn't have to wait long. The bells over the door jingled and then Everett Ross was sliding into the booth across from him, dressed in his usual gray suit—always expensive, but understated—shaking out and then fastening his umbrella closed with quick efficient movements. His hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. Stephen wondered if the suit was meant to match the hair, or if it was just a coincidence that they were the exact same color.
Once settled, Ross folded his hands on the table and smiled his smug smile, all self-assured confidence. “Strange,” he said, and nodded. Stephen scowled back, but tipped his head fractionally.
The waitress materialized beside them and Ross ordered a coffee with cream. He watched her walk away, then turned back to Stephen. "So," he said. "You called me. And here I am."
“Yes.” Stephen cleared his throat and tried to resist the urge to tap his foot on the floor. "I called you,” he said slowly, still not quite sure if this was a good idea and stalling for just a little more time. “I... want to make a deal with you."
"Oh?" Ross feigned innocence, but that smug smile crept back onto his face. He knew exactly why Stephen had called him. Ross fiddled with the cream for a moment, before looking back up. "And what sort of deal do you think I'd be interested in?"
"Mary Jacobsen," Stephen said. "She wants to go to college. I need the police and your people to back off and leave her alone. You know she had nothing to do with the murder of her parents. She's just a kid. She has no interest in ever working for you or your agency.”
Ross made a scoffing sound. “I'm a great boss, actually. Everyone loves working for me.”
Stephen chose to ignore Ross’s joke. “And... she'll need a new identity, too, so she can't be found. There are still people out there who might be looking for her. Dangerous people."
Ross gave him a shrewd look. “People like your friend, Karl Mordo?”
Stephen didn't like the way Ross emphasized the word friend like that. He wished he could enjoy the distraction of a sip of coffee right now. But picking up the mug in front of Ross would just reveal more weakness. “Maybe.” He settled for a shrug, instead. “That's not your concern.”
Ross stared back at him for a long moment. "You're asking for a lot,” he mused, sliding his coffee mug against the napkin. They both knew he wasn't, not for someone with Ross’s connections, but in the end it didn't matter—Stephen needed what Ross had and there was no good way around it.
Ross abandoned his mug and started tapping his finger against the table. He still hadn’t taken a sip. “And what will you offer me in return?"
Stephen tightened his jaw before answering. "Name your price."
Ross's finger tapped a little faster against the table, the only sign of his interest. He narrowed his eyes at Stephen. "Okay. You already know we're interested in magic. How it works. How to… counter it, if it ever came to that. My team has some tests lined up that require subjects with abilities. They've been hard to find and recruit, for obvious reasons.”
Ross reached out and picked up the mug, finally took a sip. “So, I’d like you to come work for me. On a temporary basis. Help me out with our tests. I think that would be a fair trade to start with. And if, down the line, you need more of my help… then we can renegotiate.”
Stephen knew this was what Ross would ask for, of course. He'd already discussed the possibility with Wong and the other Masters. They'd agreed that it could be useful to see exactly what Ross’s group was interested in, what understanding of the Mystic Arts they already had, if any. Ross was a tricky bastard, but Stephen had dealt with him before. And the man did have integrity. Stephen knew he could be trusted to keep his word. The other Sorcerers had set some conditions, though, on what he could offer Ross. Stephen agreed with them.
"I'll agree to your tests as long as you can assure me they're safe. And I'm not doing more than one a week. If you want more than that you'll have to pay me for my time.”
Ross nodded, eyes eager. Money, apparently, was not an issue.
“But I'm not teaching anyone magic. And I'm not revealing the names of any other Sorcerers or the location of Kamar-Taj. If any of your people want to learn, they can seek us out and ask to be accepted just like everyone else."
Ross took another sip of coffee and pretended to think it over. "Deal,” he said.
They shook on it that day, over the table, Stephen extending his hand reluctantly to seal his fate. And now here he was, standing in a white room, staring at a plexiglass box on the ground, waiting for something to happen.
Ross had kept his word, at least, as Stephen knew he would. Mary’s got a new last name, some very convincing documents, and a spot at Molloy College for the upcoming fall semester. And the tests so far haven't been terrible, just tedious. Like performing magic in an MRI machine, which was awkward, but not difficult.
Stephen’s never been in this particular room before, though. He glances over his shoulder, but Ross and his lackeys are now engrossed in the monitors in front of them.
There's a sound, then—a faint, high-pitched hum, growing steadily louder. Stephen tilts his head curiously. It sounds almost organic, rising and falling like the call of some insect. And it seems to be coming from the box on the floor. He still can’t sense anything alive inside.
“Can you actually hear that?” Dr. Thompson asks through the intercom. She sounds surprised.
“Yeah, it’s—” He’s about to say incredibly irritating, when a blast of icy air hits him. “What the hell is that?” he mutters. There aren’t any vents it could be coming from. “Don’t tell me you’re going to give me hypothermia,” he calls.
“Are you feeling cold?” Dr. Thompson asks.
That’s odd. “Yes, I—” But the sound suddenly reaches a screech that’s almost unbearable, accompanied by a stabbing pain right above his eyes. His skull is literally vibrating. The fucking room is vibrating. Stephen grabs at his head. “Can you shut that noise off? I—”
And then the world suddenly drops away from under his feet.
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A Hand to the Devil? A Gift to the Masses?
I’m thinking that this might be my last post here on Tumblr. I’m not antiTumblr, necessarily…it was a necessity in 2015 to get up and going as quickly as possible. But it has always felt clunky and now that we have other options: our official page, Medium, Patreon…it’s time to consolidate, I think. I feel like this blog has kind of been out in the wilderness a little and maybe it’s time to give it a better home.
Speaking of Patreon, our page launched last Thursday, and while I was very much looking forward to it, I can’t lie: I lost a number of nights of sleep over it. Why?
It’s the oldest way for artists to exist: through the patronage of people that want to support the artists in making new art. This practice allowed tons of artists do what they did for centuries, and happily. But this practice hasn’t really been a part of the modern world until “crowdfunding” became legal. Even then, it is one thing to ask people to help you pay for one thing. It’s another to ask for people to give part of their monthly income to you, not knowing about the thing, but hoping that a thing happens. So, anxiety.
It is thrilling and feels icky at the same time, to ask for people to be your patrons. On the one hand, why shouldn’t you ask? I want to create things, as an artist. I want to create things for a living, as an artist. Why would those two statements need to be separate thoughts?
I was actually taught that they were separate thoughts. If you are a son of two artists, you learn that money isn’t something that is easy to come by. You go to art school, you are encouraged to wear the “starving artist” badge on your sleeve proudly. Artists are special. They are different. Artists are poor.
Again, why? I don’t know. If you’ve never tried to make a living being a full-time artist, you might don’t know this. It’s hard. When I make money as a web developer, it sometimes makes me angry. Why do I make so much more money building a website for a marketing firm, or an app for a company that sells stocks? These jobs aren’t nearly as difficult or interesting to me as writing a song or acting in a play, but they are far more highly valued by society.
I like writing code. I like getting paid to do so. But I don’t like it as much as being on stage. I can (more easily) support my family writing code, and live a comfortable life, but if that’s all I do, I feel unfulfilled. I could build websites by day and act in plays at night, but that is sort of a drag for me because then I’m in two full-time day jobs and am always sort of strung out and exhausted and can’t give my best to any work I do.
This is just me, by the way. I’m just speaking about my experience as an artist. My fellow developers are very fulfilled being full-time coders. Tons of actors here in Chicago love to have day jobs for money and then put on their “Artist Caps” at night. They have the drive and energy to do that. I am not knocking their choices. I’m just a better person, a better artist, when I am single-tasking: getting paid to do one, fulfilling, creative job.
Jump, Little Children never got “famous”. We were successful for a rock band in that we could hit the road and have between 50 and 5000 people come see us when we played, depending on the location. In some cities we were almost a household name and in others very few people had heard of us. We weren’t as business-savvy and easy to swallow as Guster and we weren’t a sexy two-person band like Shovels and Rope. We just didn’t catch on enough, and there is no big clear reason why. We cannot really blame bad management and record label issues. The truth is that tons of amazing bands don’t catch on, don’t make it to Conan, but love writing and playing and do it for as long as they can financially and emotionally stay afloat. It doesn’t matter “why”. We gave it our all, made some good decisions and some bad ones, and were proud that it was our full-time job for as long as it was.
Of course, by “full-time job” standards, we were way below the poverty level our entire career. It’s expensive to run a business, and Jump was our sexy business, which meant that if there was anyone that was going to get a pay cut when times were tough, it wouldn’t be our manager, tour manager, lawyer, or sound guy. Just us. You keep going in the hopes that you’ll eventually be the ones making the most money; that didn’t happen for us and I have no regrets.
It was amazing to finally get paid a living wage when the band was done in 2005. The first time I made a weekly paycheck I couldn’t believe it. Making $30k a year for the first time was like being fabulously wealthy…and this was in my very late 30s. Being comfortable was intoxicating for a while, but not being a creative person for a living kind of left me with a empty feeling in my chest. My journal entries pre-2015 had a theme: ask after ask for the Universe to bring me something that would both be a fulfilling career and support my family at the same time.
Yet when the Universe brought the Jump reunion in 2015 to me, I was the last person in the band that said “yes”. I assumed that the chapter was closed and I was fine with it. The five of us weren’t that close at the time and I had forgotten what it was like to play music with people that knew you as well as Jay, Johnny, Ward and Evan knew me. I knew that saying “yes” was going to open up a lot of baggage that had been packed away, would be a ton of extra work for me personally, was going to be scary and emotional and possibly a big fucking failure.
It has been some of those things, too. But as you’ve gathered from this blog, it has also been incredible–a great creative lump of plaster putty to fill in my unfulfilled chest hole (gross!). Worth the being away from home, worth the pay cuts again, worth the anxieties and fears and insecurities. Lots and lots of sleepless nights. Worth it.
I’m luckier than the members of the band that don’t live on Facebook and Instagram, I’m luckier than those that don’t stay in the lobbies of rock clubs after every show until the venue kicks us all out. I’m luckier, because I can see the direct impact our saying “yes” to JLC in 2015 made on your lives and therefore on my life. You’re very honest about it, and I don’t take it lightly. The music has gotten you through bad times and good and happy moments and sad. The community has not just been a place to put your love of a rock band, but also a place to put your own dreams and hopes and needs. Every band might be required to say “we couldn’t do it without our fans” but I know more than anyone how true that statement is for Jump. I’m lucky.
So, Patreon.
Man, it is hard. I get it. For those of you that are a little taken aback at our choice to try this out in order to keep our creative little rock and roll world afloat, I feel you. Everyone is asking for your money these days. How can people that don’t have 9 to 5 jobs ask you to help pay for their lifestyle? Especially if you like your 9 to 5 job? I do not have an answer, because it feels a little icky and uncomfortable to me, too.
Cards on table: Jump, Little Children has two options in 2019. We can’t afford to do what we did last year and not get paid for the intense amount of work it takes to be a mostly-full-time band: writing, recording, touring, posting, streaming, marketing. We either try this Patreon thing out, or something like it, to see if it will help us be able to spend more time writing music and creating things, or we spend less time on the band and do more lucrative things to keep food on tables. Realistically, we will still have to do other things anyway, but anything helps. The days (and chances) of a big record label swooping in and paying us to write and record songs are over, and even when our big record label did swoop in, we didn’t get a pay raise anyway.
Friday morning I woke up with an idea to record some Irish music with my friend Amanda Kapousouz in time for St. Pat’s. And I felt a freedom to have that thought that I didn’t have before. Sure, I might have done the recording anyway, but knowing that I could at some point make a creative work like that happen and get paid for it was inspiring. I’ve just spent three hours writing this letter to you. Connecting with you has always been my job and always will be, whether I get paid for it or not, but it does take time, time that I could spend coding, I suppose. I’d rather write these love letters to you.
Patronage isn’t about putting a price on your love. We are putting a price on the pride we take in our work, the time we take to agonize over details, the care we put into everything from a melody, to a sentence, a pixel, a shade of hair dye. It’s not your responsibility to feed us. It’s our responsibility to find the means to feed ourselves. We would like to do that by writing songs and producing new content, and we are attempting to find new and creative ways to do so.
It could be a winning solution for everyone. If this works out for us, the goal is to keep writing music and performing. With something like Patreon, we could possibly have a new album next year. Without it, we might have a new album in 2022. That’s not a huge difference. Either way, it’s OK, right?
Support us on Patreon if you can, but if you cannot: please don’t. Please please don’t. If you like this idea and want to support us, but can’t afford to, let us know how we might help you make that work. Is it to change the tier prices? To put more stuff in the lower tiers? What would make it worth it? We need to have all the data at hand.
And if you can’t, please accept that we are still going to be around and not play games with your hearts? We’ll post to the same social media and do the same silly LIVE chats and tour and hopefully write new music. We are here, we love you just as much, so you can let other people pay while you reap the benefits, OK?
Whew. I feel better getting this off my chest…thank you. I’m gonna go record some flute, now, for fun…and profit?
We love you,
Matt “Overshare” Bivins
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