Katherine Frances's Blog, page 282
November 23, 2015
MASTER LIST of Physical Descriptions
Sometimes it can be hard to find the right words to describe individual
facial features, faces in general, bodies, and even hair. I’m hoping
this post will be a good resource for describing the looks of
characters in your story.
"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you..."
- Mark Twain (via travel-quotes)
Kim Shimmers and the Diviner’s Curse
A Harry Potter Fanfic by me (and sequel to Kim Shimmers and the Screech Owl)
(Art not mine, couldn’t find credits. Let me know if you know them!)
This Harry Potter fanfic will be posted, if all goes well, every weekend.
Chapter 8
Scrimmage
The next morning Kim’s stomach was still twisting into knots. She had hoped her dreams would give her a vision of something, reveal to her what was to come, but they gave her nothing. When she got down to the Great Hall she didn’t see the twins, probably sleeping in after partying all night. Harry was nowhere in sight either for that matter. Ron and Hermione were sitting across from each other and appeared to be in a bit of an argument, so Kim went over to sit beside Hermione.
“…being ridiculous,” Hermione said. Ron just stared at his plate with a tight purse to his lips, like someone had put a bucket of salt over his eggs and was forcing him to eat it. Kim began loading her plate quietly beside them without making to interrupt. “How could Harry have entered himself, Ron? Forget whether he wanted to or not, he wasn’t able to.”
“I don’t know, all right?” Ron snapped. “And I don’t care to know.”
Kim was glad at least that Hermione was being rational about this. She wasn’t looking forward to things if she was the only person willing to give Harry the benefit of the doubt. This also would give her someone else to discuss her worries with.
“About all this, Hermione,” Kim said, “how do you think his name got in the goblet?”
Hermione’s expression folded inward with concerned. “I don’t know. I wish he would hurry up. I want to talk to him about it.” She stretched to look over Kim’s head and search the entrance of the Great Hall for any sign of Harry, but there was none.
“Probably busy with all his admirers,” Ron muttered. Hermione made a faint sound of disgust and grabbed a napkin, standing. “Where are yougoing?” Ron asked incredulously as she collected pieces of toast onto the napkin.
“To find Harry,” she said simply. Kim stood as well, grabbing a sausage and a piece of bacon from her plate since she’d only managed to eat a few bites.
“I’ll come with you,” she said, popping the sausage in her teeth like a cigarette and shuffling out from the bench. Ron scowled at them as they departed, and then went back to his eggs, still pondering them like they were infused with a mountain worth of salt. Kim and Hermione made their way up to the Fat Lady, at which point Hermione opened her mouth to say the password.
“Ah!” she shouted, again raising an accusatory finger at Kim. “Not you again. How many times am I going to have to tell you, you don’t belong—”
“I’m not trying to sneak in,” Kim said, exasperated. “I’m waiting outside.”
“A likely story. Ah! And don’t you give away the password with her there,” she said, again interrupting Hermione before she could say the password. Hermione heaved a great sigh. Just then the portrait pushed open, causing the Fat Lady to give a little startled cry. Harry immerged from the common room, surprised to see them both standing there.
“Hello,” Hermione said.
“Er, Hi,” Harry said, eyeing Hermione’s toast stack, and then Kim as she bit off a piece of bacon. “What are you two doing here?”
“I brought you this… Want to go for a walk?”
“Good idea,” said Harry gratefully. The three of them went downstairs and out of the castle to stroll beside the lake while Harry recounted exactly what had happened while he was inside the other room with the professors. Evidently, Professors Moody, McGonagall, and Dumbledore were the only ones who believed Harry hadn’t put his name in the goblet, but it didn’t much matter who believed him. The magic was binding one way or another; Harry was required to compete. It was even suggested that perhaps someone had put Harry’s name in because they wanted Harry to get killed…
Kim turned this idea over in her head, feeling an uneasy sensation in her chest. Certainly the games were dangerous, and she was very uncomfortable with the idea that Harry was going to be in them. But if killing Harry was someone’s intention, certainly there were easier ways to go about it, weren’t there?
“Well, of course I knew you hadn’t entered yourself,” Hermione was saying as Kim mulled over all the information in her head. “The look on your face when Dumbledore read out your name! But the question is, who did put it in? Because Moody’s right, Harry… I don’t think any student could have done it… they’d never be able to fool the Goblet, or get over Dumbledore’s—”
“Have you seen Ron?” Harry interrupted. This shook Kim from her reverie and made her look at Harry. There were a lot of things more important than Ron’s whereabouts at the moment, and Hermione was trying to talk about them. She had some great points about students not possessing powerful enough magic to trick the goblet, and Kim thought now was the time to discuss that, not discuss Ron. But Hermione was making a face of semi-discomfort and answering, none the less.
“Erm… yes… he was at breakfast.”
“Does he still think I entered myself?”
“Well… No, I don’t think so…”
Kim made a face. This was a lie, and kind of a silly one since Harry was bound to find out the truth eventually. Hermione seemed to realize this as she glanced at Kim and added, “not really.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘not really’?”
“Oh Harry, isn’t it obvious?” Hermione said despairingly. “He’s jealous!”
“Jealous?” Harry said incredulously.
“Uh, yeah,” Kim said, as if it were obvious. Because it was.
“Jealous of what?” Harry asked. “He wants to make a prat of himself in front of the whole school, does he?”
“I’d imagine that’s exactly what he wants to do, yeah,” Kim said with a snicker.
“Look,” Hermione said patiently, ignoring Kim’s joking, “it’s always you who gets all the attention, you know it is. I know it’s not your fault,” she added quickly because Harry looked like he was about to object furiously. “I know you don’t ask for it… but, well, you know, Ron’s got all those brothers to compete against at home, and you’re his best friend, and you’re really famous. He’s always shunted to one side whenever people see you, and he puts up with it, and he never mentions it, but I suppose this is just one time too many…”
Kim watched Hermione’s eyes search the path before her as she thought, her mind turning over her own observation and then shifting back to Harry compassionately. Kim couldn’t help but be impressed with her. It was quite an accurate and detailed observation, and felt just right. She was even a little awed that Hermione had picked up such subtleties, perhaps the slightest bit jealous she hadn’t said all this herself.
“Great,” Harry said bitterly. “Really great. Tell him from me I’ll swap any time he wants. Tell him from me he’s welcome to it… People gawping at my forehead everywhere I go…”
Kim almost winced. This was the first time she’d ever heard Harry admit allowed how much he hated the spotlight that was always shined in his face. She wished again, as she had so many times before, that there was something more that she could do to protect him from it. But there simply wasn’t.
“I’m not telling him anything,” Hermione said shortly. “Tell him yourself. It’s the only way to sort this out.”
“I’m not running around after him trying to make him grow up!” Harry yelled.
“Then prepare for the long haul, Harry,” Kim found herself yelling back, though she was surprised by her sudden spur of frustration. Perhaps she was just feeding off of the helplessness that Harry felt, the helplessness that she felt knowing she couldn’t do anything for him, or make him understand. She leveled her voice before continuing. “If you want a fight with Ron, by all means, stick your head in the sand. I’m not saying he’s not being stupid, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to make it better by being stupid back.”
“Yeah well,” Harry retorted harshly. “Maybe he’ll believe I’m not enjoying myself once I’ve got my neck broken or—”
“That’s not funny,” said Hermione quietly. “That’s not funny at all… Harry, I’ve been thinking. You know what we’ve got to do, don’t you? Straight away, the moment we get back to the castle?”
“Yeah, give Ron a good kick up the—”
November 22, 2015
mumblingsage:
this-disgusting-ribbon:
“LOOKS LIKE MEAT’S BACK ON THE MENU, BOYS“ bellows the Orc to...
“LOOKS LIKE MEAT’S BACK ON THE MENU, BOYS“ bellows the Orc to his Orc friends. Orcs know what menus are. Orcs know what restaurants are. are there bistros in Mordor? these are the questions i need answering
The moss-troll problem, or, Accidental Worldbuilding Through Metaphors
November 21, 2015
promptsgalore:Write something that includes the following:
a private investigator
the pacific...
Write something that includes the following:
a private investigator
the pacific ocean
nudity
a cactus
fire
November 20, 2015
"Here’s my life. My husband and I get up each morning at 7 o’clock and he showers while I make..."
Here’s my life. My husband and I get up each morning at 7 o’clock and he showers while I make coffee. By the time he’s dressed I’m already sitting at my desk writing. He kisses me goodbye then leaves for the job where he makes good money, draws excellent benefits and gets many perks, such as travel, catered lunches and full reimbursement for the gym where I attend yoga midday. His career has allowed me to work only sporadically, as a consultant, in a field I enjoy.
All that disclosure is crass, I know. I’m sorry. Because in this world where women will sit around discussing the various topiary shapes of their bikini waxes, the conversation about money (or privilege) is the one we never have. Why? I think it’s the Marie Antoinette syndrome: Those with privilege and luck don’t want the riffraff knowing the details. After all, if “those people” understood the differences in our lives, they might revolt. Or, God forbid, not see us as somehow more special, talented and/or deserving than them.
There’s a special version of this masquerade that we writers put on. Two examples:
I attended a packed reading (I’m talking 300+ people) about a year and a half ago. The author was very well-known, a magnificent nonfictionist who has, deservedly, won several big awards. He also happens to be the heir to a mammoth fortune. Mega-millions. In other words he’s a man who has never had to work one job, much less two. He has several children; I know, because they were at the reading with him, all lined up. I heard someone say they were all traveling with him, plus two nannies, on his worldwide tour.
None of this takes away from his brilliance. Yet, when an audience member — young, wide-eyed, clearly not clued in — rose to ask him how he’d managed to spend 10 years writing his current masterpiece — What had he done to sustain himself and his family during that time? — he told her in a serious tone that it had been tough but he’d written a number of magazine articles to get by. I heard a titter pass through the half of the audience that knew the truth. But the author, impassive, moved on and left this woman thinking he’d supported his Manhattan life for a decade with a handful of pieces in the Nation and Salon.
Example two. A reading in a different city, featuring a 30-ish woman whose debut novel had just appeared on the front page of the New York Times Book Review. I didn’t love the book (a coming-of-age story set among wealthy teenagers) but many people I respect thought it was great, so I defer. The author had herself attended one of the big, East Coast prep schools, while her parents were busy growing their careers on the New York literary scene. These were people — her parents — who traded Christmas cards with William Maxwell and had the Styrons over for dinner. She, the author, was their only beloved child.
After prep school, she’d earned two creative writing degrees (Iowa plus an Ivy). Her first book was being heralded by editors and reviewers all over the country, many of whom had watched her grow up. It was a phenomenon even before it hit bookshelves. She was an immediate star.
When (again) an audience member, clearly an undergrad, rose to ask this glamorous writer to what she attributed her success, the woman paused, then said that she had worked very, very hard and she’d had some good training, but she thought in looking back it was her decision never to have children that had allowed her to become a true artist. If you have kids, she explained to the group of desperate nubile writers, you have to choose between them and your writing. Keep it pure. Don’t let yourself be distracted by a baby’s cry.
I was dumbfounded. I wanted to leap to my feet and shout. “Hello? Alice Munro! Doris Lessing! Joan Didion!” Of course, there are thousands of other extraordinary writers who managed to produce art despite motherhood. But the essential point was that, the quality of her book notwithstanding, this author’s chief advantage had nothing to do with her reproductive decisions. It was about connections. Straight up. She’d had them since birth.
In my opinion, we do an enormous “let them eat cake” disservice to our community when we obfuscate the circumstances that help us write, publish and in some way succeed. I can’t claim the wealth of the first author (not even close); nor do I have the connections of the second. I don’t have their fame either. But I do have a huge advantage over the writer who is living paycheck to paycheck, or lonely and isolated, or dealing with a medical condition, or working a full-time job.
How can I be so sure? Because I used to be poor, overworked and overwhelmed. And I produced zero books during that time. Throughout my 20s, I was married to an addict who tried valiantly (but failed, over and over) to stay straight. We had three children, one with autism, and lived in poverty for a long, wretched time. In my 30s I divorced the man because it was the only way out of constant crisis. For the next 10 years, I worked two jobs and raised my three kids alone, without child support or the involvement of their dad.
I published my first novel at 39, but only after a teaching stint where I met some influential writers and three months living with my parents while I completed the first draft. After turning in that manuscript, I landed a pretty cushy magazine editor’s job. A year later, I met my second husband. For the first time I had a true partner, someone I could rely on who was there in every way for me and our kids. Life got easier. I produced a nonfiction book, a second novel and about 30 essays within a relatively short time.
Today, I am essentially “sponsored” by this very loving man who shows up at the end of the day, asks me how the writing went, pours me a glass of wine, then takes me out to eat. He accompanies me when I travel 500 miles to do a 75-minute reading, manages my finances, and never complains that my dark, heady little books have resulted in low advances and rather modest sales.
I completed my third novel in eight months flat. I started the book while on a lovely vacation. Then I wrote happily and relatively quickly because I had the time and the funding, as well as help from my husband, my agent and a very talented editor friend. Without all those advantages, I might be on page 52. OK, there’s mine. Now show me yours.
”-
Ann Bauer, ““Sponsored” by my husband: Why it’s a problem that writers never talk about where their money comes from”, http://www.salon.com/2015/01/25/sponsored_by_my_husband_why_its_a_problem_that_writers_never_talk_about_where_their_money_comes_from/ (via angrygirlcomics)
This is so important, especially for people like me, who are always hearing the radio station that plays “but you’re 26 and you are ~*~gifted~*~ and you can write, WHERE IS YOUR NOVEL” on constant loop.
It’s so important because I see younger people who can write going “oh yes, I can write, therefore I will be an English major, and write my book and live on that yes?? then I don’t have to do other jobs yes??” and you’re like “oh, no, honey, at least try to add another string to your bow, please believe that it will not happen quite like that”
It’s so important not to be overly impressed by Walden because Thoreau’s mother continued to cook him food and wash his laundry while he was doing his self-sufficient wilderness-experiment “sit in a cabin and write” thing.
It’s so important because when you’re impressed by Lord of the Rings, remember that Tolkien had servants, a wife, university scouts and various underlings to do his admin, cook his meals, chase after him, and generally set up his life so that the only thing he had to do was wander around being vague and clever. In fact, the man could barely stand to show up at his own day job.
It’s important when you look at published fiction to remember that it is a non-random sample, and that it’s usually produced by the leisure class, so that most of what you study and consume is essentially wolves in captivity - not wolves in the wild - and does not reflect the experiences of all wolves.
Yeah. Important. Like that.
(via elodieunderglass)
"From so much self-revising, I’ve destroyed myself. From so much self-thinking, I’m now my thoughts..."
- Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via homo-infimus)
