Julia Neugarten's Blog, page 3
September 10, 2017
World Suicide Prevention Day 2017
On the other hand, I don’t want to forget. I don’t ever want to fully leave behind the things I went through in 2015. I don’t want to forget how fragile and precious my mental health is, I don’t ever want to take it for granted, and I think you shouldn’t either. So I decided to turn to my blog.
Once again it’s time for me to get on social media and fundraise. I’ve said it before, I’ll no doubt say it again, but someone, somewhere in the world, dies of suicide every 40 seconds. That’s way too many people, every single minute.
Two years ago, I thought I would one day be one of those people. I used to look at the clock, I used to watch 40 seconds tick away and wonder how many more 40-second intervals I would endure before I took up my poison of choice. I never did, and I’m grateful for that every day.
The thing is, for me, a 40-second interval was always doable. If you can survive 40 seconds at your very worst, you can survive the 40 that come after that, and the 40 after that, and a thousand more seconds. Eventually, I promise you will stop counting in those infuriating 40-second intervals. You might move on to counting in episodes of Lost, as I did, and then to counting in croissants, or hugs from your friends and your family. You might count in sleepless nights for a while, or rainstorms or something else that fills you with sadness and despair
But now it’s 2017, and I find myself counting in smiles and kisses and all the other precious moments that are worth staying for. Please stay. It will probably be the hardest thing you’ll ever do, but it will also be the most worthwhile.
You should be proud of yourself for every 40 seconds. You should be proud of every moment where you actively decide to keep breathing, even if you just… don’t want to. I’m definitely proud of you already, and I promise it will be worth it.
Please donate to this worthy cause if you can: https://give.classy.org/FrenziedFangirl
If you need help getting through the next 40 seconds, try listening to the soundtrack of Dear Evan Hansen.
July 6, 2017
Happy International Kissing Day
Oscar Wilde: “the curve of your lips rewrites history”
You got that right. Today, July 6th 2017, is International Kissing Day. The perfect time for Frenzied Fangirl to list some of her favorite kisses in pop culture. Why? Well why the hell not?
For a fuller experience, check out the playlist I made of all my favorite songs about kissing.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES IS MY BEST FRIEND LILA TO ENTER THIS BLOG POST. IT HAS MANY WONDERFUL SCENES IN IT THAT SHE STILL NEEDS TO EXPERIENCE IN THEIR FULL GLORY, NOT CHOPPED UP INTO GIFS.
Lila, love, the first one is Dean & Rory – Gilmore Girls. You know it already. Do not click the “Read more” link!
Josh & Donna – The West Wing
The only reason this is my fave is because I had to wait for it for seven seasons. Nothing else is special about it. I had hoped for a Sorkinesque climax of romantic banter.
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Jordan & Danny – Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
When I say “Sorkinesque climax of romantic banter,” this is exactly what I mean.
Hermione & Ron – Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows (Part II)
I know Harry Potter isn’t primarily about romance. I wasn’t born yesterday. But I want to bet I wasn’t the only one who squealed a little squeal of joy in the movie theatre when this scene took place. Haters gonna hate, but I think Hermione and Ron are perfect for each other.
Ned & Chuck – Pushing Daisies
This will forever remain my bittersweet OTP. It had so much unfulfilled potential in every sense of the phrase. I’m still keeping my fingers crossed for a Netflix revival. Stranger things have happened.
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Benny & Joon
This was my favorite movie as a tween, and it still holds a special place in my heart. First of all, Benny & Joon gives an excellent, truthful portrayal of mental illness. Of course, my 11-year-old self wasn’t very aware of that, but it also has Johnny Depp being a complete cutiepie. And this scene is just the epitome of sweetness.
The Princess Bride by William Goldman
I wouldn’t be Frenzied Fangirl if I didn’t also have some written kisses in my list. My favorite is this one:
“Since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.”
Jamie & Claire – Outlander
Not the sweetest kiss. Not even the most romantic. But definitely the sexiest.
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The Kiss by Sara Teasdale (my favorite poem about kissing)
I hoped that he would love me,
And he has kissed my mouth,
But I am like a stricken bird
That cannot reach the south.
For though I know he loves me,
To-night my heart is sad;
His kiss was not so wonderful
As all the dreams I had.
Lito & Hernando on the beach – Sense8
And here is my current all-time favorite kiss: Lito & Hernando on the beach in L.A. If you look for the phrase “OTP” in the dictionary, this is what you’ll find. Never has a fictional couple been this perfect for each other. They’re so in love, they’re mutually supportive, they’re smart, they’re funny, and they are the sexiest. Most importantly, they have a hell of a lot of fun together, as you can see in this scene.
Happy international kissing day, everyone, and don’t forget to kiss the people you love today!
June 26, 2017
Becky’s Bookshelf: Required Reading For Fangirls
Fic by Anne Jamison
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Fic is an incredible book by an incredible author. Anne Jamison is a professor of English at the University of Utah. She holds a PhD from Princeton, and she’s written an entire book about fanfiction and the way it’s changing the landscape of literature and culture. Apart from a number of surprising insights into the world of publishing and internet fandom, I also got an endless list of to-read fics from this book.
Get your very own copy here:
Fic: Why Fanfiction Is Taking Over the World [image error]
Harry, A History: The True Story of a Boy Wizard, His Fans and Life Inside the Harry Potter Phenomenon by Melissa Anelli
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I loved this book because it really made me feel part of a gang. This is the book that made me aware there is a huge community of Potterheads out there in the world. It is also the book that showed me the kind of power such a community can have. Just think about the Harry Potter Alliance and all the good it does. Think about the way J.K’s stories have helped people fight loneliness and isolation. Think about how they’ve helped us fight inequality and discrimination. There are so many things these book taught me about the nature of love and friendship, and the community Harry has inspired continues to teach me valuable life lessons every day. Plus: the title is a play on Hogwarts: A History, arguably Hermione’s favorite book. What more could you possibly want?
Buy Harry: A History here. [image error]
The Sherlock Chronicles by Steve Tribe
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Okay, so this book is less about the power of fandom in general and more aimed at Sherlockians specifically. But what fangirl isn’t also a Sherlockian these days? I have yet to meet one. The big selling point of this book is the way it looks: a shiny hardback filled with beautiful pictures. But the reason I decided to treat myself to a copy is because of the insights this book provides into the making-of Sherlock. Yes, you have to be pretty deep into fandom to care about production stills and all that stuff, but if you are, this is the book for you.
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Buy Sherlock: Chronicles here. [image error]
Fangasm: Supernatural Fangirls by Lynn Zubernis and Katherine Larsen
Maybe I shouldn’t recommend this book, because I haven’t read it myself yet. However, since this is Becky’s bookshelf, I did want to represent the Supernatural-fandom on this list, and Fangasm has been on my to-read list for ages. As you can see, th
is is another book researched by college professors cum fangirls, otherwise known as aca-fans.
Buy Fangasm here. [image error]
Fangirl and Carry On by Rainbow Rowell
This is a complicated thing to explain. Fangirl is a book about a girl who is internet-famous as a writer of fanfiction, but struggles with social anxiety in real life. It’s a lovely read. Also, the fandom she writes for is not a real one (I presume for copyright reasons), but it is very much like Harry Potter. The fandom is called Simon Snow, and it’s about a young boy who goes to a Magic School in England. Do you see the parallels yet?
When Fangirl became widely successful, author Rainbow Rowell published a spin-off book, which was called Carry On. Carry On was all about Simon Snow and his World of Mages. On another level, it was an innovative homage to and critique of the Harry Potter series. And it is an LGBT romance. Go. Read.
Buy Fangirl here, and buy Carry On here.[image error] I’m struggling to resist the beautiful new paperback edition. The cover is gorgeous. I will probably end up buying one although I already own a hardcover with dust jacket. Why am I this nerdy?
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June 15, 2017
Prospects & Presumptions: The Ebook
Ladies & Gents,
My 2014 novella Prospects & Presumptions is now available as an ebook. You can buy it through Amazon here.
As a special treat I’ve decided to publish an excerpt on this blog. Enjoy!
Part I: Northing Cottage
It is generally considered rude to wake people with bad news. However, like most unpleasant things, bad news usually has unpleasant timing. That is why Mr Porter came to Northing Cottage that night. He dismounted, wiped the rain from his brow and knocked on the door. Northing was a small house that could, with a great deal of cramming and good manners, lodge five people at most, and so it often did. This particular evening, however, it housed only three.
Mrs Kingston, a woman cursed with a troubled mind most plagued in the small hours of stormy winter nights, was at the door of the cottage in seconds. As Mr Porter handed her a letter scarcely a word was spoken. Only when she’d taken in the full content of the message did Mrs Kingston scream. It was a scream that pierced straight through the creaky, draughty walls of Northing and it roused Lily, the eldest Miss Kingston, within moments. Alarmed, Lily abandoned her bed in favour of the drawing room.
It was such an action that best illustrates our heroine’s character. Although she was neither rash nor thoughtless, Lilianne Kingston never hesitated to investigate the reason for any night-time disturbance, and she was just inquisitive enough to do so in nothing but her evening gown. She was a sturdy seventeen year old girl, blessed with none of her sister’s delicate features but all the more pleasing in spirits. Her hair was too red to be described as fair but too fair to be described as red, and at the present moment unruly wisps of it tickled her in the neck.
Skipping over the fifth step because it was known to creak, Lily made her way downstairs and came to the entrance hall. Her mother sat on the small stool placed there, paler than her customary restlessness warranted, unmoving but for soft sobs that shook her shoulders gently. In the door stood Mr Porter, dark curly hair dangling down his forehead, a pained expression on his face. The entrance hall was tiny, and awkwardly full with three people there as well as a small table with a vase on it.
Surprised and humiliated to be seen in her nightgown, Lily quickly crossed her arms over her chest and looked resolutely at the floor as she said, “Good evening, Mr Porter.”
He did not acknowledge her words with any of his own and only nodded. It was a brief nod, and it made rain drip further down his face. She found it to be quite an annoying sort of gesture. She wished she had not worn quite so flimsy a nightgown. It was, after all, a cold night. Why had she chosen this particular night to not wear warmer pyjamas?
For some time, the only sound in the room was made by the rain on the windowpanes. At long last, Mrs Kingston excused herself in order to wake Mr Kingston. She walked, trembling, towards the doorway.
Faced with the prospect of being left alone with Mr Porter, Lily did not dare break the oppressive silence. He, sensitive to her confusion and embarrassment, was equally quiet. Then Mrs Kingston turned around in the doorway, in an embarrassed tone voiced the impropriety of what she had almost done and asked Lily to go fetch Mr Kingston instead.
Within moments Lily returned, accompanied by her father. Mr Kingston, an older man with white hair in small tufts on his head, was as flushed with colour as his wife was pale. He was a benevolent man, never one to scold his daughters for anything improper because he was secure in the knowledge that his wife would do so when necessary. Lily had never seen him quite as anxious before. He took Mr Porter’s letter from his wife’s hands and looked it over quickly.
“My dear,” he said at last, addressing his eldest daughter, “it is my grave displeasure to inform you that your sister has married Mr Bright not three hours ago.”
June 14, 2017
Prospects & Presumptions Now An Ebook!
It's is with greatest pride and deepest pleasure that I proudly present...
Prospects & Presumptions as an Ebook!
Head over to Amazon to buy your very own copy today!
Purchase link: http://amzn.to/2sBmRYW
June 7, 2017
Smurrie
With apologies to my English friends and readers, I’d like to share a short story of mine written in Dutch. It was published in Babel Magazine this month, a publication affiliated with the Humanities Department of the University of Amsterdam.
The illustration is by the talented Winona van den Bosch
Attached to this story comes an interesting tale of its production: I originally wrote it last year, when I was reading Neil Gaiman’s excellent bundle of short stories, Trigger Warning, and wanted to try my hand at something similar. This year, I sent the story in to be judged for the Harland Awards, where it was ranked at the very bottom. The judges did not like it one bit. Naturally, I was discouraged, so it was with some apprehension that I ended up sending Smurrie in to Babel. WhatI’m trying to say is that this story taught me something about being a writer, or an aspiring writer. Never give up.
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Text available under the cut.
Van het ene op het andere moment zat ik vol smurrie. Van buiten zag je niks, maar ik voelde het dikke stroperige spul klotsen in mijn binnenste. Ik was een ballon vol modderig water. Ik bewoog niet, want ik dacht dat de smurrie dan naar buiten zou druipen uit mijn neus en mijn mond en mijn ogen en mijn oren. Mijn hand een grijze veeg achter op de deurklink.
Ik fietste naar de huisarts. Met elke beweging voelde ik mijn binnenste klotsen, zwart en vloeibaar waar stevig vlees en botten en bloed hadden moeten zitten. ‘Och ja’, zei de dokter. Zijn ogen waren groot en bloeddoorlopen. Hij maakte een paniekerig gebaar met zijn handen, en ik concludeerde dat ik niet mocht gaan zitten. Ik keek hem aan, voelde mijn ogen dobberen in de prut onder mijn huid. ‘Ja, het is smurrie.’ Zover was ik ook al wel. ‘Valt er wat aan te doen?’ Hij schudde meewarig het hoofd: ‘Het lijkt me beter als je nu weggaat.’
De volgende ochtend raakte het doucheputje verstopt met smurrie die van mij af was gedruppeld. Ik behandelde de afvoer met gootsteenontstopper, maar het mocht niet baten: het putje was geen putje meer. Ik draaide de douche dicht voordat hij kon overlopen. De smurrie leek nu wel door mijn huid heen te dringen, bijtend als zuur maar zonder wonden te maken. Het sijpelde door me heen, en ik voelde dat ik vol gaten zat. Ik was bang dat er een vlieg zou binnenkomen. Een vlieg zou zo door de smurrie heen bij mij naar binnen kunnen vliegen, en gaan zoemen in mijn hoofd. Het ging niet snel genoeg. In mij groeide de smurrie, werd hij dikker en zwaarder, maar de afvoer schoot niet op. Alleen het dunne residu, het grijze, waterige spul, kwam eruit. Ik begon op te zwellen, mijn huid trekkerig en klam. Ieder moment kon ik als een overrijpe vrucht of een overvolle ballon uit elkaar spatten.
In het middelste laatje van mijn bureau lag een mes. Een stanleymes dat ik gebruikte om stoffen mee te snijden, voordat ik ze onder de naaimachine omtoverde in zachte pastelkleurige niemendalletjes, die je absoluut niet met vieze vingers hoorde aan te raken. Zeker niet als je zo vies was als ik, van binnen en van buiten.
Het was zwaar om mezelf erheen te hijsen. Het was bijna onmogelijk om met mijn worstvingers het laatje open te trekken. Het handvat werd gitzwart van mijn vingertoppen, alsof ik een fles inkt had omgestoten. Daar lag het mesje. Ik brak het botte uiteinde van het lemmet af en testte de scherpe kant op mijn vingertop. Waar een vuurrode druppel bloed had moeten opwellen verscheen een zwarte vlek. Ik kon er niet te lang naar kijken. Het was een wormgat. Mijn eigen lichaam ging me verslinden. Het moest eruit. Ik moest eruit. Ik zette de punt van het mes op mijn huid, precies op de ader op mijn pols, en trok het mes naar beneden richting de holte van mijn elleboog.
Het bloedde niet. Ik dacht aan moeders, op het moment dat hun eerste kind geboren wordt, op het moment dat hun lichaam zich verder opent dan ze ooit voor mogelijk hielden. De smurrie baande zich een weg naar buiten, nu verbazingwekkend samenhangend. Het sijpelen van de afgelopen uren was verleden tijd. De smurrie was een grote massa geworden, vaag langs de randen en verstuivend in de lucht als de pollen van een bloem, zonder dat de deeltjes ooit losraakten van elkaar.
Ik zuchtte diep toen het hele gedrocht zich van mij had losgemaakt. Mijn handen waren weer wendbaar en smal. Ik pakte het boek op waar ik al in had willen lezen sinds de hele ellende begonnen was, maar kon het niet lezen. De woorden, glashelder voor mijn scherpe ogen, hadden geen betekenis meer. Ik had mijn ziel losgesneden.
Geheel zonder afschuw of angst keek ik toe hoe mijn smurrie zich een weg baande door mijn kamer, langs en onder en door alles heen. Het druppelde met gemak onder de kier van mijn deur door, mijn ouders en mijn zusje tegemoet. Ik kon niets doen om hen te redden. Ik was dood.
June 1, 2017
Sense8…… CANCELLED!?
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The first stage of grief, as you know, is denial. Is this a hoax? Is Netflix on some sick power-trip? Are they going to up their monthly rates and is this an attempt to show us how reliant we’ve become on them? Because if so, it’s working. I’m biting my nails to the quick and tearing my hair out and one wrong comment away from crying. No kidding. They don’t call me Frenzied Fangirl for nothing.
And the reason I’m sad isn’t even primarily that I won’t get to see any more of my favorite cluster, although, after last seasons cliffhanger that breaks my heart. I’m dying to see how Nomi and Neets organize their wedding. I’m dying to see what Kala’s shady husband is up to. I’m dying to know how we’re going to rescue Wolfgang, and what we’re going to do with Whispers now we’ve got his sneaky ass caught. I want justice of Sun Bak. I want Capheus to be elected president and I want to see Lito achieve commercial success as an openly gay man. Is that too much to ask?!
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But that’s not the main reason I’m sad. I’m sad because this television show was a game-changer for the entertainment industry and I’m afraid its cancellation has brought us back to square one. I’m sad because of what Sense8 means to me, and to countless other people who have felt like they were other for most of their lives. I’m sad because Nomi was shoved under boiling hot water for being trans, and I’m sad because Lito’s career has somehow become threatened by his sexual orientation, and I’m sad because Nigerian politics are corrupt and because the world is full of sexism and racism and homophobia. I’m sad because sometimes, sometimes, just for a little while, Sense8 made me believe that a strong sense of community, empathy and mutual understanding could overcome these hateful phenomena. Tonight I mourn a show that gave me a sense of empowerment and agency and belonging.
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Nomi: Your life is either defined by the system or the way you defy the system.
Sense8 was cancelled tonight, but in a thousand ways it’s only just beginning. For me, this show was the opening salvo in a long-lasting war against bigotry and hatred, which will be battled in terms of television and books and songs and comics and any type of media we deem useful. I will miss Sense8 because it reminded me of the political power of stories, and that power is not something Netflix can cancel.
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May 17, 2017
Trigger Warning: Broccoli
(The first anniversary of this blog reminded me I’ve been neglecting it a little. Forgive me. The end of the school year is approaching and the weather is much too nice to stay inside and write. Okay, okay. I’ll write outside more. Be patient with me.)
Trigger warning for discussion of suicide and anxiety attacks
Recently, I was triggered by something I saw in a seminar. This occurrence made me aware of the misunderstandings surrounding the words ‘trigger’ and ‘trigger warning.’ I’ll endeavor to shed some light on them for you today. What happened was this:
For a module on affect studies we examined some examples of shame in popular culture. An obvious example was the 2011 film Shame directed by Steve McQueen, starring Michael Fassbender and Carey Mulligan. There was a scene towards the end of the movie that triggered an anxiety attack in me.
From here on out, this blog post contains spoilers for the film Shame.
In the film, Fassbender plays a sex-addict, and Mulligan plays his sister who is starved for affection. The atmosphere of the entire film is gloomy and depressing, full of emotionless, robotic sex scenes that seem hollow and sad. Towards the end of the film, the sister attempts suicide. She cuts her wrists, and Fassbender finds her. The scene is intended to shock: he opens the bathroom door, she’s smudged the shiny white tiles of the floor with the bright red blood gushing from her slashed wrists. He screams and clutches her limp body. The sister survives, but it’s a close call.
It’s worth mentioning that I feel personally sympathetic towards Carey Mulligan. In her 2009 film An Education I identified with her character greatly. I loved her performance in The Great Gatsby. When she recorded a number of songs with my favorite band Belle & Sebastian for their album Write About Love, I was awed and envious in equal measure. In Shame, her character is a young woman with mental health issues struggling to make a living as an artist. The parallels are obvious.
So when I saw her enact a graphic suicide attempt, no matter how fictional, I freaked out. It was like time stopped for a moment. Oxygen left the room. I looked around me, but no one else appeared disturbed. I couldn’t move and so I didn’t. As soon as the scene was over I left the classroom. I don’t remember cycling home, but I’m sure I did, because as soon as I was through the front door, the panic attack set in. I’m not describing a panic attack to you in detail because I can’t, but there’s crying and hyperventilating involved and it feels like you’re dying. In other words: not fun.
My dad came down the stairs to calm me, and eventually he did. Afterwards, I was completely exhausted. The weird amounts of oxygen I’d been breathing and the dehydration from the crying had given me a headache. I slept for the rest of the afternoon, and for over twelve hours during the night. The next day, I skipped class in order to recuperate. Recuperate is a word that here means: “lounge around in my pj’s, pet the pets and watch a bunch of Disney movies.” All in all, I missed two and a half classes because of this incident, and when I went back to class on Thursday I was still feeling shaky.
Trigger warnings in academia have been a hotly debated issue for quite some time now: if we put trigger warnings on things that are potentially upsetting, don’t we risk making people complacent? Won’t it hinder critical thinking if no one is ever confronted with things that may offend or shock them? Are trigger warnings an infringement on freedom of speech? No. And this is where the broccoli metaphor comes into play.
I hate broccoli. I think it is bitter and the texture is gross and it ruins any dish it’s involved in. But I was raised with the awareness that vegetables are good for you and so I’ll occasionally eat broccoli with only a bare minimum of complaint. The things that offend you are like broccoli. Freud is like broccoli: his phallocentrism annoys me to no end, but I am aware that reading Freud is an integral part of an education in critical theory, and so I’ll read him with only a minimum of complaint. Although the sexist implications of his writings bother me, they do not trigger me.
Now imagine if I was allergic to peanuts. If I ate a peanut I would go into shock and without medical attention I would die. If Freud is like broccoli, like a minor inconvenience, then triggers are like peanuts: potentially lethal. But, you say, peanuts are a central ingredient in the Indonesian cuisine: how can you eat sate without peanut-sauce? I do that because I don’t have a choice: the consequences of diversity and well-roundedness, in this case, would be disastrous. Because personally I think missing almost two days of classes is a pretty nasty price to pay.
Furthermore, I am not triggered by depictions of suicide because they are outside the realm of the imaginable for me. I’m not having an averse reaction to something because it is so alien to me. I’m having an intensely averse reaction because suicidal ideation, for me, is so intensely familiar. When I saw Carey Mulligan crumpled on the floor, my first thought was that that looked nice and peaceful. I remembered being depressed enough to desire death, and that thought is what upset me.
The trigger also did not occur because I have failed to deal with my depression. I am no longer in the midst of a mental illness, and it is not a weakness on my part that this has such a huge impact on me. Any cultural object, be it film, TV or writing, attempts to invoke a feeling of understanding in its audience. I’m especially susceptible to this identification by nature, because I’m very empathic, sometimes even too empathic. I’m especially susceptible to sympathizing with suicidal ideation because I have personal experience with it. A certain setting (in this case, a viewing of Shame in a public setting) bring the depressive side of me to the surface. And I’m not ashamed of trying to avoid that kind of needless suffering. That’s why I’m advocating trigger warnings.
Please note that the title of this blogpost was not meant to make light of trigger warnings, only to catch your attention and introduce the comparison I made. And hey, if you made it all the way down to this note at the bottom, that must have worked.
April 14, 2017
Slash
You sigh. You roll your eyes. “Hasn’t Frenzied frickin’ Fangirl written enough about slash by now?” you ask. Maybe I have. But this time Slash is the title of a film I’ve just seen, and I’m here to tell all y’all that it rocks. As always, I have a few critical notes, but they’re not many.
So here’s the gist: Neil, the protagonist of Slash, writes slash for the fictional fandom of Vanguard. When his composition notebook is stolen (this is why we never take our attempts at writing erotica with us to school, children!) he accidentally befriends Julia, also a slash writer. Sidenote to people that know me IRL: There is a Julia in this film who writes gay fanfic, wears lots of t-shirts with cats on them and is an avid feminist. Sound familiar? I thought so. Julia encourages Neil to put his fic online, and when he does it soon becomes so successful that Neil is asked to do a reading at Comic Con. Then some other stuff happens that I won’t tell you for the sake of spoilers.
What I loved about this film: it’s about fandom, and more specifically: fanfic. It beautifully portrays the tensions within fandom that arise when old school fans are confronted with newcomers. Its full of in-jokes from RPF to curtain fic. It’s super open and honest about non-hetero sexual orientations.
What I didn’t love so much: Why is the protagonist a white guy? (SPOILER ALERT: He’s also kind of straight in the end), when fanfic is one of the few female-dominated areas of fandom? Why is all the fanfic we get to see in this film absolutely terrible? And I mean adjective-heavy, flowery prose with words like “engorged rod” in them. Why? That’s not an accurate portrayal of the fanfic world at all. Lastly: how is it possible that a guy who has been in fandom for twenty years is only just now finding out about curtain fic? Curtain fic isn’t new; it was already an established genre in the zine-era.
If none of this blogpost made sense to you, don’t go to the cinema for Slash. The film relies heavily on in-jokes and the rest of the plot, the coming-of-age romance of a couple of geeky teenagers, is predictable. If, however, like me, you have a list saved somewhere on your computer of your all-time favorite curtain fic sorted by OTP (and you have a separate list for your RPF-OTPs) get your ass to this movie right this second, because it gives a voice and an audience to a subculture that has been silenced and ridiculed for far too long.
PS: Sorry for rambling.
March 27, 2017
The Elephant In The Room
Once again I want to thank anyone who voted on the Fantastic Story Competition. Even though I didn’t win, I had a wonderful weekend at Dutch Comic Con at Utrecht and it was a great honor to read my short story, The Elephant In The Room, to so many enthusiastic members of the audience. You can now also read my story below. Congratulations to Marjolijn Ahsara and her beautiful story Death’s Diner for their victory.
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The Elephant In The Room
by Julia Neugarten
It was a Tuesday afternoon like any other when Ian Jones-McWorthington-Smith came home to discover an elephant in his living room. He didn’t see the elephant right away, as he was busy putting his groceries in the fridge. Then, quite suddenly, the elephant sneezed. It happened just as Ian was putting the eggs in their rightful place, and one of them slipped out of his hand at the unexpected noise. The egg’s name was Patricia. Faster than you’ve ever fallen before, unless you have previous experience with falling to your death, Patricia made her way towards the linoleum of the kitchen floor. She screamed, but no sound came out because eggs don’t have mouths. As she saw the floor approach she thought, first, that it was a damned shame because she had been the tastiest egg in the carton, then, that it was a good thing not to end up boiled or fried or, heaven forbid, scrambled, and then, in her final moments on this planet, Patricia thought of her mother. Finally, with a dull splat, her shell shattered on the kitchen floor.
Ian looked over the kitchen counter towards the living room and saw the elephant for the very first time. It was a magnificent creature, skin a soft, beautiful grey. It had big floppy ears; African, then. The elephant was about the size you’d expect an elephant to be. Ian’s living room was about the size you’d expect a living room to be in a one-bedroom flat in Hounslow. This posed a problem, because the elephant could hardly even wiggle its tail in the space available to it.
“Hello,” said Ian cheerfully. He had never seen an elephant before.
The elephant didn’t respond. Ian returned to his groceries and dug out a head of lettuce. The elephant extended its trunk, reaching over the kitchen counter, and took the head of lettuce right out of Ian’s hands. Ian chuckled and went to sit down on the couch. It was a complicated process, as he had to crawl between the elephant’s thick paws to reach the sofa, but Ian was not a large man, and the feat was easily accomplished. Lying on his side with his neck tilted at a 45 degree angle, he could even see the telly. Ian and the elephant watched reruns of Doctor Who.
When suppertime came around, Ian went to heat up yesterday’s leftovers. He regretted not having bought more lettuce, but one could hardly plan for the unexpected appearance of an African elephant in the living room. Instead, Ian threw the elephant a loaf of bread and filled the sink with fresh water, so the elephant could quench his thirst by reaching over with its trunk. Before going to bed, he also put down a bucket, placed strategically between the elephant’s hind legs. Almost immediately, the creature took a quite spectacular dump. The turd landed squarely in the middle of the bucket. Ian heaved a sigh of relief and went to take out the rubbish, which now included a rather impressive amount of elephant dung. Just as he was about to fall asleep, Ian realized he wasn’t sure whether elephants slept standing up. He hoped to Heaven that they did.
The next day was Saturday. Ian had a lie in, but he was awoken around eleven when the doorbell rang. The sound did not seem to disturb the elephant. It was Mrs Next-Door, come to lend some eggs for her weekend fry-up. Unfortunately, after Patricia’s untimely demise, the rest of the eggs in the carton had made a suicide pact and launched themselves with remarkable velocity against the refrigerator door, and so Mr Jones-McWorthington-Smith had no eggs to offer. Just as he went to give Mrs. Next-Door the bad news of the eggy suicide pact in his fridge, she spotted the elephant in the room.
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Mrs Next-Door. “Mr Jones-McWorthington-Smith, is that an African elephant in your living room?”
Ian affirmed that yes, indeed, it was.
“What’s his name?” enquired Mrs Next-Door.
This question startled Ian. He hadn’t thought to ask. Sheepishly, he admitted: “I hadn’t thought to ask.”
“Well,” said Mrs Next-Door, looking him over with clear disapproval. “Do. It’s rather impolite, you know. We have a pair of zebra’s in our pantry. Their names are Josh and Donna. Wonderful houseguests.”
Ian nodded, apologized again for his dearth of eggs, and let Mrs Next-Door go.
“What’s your name?” he asked the elephant now, more than a little ashamed at his manners. “David,” said the elephant primly. “Might I have something for breakfast?”
“Of course,” said Ian. “I’ll go to the shops at once. We’re out of eggs, anyway.”
What might we learn from the tale? One should never ignore the elephant in the room, and if one has enough food and shelter to share with others, it would be impolite not to.
