okay just got done typing up a Long Ass Comment for a fic that i love and bc writers Live™ for comments but a lot of ppl seem to find it difficult/scary to write them, here are some tips from me, who has been on both sides of the fence:
we will nut over literally any context for how u read our fics, nothing is too specific or embarrassing
i once received a long ass essay about the exact circumstances under which someone read the new chapter including action and dialogue and i still treasure that comment to this day
if u read the fic a few days ago and are still thinking about it, open that bitch up and tell the author “i read this fic a few days ago and i’m still thinking about it”
THAT SHIT KILLS US I SWEAR
do not worry about being annoying!!!!! oh my god i can’t overstate this enough you are NEVER being annoying by leaving comments. examples of situations in which comments are Not Annoying:
commenting on every chapter
this is honestly our fav thing, those regular commenters are the real MVPs and i’d die for them. it doesn’t seem thirsty or obnoxious to us it’s our lifeblood i pr omi s e u
also this is guaranteed the #1 best way to get senpai to notice u, if that’s what ur after
adding an extra comment w a thought/detail u missed
adding an extra comment w a thought/detail u remembered from 4 chapters ago
commenting during a reread (this is only ever flattering!!!)
commenting an 800-word essay that takes several solid minutes to read
this seriously never comes across as irritating, time-consuming, or trying too hard; the author is the one who wrote thousands upon thousands of words in the first place and we eat that shit up
(ok i lied, there is one exception to this. the one thing that is annoying is demanding updates, especially if u do it on the same day as an update was published. this makes us sad, avoid this :c)
but aside from that: comments, great, always!!!
acknowledge how hard writers work. every time someone tips their hat to me for the effort i put in, it’s like the 12 hour binges, inability to think about anything else even while sleeping, longggg inspiration walks, and constant self doubt become worth it!!!!
let us know u talk about our fics w ur friends…. this is like, the ultimate compliment……… i’m still lowkey waiting for the day someone pastes an excerpt from a chat log they’ve had about one of my fics because i Know it has happened and i wanna see it……………i wanna know what has been yelled……………..
just say thank u!!! a simple thank you means so much more bc it shows us we have actual readers and not just numbers on a screen sfjdgslksg
Professional hockey players eat 5000-6000 calories per day.
Carbs for energy. So many carbs. Protein for muscle-repair. 12 oz. steaks for breakfast. Six meals a day. Eating even when you’re not hungry, because you must.
Probably not candy or greasy fast food, but fat is fine. Fat is great. Fat is calories. Fat-free yogurt and delicate egg white omelets have no place in this diet.
Bitty comes home from the farmers’ market flushed with success. “I bought a cow,” he announces. Jack peers over the back of the couch, struck, momentarily, with a vision of Bitty coaxing a Jersey cow on a rope through the kitchen door. Perhaps it could live in the guest room?
“That’s, uh,” says Jack. “That’s good?”
“She’s currently an adorable moppet’s 4H project, but she’ll be butchered in June, and delivered in boxes, so I have to go shopping for a chest freezer next weekend. Summer project: I’m going to learn how to make sausage! And you, Mister Calder Memorial—” Bitty points both index fingers at Jack and beams like a maniac, “are going to eat even more protein!”
…bitty, who shows love by feeding people southern home cooking….and jack, who has to eat 5000+ calories a day…the ultimate power couple honestly
Honestly my favorite part of this post tho is the idea that Jack was totally prepared to accept that a live cow was going to be living in his guest room.
Remember when we had to read fanfiction on our desktops… Not even laptops. having to get get plopped down in the family computer room to pull up your naruto and yugioh self insert stories on lunaescence archives and fanfiction dot net with god & everyone watching you.
(this wants with all its heart to be a multichapter fic but i need instant gratification sooo)
He likes to read.
He likes to read and Kent likes him, and he really doesn’t know what to do about this fact.
Kent ran into him – well, ran past him, really – on a morning jog, in a usually deserted area of the community park where trees have been planted and are carefully watered to give the appearance of a verdant, lush grove in the middle of sunny, dusty Nevada. He was standing against a tree and reading, and when Kent jogged back to ask what he was doing, the man laughed and pointed to his book. Walden.
Kent’s never read it. The man shrugs. “It’s about a man who gave up his whole life to go live in the woods,” he says. “I used to go to Walden Pond and re-read it once a summer. But now I’m here and, well… this is as close to the woods as I can get.”
His name is James. He’s a high school English teacher. He shakes Kent’s sweaty hand and asks his name, what he does for a living.
Kent blinks at him hard. “You…” he starts. He was about to say, you don’t know?
“Me? You do me?” James cracks a smile. “Is that a pick-up line?”
His smile is sunny, and Kent breaks a little bit inside. He finds himself quickly enough to say, “Would it work?”
Part 1, 7k, zimbits, homophobia warning, generally fluffy though, Samwell Men’s Hockey Team
Okay, so back to this Dan Erikson guy.
It’s three years after he wrote his article on Jack Zimmermann’s college experience and, look, he’s generally too busy to obsessively stalk one hockey player because his day job involves roaming the country and doing all the feel good stories that go on that last page of Sports Illustrated, but every once and awhile, he takes a night to watch Jack’s interviews and he’s not looking for clues, per se but…
Well, he is a journalist. And the answer to the unspoken question of the Blond boy in all the photographs itches at him. Because… journalist.
So for three years now, he sort of drawn his own conclusions. He notices how Jack never brings a date to events and he finds the blog of a certain Southern Baker and notes how there is an abrupt shift from sadness to ‘barely contained glee’ after graduation. And he notices that the “friend’s kitchen” Bitty shoots his most recent videos at is very nice. Very spacious. And so when Dan Erikson gets told that the Falconers want to meet with him (and that they asked for him by name), he has a flash of “they know I have been stalking Jack Zimmermann and I am about to be sued,” which, frankly, makes no sense but he still shows up to the meeting in his best suit and manages to look like a nervous idiot in front of all the publicity interns and if he thought it was bad then, it’s nothing compared to when he is shown into a conference room.
Because Jack Zimmermann is already there. Like… in the room.
It’s a good thing 50% of a journalist’s job is acting neutral in the face of anything because that’s all that keeps Dan from freaking out. But he manages. Admirably if he does say so himself. He shakes hands with George and then with someone from the Falconers legal team and then with Jack Zimmermann and they all sit down.
And the legal person- Michelle, he thinks her name is – she jumps in and starts talking about how this information cannot leave the room until written in an official article and they’ve already discussed this with Sports Illustrated and – honestly he sort of stops listening because Jack Zimmermann looks like he does when the Falconers have just won Game 1 of a playoff series. Aka he looks intense and focused and it’s not that he’s unhappy, per se, but he’s not celebrating quite yet.
Also, his fingers drum once against the table before he stops them and that reads as nerves.
Dan wants to tell him he already knows. That he saw the pictures three years ago and he’s suspected and this proves it and he still has no idea what he’s doing here.
Finally, Michelle goes quiet and there’s a beat of silence before:
“I’m gay,” Jack announces. “I’d like you to write the article.”
Dan blinks once because that makes no sense. For good measure he does it again before managing to push a word out. And then that word is simply:
Okay, I’d like a fic where a reporter, maybe for a smaller online publication or maybe someone used to writing Sports Illustrated’s more “personal interest” pieces decides to go back and examine Jack Zimmermann’s college years through his assignments and by interviewing his professors.
So, first and foremost, he has to ask permission because Samwell – well, they’ve never really had this situation before, but professors do keep student’s work on file and they decide that if they get permission from the student (in this case NHL superstar Jack Zimmermann), it is fine for them to show this work to outside parties. (real talk: no idea if this is how this would work, in fact, for thesis papers i think they are automatically available to the public… ANYWAY)
So this reporter (lets call him Dan) asks for Jack’s permission and, honestly, Jack is a little confused by the request but also a little bit excited because no one seems to take his time in college all that seriously and it drives him crazy. So he says yes without thinking about it and figures that the man will get to read a beautiful 30 pages on sports during WWII and maybe there will be a little blurb about it and that will be that.
That is not that. Because Dan here is thorough and after he reads Jack’s thesis (which was much better than he expected and if he’s being honest, he expected some stupid jock paper that passed only because well, what college is going to fail Jack Zimmermann??)- after he reads the thesis, he is interested. He chats with Jack’s thesis advisor who has nothing but great things to say (”Always turned in his drafts on time, took great notes and listened to suggestions, hard working kid, I hear he’s playing some sport now?- oh! you’re a reporter, is he doing well then?”) (sorry, this is a history professor, he probably had no idea who Jack Zimmermann was while he was advising him and less of idea who he is now that he is gone… ah, spacey nerdy history professors, my fave, ANYWAY) and so Dan decides to go seek out more of Jack’s work and talk to more of his professors and this means–
He finds the Photography professor.
And, more than that, because Jack had given him permission (he has the paper and everything!) he is supposed to be allowed to see Jack’s projects. Aka the pictures he turned in for a grade.
And, for the first time, a professor gives him a hard time about letting him see Jack’s work.
people in fanfiction are so good at identifying v specific smells. I literally struggle to identify vanilla when I’m sniffing a candle labelled “VANILLA” how are these kids getting woodsmoke, rain, mint, and a whiff of byronic despair from a fuckin tshirt
Once I read a fic where they were like “he tasted like” and I’m expecting the typical formula (1 cooking ingredient + 1 natural phenomenon + “something uniquely [character name]”) but instead they said “he tasted like mouth” and it was one of the greatest fic moments of my life
click and drag to find out what your shitty fanfiction kiss tastes like
Oops, looks like I’m drowning in another rare pair, so expect ficlets. I’m p sure there’s like 5 other people in the omgcp fandom that ship Snowy/Tater, but we’ll all go down with this ship together, I guess.
Tater
had been pacing behind the couch for the past five minutes, arms gesticulating
wildly as he ranted. Only half of what he said was in English, changing over to
Russian when he wanted to be more detailed about the bodily harm he wished to
inflict upon the guy who had rushed Snowy. It was sweet, but Tater’s voice had
an especially resonant thunder to it when he was angry, and Snowy’s head
throbbed.
“Tater,
can you sit the fuck down? You’re making my head ache worse.” Snowy pressed the
ice pack harder against his head, wanting to release some of the pressure he
felt building up behind his temples.
Tater
froze in his pacing, looking for a moment as if he didn’t know what to do with
himself. Snowy patted the spot on the couch next to him, and Tater sat down
gingerly as to not jostle him. Snowy wasn’t even that hurt, just a bruised head
and split lip, but any injury at all always had Tater being extra careful with
him. His shoulders slumped and he stared down at his hands, looking more like a
chastised puppy than a 6’5” defense-man. Snowy leaned into his side, and Tater
gratefully wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close.
“Hey,”
Snowy said softly, shoulders finally relaxing as Tater ran a soothing hand up
and down his arm, “thanks for sticking up for me today.”
Tater’s
lips dropped into a pout again. “I not even get to punch rat in face. Thirdy pulled
me away.”
Snowy
set down his ice pack so he could lean his head farther into Tater’s shoulder.
He placed his hand on Tater’s chest, and a chill ran through the Russian at the
cold of it. “I know, but it’s the thought that counts. Also, seeing you pull
Parson out from the bottom of a dog pile and shake him around was hot as fuck.”
Tater
brightened, staring down at him with excited brown eyes. “It was?”
Snowy
smiled up at him and nodded, though carefully, as to not disturb his head
wound.
Tater
smiled as well, so bright, always so bright, and nodded to himself. “Next time,
I throw him clear across rink before he can reach you.”
Snowy
laughed into Tater’s shoulder. Tater pressed a soft kiss onto the crown of his
head. “Sounds like a plan, big guy.”
The
hints around Snowy and Tater’s respective apartments were subtle. One wouldn’t
be able to find them if they didn’t know where to look. Still, they were there,
those little pieces of evidence that showed just how much time they spent at
each other’s places.
There
was gold cleaner in a cabinet in Snowy’s bathroom. The gold chain that Tater
took off only to shower and to sleep was one of the few things he brought with
him from Russia. It was his grandfather’s, and he was meticulous in its care.
In
Snowy’s bathroom was also Tater’s preferred stick of deodorant, and in Tater’s
there was a pencil of Snowy’s brand of eyeliner. Tater also hadn’t owned a blow-dryer
until Snowy started staying over.
Snowy’s
dog, who he’d rescued from the pound and Tater had named Puck (“Like a hockey
puck?” Snowy had asked incredulously. Tater had laughed, a big, booming thing. “Yes,
but also like Midsummer Night’s Dream. Your favorite, no?”) had both a Snowden
and a Mashkov Falconers jersey. In public they joked that Tater had gotten his
own jersey for Puck and would sneak him into it whenever some of the team was
over, but in truth Snowy had gotten it for him. When he was especially missing
Tater, usually when he went back to Russia to visit family, Snowy would put his
own Mashkov jersey on and the two of them would match.
Tater
was probably also Puck’s favorite human. His runs were longer than Snowy’s, and
he gave the best belly rubs. Puck was a small dog, and Tater had no problem
carrying him around like he was a baby. He loved it, tongue lolling out of his
mouth happily while his big brown eyes gazed adoringly up at Tater. Snowy
sometimes wondered if he looked the same, when Tater would pick him up against
his will and carry him around the house. He hoped not.
In a
drawer of the bedside table at Snowy’s apartment was one of Tater’s favorite
children’s books in Russian. On nights that he was over and they weren’t
exhausted from a game and Snowy could feel his love for this man swelling in
his chest he would ask Tater to teach him more Russian. He would lean back
against Tater’s chest in bed with the book spread out in front of them, spine
creaky and letters large, and Tater would go over the Cyrillic alphabet with
him and teach him a few words. Sometimes his pronunciation would cause Tater to
smother laughter into his hair, but Snowy didn’t mind much. He blatantly
laughed in Tater’s face every time he said “pumpernickel” and “discipline”
anyway.
There
was one of Snowy’s extra large coffee mugs in Tater’s cabinet, for when they
had to pull themselves out of bed for morning practice. Snowy kept his back up
anti-depressants in this mug, shoved to the back of the cabinet so no one would
find them, but relevant enough to his morning routine that he wouldn’t usually forget
them.
Forgetful
days were hard, made him feel like he was being crushed by the weight of the melancholy
in his chest, made it hard to breathe. Tater usually noticed quickly, but there
wasn’t much he could do in public. He would hover, checking in periodically to
see if Snowy needed a break from everyone. He was especially protective on
those days, checking even well-meaning team mates if they got too close or too
bothersome. He always made it look like an accident, but Snowy knew it was
deliberate.
There
were other days too, days when they had nothing to do and no one to see, when
Snowy could just let himself feel. It was a relief sometimes, to let all the
emotions flow, and he would lay on top of Tater on the couch while Cosmos with Russian subtitles would play
on the TV. They were days tinged with the overabundance of sorrow inside of him
that sometimes needed to leak out, but they were good days all the same. Tater
would pet his head, make sure he ate, and smile at him even when he couldn’t
smile back.
Inside
Snowy’s dresser was a periodically changing t-shirt of Tater’s, given back when
it no longer smelled like him in exchange for another. It was great for lonely
moments, when they had to be apart either due to travel or keeping up
appearances. Tater had a different method, instead forcing a teddy bear in a
Falconers jersey onto Snowy every time he came over. At first Snowy obliged him
if only because of his puppy dog eyes, but eventually it became natural for him
to carry the bear around Tater’s apartment, nuzzling it in attempt to leave
some comfort with his partner. He offered to spray some of his cologne on it as
well, but Tater said he liked the smell better when it was directly from him.
There
were some careless things they always left behind as well, unmatched socks,
ties, books, belts, the occasional toothbrush. There wasn’t much they couldn’t
claim as their own, or write off as left behind after a drunken night spent at
a friend’s house. The things that couldn’t be treated so blasé were well
hidden, but even so they were good friends, everyone knew that. There was
nothing that couldn’t be explained in some way, so they left pieces of
themselves behind for the other to find, to look at, to love, and felt so much
closer for it. In a way it was almost domestic, and it was certainly love.
I agree, all men should learn about women’s sexuality by reading My Immortal.
Hi friend! Foz here. Just a couple of points:
– I’ve specified good fanfiction in literally the first tweet. While this is, obviously, a value judgement wherein YMMV, My Immortal is famous for being arguably the most terrible fanfic ever written, and is therefore demonstrably not what I’m talking about. Similarly, I’ve seen other responses to this post bring up 50 Shades, which, despite its popularity in mainstream circles, is pretty much universally regarded as being not just terrible fanfic, but an excruciatingly bad and dangerously inaccurate portrayal of BDSM that romanticises abuse. So no: these are not the droids you’re looking for.
– Here’s the thing, though: you already knew that. The decision to respond to this post with a flippant reference to a fic that’s notorious precisely because of its poor quality is exactly why I used up precious Twitter characters to specify good fanfic, even though I shouldn’t have had to. Every mode of artistic expression is composed of good, bad and mediocre works, but when it comes to genres that are traditionally viewed as less worthy or literary – like fanfiction, or romance – we have a reflexive tendency to conflate the bad with the whole, such that the good is implied to be either exceptional or nonexistant. I specified that I’m talking about good fanfiction, not because I think such fics are an exalted minority, but to pre-emptively combat the assertion that they are, and then you’ve gone and made it anyway. So, thanks for that.
– But while we’re on the subject of quality, let’s make a very important distinction. Though fanfic is a largely unmediated medium, it’s not bad; it’s amateur, in the very literal, dictionary-definition sense of engaging or engaged in without payment; non-professional. While there’s a stereotype that lots of ficwriters are teenage girls – which, why is that always wielded as an insult? oh right, misogyny, carry on – a lot of us are, in fact, grown-ass adults of varying genders, some of whom also happen to write professionally in other contexts; like me, for instance. I’ve read fanfics that are unquestionably as good as, if not better than, many professionally published works I’ve read, some I’ve simply enjoyed or felt meh about, and others where I’ve mounted up on my Nopetopus and ridden off into the sunset after the first paragraph. It’s a grab bag, is what I’m saying, but if you think that’s an inherently different spectrum of enjoyment over quality than applies to any other medium, then I’d politely invite you to reconsider the matter.
– In conclusion: fanfic might not be your bag, but it has its own culture of editing, collaboration, publication, criticism and dissemination, its own conventions and subversions of same, its own extensive history and trope awareness, and, yes, its near-unique status as a medium invested in female sexual desire. That doesn’t mean there aren’t other things straight dudes can do to learn the mystical ways of What Women Want like, oh, say, talking to them, always bearing in mind that women are not a goddamn hivemind, but given that there are a frightening number of guys out there whose first or primary exposure to any type of porn is whatever degrading mainstream het they can scrouge up for free without virusing the hell out of their PCs, then yeah: I’m gonna go out on a fucking limb and suggest they maybe balance it out with some fanfic.
This might be the best summary of the power of fan fiction and its inherent lessons about women’s sexuality that I’ve ever seen.
And if you look to your left you’ll see a well written, well thought out piece “In Defence of Fanfiction”.
I LOVE THIS SO SO MUCH
“ends in cuddling/conversation” this made me cry. I just want to be cuddled and be able to talk about things after, not left on my own. (goals for the future i guess?)
just moving along like everyone else 