Escaping the FPBH
Oct. 16th, 2006 10:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bowtrunckleI've never done this before.
OK. Well, let me explain first. I'm trying to ease myself back into writing in third person so I can put to rest a couple of these fic chapters I've been working on for far too long. It seems, however, that my brain really likes first person to the point where I get about a paragraph into some of my other projects and suddenly I find myself going off to some strange first person POV place. I dub it the FPBH (the first person black hole): once you're sucked in, it's hard to get out. So last week I decided to just go with the first person impulse.
Additionally, I've been trying really hard to re-focus one just ONE thing ... mainly, Chapter 21. I know I joke about being scattered lately, but honestly this is getting ridiculous.
Um ... so I'm trying to get myself back into the posting/writing groove, hoping that maybe it'll help ALL of my writing along and seriously unstick whatever is stuck. This is the part that I've never done before:
Behind the cut is the preface for a fic I've been working on intermittently for the last year. Normally, I just keep my writing to myself and my betas before attempting to get it posted anywhere. I was hoping to get some honest feedback on this one (maybe that will help to unstick me?). It's a first person POV (well, sort of second person really) and uber-angst (well, angsty for me). I'm not sure exactly what to think about it anymore because I've been looking at it for a while. I think some parts are a bit overdone as in the words are a bit flowery/ornamental or else I'm a bit dramatic to the point where it gets silly (like the end) or likely BOTH. I think that maybe it's a bit dark. Too dark? Does the premise seem cliche? Does the whole thing make you just want to hit the "back" button? Hurl? OK, I don't need to know that exactly.
I was interested in trying to write something a little different, quasi-AU but not really (which is why it's a post-Hogwarts fic). I think AU fics are tossed aside alot, but I happen to really like the creativity associated with them. But maybe they're just written by crazy people like me who are just too scared or too stuck to make up and become attached to original characters so they just take pre-established, safe characters and stuff them into some hybrid HP/quasi-original setting/plot? Oh man, I don't know anymore. *head desk* Sorry, I'm nervous for some reason. I don't know why.
Anyway, I'm thinking that maybe if I just run around in the FPBH for a while, I'll get it all out of my system and then can slowly make my way back to more reader-friendly third person writing and simultaneously regain my focus. If you choose to respond, please be honest. Thanks in advance for any help. :)
***Preface***
To survive was to escape fate. But if you escape your fate, whose life do you then step into?
-Anne Michaels, Fugitive Pieces
I live a stranger’s life. It is as if I’ve simply materialized fully realized into the void vacated by someone who grew tired of their existence and stole mine. Now I am trapped in a foreign reality like a Muggle cosmonaut abandoned on the moon, alone and left staring at the small blue and white pearl that was home.
Sometimes I fantasize that this is really the case; that I’m just the victim of some unjust Voodoo Dark Magic; that someday this can all be reversed. When I’m alone and willing the dreams to come, I imagine a red-headed family of nine congregated in a rickety house with corners that meet at odd angles. The house is in state of harmonious chaos; it’s filled with the sounds of children’s footsteps pounding up and down the stairs. Shrieks, scolding, and bursts of laughter reverberate to its foundations. The floors are littered with Quidditch supplies, folded laundry, and well-used second-hand broomsticks. And among the clutter, loudness, and the plethora of kitchen aromas, there squats the imposter. The thief is basking in my family’s smiles and gentle ribbing and hungrily devouring the life that is rightly mine. I dream of the moment they are discovered and my family bursts through these invisible walls. I dream of returning to my former life. I dream of going home.
But even I know that those silly imaginings are impossible because their once-smiling faces are now owned by a lost past, for they each clasped the out-stretched hands of the inevitable and one-by-one accepted their fates unselfishly. Now their names are tucked between long-buried words of truth, and they’ve passed into the stories of heroic bravery, impossible feats made possible, unwavering faith, inextinguishable love, but most of all magic.
The reality in which life is now framed is devoid of magic. At least for those deemed unworthy: those who are said to be defiled by their own blood, those who have not paid their dues, those who have resisted the magistrates, those who are mere victims of circumstance, and sometimes those who are innocent. But even in this reality there exists hope. And certainly with hope on our side, the truth will resurface … someday.
Until then, truth is only uttered in hushed tones and veiled in secrecy behind drawn windows and locked doors in the mixed-blood ghettos. It’s disguised in songs whispered to the wide-eyed children tucked in their beds so that they are taught what hope is. Now truth is just words that linger in dark corners and like silent ghosts, fragmented and powerless because they exist in isolation. The names of my family and the other forgotten truths are kept like that on purpose because unspoken words are like the sleeping past – if they are not resurrected or joined to something greater they will be forgotten.
And that is what they want.
There are others like me that remember and keep the past hibernating in some carefully concealed place in their minds and the names of the unspoken stored in the back of their throats. You see, words can be powerful when united to represent an idea. When memory catches up with the present and is ignited by determination, it will result in action that will spread like a raging wildfire through the populace. This is why words are banned. In particular, three words that when spoken together comprise a name that once represented faith, love, and hope.
It is a name so infused with promise that it and the stories that claimed him are illegal, the books recounting the rebellion are burned, and those that dare utter his name publicly mysteriously disappear, likely executed or imprisoned in the catacombs snaking under the city. It was the name of the one who we thought could save us. And he did. He saved us from the one we all feared, but he couldn’t prevent the events that transpired after the fall of Voldemort because he was already lost.
We had already sacrificed so much in the struggle that there was little left. The endurance of the Phoenix Fire Alliance, which rose from the ashes of the Order of the Phoenix, had been stretched beyond its tensile strength like a hot wire connecting the past and the present. We clung desperately to hope and willed our efforts to make a difference. We vowed victory in the names of the fallen so that their weighty sacrifices would never be forgotten. We held strong, rallied repeatedly, recruited new members, attempted to infiltrate the ranks of what were once the Death Eaters while simultaneously negotiating with the vestiges of Scrimgeour’s government.
But the Fire Alliance was so busy attending to the obvious that we all missed the signs. By the time the weed had embedded its roots into the soil of society, the Alliance was too weak. The Ministry’s new dark hand silenced our protests and began to systematically smother what remained. It was the beginning of the end for the Light and the birth of the new Dark League.
But even then I did not see it, for my world was stained by the colors of romantic love. I foolishly thought that we could weather anything. Because love does triumph over evil does it not? This was the belief that propelled me though those dark years. That was the tiny sand speck of an island that I clung to as the unstoppable, inevitable, and unrelenting waves of change began to slowly erode what I thought once was unchangeable, impenetrable, and true.
You see, I had convinced myself that the future consisted of something better. Now I understand that the glowing innocence of youth had eclipsed the bold letters that spelled out the facts – the words I knew were there, but refused to read. The facts that clearly told me what my future held because of whom I loved and whom I willingly chose to surround myself with. The facts that arranged themselves around the unassuming raven-haired, emerald-eyed love of my life.
Back then life smelled of my mum’s cinnamon-creamed honey and sunshine and was filled with the feel of his cotton shirts against my skin and those shy, lop-sided grins. But that was before the fall from the tower, before the war had christened us adults, before the weight of responsibility hung heavy from our necks. That was before everything changed. Yet, even with all that has happened, I would do exactly the same thing, and I believe that the others would, too. The only regret I have is letting him go. If only…
A perverse part of me is almost relived he cannot see what has become of his sacrifice, and that he doesn’t know about the dark and twisted weed that has sprouted from the ashes of our fight. I'm glad he cannot bare witness that the wizarding world has been depraved and overrun by nefarious wizards with twisted ideologies and palates for gold, authority, and prestige. But most of all I am thankful he cannot see what I have become.
A lifetime ago I was a different person.
I cheated destiny by reverting my fate, and she has awarded me with this life – her just revenge. How ironic. Now I struggle to find my place and to make sense of my new life. I stare at myself in the mirror in mute wonder, touching my face to make sure that I am real. But the mirror does not lie. Beneath the jewels, rouge, elaborate up-do’s, and expensive suits and gowns reflecting off its silvery surface is a traitor, a fake, a liar, a coward. I am the imposter. I am the thief. I am the one who has robbed me of the irreplaceable.
Freedom. Love. My family. Him.
Regret and guilt have slowly eroded my soul, and now there exists a chasmal hole that is as expansive as time is unstoppable. Sometimes I wish for it all to end. But then I remember everything we fought for, our vow, and the pounding in my chest quells. I reinforce my resolve by reminding myself that other’s lives depend on mine, although they do not know it or are unable to comprehend such a thing. I am the keeper of the past, the truth, and it is my responsibility to pass this on so that they are remembered. So I wait quietly, patiently, secretly. I stand ready for the day that I will escape and reclaim the life that awaits my return.
All I ask is that you do not judge me. The choices I’ve made were done with one goal in mind – survival. Do not pity me for I do not ask for it, nor do I need it. Everything that has happened is of my own making, and this is the burden that I must bare. I wade through the days that now compose my life with my head held high because I have to. I close off my mind to the past and concentrate on the immediate. It is only when I give myself willingly to sleep and cast myself headfirst into one of his remaining dreamscapes that I revisit my real life and allow myself the luxury of regret. This is the only time that I allow myself to think about him and the life that could’ve been ours. If only…
This is my unfinished story. I hope in the dark corners of my mind that it will have a happy ending even if he’s gone. So read on and you’ll see what has brought me to the present. Only then will you understand why I am Mrs Ginerva Malfoy, wife of the heir to the Steward of Wizarding England and faithful supporter of the New Republic of the Dark Lord, Lucius Malfoy.
OK. Well, let me explain first. I'm trying to ease myself back into writing in third person so I can put to rest a couple of these fic chapters I've been working on for far too long. It seems, however, that my brain really likes first person to the point where I get about a paragraph into some of my other projects and suddenly I find myself going off to some strange first person POV place. I dub it the FPBH (the first person black hole): once you're sucked in, it's hard to get out. So last week I decided to just go with the first person impulse.
Additionally, I've been trying really hard to re-focus one just ONE thing ... mainly, Chapter 21. I know I joke about being scattered lately, but honestly this is getting ridiculous.
Um ... so I'm trying to get myself back into the posting/writing groove, hoping that maybe it'll help ALL of my writing along and seriously unstick whatever is stuck. This is the part that I've never done before:
Behind the cut is the preface for a fic I've been working on intermittently for the last year. Normally, I just keep my writing to myself and my betas before attempting to get it posted anywhere. I was hoping to get some honest feedback on this one (maybe that will help to unstick me?). It's a first person POV (well, sort of second person really) and uber-angst (well, angsty for me). I'm not sure exactly what to think about it anymore because I've been looking at it for a while. I think some parts are a bit overdone as in the words are a bit flowery/ornamental or else I'm a bit dramatic to the point where it gets silly (like the end) or likely BOTH. I think that maybe it's a bit dark. Too dark? Does the premise seem cliche? Does the whole thing make you just want to hit the "back" button? Hurl? OK, I don't need to know that exactly.
I was interested in trying to write something a little different, quasi-AU but not really (which is why it's a post-Hogwarts fic). I think AU fics are tossed aside alot, but I happen to really like the creativity associated with them. But maybe they're just written by crazy people like me who are just too scared or too stuck to make up and become attached to original characters so they just take pre-established, safe characters and stuff them into some hybrid HP/quasi-original setting/plot? Oh man, I don't know anymore. *head desk* Sorry, I'm nervous for some reason. I don't know why.
Anyway, I'm thinking that maybe if I just run around in the FPBH for a while, I'll get it all out of my system and then can slowly make my way back to more reader-friendly third person writing and simultaneously regain my focus. If you choose to respond, please be honest. Thanks in advance for any help. :)
***Preface***
-Anne Michaels, Fugitive Pieces
I live a stranger’s life. It is as if I’ve simply materialized fully realized into the void vacated by someone who grew tired of their existence and stole mine. Now I am trapped in a foreign reality like a Muggle cosmonaut abandoned on the moon, alone and left staring at the small blue and white pearl that was home.
Sometimes I fantasize that this is really the case; that I’m just the victim of some unjust Voodoo Dark Magic; that someday this can all be reversed. When I’m alone and willing the dreams to come, I imagine a red-headed family of nine congregated in a rickety house with corners that meet at odd angles. The house is in state of harmonious chaos; it’s filled with the sounds of children’s footsteps pounding up and down the stairs. Shrieks, scolding, and bursts of laughter reverberate to its foundations. The floors are littered with Quidditch supplies, folded laundry, and well-used second-hand broomsticks. And among the clutter, loudness, and the plethora of kitchen aromas, there squats the imposter. The thief is basking in my family’s smiles and gentle ribbing and hungrily devouring the life that is rightly mine. I dream of the moment they are discovered and my family bursts through these invisible walls. I dream of returning to my former life. I dream of going home.
But even I know that those silly imaginings are impossible because their once-smiling faces are now owned by a lost past, for they each clasped the out-stretched hands of the inevitable and one-by-one accepted their fates unselfishly. Now their names are tucked between long-buried words of truth, and they’ve passed into the stories of heroic bravery, impossible feats made possible, unwavering faith, inextinguishable love, but most of all magic.
The reality in which life is now framed is devoid of magic. At least for those deemed unworthy: those who are said to be defiled by their own blood, those who have not paid their dues, those who have resisted the magistrates, those who are mere victims of circumstance, and sometimes those who are innocent. But even in this reality there exists hope. And certainly with hope on our side, the truth will resurface … someday.
Until then, truth is only uttered in hushed tones and veiled in secrecy behind drawn windows and locked doors in the mixed-blood ghettos. It’s disguised in songs whispered to the wide-eyed children tucked in their beds so that they are taught what hope is. Now truth is just words that linger in dark corners and like silent ghosts, fragmented and powerless because they exist in isolation. The names of my family and the other forgotten truths are kept like that on purpose because unspoken words are like the sleeping past – if they are not resurrected or joined to something greater they will be forgotten.
And that is what they want.
There are others like me that remember and keep the past hibernating in some carefully concealed place in their minds and the names of the unspoken stored in the back of their throats. You see, words can be powerful when united to represent an idea. When memory catches up with the present and is ignited by determination, it will result in action that will spread like a raging wildfire through the populace. This is why words are banned. In particular, three words that when spoken together comprise a name that once represented faith, love, and hope.
It is a name so infused with promise that it and the stories that claimed him are illegal, the books recounting the rebellion are burned, and those that dare utter his name publicly mysteriously disappear, likely executed or imprisoned in the catacombs snaking under the city. It was the name of the one who we thought could save us. And he did. He saved us from the one we all feared, but he couldn’t prevent the events that transpired after the fall of Voldemort because he was already lost.
We had already sacrificed so much in the struggle that there was little left. The endurance of the Phoenix Fire Alliance, which rose from the ashes of the Order of the Phoenix, had been stretched beyond its tensile strength like a hot wire connecting the past and the present. We clung desperately to hope and willed our efforts to make a difference. We vowed victory in the names of the fallen so that their weighty sacrifices would never be forgotten. We held strong, rallied repeatedly, recruited new members, attempted to infiltrate the ranks of what were once the Death Eaters while simultaneously negotiating with the vestiges of Scrimgeour’s government.
But the Fire Alliance was so busy attending to the obvious that we all missed the signs. By the time the weed had embedded its roots into the soil of society, the Alliance was too weak. The Ministry’s new dark hand silenced our protests and began to systematically smother what remained. It was the beginning of the end for the Light and the birth of the new Dark League.
But even then I did not see it, for my world was stained by the colors of romantic love. I foolishly thought that we could weather anything. Because love does triumph over evil does it not? This was the belief that propelled me though those dark years. That was the tiny sand speck of an island that I clung to as the unstoppable, inevitable, and unrelenting waves of change began to slowly erode what I thought once was unchangeable, impenetrable, and true.
You see, I had convinced myself that the future consisted of something better. Now I understand that the glowing innocence of youth had eclipsed the bold letters that spelled out the facts – the words I knew were there, but refused to read. The facts that clearly told me what my future held because of whom I loved and whom I willingly chose to surround myself with. The facts that arranged themselves around the unassuming raven-haired, emerald-eyed love of my life.
Back then life smelled of my mum’s cinnamon-creamed honey and sunshine and was filled with the feel of his cotton shirts against my skin and those shy, lop-sided grins. But that was before the fall from the tower, before the war had christened us adults, before the weight of responsibility hung heavy from our necks. That was before everything changed. Yet, even with all that has happened, I would do exactly the same thing, and I believe that the others would, too. The only regret I have is letting him go. If only…
A perverse part of me is almost relived he cannot see what has become of his sacrifice, and that he doesn’t know about the dark and twisted weed that has sprouted from the ashes of our fight. I'm glad he cannot bare witness that the wizarding world has been depraved and overrun by nefarious wizards with twisted ideologies and palates for gold, authority, and prestige. But most of all I am thankful he cannot see what I have become.
A lifetime ago I was a different person.
I cheated destiny by reverting my fate, and she has awarded me with this life – her just revenge. How ironic. Now I struggle to find my place and to make sense of my new life. I stare at myself in the mirror in mute wonder, touching my face to make sure that I am real. But the mirror does not lie. Beneath the jewels, rouge, elaborate up-do’s, and expensive suits and gowns reflecting off its silvery surface is a traitor, a fake, a liar, a coward. I am the imposter. I am the thief. I am the one who has robbed me of the irreplaceable.
Freedom. Love. My family. Him.
Regret and guilt have slowly eroded my soul, and now there exists a chasmal hole that is as expansive as time is unstoppable. Sometimes I wish for it all to end. But then I remember everything we fought for, our vow, and the pounding in my chest quells. I reinforce my resolve by reminding myself that other’s lives depend on mine, although they do not know it or are unable to comprehend such a thing. I am the keeper of the past, the truth, and it is my responsibility to pass this on so that they are remembered. So I wait quietly, patiently, secretly. I stand ready for the day that I will escape and reclaim the life that awaits my return.
All I ask is that you do not judge me. The choices I’ve made were done with one goal in mind – survival. Do not pity me for I do not ask for it, nor do I need it. Everything that has happened is of my own making, and this is the burden that I must bare. I wade through the days that now compose my life with my head held high because I have to. I close off my mind to the past and concentrate on the immediate. It is only when I give myself willingly to sleep and cast myself headfirst into one of his remaining dreamscapes that I revisit my real life and allow myself the luxury of regret. This is the only time that I allow myself to think about him and the life that could’ve been ours. If only…
This is my unfinished story. I hope in the dark corners of my mind that it will have a happy ending even if he’s gone. So read on and you’ll see what has brought me to the present. Only then will you understand why I am Mrs Ginerva Malfoy, wife of the heir to the Steward of Wizarding England and faithful supporter of the New Republic of the Dark Lord, Lucius Malfoy.
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no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 02:52 pm (UTC)I like it!
no subject
Date: 2006-10-18 10:38 pm (UTC)I'm not a big shipper, but I think for reader satisfaction, it's important to keep canon in mind. I prefer something that resembles canon characterization over strict canon pairings. I guess as long as things seems plausible or has been explained/set up nicely by the author I'm OK with it. But then maybe I'm not too picky. ;) I'd like novel ideas or a different approach/interpretation over something that is perfectly in-line with canon.
It's interesting that you labeled this a Ginny/Draco story. Because well, I was planning on it being more anti Ginny/Draco. lol. Oops ... my fault for not making that clearer. But maybe I should reconsider and make Draco more of a three-dimensional character instead of just a means to an end? It would be more challenging certainly. Hmm....
Thanks again! I appreciate your comments.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 05:00 pm (UTC)Bd, that was... whoa. LOL. I'm speechless. Seriously.
I've always enjoyed how you write and now you've blown me away again.
First person is very addicting. I'm still a bit stuck on it myself. I've been writing and have had to rewrite because of FBPH. It's hard to shake it. One reason my chapters are going so slow. LOL.
Excellent one shot.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-18 10:43 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for the support! :) Ugh. FPBH. Let's blow it up. I hear you about being in a rut. I just checked PS and I saw that the last time you updated was December 2005. Ten lashes with a wet noodle for you! Maybe we should have a support group or something.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 07:48 pm (UTC)I think you have a powerful way with words and descriptions of situations and circumstances. I really do like what you have started.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-18 11:18 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for your feedback. Honestly, it's nice to get an idea of what struck people or what maybe doesn't work so well.
There's metion of the Draco/Ginny ship again. This is really sort of funny because originally I was going for a non-traditional romance between Ginny and Harry (non-traditional because Harry's not around). As the first half of the story progressed I was going to pepper it with "flashbacks" of sorts. Then time would catch up near the climax and everything would move forward together. But hmm ... well. I will have to think a little more about what I'm doing, I guess. What's new. lol.
I think it's wise for me not to post anything officially until I have more finished chapters because I don't want to get into any more trouble than I already am with late updates. Maybe near the end of the fall for this one? I will put an update here when this story goes up - it'll be on Mugglenet or erm ... maybe Phoenix Song or HPcommonroom depending on my betas and their willingness to slog through another story.
Thank you!