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rainbowfic2013-08-29 11:52 pm
bookblather) wrote in rainbowfic2013-08-29 11:52 pm
Summertime Blues 4, Stars and Stripes 17, Quill Grey 11: Irresistably Contagious
Author: Kat
Title: Irresistably Contagious
Story: Shine Like It Does
Colors: Summertime blues 4 (Stared at by the book you've been meaning to read.), stars and stripes 17 (“Think books aren't scary? Well, think about this: You can't spell "Book" without "Boo!"), quill grey 11 (I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions. - James Michener) with kana's paint-by-numbers (You once told me white is the full moon. You once told me blood is red. You told me blue is the endless sea. You also told me you loved me. And to accept these simple truths, just to accept them, my soul wishes, my soul longs, that my heart could).
Supplies and Materials: Fingerpainting (only two more first person to go), glue (you may receive more support than you expect), glitter ("Nothing can wear you out like caring about people." – S.E. Hinton), pastels (give and take), novelty beads (Letter to a teacher).
Word Count: 577
Rating: PG
Summary: It was Dickens' Christmas Carol.
Warnings: none? I don't think?
Notes: On the Lint Roller, dray asked Peter "Tell us of an experience that moved you to tears (especially if it was caused by a piece of media; a story, a play, a music experience, etc.) and tell us what you felt about it."
It was Dickens' Christmas Carol. That's what changed my life. Cliché, I know, but clichés are cliché for a reason.
I grew up in a very... conservative is the wrong word, I think, but I don't know what the right one is. My father's father believed sincerely that it was every man for himself. That people got no help in this world so children shouldn't learn to depend on it. So of course my father married someone who felt the same way, and together they raised their children the same way. Needing help was weak. Asking for it was even weaker.
My sister bought into that. She still does believe it; it's why we don't talk much. I miss her, but... well, there's only so much you can do.
I believed it at first, I guess, but as I grew up I started to question it, especially once I hit preschool. Children there would ask for help, and the teachers wouldn't make fun of them for it. They'd just help, give them a quick hand and then move on.
It seemed like a lot better way to manage things than at home. At home I'd struggle with things, take five times longer to get them done than necessary. There was a lot of swearing in our house, and a lot of inefficiency, and a lot of anger.
I don't mean to imply that my parents were abusive. They weren't, and still aren't. When I did accomplish something they were both quick to praise me, and they are still very proud of me and what I've done; they make it very clear at every opportunity. They value hard work, and so do I. They value intelligence, and so do I. They're just... they buy into the American myth of independence way too much.
Anyway, I didn't buy it, but I didn't really have any other way to think. How do you create a new values system for yourself? It's hard enough as an adult, with examples in front of you. If you're a child, with only occasional glimpses into another way of thinking, it's pretty impossible. And my parents were pretty careful about what media they let me and my sister see. They wanted us to be strong, you see. Like them.
Dickens was okay. I don't know why Dickens was okay. Maybe they never read it, maybe they thought classics were okay. Maybe they assumed the Victorian values set would come through. But if you know anything about Dickens, you know that he was a social reformer, one of the first to write what I like to call soapbox novels. One of the best, too.
So I read A Christmas Carol. It made me cry.
Here it was. This was another way of thinking. Scrooge didn't believe in helping other people either, but this was a different version of the ending—instead of ending up strong and independent, you wound up dying alone. And if you helped, if you took help, you didn't end up weak, with people walking all over you. You ended up—connected. Loved. Happy.
It changed my life. It set me on the path I'm on today. It gave me what I needed, to make myself the man I am.
And my parents? They don't understand. They still don't know how I got to be this way. But they love me anyway. They're proud of me.
Of course they are. They're my parents.
Title: Irresistably Contagious
Story: Shine Like It Does
Colors: Summertime blues 4 (Stared at by the book you've been meaning to read.), stars and stripes 17 (“Think books aren't scary? Well, think about this: You can't spell "Book" without "Boo!"), quill grey 11 (I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions. - James Michener) with kana's paint-by-numbers (You once told me white is the full moon. You once told me blood is red. You told me blue is the endless sea. You also told me you loved me. And to accept these simple truths, just to accept them, my soul wishes, my soul longs, that my heart could).
Supplies and Materials: Fingerpainting (only two more first person to go), glue (you may receive more support than you expect), glitter ("Nothing can wear you out like caring about people." – S.E. Hinton), pastels (give and take), novelty beads (Letter to a teacher).
Word Count: 577
Rating: PG
Summary: It was Dickens' Christmas Carol.
Warnings: none? I don't think?
Notes: On the Lint Roller, dray asked Peter "Tell us of an experience that moved you to tears (especially if it was caused by a piece of media; a story, a play, a music experience, etc.) and tell us what you felt about it."
It was Dickens' Christmas Carol. That's what changed my life. Cliché, I know, but clichés are cliché for a reason.
I grew up in a very... conservative is the wrong word, I think, but I don't know what the right one is. My father's father believed sincerely that it was every man for himself. That people got no help in this world so children shouldn't learn to depend on it. So of course my father married someone who felt the same way, and together they raised their children the same way. Needing help was weak. Asking for it was even weaker.
My sister bought into that. She still does believe it; it's why we don't talk much. I miss her, but... well, there's only so much you can do.
I believed it at first, I guess, but as I grew up I started to question it, especially once I hit preschool. Children there would ask for help, and the teachers wouldn't make fun of them for it. They'd just help, give them a quick hand and then move on.
It seemed like a lot better way to manage things than at home. At home I'd struggle with things, take five times longer to get them done than necessary. There was a lot of swearing in our house, and a lot of inefficiency, and a lot of anger.
I don't mean to imply that my parents were abusive. They weren't, and still aren't. When I did accomplish something they were both quick to praise me, and they are still very proud of me and what I've done; they make it very clear at every opportunity. They value hard work, and so do I. They value intelligence, and so do I. They're just... they buy into the American myth of independence way too much.
Anyway, I didn't buy it, but I didn't really have any other way to think. How do you create a new values system for yourself? It's hard enough as an adult, with examples in front of you. If you're a child, with only occasional glimpses into another way of thinking, it's pretty impossible. And my parents were pretty careful about what media they let me and my sister see. They wanted us to be strong, you see. Like them.
Dickens was okay. I don't know why Dickens was okay. Maybe they never read it, maybe they thought classics were okay. Maybe they assumed the Victorian values set would come through. But if you know anything about Dickens, you know that he was a social reformer, one of the first to write what I like to call soapbox novels. One of the best, too.
So I read A Christmas Carol. It made me cry.
Here it was. This was another way of thinking. Scrooge didn't believe in helping other people either, but this was a different version of the ending—instead of ending up strong and independent, you wound up dying alone. And if you helped, if you took help, you didn't end up weak, with people walking all over you. You ended up—connected. Loved. Happy.
It changed my life. It set me on the path I'm on today. It gave me what I needed, to make myself the man I am.
And my parents? They don't understand. They still don't know how I got to be this way. But they love me anyway. They're proud of me.
Of course they are. They're my parents.
no subject
But, this story. Reading about someone who did and out of that situation and with such honest love for /A Christmas Carol/.
I just.
YOU MADE ME LIKE SOMETHING I AM NOT INCLINED TO.
Yes.
no subject
Out of curiosity, why don't you like Dickens? No judgment is involved, I'm just curious.
no subject
I don't generally care for those almost-impossible-to-diagram sentences found in British literature between 1830 and 1890ish. On one hand, I get a feeling of accomplishment finishing them! But, then again, they're almost all that way and it's like- where do you ennnnnnnnnnnnnd.
It's not their fault. I just never developed a taste for them.
no subject
Dickens was kind of an ass, I think? Charles Darwin seemed like a lovely person though! Which is odd because I consistently confused them.
no subject
I imagine him and Frank Herbert trying to out-butt each other.