The Autumn Child (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sharpeningthebones) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2013-11-19 04:55 am
sharpeningthebones) wrote in rainbowfic2013-11-19 04:55 am
Quill Grey
Name: Mallory
Story: And The Devil Makes Three
Colors: Quill Grey: 15. There's many a bestseller that could have been prevented by a good teacher. - Flannery O'Connor
Rating: G
Warnings: Impostor syndrome.
Word count; 453
Notes: Percival and impostor syndrome because I've been dealing with it a bit and NaNo is upon us and...and yes. Reasons. id on't even know.
he’s sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed and headphones on. The music was loud and he was humming along. He should have been writing, it was November and he had a deadline after all, but instead he was trying to relax.
He wasn't verbalizing it to anyone, not even himself really, but he could feel the doubt creeping up in his chest. Not about the story, he knew he liked his story but he felt wrong telling it. He felt like he had no business being the one behind the keyboard, had no right to be slinging words against a screen and hoping that some of them stuck.
He wasn't a real writer. he wasn't a real anything. He was a leech, living off of luck and his brother’s goodwill.
But John knew, somehow he always knew. Though when Percival considered it for even half a second, it was obvious. Still, a part of hi liked to think that he could hide it better than that.
And even if he could, John would know, he would bring him tea, a cookie and a blanket to curl up under. he would sit by the fireplace and play his guitar and sing songs they both knew. He would do anything to pull Percival out of the brain spiral he found himself in and sometimes, just sometimes, it would work.
But not every time, sometimes he would growl, throw the blanket of and walk into his room. he wouldn't want to be around anyone an coudln't stand the idea of staring at his laptop for a moment longer.
SO he would read.
It didn't help the impostor syndrome, sometimes it would make it worse even, but getting lost in other people’s worlds is how he coped. He nested in great stories until he fund himself thinking of his own again. He would read and watch things and experience stories in any way he could until he couldn't stop thinking about his own.
They would call to him, pull him down and beg to be paid attention to. Because as mach as he would try and live in other people’s heads, in their worlds and characters and lives, he wouldn't help but come back to his own work.
And maybe it was selfish, or conceded or a number of other words that he could apply but it was better than not writing at all. It was more productive than wallowing and while he was sure he would never stop feeling like an impostor, he also knew that he would never escape the stories waiting to be told either.
So fine, maybe he was a liar, maybe he’s just faking it, there are worse things to be rigth?
Story: And The Devil Makes Three
Colors: Quill Grey: 15. There's many a bestseller that could have been prevented by a good teacher. - Flannery O'Connor
Rating: G
Warnings: Impostor syndrome.
Word count; 453
Notes: Percival and impostor syndrome because I've been dealing with it a bit and NaNo is upon us and...and yes. Reasons. id on't even know.
he’s sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed and headphones on. The music was loud and he was humming along. He should have been writing, it was November and he had a deadline after all, but instead he was trying to relax.
He wasn't verbalizing it to anyone, not even himself really, but he could feel the doubt creeping up in his chest. Not about the story, he knew he liked his story but he felt wrong telling it. He felt like he had no business being the one behind the keyboard, had no right to be slinging words against a screen and hoping that some of them stuck.
He wasn't a real writer. he wasn't a real anything. He was a leech, living off of luck and his brother’s goodwill.
But John knew, somehow he always knew. Though when Percival considered it for even half a second, it was obvious. Still, a part of hi liked to think that he could hide it better than that.
And even if he could, John would know, he would bring him tea, a cookie and a blanket to curl up under. he would sit by the fireplace and play his guitar and sing songs they both knew. He would do anything to pull Percival out of the brain spiral he found himself in and sometimes, just sometimes, it would work.
But not every time, sometimes he would growl, throw the blanket of and walk into his room. he wouldn't want to be around anyone an coudln't stand the idea of staring at his laptop for a moment longer.
SO he would read.
It didn't help the impostor syndrome, sometimes it would make it worse even, but getting lost in other people’s worlds is how he coped. He nested in great stories until he fund himself thinking of his own again. He would read and watch things and experience stories in any way he could until he couldn't stop thinking about his own.
They would call to him, pull him down and beg to be paid attention to. Because as mach as he would try and live in other people’s heads, in their worlds and characters and lives, he wouldn't help but come back to his own work.
And maybe it was selfish, or conceded or a number of other words that he could apply but it was better than not writing at all. It was more productive than wallowing and while he was sure he would never stop feeling like an impostor, he also knew that he would never escape the stories waiting to be told either.
So fine, maybe he was a liar, maybe he’s just faking it, there are worse things to be rigth?
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(is he doing NaNo?)
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(He is! He does NaNo every year and tries to rope everyone else into doing it too. it rarely works but he has fun nonetheless)
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Yeeeah, pretty much. laughs Percival gets us, man.
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