Keep Hoping Machine Running

They're coming to take us away. Our internet, I mean, and also everything else in our house. The theory is that we will get our stuff back in our new house, and it will have internet on Monday, but not one other thing in this move has gone according to plan, so I'm not counting on that, either.

I am, however, hoping for a kind and naive neighbor with an unsecured wireless connection. If I don't get that, I will see you when I see you.

As I was shutting down my computer prepartory to moving, I found a number of half-finished posts and posts I never got around to, you know, actually posting. And I thought I would leave you with one of them. This I wrote after I wrote the fanfic warnings post, because, let's face it. Published writers need warnings at least as much as we do. So I thought I would come up with just a rough start - I mean, obviously there are many many many more warnings needed. Feel free to leave them in the comments. Maybe we can get together a definitive list.

(And, yes, I had at least one specific published writer in mind for each one of these. I offer bonus points, which can be redeemed for many imaginary prizes, to anyone who can guess which writers go with which warnings.)

Published Author Warnings

WARNING: I used to have a three-dimensional character, and then I fell in love with him, and now he is Prince Sparklepants Shinyhorse, the most perfect man/vampire/werewolf/demon/half-unicorn/whatever in all of creation. Also, if people criticize him, or my writing of him, I will go off the rails. On the internet. It will be funny in that way where you keep wondering why my family and friends aren't taking care of me.

WARNING: I write fiction, but I believe every word. If you don't, I will send my characters to kill you.

WARNING: If you read one chapter of any of my books, you will end up reading my entire body of work in a week and a half. After it's all over, you will find you are unshowered and vaguely sticky. You'll have blank spots in your memory and a pervading sense of shame you can only cure by fucking a stranger in the backseat of your grandfather's convertible. (If your grandfather doesn't have a convertible, you're out of luck.)

WARNING: If you read anything I write that isn't fiction, you'll never be able to read my stories again. (Special Certain Science Fiction Writers Corollary: If you encounter me on the internet, there's a 35% chance you'll give up on fiction entirely.)

WARNING: I am so done with this series, but, dude, I bought a house back on book 5 and I've got payments to make. Look forward to the next dozen installments, all of which will read like pastiche from increasingly unskilled hands.

WARNING: I'm not done with this series; I'm afraid of it. I spend all my time thinking of creative ways not to write another word of it. Please stop asking me about it; I'm already heavily medicated and hiding from my fans.

WARNING: I'm a big name. I don't have to listen to my editor anymore.

WARNING: I've decided I'm not writing the hard parts anymore. No more plot that makes sense! No more actual story! From now on, it's bad jokes and sex scenes all the way, baby.

WARNING: I don't think I'm my character. I just wish I was. She's shiny! And perfect! (Special Dorothy L. Sayers Only Exception: If you're Dorothy L. Sayers, you can get away with this. If you aren't, you can't. This means you. Yes, you too. Sorry! It was a one time deal, apparently.)

WARNING: I'm starting to hate my main character, but I'm not going to stop writing about him.

WARNING: I really love myself. A lot. Every word I write is spun gold in text form.

WARNING: I was really, really depressed when I wrote this. I'm hoping I can pass the trauma on to you.

WARNING: I did my research, and by god, you will know it if I have to hit you over the head with fifty pages of utterly extraneous exposition.

WARNING: I didn't do my research. If you notice, obviously you don't care about my art.

WARNING: I am completely fucking crazy. Seriously. All my sentences end with special crazy-flavored periods, and all my articles are special crazy-thes and crazy-ands. And that's just my fiction. In real life, I am even worse. I don't know why they're still letting me attend cons, or indeed leave my house.

WARNING: I...don't really get why we have to have women. I mean, in the species. They just bother me. I can think of only two uses for a woman:

1. To give birth to everyone in the story.
   
2. To act as anti-gay buffering devices. (Stories written since 1970 only.)

Fortunately, it turns out they can mostly fulfill these functions and still be a) dead b) entirely off the page or c) non-sentient.

WARNING: Turns out writing novels really doesn't work instead of therapy, but that hasn't stopped me from trying. For the last 35 years.

WARNING: I wrote this thinking of the movie rights. It's not really a novel, per se - it's more of a pre-novelization.

WARNING: I hate you.

Sometimes you may say to yourself: all these people have me friended. And yet I posted a story (or a link, or four extremely compelling pictures of my cat, including one where she almost had a ribbon on her head) and many of them have not commented! You may wonder why. You may even be downcast in your wonderment and confusion.

Well, wonder no longer! I have been doing some careful research on this very topic, and I have all the answers.

• 15% of the people who have you friended have since left for greener fannish pastures, or perhaps for somewhere outside of fandom altogether (it's sad, but it happens; fannish scientists are working round the clock to discover a cure, except for the four hours they spent reading that Jack Harkness/Brian O'Conner epic last night). They no longer read your fandom-related posts. (Or, alternately, it's cats they don't like. My point is: whatever you posted doesn't interest them.)
  
  
• 15% were planning to get back to that post later. It's open! It's in a tab! Or it's in Read Later! Just...wow, busy, you know how it is. (Of course, if you're counting every comment and comparing it to a master list, maybe you don't know how it is. In that case you'll just have to trust me.)
  
  
• 10% of the people who have you friended think you're boring. (Sorry! Sometimes science means having to say the hard truths.) They scroll past you, or they filter you. Or maybe they think everyone they have friended is boring, and they don't read their friends list at all; their friending is just a social nicety. It would probably be better if you believed that last one. Yeah, this segment is the one we'll call "social niceties."
  
  
• 10% of the people who have you friended weren't reading the day you posted. Someone had horrible news and came home and went straight to bed with a dog and a hot water bottle. Someone has food poisoning and is puking too much to go near her computer. Someone is addicted to a flash game and can't click away until she beats level 77. Someone is in the South Pacific having a lot more fantastic sex than you ever have or ever will; she isn't thinking about you or fandom right now. (Okay, she's thinking, "I have to use that the next time I write Merlin/Arthur, or John/Rodney, or Bertie/Jeeves - ooo, yeah, Jeeves is probably mega-kinky." But she's not missing her friends list, is my point.)
  
  
• 10% only read you on a phone, or a netbook or internet tablet that's impossible to type on, or a Kindle, or in five minute snatches at work or between dragging kids to soccer or whatever. They love you, but they never do manage to get back to comment.
  
  
• 10% of the people who read you only lurk. They lurk everywhere. Maybe they can't type. Maybe they have tentacles and can't find a tentacle-ready keyboard. You don't know. And do you really want to risk displaying your prejudice against the betentacled?
  
  
• 5% of the people who read you are still pissed off about the comment you didn't reply to. You know the one. (You reply to every single comment you get, you say? Even the ones obviously from bots? Even the ones LJ forgets to notify you about? In that case, these people are sulking about an inadequate response you left them, where you missed the point or missed the question or failed to thank them or sounded snarky. You can't please everyone. Not even with an incredible facility at hitting "Reply.")
  
  
• 5% of the people who read you are still pissed off about that post you made. You know the one.
  
  
• 5% of the people who read you are pissed off that you didn't comment on one of their important posts. They're withholding sex - sorry, I meant comments - until you understand how important they are, and maybe send some flowers or something.
  
  
• 5% of the people who read you have broken internet connections right now. Fucking Comcast.
  
  
• 1% of the people who read you hurt their hands this morning.
  
  
• 1% of the people who read you currently have a broken spacebar.
  
  
• 1% of the people who read you are heavily medicated. Their loved ones have taken away their keyboards for everyone's safety.
  
  
• 1% of the people who read you are seriously undermedicated. Their loved ones have taken away their keyboards so they still have friends when the meds kick back in.
  
  
• 1% of the people who read you read you in bed, and a loved one has threatened to take away the keyboard if they type at night anymore.
  
  
• 1% of the people who read you are sockpuppets. They're only going to comment if they want sparkle pens.
  
  
• 1% of the people who read you are, in fact, commenting, but they're doing so by telepathy. If you're not getting the comments, well, obviously something is wrong with you. They can't be held responsible for that.
  
  
• 1% of the people who read you are aliens. They can't ever pass the prove-you're-human test, and for some reason they get the CAPTCHA every time. They are thinking of filing a lawsuit against LJ.
  
  
• 1% of the people who read you cannot comment for religious reasons.
  
  
• 1% of the people who read you haven't figured out that you have to hit the "Post comment" button in order to get the comment posted. They keep typing like it's an IM box, and nothing ever shows up, and they just do not know why. They've submitted several complaints to Support about this. (It's possible you didn't want to read their comments anyway.)

But wait, you say! That's everyone!

You're right. It is. So, hey, if you get any comments at all, you have beaten the odds. You must be really awesome and special. Can I friend you?

(P.S. I don't comment a lot, but I'm probably reading. And I'll repeat what I said in my info: I love all the comments I get, except the ones from the spambots who are cordially invited to DIE DIE DIE, but no one ever should feel obligated to comment here. I get the lurking, I really do.)

Really. No doubt about it. Shit in the process of being lost as we speak.

( I have a new credo. It is crass and mean and wrong and offensive as hell. Wanna see? )

So. Work.

Also, fandom. Because when work goes sour on me (and lady, make up your fucking mind; sorry, but you have no idea how that needed to be said, and the people who know about the violent offenders will understand this comment), I reel into the welcoming, porny arms of fandom (it's my metaphor and I can damn well fracture it if I wish, unlike certain violent-offender-obsessed people, who are not allowed to touch my metaphors, thanks), only to get. Well. Ranty.

What can I say? I give to fandom what I can't use in my everyday life. Which means I give: 1) sarcasm, 2) enthusiasm, and 3) my rapidly-decreasing tolerance of humanity. (Go away, violent offender lady. And while we're at it: go away, violent offenders. Go - offend yourselves.)

( And if you thought that was nasty and mean-spirited, you should see what's behind the cut. )

[Note: this is a fannish LJ, not a political one, so no election comments will be found herein. If you're curious about how I'm feeling, email me and I'll tell you.]

First, I have to say how disappointed I am that I even need to write this, but it is entirely clear that I do. I have in my possession a small collection of flames regarding the content of this LJ. They all have one thing in common: they are pathetic. I mean, there was a time in this world when a flame meant something. I grew up grinding my teeth as I chanted, "Do not feed the trolls" like a mantra. It used to be difficult to move on without responding. And do you know why? Because those trolls were actually good at what they did. They wanted to piss me off, and they succeeded.

From this LJ, though? The very best flames have made me laugh. Most have just left me worried about the future of bitter rhetoric. So it's apparent to me that if I want flaming as an art form to be preserved for future generations, I need to act now. Thus, I'm offering the short course on "Flaming for Dummies." Because evidently some people out there really need it.

( Habits of Highly Effective Flamers (and When I Say Flamers, for Once I'm Not Talking About Gay Men). )

In other words: I've lost it, and it's time for another bitter, mean-spirited, entirely unnecessary rant. If you're still in the dewy-eyed phase of FF love - in other words, if you see nothing wrong with "Harry eagerly mouthed Snape's huge, aching, weeping cock, laving it with his tongue and nibbling it until Snape screamed with his gushing release" - don't look behind the cut.

( Some Words, Phrases, and Concepts That I Never Want to Read Again )

This is the Fametracker Forums post that started this livejournal, slightly modified to fit your screen. A statement of Slashy standards! A declaration of war on bad fan fiction! A piece of living history!

( The Fan Fiction Manifesto )