meme!

[meretricula]

ganked from aramley. doubt anyone's interested, but hey, might as well.

Pick a paragraph (or any passage less than 500 words) from any story I've written, and comment to this post with that selection. I will then give you a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what's going on in the character's heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, lots of awful puns, and anything else that you'd expect to find on a DVD commentary track.

you can find a list of all my fic here or in my memories. go on, play with me! all of us in the States have the day off tomorrow; you might as well distract me from the sound of my thesis not writing itself.

Comments

[t-lyrical.livejournal.com]

I love, love, love all your stuff, but this is, like, one of my favorite things EVER. I really couldn't pick a single paragraph from that scene, so YOU NEED TO DO A COMMENTARY FOR ALL OF IT.

Leightley's second verse was still soft and self-conscious, but Laurence's pleasure was undiminished: how, he wondered, could he have forgotten music, and how he loved it? He joined Hunt, barely aware of what he was doing, in singing another verse, and paid no notice when Leightley moved back to allow them to sing the whole song through again without her, Hunt's surprisingly rich baritone on the woman's part less jarring that it might have been.

After that, it was only natural to play through the other two songs together, and then a trio which Shadwell laughingly produced, claiming they had long been short a proper tenor and Laurence could not deny them now that they had found him. All in all nearly an hour passed before Laurence came back to himself, at the thoroughly unwelcome awareness that he had just addressed Lieutenant Robbins as Edith.

He could have been at home, for that hour, passing the time after supper with his mother and Edith and their friends. Really it was not such a strange slip to make, and Robbins had hardly been offended; he was not even certain she had noticed. But having realized why he felt so comfortable in the laughing circle around the pianoforte, it was impossible not to follow the realization to other, less pleasant recollections: that he would never see his mother again; that Edith had married Woolvey; that Woolvey was dead. Hunt was beaming at Bell, brighter than the candlelight, and Leightley's grudgingly tolerant expression was belied by the loose clasp of her fingers around Shadwell's wrist; all of Laurence's simple joy in the music was gone, and he was unendurably lonely.

[aramley.livejournal.com]

I skirted very close to the word limit for this, haha. This is from one of my favourite fics of yours (Rafa/MAndy is a not-so-secret guilty pleasure of mine).

Somehow, he'd thought it would be more satisfying. He was the number two tennis player in the world, the highest ranked British (or Scottish, if you were going to get picky about it, which he was) man in the history of the ranking system, but it didn't feel any different. It should have been different, he thought irritably. He'd earned it, hadn't he, even though nobody would admit it: it was all poor Rafa and poor Rafa's knees, so sad, cry me a fucking river.

He just wanted some acknowledgment, that was all. Which was why he was still lurking in the locker room after his match, waiting for Rafa to get out of the showers. It was petty and childish and he didn't care at all.

"Hey," someone said from behind him, and clapped him on the shoulder. "What are you doing still here?"

"Hi, Novak," Andy said. Novak was smiling at him, but he looked faintly quizzical. "Yeah, you've caught me, I guess. I wanted to talk to Rafa, y'know?"

Novak's expression hardened: it was like a shutter had dropped over his face. Andy had known Novak for a long time, but he'd never seen him look like that, not even when they were facing each other across the net - like he would have been perfectly happy to kill Andy, stuff his body in a locker and leave it there to rot. "Andy, leave Rafa alone," he said flatly.

"What? I'm not gonna, I don't know, call him names or insult his mother or whatever," Andy laughed. "And he's a big boy, you know, I don't think he needs you to protect him from me."

"I mean it, leave him alone," Novak repeated, unamused. Andy stared at him in total disbelief, but before he could make a witty comeback (which would have probably been along the lines of, "what the fuck?") they were interrupted by a cheerful call of, "Hola!" from the other side of the room.

"Hey, Rafa," Andy said. Novak just waved, the murderous look gone from his face like it had never been there. The speed of the transformation was honestly a little scary.

"Oh, Andy," Rafa said as he dropped his towel and started rummaging in his bag for his underwear, completely unembarrassed by his nudity. "I never say you congratulations, for Montreal. You play amazing, no?"

"Thanks," Andy said. He would have done pushups in a hotel lobby wearing nothing but Kim's panties before he'd admit it, but there was a kind of warm squishy feeling in his chest that surfaced whenever Rafa told him he'd played well. "I hope I can keep it up, you know?"

Rafa pulled his shorts on, and grinned at him before yanking a T-shirt over his head. "No so good for me, no? But for sure, good luck. I gonna try and get you soon, no?"