Amanda Seyfried & Tom Hiddleston [Request]
A/N- Another Claire Fletcher story about Magnus and Maria. I was just in the mood for this tonight… : )
“I’m tired Magnus,” Maria said to him as he dragged her down the hall of the ship. “Can’t we just stay in the room tonight? We have 6 more nights, do we really have to do this tonight?” He turned to her and smiled, spinning around and catching her around the waist as he lifted her from behind in his arms.
On Twitter today — and everyday — there was some chatter and scuffle about Some Authors’ Careers and Some Authors’ Fame and whether they had deserved it. Some folks invariably said the chatter and scuffle was jealousy. Some others invariably said not everything is jealousy.
Here’s what I think: having a writing career is like driving a race car.
I’m not really a grand race car driver, mostly because I’ve discovered that I don’t really care about winning against anyone but myself, which turns out to be not the point of organized sports. But I have been in race cars, and on race tracks, and have spent many hours doing classwork at over 70 mph. Enough to know that a writing career is a lot like driving a race car.
One of the things they teach you in every single form of car racing is to keep your eyes up. Up. Upper than that. Upper than even that. Don’t look at the dash, because then you won’t see what’s happening on the road. Don’t look at the road right in front of you, because you won’t see that the turn you’re going into links into another turn and you could set yourself up for both. Put your eyes up as far as you can see down the road, and look there. Only when you see the absolute farthest point can you start to calculate the best way of getting there.
(this is great advice to use when you’re driving normally, by the way)
A writing career is like that. Use your peripheral vision to look at the things that are coming at you day to day, but never forget that every decision should contribute that farthest-away-point you want to get to. Never forget that every tiny success and failure is just a steer or counter steer toward the real point of the thing.
And here’s the other thing they tell you about keeping your eyes up: don’t fixate on the person in front of you. If there’s another driver just in front of you, the tendency is to stare at their bumper and then take the turn just like they do. But guess what? Then the absolute best scenario is that you will take the turn just like they do. So if they’re taking it wrong, you’ll take it wrong too. If there’s a better way, a faster way, a cooler way, a way that involves painting a giant knife on the side of your car and listening to Finnish rap very loudly, you’ll never know.
Eyes up, drivers, they say: look past the car in front of you. All you need to do is to note them well enough that you can pass them when you find a better way to take the turn.
Don’t fixate, writers. Eyes up, writers. I don’t care if x or y is doing a or b. What does that have to do with me? I have my eyes on where I want to go, and no one else matters.
The race is Maggie vs. Maggie. Who are you competing with?
reblogging this because the writer-envy piece in yesterday’s Salon hurts my soul on a most basic level.
It’s ludicrous to go comparing yourself to/being jealous of other writers. It’s meaningless. No one is going to write like you, even if they use the same themes and tropes, and there is no telling why one writer’s thing hits big and why the same ballpark thing, two years earlier, didn’t. You may as well get angry because Jonathan Livingston Seagull hit big and your pelican book didn’t, or for my generation, Harry Potter. It doesn’t work.
You could put twenty writers in a room, give them the same idea, and they would write twenty different things. It’s absurd to be jealous. And the person who strives to write what the market demands or what is “hot” right now will fail, because markets and audiences change faster than the publishing system can turn books out.
All we can do is write what we want to write and understand that making ourselves happy is all we may get to do. And, if we’re lucky, we’ll make a bit of money. But we can’t guarantee we’ll write a bestseller. No one can. If you’re jealous of other writers, you’re simply wasting your own time and energy. If you compare yourself to other writers, the same applies. The only writer you should worry about, apart from reading for pleasure, is you. You’re the only writer who matters then.
A reading I did of Edgar Allen Poe’s A Dream, using my Tom Hiddleston voice.
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Tagged by: sweetoceanclouds
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Rebecka had honestly never been happier in her whole life. Not when she got the typewriter, the one like her grandparents had and she played with as a child, not when her parents took her to England, not when she first saw Magnus chopping wood in the Swedish summer sunshine, not even when she spent that night with him in the abandoned cabin. She had never been as happy as she was in this moment, as he played with her, as he leaned over and kissed her and a camera flash went off again.
The planner pulled them behind the cake and she was smiling as Magnus kissed her again and the crowd applauded. She held his hand as he held the knife for the cake and she looked at the planner.
"Hey hey," Ansgar said as he approached the table and Dagny looked at him and then at Magnus, confused.
Rebecka didn’t say anything. She didn’t move.
It was happening again, only this time, it was even more ridiculous. There was nothing, or no one, who could cast any doubt on how Magnus felt today…or any other day for that matter.
Dagny could accuse her of stealing writing, try to ruin her career, but if she was trying to insinuate that Magnus…somehow…with her…
“Um, then let’s go ahead and take off your rings and give them to the maid of honour and the best man, and I will…” the woman went on to describe the ceremony and Rebecka pretended to listen, but all she could think about was him not holding her hands. He had given her his hands freely that night in the little chapel. She had cradled his hand, palms up and open, and they had said the words that sealed their vow…but not now.
She slipped her wedding ring off her finger and handed it to Stina, without looking in her sisters eyes. Stina would see, Stina would know. Everyone would know.
Rebecka couldn’t speak and the smile evaporated from her face.
Magnus was smiling as he moved his hand over her skin and he was leaning up to kiss her neck and her shoulder, but then she seemed to tense and he was pulling back and looking up at her.
She wasn’t smiling, she wasn’t moving, she was… She wasn’t doing anything, but he knew that something was wrong and he was looking at her with great concern.
Rebecka woke up when he jolted awake. She had seen him have nightmares before, his legs and arms involuntarily kicking and moving on the bed.
“Hmmm? Good morning, love…” she said as she moved to lay on the bed next to him, her robe falling open at the front. She wrapped her arms around him again. “This is what it’s going to be like from this moment on, do you know that? I get to wake up next to you every morning…”She said as she touched his jaw. “I think that’s fucking awesome.”
Magnus looked up at her when she said that and for a moment he didn’t say a thing, but then he reached over and he took her hand.
"Rebekca, I was… last week, my accident I was… they said it was just a routine check on him and I went because you know… I volunteered and I was stupid, fifteen minutes later he was strangling me, he had me from behind and he had his forearm against my neck and cutting off my air. The only thing I could think of was you, that… we’d barely started our lives and I was already leaving it." Magnus shook his head, "You have no idea how close my life is to death, all the time I think… we can call something like that routine and…"
Magnus looked at that phone later that night and he smiled, he resisted the temptation to send her a goodnight text or to call her. No, Ann-Britt had said that the silence might make it more romantic tomorrow to see that he had come all the way. He wondered where Ann-Britt got her ideas from but maybe she was just a romantic that had a student willing to learn from her.
He had his bags packed for the next day and Magnus’ voice was now so good that it sounded like he had a rough cold, and it wasn’t even hurting anymore when he spoke, which was fantastic. He could also eat more soft solids which meant that tomorrow he could eat a normal meal with Rebecka (though he’d miss her feeding him).