Work in Progress (1/1)
Jan. 1st, 2013 03:22 am![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
verityThis is the first of three exchange fics that I'll be posting this week, now that they've been de-anoned.
Fandoms: Emily of New Moon, Anne of Green Gables
Pairings: Emily Byrd Starr/Writing
Characters: Emily Byrd Starr, Anne Shirley, Ilse Burnley, Elizabeth Murray, Mr. Carpenter
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: none
Contains: modern AU, blogs, writing, friendship, bubble tea
Word count: 1200
Notes: written for![[archiveofourown.org profile]](http://archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
evelyn_b for Yuletide 2012. Thanks to jlh for cheerleading!
Summary: "I don't understand why you're so worried about me running off with a journalist if you want me to become one," Emily said under her breath.
Work in Progress
Emily Byrd Starr has a sticky note on her desktop.
It reads:
ITALICS
CAPITALS
!!!!!
"just"
"really"
CTRL+F!
It's almost like having Mr. Carpenter in the room with her.
—
The only way Aunt Elizabeth would pay tuition for Shrewsbury was if Emily agreed to live with Aunt Ruth and give up writing stories.
"You might be an adult, Emily, but I'm paying for your education," Aunt Elizabeth said, peering over the top of her reading glasses. They were in the living room, Emily at the table with her book, Aunt Elizabeth on the couch with her knitting, and Cousin Jimmy next to her with the paper. "No tomfoolery. No staying out all night with Ilse Burnley. No writing a word that isn't true."
"I don't understand why you're so worried about me running off with a journalist if you want me to become one," Emily said under her breath.
"What's that?" Aunt Elizabeth said.
"Yes," Emily said. "I'll do it."
"Good on you, puss," said Cousin Jimmy.
—
Instead of writing stories, Emily started a blog. She took photos around campus and added pithy captions, turned lecture notes into classroom sketches, and wrote up little summaries of all her interesting reading. Emily hardly expected to draw an audience. She'd worked hard at her stories, all these years, and she'd become good enough at her craft to know just how far she had to go. But her audience was no longer limited to Mr. Carpenter, Cousin Jimmy, and her close friends, and deprived of vehicles for sentimental tragedy, Emily fell back on her great strength—her sense of humor.
By the end of her second year at Shrewsbury, things were getting a little out of control.
—
"Oh, but I'd love to see you write a story, Emily," Anne says. They're having a blogger meetup; Anne's come out from Kingsport to help her friend Diana pick out a wedding dress. "You've got such a sly tongue and a good eye for detail."
"Well, I could send you my stuff from high school, but it's pretty terrible." Emily takes a sip of her bubble tea. "Damned with faint praise, if you know what I mean."
Anne rolls her eyes. "Is your aunt really going to know if you cheat on your nonfiction with some hot prose on the side?"
"It's the principle of the thing. I've got my pride," Emily says.
"Ah, yes, Murray pride," Anne says, warming to the topic. "Also known as, your family is so ridiculously stubborn that whenever I think about them I thank God I'm an orphan."
"I'm an orphan, too," Emily points out.
"I thank God I'm adopted," Anne says.
They clink their bubble teas. (Okay, in deference to Aunt Elizabeth, the plastic cups don't actually clink.)
—
After graduation, Emily takes part in the time-honored tradition of the new B.A. moving back in under the familial roof. However, unlike Teddy or Ilse, Emily is actually bringing home an income, writing articles for the Blair Water Gazette and xoJane. It'll be a while before she can pay back Aunt Ruth and Uncle Wallace for all they spent on her while she was at Shrewsbury, but it's a start. Someday, Aunt Elizabeth might even forgive her for majoring in English.
Although she's always come back to New Moon for summer vacation, moving home for good is a big adjustment. Theoretically, now that Emily's a college graduate and no longer under Aunt Ruth's particularly watchful eye, she has more freedom, but there's not much use she has for it aside from refusing to ask permission to spend the night with Ilse marathoning bad reality TV ever again. Emily takes long walks up the hill and through the poplars, opens up a couple of her old stories in Word, helps Cousin Jimmy with the garden. The flash still haunts her, delights her, but it's been a long time since she let it move her to write fiction. Emily doesn't even know where she'd start.
Anne comes out to visit her for a few days at Christmas. "Emily, oh my god," she says, tossing her suitcase into the backseat and then ducking into the front. "I can't believe how long it's been since I've seen you. I can't believe how long it's been since I wasn't surrounded by the devil's spawn."
Emily puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb. "Are you referring to your students? the Pyes? Davy? Diana's baby?"
"They're all devil's spawn," Anne says seriously. "All of them."
After Aunt Elizabeth interrogates Anne about her career prospects and Aunt Laura offers everyone the Murray gingerbread, Emily and Anne go over to Ilse's and watch most of the last season of The Girls Next Door. "I bet I could break into acting if I got onto a reality TV show," Ilse says.
"Dating Hugh Hefner isn't going to get you an acting career," Anne says. "Best case scenario, you're on the Travel Channel. Otherwise, it's Hugh, Criss Angel, or babies."
"And you only get Hugh if you're twins," Emily says. Why does she know this? She spends too much time with Ilse. "Really attractive twins."
Ilse throws popcorn at them. "I mean something like Big Brother, ladies, calm yourselves."
Later, though, when they're all crammed into Ilse's queen-size bed but too wound up to fall asleep, Anne says, "Hey, Ilse. Emily's always telling me about the stories she wrote in high school, but she never shows me anyth—Emily, put the pillow down, for Christ's sake, I'm just curious, okay?"
"They were pretty great," Ilse says, propping herself up on one arm to look down at Emily, who's in the middle. "I don't know why she doesn't write them anymore."
"I don't know either," Emily says. "Everything used to feel so—immediate, you know? I always wanted to write, and I still do, but stories—I got out of the habit, I guess. I don't know what I'd write about."
Anne leans her head on Emily's shoulder. "Write from life, that's what they always say to do."
"I do write from my life." Emily reaches out, pulls Ilse over onto her other shoulder.
"You write about it, that's not the same," Anne says. "Look, I don't have a great novel or eighty in me, I'm just a shrew with good grammar and an entertaining life who's been on the internet since I was ten. You've got a gift, Emily. You should do something with it."
"Yeah," Ilse says, wrapping her arm around Emily's waist. "That."
—
Emily is still thinking about that conversation when Mr. Carpenter gets sick, when she goes to visit him that one last time. "I want you to make me a promise, Emily," he says, "Promise me you'll never write to please anybody but yourself."
"That's a lot to ask of someone who makes her living writing." She reaches out to take his hand.
Mr. Carpenter sighs. "I'm a dying man. Humor me."
"Okay," Emily says. "I promise."
"And cut it out with the italics," he adds, giving her a wry smile.
"That's going too far," Emily says, squeezing his hand.
—
So, here Emily is, sitting at her laptop, cursor blinking in the blank document on her screen, sticky note at its side. She can do this. She's ready to do this. Yes—
—and there's the flash.
Emily begins.
Fandoms: Emily of New Moon, Anne of Green Gables
Pairings: Emily Byrd Starr/Writing
Characters: Emily Byrd Starr, Anne Shirley, Ilse Burnley, Elizabeth Murray, Mr. Carpenter
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: none
Contains: modern AU, blogs, writing, friendship, bubble tea
Word count: 1200
Notes: written for
jlh for cheerleading!Summary: "I don't understand why you're so worried about me running off with a journalist if you want me to become one," Emily said under her breath.
Emily Byrd Starr has a sticky note on her desktop.
It reads:
ITALICS
CAPITALS
!!!!!
"just"
"really"
CTRL+F!
It's almost like having Mr. Carpenter in the room with her.
The only way Aunt Elizabeth would pay tuition for Shrewsbury was if Emily agreed to live with Aunt Ruth and give up writing stories.
"You might be an adult, Emily, but I'm paying for your education," Aunt Elizabeth said, peering over the top of her reading glasses. They were in the living room, Emily at the table with her book, Aunt Elizabeth on the couch with her knitting, and Cousin Jimmy next to her with the paper. "No tomfoolery. No staying out all night with Ilse Burnley. No writing a word that isn't true."
"I don't understand why you're so worried about me running off with a journalist if you want me to become one," Emily said under her breath.
"What's that?" Aunt Elizabeth said.
"Yes," Emily said. "I'll do it."
"Good on you, puss," said Cousin Jimmy.
Instead of writing stories, Emily started a blog. She took photos around campus and added pithy captions, turned lecture notes into classroom sketches, and wrote up little summaries of all her interesting reading. Emily hardly expected to draw an audience. She'd worked hard at her stories, all these years, and she'd become good enough at her craft to know just how far she had to go. But her audience was no longer limited to Mr. Carpenter, Cousin Jimmy, and her close friends, and deprived of vehicles for sentimental tragedy, Emily fell back on her great strength—her sense of humor.
By the end of her second year at Shrewsbury, things were getting a little out of control.
"Oh, but I'd love to see you write a story, Emily," Anne says. They're having a blogger meetup; Anne's come out from Kingsport to help her friend Diana pick out a wedding dress. "You've got such a sly tongue and a good eye for detail."
"Well, I could send you my stuff from high school, but it's pretty terrible." Emily takes a sip of her bubble tea. "Damned with faint praise, if you know what I mean."
Anne rolls her eyes. "Is your aunt really going to know if you cheat on your nonfiction with some hot prose on the side?"
"It's the principle of the thing. I've got my pride," Emily says.
"Ah, yes, Murray pride," Anne says, warming to the topic. "Also known as, your family is so ridiculously stubborn that whenever I think about them I thank God I'm an orphan."
"I'm an orphan, too," Emily points out.
"I thank God I'm adopted," Anne says.
They clink their bubble teas. (Okay, in deference to Aunt Elizabeth, the plastic cups don't actually clink.)
After graduation, Emily takes part in the time-honored tradition of the new B.A. moving back in under the familial roof. However, unlike Teddy or Ilse, Emily is actually bringing home an income, writing articles for the Blair Water Gazette and xoJane. It'll be a while before she can pay back Aunt Ruth and Uncle Wallace for all they spent on her while she was at Shrewsbury, but it's a start. Someday, Aunt Elizabeth might even forgive her for majoring in English.
Although she's always come back to New Moon for summer vacation, moving home for good is a big adjustment. Theoretically, now that Emily's a college graduate and no longer under Aunt Ruth's particularly watchful eye, she has more freedom, but there's not much use she has for it aside from refusing to ask permission to spend the night with Ilse marathoning bad reality TV ever again. Emily takes long walks up the hill and through the poplars, opens up a couple of her old stories in Word, helps Cousin Jimmy with the garden. The flash still haunts her, delights her, but it's been a long time since she let it move her to write fiction. Emily doesn't even know where she'd start.
Anne comes out to visit her for a few days at Christmas. "Emily, oh my god," she says, tossing her suitcase into the backseat and then ducking into the front. "I can't believe how long it's been since I've seen you. I can't believe how long it's been since I wasn't surrounded by the devil's spawn."
Emily puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb. "Are you referring to your students? the Pyes? Davy? Diana's baby?"
"They're all devil's spawn," Anne says seriously. "All of them."
After Aunt Elizabeth interrogates Anne about her career prospects and Aunt Laura offers everyone the Murray gingerbread, Emily and Anne go over to Ilse's and watch most of the last season of The Girls Next Door. "I bet I could break into acting if I got onto a reality TV show," Ilse says.
"Dating Hugh Hefner isn't going to get you an acting career," Anne says. "Best case scenario, you're on the Travel Channel. Otherwise, it's Hugh, Criss Angel, or babies."
"And you only get Hugh if you're twins," Emily says. Why does she know this? She spends too much time with Ilse. "Really attractive twins."
Ilse throws popcorn at them. "I mean something like Big Brother, ladies, calm yourselves."
Later, though, when they're all crammed into Ilse's queen-size bed but too wound up to fall asleep, Anne says, "Hey, Ilse. Emily's always telling me about the stories she wrote in high school, but she never shows me anyth—Emily, put the pillow down, for Christ's sake, I'm just curious, okay?"
"They were pretty great," Ilse says, propping herself up on one arm to look down at Emily, who's in the middle. "I don't know why she doesn't write them anymore."
"I don't know either," Emily says. "Everything used to feel so—immediate, you know? I always wanted to write, and I still do, but stories—I got out of the habit, I guess. I don't know what I'd write about."
Anne leans her head on Emily's shoulder. "Write from life, that's what they always say to do."
"I do write from my life." Emily reaches out, pulls Ilse over onto her other shoulder.
"You write about it, that's not the same," Anne says. "Look, I don't have a great novel or eighty in me, I'm just a shrew with good grammar and an entertaining life who's been on the internet since I was ten. You've got a gift, Emily. You should do something with it."
"Yeah," Ilse says, wrapping her arm around Emily's waist. "That."
Emily is still thinking about that conversation when Mr. Carpenter gets sick, when she goes to visit him that one last time. "I want you to make me a promise, Emily," he says, "Promise me you'll never write to please anybody but yourself."
"That's a lot to ask of someone who makes her living writing." She reaches out to take his hand.
Mr. Carpenter sighs. "I'm a dying man. Humor me."
"Okay," Emily says. "I promise."
"And cut it out with the italics," he adds, giving her a wry smile.
"That's going too far," Emily says, squeezing his hand.
So, here Emily is, sitting at her laptop, cursor blinking in the blank document on her screen, sticky note at its side. She can do this. She's ready to do this. Yes—
—and there's the flash.
Emily begins.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-01-01 09:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-01-01 09:09 pm (UTC)I didn't know it had gotten recced, but that does indeed make me happy. <3
(no subject)
Date: 2013-01-02 12:29 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-01-02 06:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-01-02 11:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-01-19 06:27 am (UTC)And I'm glad I waited to read it - I was so crabby at Yuletide that I read almost nothing, and back buttoned far too much, and probably missed lots of good stuff. I would hate to discover that I'd done that for something so fluffy!