So I'm seriously thinking about going to Vividcon this August. Are any of you all going? Anyone who might want (or at least tolerate) a roommate?
So I got this in my askbox on Tumblr a few days ago, and the darn thing won't let go.
(It's still me: the one about posting) well.. I'd love to read something about Finnick after his Games: how the relationship with his family changes, how his friends react. And then what happens after he's sold. I'd really really love to read this written by you! :)
I'm having enough issues moving forward with Diving Under, with Notorious, with Down the Rabbit Hole, with original writing, with ghostwriting, but now I'm itching to write yet another thing. ARGH!
In other news, I was just hired to help a guy who wrote a sci fi novel in his native language and translated it to English to clean it up and make it read like it's not a translation. Real money this time. I haven't read the whole thing yet, but what he sent me is intriguing.
The editing job is what I should be working on right now. Guess which one I'm actually doing?
(I really need to get some new icons. Or pay for this account again. Ugh.)
... I'm determinedly avoiding writing again, which is an even sillier activity (or lack thereof) than usual since it's a story I actually want to write.
One of my mutuals on Tumblr asked me to tell her what Finnick does for Annie when she is having a bad day, so here you go:
When Annie has a panic attack or an episode of PTSD, Finnick gives her space, but makes sure she knows he’s there when she’s ready for him. He’ll hum or sing or putter around the house whistling so he doesn’t startle her by popping up out of the blue. He’ll heat water for tea. If it’s warm out, he’ll make sure the house is open to the breeze. If it’s chilly or gloomy, he’ll make sure there’s a nice fire in the fireplace -- not to large, not too small, and definitely well-dried wood so there aren’t any dramatic pops when sap hits the flames.
Sometimes he’ll write notes for her or draw funny doodles and leave them in random spots to make her smile (or better yet, laugh). He’ll hit the beach and bring her interesting bits of driftwood or shells, rocks or bits of coral. He’ll weave bracelets and necklaces for her. Once he even stole some of his mother’s yarn and wove her a knotwork shawl (whenever he leaves for the Capitol, she wraps up in that shawl and wears it every day until he’s safely back home).
And sometimes he’ll just sit with her, not speaking or humming or singing, just being literally, physically there for her. Times like that, eventually, she ends up in the circle of his arms, her head on his shoulder and his face buried in her hair.