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31_days2007-05-30 11:57 pm
haleysings.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2007-05-30 11:57 pm
[May 30, 2007] [Princess Tutu] Story Spinner
Title: Story Spinner
Day/Theme: May 30: there is a crack in everything (that's how the light gets in)
Series: Princess Tutu
Character/Pairing: Autor, Fakir, Johanna (briefly)
Rating: G
There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m exactly the way I should be. I’m perfect. I haven’t written a story yet because the time wasn’t right, that’s all. I’m sure I’ll be able to write soon. I just need a little more time. Or a little more research. That’s all I need…
There is nothing wrong with me!
**************
How long had he been trying to write now? Ten years?
Yes, that was it. It had been ten years. The reason he started to write in the first place was gone now—his mother had returned, and his father could no longer be proud or disappointed in him. There was really no reason to still be obsessed with the writing powers now.
But he still was. He wanted to write, desperately. He couldn’t imagine what he would do if he couldn’t spin stories. There had to be some way he could write. Someway, somehow, he’d find out what his problem was and fix it. And then he’d be as good of a writer as Fakir. No, he’d be even better than Fakir! He was sure of it!
Except that was a lie. He wasn’t sure of it. He wasn’t sure of anything, really. As the days went by and he was still unable to write, he was beginning to give up hope of ever being able to.
The death of a dream is a painful event, particularly when it’s been such a major part of your life. Everyone reacts differently to it. Autor’s own personal reaction…was to throw a temper tantrum.
It started when he picked a fight with Fakir at school, for no particular reason. The fight was explosive enough that he had to be called to the office to explain himself, where he simply pouted and said nothing. Professor Penguin—he was no longer an actual penguin, but Autor could never remember his new ‘real’ name—once again expressed the same concern he always had over Autor. You keep to yourself, you used to be a star student but now your grades are barely enough to get by, you spend all of your time in the library away from others. “Autor, I thought that now that your mother returned you’d be able to find some sense of stability…”
“I’m perfectly stable,” Autor responded, crossing his arms.
“Autor, you were yelling at another student. And, as far as I can tell, this student did nothing to instigate the fight.”
“He took away my chance to be the heir,” Autor muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Autor had managed to avoid receiving any sort of penalty beyond a stern warning, but it did little to cool his anger. His teacher meant well, he knew, but he just couldn’t understand—his name meant ‘author’. That was his calling. His purpose. To have that taken away by someone that had done everything he could to avoid writing for years—it just wasn’t fair. Autor could hear a voice in the back of his mind scolding him every time he thought that, but it was the truth. Life had never been fair to him. He should have been the one that was chosen. He was more than qualified.
When he reached home, he was greeted by the unpleasant surprise of seeing Fakir sitting in his living room drinking tea with his mother. He had not gone to the library today for the express purpose of avoiding Fakir. He did not want to come home to find him having a pleasant chat with his mother.
Johanna’s eyes darted over to Autor as he walked in the door, a frown quickly appearing on her face. She had never been the sort to hide her disapproval of someone. “I don’t suppose you’d like to give me your side of the story?”
Autor stuck his nose up into the air. “He provoked me.”
“How?”
“He called it pointless.”
“Called what pointless?”
“Trying to write.”
Fakir broke into the conversation. “Is that what this is about?” He set down his tea cup and stood up from his seat. His expression was maddeningly unreadable, as was often the case with him. “I said researching Drosselmeyer was pointless. I didn’t say anything about writing.”
“The two are so closely connected you can’t really separate them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I could write before I even knew who Drosselmeyer was.”
Autor was unable to hide the bitterness in his voice when he spoke. “Well, for those of us that aren’t blessed to be direct descendants, a little more study is required.” He walked past Fakir without a second glance, down the hallway and towards his room. His shoulders tensed when he heard a second set of footsteps behind him—Fakir was following him.
“What makes you think that having the same tea set as Drosselmeyer is going to make a difference in your writing?”
Autor didn’t give him the dignity of turning around to face him. “That’s the way things work.”
“And how do you know that?”
“It’s the way things have always been.”
“According to who?”
Autor walked into his room and opened his book bag, beginning to unpack it. When he finished his task and turned, he saw that Fakir was leaning against the door frame, blocking him from leaving the room. “According to who?” Fakir repeated again, crossing his arms.
“…My father.”
Fakir snorted. “I thought your mother was the writer.”
“Who told you that?”
“Your mother.”
“You seem to be getting along well with her. Have you signed all of the adoption papers yet?” Autor said with a sarcastic edge to his voice. He pulled out a sheet of homework and sat at his desk, beginning to absent-mindedly fill it out.
“I can’t have a conversation with your mother now?”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind having a son that could write.”
Autor could feel the glare Fakir was giving him, even with his back turned. It was a moment or two before Fakir spoke again. “Why do you care so much about writing?”
“It’s my birthright.”
“Does that really matter?”
Autor put so much pressure on his quill that he nearly tore through the paper as he wrote. “It’s what I’m supposed to do.”
“Heh. Do you really think that?”
“My name means author, Fakir.”
“And I have a birthmark that covers most of my torso signifying that I’m a ‘useless knight’. If I did what I was ‘supposed’ to do, I would’ve been dead.”
Autor stopped writing, setting down his quill pen with a sigh. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“I want to be a story spinner. I want it more than anything else.”
“...I don’t think you really understand everything being a story spinner means,” Fakir said quietly. “It’s not a game.”
“I know it’s not!” Autor quickly got up from his desk and turned. Fakir had turned away from him and was focusing on the door in front of him. “I don’t want to be a writer just for fun! I want to do something with my life. I want to make a difference.”
“You don’t have to be a writer to make a difference. And there’s no guarantee that I’ll make a difference even with my powers.”
“But it’s easier for you. You know what you have to do.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t have any idea what I have to do. I don’t even know what to do with my story right now.” Fakir straightened, pushing away from the door frame and turning to face Autor. “But tomorrow I’ll just have to sit down and try to write again. If I write a sentence that doesn’t work, I’ll blot it up and try another one. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”
“It’s not easy to put into practice.”
“I didn’t say it was. But it’s better for me to start over and write a new sentence than to try to force the first sentence to work when it doesn’t. And I know you can do more than research.”
Autor raised an eye brow. “What do you mean?”
“Your teacher told me you used to be at the top of your class, back when you first joined the Academy.”
“…That was a long time ago.”
“I’m sure you’re plenty capable of doing it again. You’re one of those people that’s stubborn when you have a goal in mind.” The way Fakir said the last sentence, it was hard to tell if it was a compliment or an insult.
“I don’t know if I want to be a musician.”
Fakir shrugged. “If you didn’t want to be a musician, then why did you go into that division in the first place?”
Before Autor could even respond to the question, Fakir was turning and walking out the door. “I should go. Duck will be wondering where I am.” And then he was gone, leaving Autor standing in the middle of his room with a frown on his face.
A musician? Him? Why would he want to be a musician? What difference would that make?
He wandered into the living room, his eyes drifting over to the piano in the middle of the room. He reached out and touched the keys. The ivory felt cool beneath his fingertips. Soon he was seated in front of the piano, his fingers dancing along the keys. There was something comforting about playing in front of it. It was hard for him to stay angry when he played. There was something about music that always helped him sort out his feelings.
Musicians sometimes tell stories through their music, after all, Autor thought to himself as his foot pressed down on the pedal. It wasn’t really a horrible idea, when he thought about it.
Using music to spin a story…
He liked the sound of that.
Day/Theme: May 30: there is a crack in everything (that's how the light gets in)
Series: Princess Tutu
Character/Pairing: Autor, Fakir, Johanna (briefly)
Rating: G
There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m exactly the way I should be. I’m perfect. I haven’t written a story yet because the time wasn’t right, that’s all. I’m sure I’ll be able to write soon. I just need a little more time. Or a little more research. That’s all I need…
There is nothing wrong with me!
**************
How long had he been trying to write now? Ten years?
Yes, that was it. It had been ten years. The reason he started to write in the first place was gone now—his mother had returned, and his father could no longer be proud or disappointed in him. There was really no reason to still be obsessed with the writing powers now.
But he still was. He wanted to write, desperately. He couldn’t imagine what he would do if he couldn’t spin stories. There had to be some way he could write. Someway, somehow, he’d find out what his problem was and fix it. And then he’d be as good of a writer as Fakir. No, he’d be even better than Fakir! He was sure of it!
Except that was a lie. He wasn’t sure of it. He wasn’t sure of anything, really. As the days went by and he was still unable to write, he was beginning to give up hope of ever being able to.
The death of a dream is a painful event, particularly when it’s been such a major part of your life. Everyone reacts differently to it. Autor’s own personal reaction…was to throw a temper tantrum.
It started when he picked a fight with Fakir at school, for no particular reason. The fight was explosive enough that he had to be called to the office to explain himself, where he simply pouted and said nothing. Professor Penguin—he was no longer an actual penguin, but Autor could never remember his new ‘real’ name—once again expressed the same concern he always had over Autor. You keep to yourself, you used to be a star student but now your grades are barely enough to get by, you spend all of your time in the library away from others. “Autor, I thought that now that your mother returned you’d be able to find some sense of stability…”
“I’m perfectly stable,” Autor responded, crossing his arms.
“Autor, you were yelling at another student. And, as far as I can tell, this student did nothing to instigate the fight.”
“He took away my chance to be the heir,” Autor muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Autor had managed to avoid receiving any sort of penalty beyond a stern warning, but it did little to cool his anger. His teacher meant well, he knew, but he just couldn’t understand—his name meant ‘author’. That was his calling. His purpose. To have that taken away by someone that had done everything he could to avoid writing for years—it just wasn’t fair. Autor could hear a voice in the back of his mind scolding him every time he thought that, but it was the truth. Life had never been fair to him. He should have been the one that was chosen. He was more than qualified.
When he reached home, he was greeted by the unpleasant surprise of seeing Fakir sitting in his living room drinking tea with his mother. He had not gone to the library today for the express purpose of avoiding Fakir. He did not want to come home to find him having a pleasant chat with his mother.
Johanna’s eyes darted over to Autor as he walked in the door, a frown quickly appearing on her face. She had never been the sort to hide her disapproval of someone. “I don’t suppose you’d like to give me your side of the story?”
Autor stuck his nose up into the air. “He provoked me.”
“How?”
“He called it pointless.”
“Called what pointless?”
“Trying to write.”
Fakir broke into the conversation. “Is that what this is about?” He set down his tea cup and stood up from his seat. His expression was maddeningly unreadable, as was often the case with him. “I said researching Drosselmeyer was pointless. I didn’t say anything about writing.”
“The two are so closely connected you can’t really separate them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I could write before I even knew who Drosselmeyer was.”
Autor was unable to hide the bitterness in his voice when he spoke. “Well, for those of us that aren’t blessed to be direct descendants, a little more study is required.” He walked past Fakir without a second glance, down the hallway and towards his room. His shoulders tensed when he heard a second set of footsteps behind him—Fakir was following him.
“What makes you think that having the same tea set as Drosselmeyer is going to make a difference in your writing?”
Autor didn’t give him the dignity of turning around to face him. “That’s the way things work.”
“And how do you know that?”
“It’s the way things have always been.”
“According to who?”
Autor walked into his room and opened his book bag, beginning to unpack it. When he finished his task and turned, he saw that Fakir was leaning against the door frame, blocking him from leaving the room. “According to who?” Fakir repeated again, crossing his arms.
“…My father.”
Fakir snorted. “I thought your mother was the writer.”
“Who told you that?”
“Your mother.”
“You seem to be getting along well with her. Have you signed all of the adoption papers yet?” Autor said with a sarcastic edge to his voice. He pulled out a sheet of homework and sat at his desk, beginning to absent-mindedly fill it out.
“I can’t have a conversation with your mother now?”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind having a son that could write.”
Autor could feel the glare Fakir was giving him, even with his back turned. It was a moment or two before Fakir spoke again. “Why do you care so much about writing?”
“It’s my birthright.”
“Does that really matter?”
Autor put so much pressure on his quill that he nearly tore through the paper as he wrote. “It’s what I’m supposed to do.”
“Heh. Do you really think that?”
“My name means author, Fakir.”
“And I have a birthmark that covers most of my torso signifying that I’m a ‘useless knight’. If I did what I was ‘supposed’ to do, I would’ve been dead.”
Autor stopped writing, setting down his quill pen with a sigh. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“I want to be a story spinner. I want it more than anything else.”
“...I don’t think you really understand everything being a story spinner means,” Fakir said quietly. “It’s not a game.”
“I know it’s not!” Autor quickly got up from his desk and turned. Fakir had turned away from him and was focusing on the door in front of him. “I don’t want to be a writer just for fun! I want to do something with my life. I want to make a difference.”
“You don’t have to be a writer to make a difference. And there’s no guarantee that I’ll make a difference even with my powers.”
“But it’s easier for you. You know what you have to do.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t have any idea what I have to do. I don’t even know what to do with my story right now.” Fakir straightened, pushing away from the door frame and turning to face Autor. “But tomorrow I’ll just have to sit down and try to write again. If I write a sentence that doesn’t work, I’ll blot it up and try another one. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”
“It’s not easy to put into practice.”
“I didn’t say it was. But it’s better for me to start over and write a new sentence than to try to force the first sentence to work when it doesn’t. And I know you can do more than research.”
Autor raised an eye brow. “What do you mean?”
“Your teacher told me you used to be at the top of your class, back when you first joined the Academy.”
“…That was a long time ago.”
“I’m sure you’re plenty capable of doing it again. You’re one of those people that’s stubborn when you have a goal in mind.” The way Fakir said the last sentence, it was hard to tell if it was a compliment or an insult.
“I don’t know if I want to be a musician.”
Fakir shrugged. “If you didn’t want to be a musician, then why did you go into that division in the first place?”
Before Autor could even respond to the question, Fakir was turning and walking out the door. “I should go. Duck will be wondering where I am.” And then he was gone, leaving Autor standing in the middle of his room with a frown on his face.
A musician? Him? Why would he want to be a musician? What difference would that make?
He wandered into the living room, his eyes drifting over to the piano in the middle of the room. He reached out and touched the keys. The ivory felt cool beneath his fingertips. Soon he was seated in front of the piano, his fingers dancing along the keys. There was something comforting about playing in front of it. It was hard for him to stay angry when he played. There was something about music that always helped him sort out his feelings.
Musicians sometimes tell stories through their music, after all, Autor thought to himself as his foot pressed down on the pedal. It wasn’t really a horrible idea, when he thought about it.
Using music to spin a story…
He liked the sound of that.