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Aug. 23rd, 2006 11:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tree_and_leafThe WIP meme (gacked from all over)
I have far too many WIPs, because I am better at starting stuff than finishing it (beats breast and throws ashes in her hair). So, here are three short excerpts from my pending tray, discounting the original stuff, and also 'memoirs and confessions'. They are all gen, unsurprisingly.
From a currently untitled mystery, featuring the secret magical manuscripts archive at the Bodleian, Hermione, Theo Nott, and a group of Dark Arts practicioners somewhat unconvincingly disguised as animal rights activists. I keep getting cold feet about this, and worrying that it will turn out self-indulgently in-jokey and Mary Sueish.
Hermione sighed, muttered a brief ‘Hello’ to the porter at the entrance to Duke Humfrey, and collected her manuscript, reflecting that her Muggle colleagues really had no idea why Duns Scotus had never been edited. Not that she approved of holding up scholarship with memory charms, whatever the infernal Statute of Secrecy said. It wasn’t as if anyone outside the scholarly community would read Scotus, and the idea that this would lead to them discovering the magical world could only be entertained by someone who had never met any academics. But that was a fight for later.
More from the viewpoint of Mrs Granger, but this time just pre-canon: finding a suitable school for your child can be very tricky, despite the government's new rules on "Parental Choice".
Hermione would just bury herself in books if she was allowed to, and that wasn’t good for her. Not that she did mix all that much with the children at primary school – they seemed to think she was a bit odd, and certainly strange things did seem to happen around Hermione – but then, the area they lived in, though surrounded by pretty countryside and good for commuting to the practice, was very insular and not exactly full of bright, middle class children. Thank goodness. Anything rather than having Hermione turn out a precocious, spoiled little monkey like her cousins, who had been herded into prep schools with a reputation for conveying social polish, and had turned out, well, shiny. And also rather stupid, though in a way that wouldn’t stop them going to university, ending up in investment banking and having horrible braying children called Tarquin and Jocasta.
The one nearest finished: my horribly overdue Omniocular "Anywhere but here" piece, which has Phineas Nigellus discovering what has caused a spate of mysterious Muggle and wizard drownings at the Loreleyfels on the Rhine, aided - more or less - by a distant cousin called Phillip von Schwartzerde. (The name, I admit, is a pointless reference to a figure from an earlier period of German history, although the original chap wasn't noble). Equally, the fic contains a certain amount ofindulgence in playful use of motifs from German romanticism.
The young man shook his head wordlessly, and Phineas noticed incredulously that there were tears in his eyes. Germans were all the same – hopelessly sentimental underneath the cool exterior. “I don’t know,” von Schwartzerde said finally. “I wish I did. It was – there are moments when I think I would give anything to feel that way again, and yet I don’t know if I could bear it. It was beautiful; too beautiful to be borne. I know that much.
Then, finally, there's my horribly angsty Wimsey AU, in which justice does not triumph at the end of Strong Poison, which is largely finished because it all got a bit much for me. But I shall finish it, damn it, and be quite cold-blooded.
Charles was saying “Damn it, I don’t like it either. But the evidence – you know I don’t want the innocent to hang, but if the evidence points in a particular way –”
“If you say you were only doing your duty, I’ll…”
“I was only doing my duty” said Charles, stubbornly, and before Peter knew quite what had happened his brother-in-law-elect was sprawling on the floor at his feet, looking up at him and rubbing his chin. Peter bent down to help him up.
“I – I’m sorry, Charles, but – why did you have to say that?”
“I thought it might help if you were angry with me.” Charles grimaced, and wiped blood off his lip. “I didn’t think you’d hit me quite that hard, though.”
I have far too many WIPs, because I am better at starting stuff than finishing it (beats breast and throws ashes in her hair). So, here are three short excerpts from my pending tray, discounting the original stuff, and also 'memoirs and confessions'. They are all gen, unsurprisingly.
From a currently untitled mystery, featuring the secret magical manuscripts archive at the Bodleian, Hermione, Theo Nott, and a group of Dark Arts practicioners somewhat unconvincingly disguised as animal rights activists. I keep getting cold feet about this, and worrying that it will turn out self-indulgently in-jokey and Mary Sueish.
Hermione sighed, muttered a brief ‘Hello’ to the porter at the entrance to Duke Humfrey, and collected her manuscript, reflecting that her Muggle colleagues really had no idea why Duns Scotus had never been edited. Not that she approved of holding up scholarship with memory charms, whatever the infernal Statute of Secrecy said. It wasn’t as if anyone outside the scholarly community would read Scotus, and the idea that this would lead to them discovering the magical world could only be entertained by someone who had never met any academics. But that was a fight for later.
More from the viewpoint of Mrs Granger, but this time just pre-canon: finding a suitable school for your child can be very tricky, despite the government's new rules on "Parental Choice".
Hermione would just bury herself in books if she was allowed to, and that wasn’t good for her. Not that she did mix all that much with the children at primary school – they seemed to think she was a bit odd, and certainly strange things did seem to happen around Hermione – but then, the area they lived in, though surrounded by pretty countryside and good for commuting to the practice, was very insular and not exactly full of bright, middle class children. Thank goodness. Anything rather than having Hermione turn out a precocious, spoiled little monkey like her cousins, who had been herded into prep schools with a reputation for conveying social polish, and had turned out, well, shiny. And also rather stupid, though in a way that wouldn’t stop them going to university, ending up in investment banking and having horrible braying children called Tarquin and Jocasta.
The one nearest finished: my horribly overdue Omniocular "Anywhere but here" piece, which has Phineas Nigellus discovering what has caused a spate of mysterious Muggle and wizard drownings at the Loreleyfels on the Rhine, aided - more or less - by a distant cousin called Phillip von Schwartzerde. (The name, I admit, is a pointless reference to a figure from an earlier period of German history, although the original chap wasn't noble). Equally, the fic contains a certain amount of
The young man shook his head wordlessly, and Phineas noticed incredulously that there were tears in his eyes. Germans were all the same – hopelessly sentimental underneath the cool exterior. “I don’t know,” von Schwartzerde said finally. “I wish I did. It was – there are moments when I think I would give anything to feel that way again, and yet I don’t know if I could bear it. It was beautiful; too beautiful to be borne. I know that much.
Then, finally, there's my horribly angsty Wimsey AU, in which justice does not triumph at the end of Strong Poison, which is largely finished because it all got a bit much for me. But I shall finish it, damn it, and be quite cold-blooded.
Charles was saying “Damn it, I don’t like it either. But the evidence – you know I don’t want the innocent to hang, but if the evidence points in a particular way –”
“If you say you were only doing your duty, I’ll…”
“I was only doing my duty” said Charles, stubbornly, and before Peter knew quite what had happened his brother-in-law-elect was sprawling on the floor at his feet, looking up at him and rubbing his chin. Peter bent down to help him up.
“I – I’m sorry, Charles, but – why did you have to say that?”
“I thought it might help if you were angry with me.” Charles grimaced, and wiped blood off his lip. “I didn’t think you’d hit me quite that hard, though.”
