giselle-lx

Ithaca is Gorges, the PDF

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 04:51:36 GMT

So at long last, here it is, the PDF version of Ithaca is Gorges. I'd gush or something, but I really already put too much on the acknowledgments page, so I'll just let you all read that instead. I hope everyone enjoys it. I will confess to having had a bit too much fun with Papyrus font.

Now we are on to the next projects. My immediate priority is "Da Capo," which I've held off far too long. The new header is a stripped-down version of the banner for this one. I'm looking forward to it.

At any rate--enjoy the PDF.

http://bit.ly/IiGPDF

Acronymy

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 04:31:03 GMT

So for ninapolitan's birthday today, authors from all over the fandom, in all sorts of genres, wrote ficlets for her from a gigantic list of word prompts. As Nina is a HUGE lover of my main guy Carlisle, I thought it would be fun to throw a nice CPOV her way. However, a problem presented itself--Nina is known for her love of Hot Bitch Carlisle (and as the coiner of said term) and I, of course, write a very T-rated Daddylisle. But I love a big challenge. So I picked a word, DILF, which is emblematic of Nina's love for Carlisle, and decided to see what kind of a fic would exist if I threw that word in with the paternal, patient Carlisle we get in Ithaca. The result? "Acronymy," 1,200 words of sheer silliness.

You can find it on FFnet (along with all 84 entries for Nina's birthday) at http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5437177/43/Happy_Birthday_Nina.

But because I was so happy with how it turned out, I want to make it part of my own collection, too. :) You'll find it below the cut. Enjoy!

Acronymy

By: Giselle-lx

Prompts: DILF

Disclaimer: As always, the characters and their world belong to Stephenie Meyer. Any mistakes I have made interpreting them, are, of course, my own.

acronymy (n.) The act of using or creating acronyms.

A school bus chugged at the curb, dumping its exhaust in the direction of the line of bored, tired parents. The thought of what carpool pick-up lines did to the human lung was disturbing, at best. I had the luxury of not breathing—the parents around me weren’t so lucky.

As usual, the other parents granted me a fairly wide berth. A few offered a tentative wave, one, the father of a member of the football team whose fingers I had splinted the week before had given me a hearty, “It’s good to see you, Dr. Cullen.” But for the most part, they stayed away. Our family was unusual at best, and the whole of Forks seemed not to know what to make of the young surgeon and his wife and their five adopted teenagers who had just moved to town.

It was fine by me. The quieter we kept things, the longer we would stay.

This was the first time I’d had to come to the school for pick-up. The junior class was away on a field trip to Seattle to see the Royal Shakespeare Company present The Merchant of Venice. Alice and Edward, of course, were beyond capable of driving themselves home in the absence of Rosalie, Jasper, and Emmett—far more capable than the true fifteen-year-olds who sat in their classes—but these were the kinds of things we had to be careful of. According to the State of Washington, Alice and Edward were only learners, granted permits by being past their half-birthdays, but not fully licensed drivers.

And so I was here to fully support the charade; the father dutifully come to retrieve his children.

The final bell rang, and the high school buildings seemed to explode like hives of bees. Students came pouring out of every entrance—boys slapping one another, cuffing shoulders, and hollering obscenity-laden sentences about their homework loads; girls giggling over a cute football player or perhaps the shy boy in their English classes, and a handful of couples nervously holding hands. I leaned against the Mercedes as the students streamed past me, climbing into their second-hand cars and whizzing off with a dangerous ineptitude.

“That’s Dr. Cullen. The new doctor.”

My head snapped back toward the school at the sound of my name. Two girls, a shorter brunette and a slightly taller blonde, had emerged from one of the side exits, and were headed toward the parking lot. I saw the blonde lift a hand in greeting, and a light-haired woman several cars ahead of me waved in answer.

The two girls giggled, heads close together. They, of course, believed themselves to be having a perfectly private conversation, for which others of their friends’ parents could hear them from two hundred yards away? I meant to tune them out—the invasion of the privacy of the humans around me through my heightened senses was an unfortunate reality that I tried my hardest to avoid. But their voices were too shrill, or perhaps it was because we were still too new, but I listened in anyway.

“Yeah, he’s Edward’s dad? And Alice’s, and the ones who are juniors? The big one and the blonde and Alice’s boyfriend.” The blonde giggled.

“I wonder what he’s doing here?” asked the other.

“Duh. The blonde always brings them, yeah? All the juniors are gone.”

They both shot another glance in my direction, and immediately looked down and giggled when they saw I was looking their way.

“The juniors should be gone more often,” said the brunette, a moment later.

“I know, right?” The blonde giggled, and then dropped her voice to a whisper so quiet I guessed even her friend had trouble hearing her. “He’s a total dilf.”

I felt my brow furrow. I worked to stay on top of slang, at least to the best of my abilities. But this was a term with which I was wholly unfamiliar. The girls drew closer, and both averted their eyes as they walked over to the now-idling minivan driven by the blonde’s mother.

“Carlisle?”

I jumped at the sound of Edward’s voice, causing Alice to giggle.

“I’m sorry, did I startle you?” My son’s question was polite, but his face was smug.

“I’m telling Esme,” Alice teased. “They probably have a crush on you.”

I shrugged, tossing Edward the keys. It was another very important part of the charade—although our family rarely fussed over who got behind the wheel, no human teenager with a learner’s permit turned down the opportunity to drive.

“Trust me,” I answered my daughter as the three of us climbed into the Mercedes, “Esme is in no position to fault a teenage girl for finding me attractive.”

Alice giggled again from the back seat, and Edward just shook his head as he put the car into gear and left the parking lot.

“So, what were you thinking about?” he asked, when we were a ways from the school. “You seemed confused about something.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I answered, looking out the window as we zipped past the last buildings on the outskirts of town. “Just a word I didn’t know.”

“A word you didn’t know?” Alice giggled. “Do you hear that Edward? I think that’s the sound of Hell, freezing over.”

Edward smirked. “I have to say I’m surprised, Carlisle. What was the word?”

I frowned again, remembering the quiet whisper and the conspiratorial giggle. “It’s nothing, really,” I answered. “It’s just that I was listening to the two girls—”

“—Jessica and Lauren,” Alice supplied. “Go on.”

As though she didn’t know what I was about to ask.

“Well, they called me a” — the word sounded just as foreign in my head as it had on her lips— “dilf? What does that mean?”

My body was suddenly jolted as Edward yanked the wheel first to the left in shock, then quickly course-corrected. Alice burst out laughing.

“Could you warn me if he’s going to ask something like that?” he spat, turning backward to give Alice the evil eye.

She smiled and stuck her tongue out at him. But neither answered the question.

I watched spruce trees whiz by for another half-mile before probing again.

“Well?”

Edward sighed, his brow pulling together. “Carlisle,” he said finally, “you know how you often tell me that I would be better off not knowing some of the things I find out from people’s thoughts?”

“Yes…”

He nodded resolutely. “This…would be one of those kinds of things.”

Alice laughed once more, and I didn’t get a word out of either of them the rest of the way home.

Stregoni Benefici, the prologue

Mon, 10 Aug 2009 05:21:24 GMT

So...I'm probably going to write another fic after Ithaca. I emphasize the "after." It will be a VERY pre-Twilight canon fic, and it will be all about...oh yeah, you know. Carlisle. Its working title right now is Stregoni Benefici: The Story of Carlisle Cullen, and it even has a banner, because, well, I like to waste time. I had a huge mental block on Ch. 14 of Ithaca in large part because the prologue of SB was in my head and wouldn't let go. I finally wrote it, and was unblocked on Ch. 14 within minutes. So as a huge THANK YOU to everyone who nominated and voted for Ithaca in the Bellies, and as a huge thanks to everyone who is reading in general, I give you a little sneak peek at the new work-in-progress: Stregoni Benefici.

Only three entries really caught my attention: the Romanian Varacolaci, a powerful undead being who could appear as a beautiful, pale-skinned human, the Solvak Nelapsi, a creature so strong and fast it could massacre and entire village in the single hour after midnight, and one other, the Stregoni benefici.

About this last there was only one brief sentence.

Stregoni benefici: An Italian vampire, said to be on the side of goodness, and a mortal enemy of all evil vampires.

(Twilight, pp. 134-135)

~||+||~

Prologue

London, England

February, c. 1644

The midwife was still sobbing.

Her choking cries rang through the tiny vicarage. She was a young wife, and Sarah was perhaps her tenth delivery.

And her first to die.

The sackcloth upon which Sarah had lain was stained dark red with the blood which had flowed from her as she shuddered in convulsions and bled from the afterbirth. The midwife had gone from reassuring to shocked, and then to near-hysterical. By the time William had been told what had happened, his wife was already gone.

Word traveled fast in this part of London, and it hadn’t been long before several men of the parish arrived to wrap the body and carry it safely away. Funeral arrangements would be made, and William would preside. He would call on the gravedigger in the morning. The congregation would come to seek the solace of their pastor. There would be little time for personal mourning.

Kneeling beside the sackcloth, William ran his hand across it. It came back red, and he clenched his fist, watching as sweat dripped from his palm, made pink by his now late wife’s birthing blood.

The child would die also. A son, as he and Sarah had hoped for. But he was small, born early, and now there was no mother to nurse him.

As he watched the bloodied sweat run off his weathered hand, William realized that he did not hear the child. Perhaps he was already gone like his mother. And if so—William’s heart began to race. He stood and strode into the other room, where the midwife sat hunched, tears still steadily making pale tracks down her dirty face. Her hands, too, were bloodied, and so was the bundle she clutched. But as William drew nearer, he saw the bundle jerk. His body was flushed with relief. He reached out to the midwife and snatched the swaddled infant from her.

Rushing back into the main room, William frantically searched for anything that could be pressed into this service. If he could not save his wife, and if he could not save his son, at least he could see that they both would be received into Heaven.

At last his eyes landed upon the wooden bucket. It had been filled with warm water for the birthing, water which had now gone as cold as the winter outside. Bloodied rags floated on top, and by the light of the fire William could see the water’s faint pink hue.

He was repulsed, and his eyes searched once more for anything else he could use. But the child did not cry, and his movements were becoming slower already. There was not time to go to the well.

Plunging one hand into the cool water, William hastily laid the infant on his lap and pulled the swaddling clothes away from its head. There was not time for a long prayer. He withdrew a hand of cooled water and poured it over the child’s face. In a shaking voice, William said the words which he had said so many times before, on so many happier occasions.

“I baptize thee in the name of the Father”—he scooped again— “and the Son” —a third scoop—“and the Holy Spirit.”

The water ran down the child’s head in rivulets, leaving behind traces of the blood of the woman who had borne him. Still the boy did not move, except for the infinitesimally small movement of his chest has he breathed. Laying a trembling thumb upon his son’s head, William swept it horizontally and then vertically over the tiny brow, forming the sign of the cross, and recited: “We receive this child into the congregation of Christ’s flock, and do sign him with the sign of the cross, in token that hereafter he shall not be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to fight under his banner against sin, the world, and the devil, and to continue Christ’s faithful soldier and servant unto his life’s end.”

William stood, still holding the unnaturally quiet infant. To fight against sin, the world, and the devil. This boy would have task enough in merely fighting to breathe for a few more moments. Surely he was close to death now. He carried the boy back to the midwife, and thrust him into her hands.

“He will join his mother soon,” he said quietly. “But his soul shall be saved with hers.”

“Christened,” the midwife said, her voice sounding awed as she looked down at the child, whose head still dripped from the three tiny handfuls of water. “And his name?”

William stopped. He was to be named William, of course. That had been the choice he had made when Sarah said she was carrying low and guessed the child in her womb to be a son. But if William were to use the name for another boy after this child died, he would never forget this horrible night. And so the name he uttered was not the name he had chosen, but rather the name Sarah had wanted: her father’s name, the man over whose body William had said the funeral prayers just months before.

“Carlisle,” he said quietly. “His name is Carlisle.”

And as though he recognized the name as his own, the baby snapped open his milky blue eyes and began to scream.

Pulling out Stops, one by one

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 17:23:50 GMT

So, I'll admit to stalling. First, I hopped off my usual writing schedule, allowing myself to post Chapter 11 before Chapter 12 was penned. Then, after the outpouring of praise for Chapter 11--I'll admit to falling prey to what I can only describe as stage fright.

You see, usually when you write a climactic chapter like that, all that's left in the story is a denouement--a slow setting of the plot back to its original pace. You let the characters recover, you let the festering wounds heal a little (maybe leaving a few open so that the work doesn't end in unrealistic happiness) and you settle everything back down for a nice winter's nap.

Not so here.

Because Chapter 11 is only the beginning of the climactic action in this book, which by my calculation stretches over seven chapters, nearly half of the novel itself. My intention was to lay the groundwork for a slow crescendo—wring this for the tension it has, and then keep building and building and building.

Great, swell, pedal.

So I'm working on it. Right now, Chapter 12 has some incredible moments. But it's not *there* yet. I have every confidence that it will be. It will hit that point I need it to hit, where all the stops on this baby have been pulled...

Except one.

It's coming, guys.

The Fic from Page 400

Wed, 27 May 2009 18:21:52 GMT

So occasionally I get reviews that praise me for something they think is a wonderful detail I made up, or question something that they think was too far for the Cullens. Thus, I thought it might be prudent to post the paragraph from which almost every detail in Ithaca is sourced. It is on page 400 of the hardcover edition of New Moon: (italics indicate details that have appeared or will appear.)

"Carlisle was working nights in Ithaca and teaching part-time at Cornell. Esme was restoring a seventeenth-century house, a historical monument, in the forest north of the city. Emmett and Rosalie had gone to Europe for a few months on another honeymoon, but they were back now. Jasper was at Cornell, too, studying philosophy this time. And Alice had been doing some personal research, concerning the information I'd accidentally uncovered for her last spring. She'd successfully tracked down the asylum where she'd spent the last years of her human life. The life she had no memory of."

And while we're at it, I'll foreshadow some of the next stuff coming:

"The Cullens were reassembled now, with the one exception, spending Cornell's spring break in Denali with Tanya and her family."

Yes, I've expanded. For one, I decided to have them live in the house that Esme was restoring, even though that isn't evident from this paragraph. But these two pages, as well as Edward's comments on pages 513-515 about his hunt are the Ithaca canon bible. I won't violate a damn thing on those pages. My beta readers make sure of it.

Art!

Sun, 24 May 2009 23:50:12 GMT

So no one should have allowed me to have a free image manipulation program. This has caused many hours of my life to be flushed down the drain. But hey--look at my new pretty LJ header. This is about the extent of my abilities with GIMP, but it's a start. A little cross-platform branding for my fic never hurt.

However, there is also Ithaca art available from people who are far more talented than I.

Arilien did this amazing sketch of the pivotal scene from Chapter 3: "Paternity":

http://fc06.deviantart.com/fs44/f/2009/130/e/6/Ithaca_is_Gorges_by_bberry06.jpg

Miss Asian did this great image manip with a devastating photo of young Peter with a quote also from Chapter 3.

http://fc08.deviantart.com/fs42/f/2009/142/6/a/Paternal_Love_by_mqc12.jpg
This one is the Ithaca movie poster, if ever there were one.

Enjoy!

(Right, right. I know. I'm writing the next chapter. Right. Now.)

Exam Progress

Thu, 07 May 2009 04:23:54 GMT

So this journal is for Twific. Perhaps I will think about posting Ithaca here, but in the meantime this is where it is: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4988866/1/Ithaca_is_Gorges

I am currently actively, purposefully, and happily procrastinating on writing three final papers that are all due on Saturday. After that, I will be able to turn my attention completely to writing. This may interfere with my ability to make money this summer--I'm not sure yet that I care.

I thought I would add a note, though, re: the discrepancy between twilighted and FFnet posting. I stumbled into Twific via twilighted, and had two short stories up there before I ever really discovered FFnet. I decided that, as a grammar maven, I had no need of FFnet, and so started building Ithaca on twilighted. Theeeen I decided to try and post a chapter over Easter weekend. My pretty, beautiful, spelling and grammar-nazi chapter took six days to get through the queue. So I decided it was time for FFnet, just in case. Being a review whore, however (aren't we all?), I didn't just want to put it all up at once. I thought I was building it in anticipation of posting Chapter 8, but then I realized that I had sort of gotten off track and Chapter 8 was ready to go. So Chapter 8 went up on twilighted. NOW Chapter 9 is nearing readiness, and before it's ready, Chapter 8 will go up on FFnet. Then the two sites will be in sync. Long story for a short moral: Chapter 9, unless something crazy happens, will begin the strain of simultaneous posting on twilighted and ffnet.