Let’s be honest – we all forget to leave a comment sometimes. We don’t always go out of our way to click the “come talk to me on tumblr” link on AO3 to scream about the fic in the author’s inbox. On August 21st I encourage you to take a moment and show fanfic writers that you appreciate them!
How can you do it?
leave a comment and kudos on every fic you finish reading. Doesn’t matter how short. Doesn’t matter if you’re just repeating what other people have already said. Just be kind! Keysmashing, Caps Lock, and live commenting appreciated! (Bonus points if you leave a comment on every chapter)
floaty review box for ao3 (super useful for commenting as you read + it has a ‘review tips’ button if you feel stuck)
reblog ficlets, drabbles, fics, fic rec posts, etc. Put a nice comment in the tags. Remember that likes, while appreciated, don’t give the writer any exposure, meaning the posts don’t reach more people
go to your local fanfic writer’s inbox and talk to them about their fic of your choice. Let them know how long ago you’ve read it and what story point/sentence/scene still makes you smile when you think about it
send thank you messages to fic writers. In a world where you have to pay for almost everything, they’re supplying you with countless hours of free entertainment. It can get quite lonely without getting messages acknowledging the hours they spend writing stories – let them know their time and effort is appreciated
make fic rec posts and @ the authors whose fics you’re recommending! (believe me, fic writers love to see their stories in these posts)
create something inspired by a fic! You can draw fanart, make a moodboard or aesthetic post, or even write a song for the fic you love. Whether you’re a beginner or a pro doesn’t matter – the thought alone is what counts more than anything ❤
buy the writer a coffee if they have a ko-fi page and you have some change lying around c: Caffeine keeps most fic writers awake when they struggle with a particularly slow draft or a difficult scene. More coffee, more content.
These are only some ideas out of the sea of possible ways to appreciate fanfic writers. On August 21st show the writers in your fandom(s) some love ❤
I used to dream about you. I can’t remember my own dead wife’s face, but I never forgot yours, not for 27 fucking years. Now, I’m an old man and you haven’t aged one goddamn day. Are you the devil?
It’s 5am, the sun is rising and Adam Towers can’t sleep. He’d taken this assignment for the potential respite it offered from the humid, tourist-ridden clusterfuck the City always turned into during July. A quick and easy student/teacher scandal to write up and then three uninterrupted days of good food, good beer, and plenty of pretty postgrads to pick from. Instead, he’d failed to get the interview, had picked a restaurant that couldn’t understand why “such a lovely omega” would want a table for one, and had been rejected for a younger model by the cute alpha he’d spent all night flirting with. And he hadn’t bothered to bring even his most modest knotting toy to help him get off (to sleep, or otherwise).
He flings the covers off, unwilling to lie there with his head spinning any longer. He needs to do something, needs to move, to blow out the cobwebs and start fresh. The weekend’s far from over, after all, and he’s not letting one shitty night spoil the whole thing for him. He briefly considers the gym, but the thought of fluorescent lighting and stale sweat on the recycled air makes him grimace. And then he thinks of the perfect alternative – a gorgeous, natural pool he’d passed on his way back from the disastrous non-interview the day before. He’d been too pissed to explore it at the time (the professor, as well as being a lecherous old man, had turned out to be the kind of sexist dick who thought omegas should stay at home, barefoot and pregnant, instead of reporting on predatory assholes like him), but now the thought of cool water and fresh air is irresistible.
He dresses quickly, jeans and a t-shirt all that are necessary in this heatwave, shoves his phone in one pocket, his keycard in another, and leaves his room to the tender mercies of housekeeping. The pool’s only a fifteen-minute walk and he spends it mentally composing the hatchet job he’s going to do on that reprehensible knothead of a professor once he’s unwound a bit. Been a while since anybody’s tried to do him for libel, and this one would take him past Lounds’ record – assuming she’s still alive and the hot cannibal and his husband haven’t gotten her since they last exchanged emails.
He’s just trying on headlines for size – KNOT FOR TEACHER has potential – when he feels the ground sloping away from him and realises he’s reached his destination. The pool is separated from a cluster of little farm cottages by a thick line of trees, marking the beginning of the forest, and they curve all around the water, a curtain of sturdy branches and leaves that flutter in the gentle breeze. In the dusty-gold light of morning, it’s even more beautiful than he’d remembered, the water tinted green but mirror-clear and glimmering.
He pulls off his shirt, shoes and jeans in quick succession, folding them perfunctorily and sparing a prayer to the god of errant journalists that nobody comes by and snatches his belongings, room key and all. Standing in nothing but a pair of very expensive, very skimpy briefs, he takes a quick look around, just to be sure, but it’s still only half-five and there’s no sign of a single, living soul anywhere nearby. So he strips off his undies and stuffs them into his trouser pocket, then hides the whole lot in the tall grass under a couple of rocks. One final check that he’s alone, and then Adam stretches up into the dappled sunlight, feeling the first touch of warmth on his bare skin, before carefully making his way down the bank and into the cool water.
every time i fuck up plugging in the USB to charge my iphone and scratch it against the underside of the phone i think about that scene at the start of sherlock where sherlock assumes that john watson’s sister is an alcoholic because of the scratches around the charging port of the iphone she gave to him as a gift and i think to myself “man sherlock is a fucking idiot”
there are so many clever ways to fuck with Sherlock Holmes and the godforsaken show was patting itself on the back for the brilliance of “woman gets naked”
“Samuel Vimes dreamed about Clues. He had a jaundiced view of Clues. He instinctively distrusted them. They got in the way. And he distrusted the kind of person who’d take one look at another man and say in a lordly voice to his companion, “Ah, my dear sir, I can tell you nothing except that he is a left-handed stonemason who has spent some years in the merchant navy and has recently fallen on hard times,” and then unroll a lot of supercilious commentary about calluses and stance and the state of a man’s boots, when exactly the same comments could apply to a man who was wearing his old clothes because he’d been doing a spot of home bricklaying for a new barbecue pit, and had been tattooed once when he was drunk and seventeen* and in fact got seasick on a wet pavement. What arrogance! What an insult to the rich and chaotic variety of the human experience!”
Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay
Thank you so much for the Vimes quote, because I was preparing myself to go look for it. 😀
Mostly reblogs and random words 