Commentaries

[hedda62]

I just realized I've written a heck of a lot of fic since I last did DVD commentaries, so if anyone's interested I'm up for it.

Pick any passage of 500 words or fewer from any story I've written, and comment to this post with that selection. I will then give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what's going on in the characters' heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, lots of awful puns, and anything else that you’d expect to find on a DVD commentary track.

I don't absolutely promise the awful puns, but just now I happen to be writing yet another story from John Reese's POV, so perhaps I can promise lame jokes.

(It would be tremendous fun to do this for "Children of an Idle Brain," but anything is fair game. I think it was all Vorkosigan stuff last time, so I'm glad I have more of a mix now. Feel free to ask for more than one and I'll get to them as I have time.)

Comments

[philomytha]

I'll certainly take Children of an Idle Brain! And be predictable:

Bear chases squirrels in dreams, and Reese chases miscreants, and they twitch in unison. Reese is aware of this, even sleeping; the claw-scratch of Bear's gallop sets the rhythm of his own stride, and for a moment he has four feet, but he needs his hands to strike and punch and fire his gun. They say dreams are how we work out the problems of the day, and Reese is always working, fine-tuning his reactions, making each movement count. He's in the middle of perfecting a particular chop to the throat when the collar tightens against his windpipe and he's jerked away, scrabbling desperately as he watches the number, the perpetrator, go down, sad history written in emails and photos and transcripts across his bleeding face.

"No, Mr. Reese," Harold says reprovingly. "If you roll in it, I'll have to give you a bath, and you won't like that."

This is a very distracting idea, so much so that he's in the water before he knows it, naked, blinking out the soap. He roars up, a sea monster out of the deep, and Harold pushes him under again. The bath is warm, and he almost doesn't want to come out, but he does, more subtly disguised as a snake, twining around Harold's body, squeezing tight. The eyes under the glasses grow large and frightened, but he's left the hands free, and with a loud zip his skin sloughs off and he falls back into the tub, man-shaped once more.

"Please don't do that again," Harold says, out of breath, and then, finding it, "Everybody deserves a second chance, but not a third transformation. Hold still and let me wash you."

It's a wound in his side that needs cleaning; the careful soaping and rinsing is an act of astonishing intimacy and mercy, and he has to bite his lip against a pang of affection. He wants to pull out a knife and slice into Harold's flesh, see the blood ooze out and the skin pale and shiver, so he can return the favor. The impulse shames him; friendship should be more than an equal exchange of hurts. Harold's precise, efficient manipulations mimic Kara's fiery caresses: it's been years since Reese could reliably distinguish pain from pleasure, and he's both achingly aroused at the touch and prickly with irritation, nettle-kissed, cactus-stroked. He glances at Harold, working away with the calm tub-side manner of a doctor, and wonders where the passion is hiding. Under the water, under the skin. He can't find his either. He's searching a hall full of doors, scanning the shelves of the Library: still naked, still cold, still wounded; Harold's still patiently sewing up the hole in his side. There ought to be terror, delight, fury; instead there's doglike determination and a yearning toward wholeness. He's held together with thread and fed by a glacial river; there's a dormant volcano at his heart.

Somewhere in the Library is a photo from Harold's high school newspaper, the model of the galaxy he constructed out of pipe cleaners and styrofoam balls when he was eight, the key to his first car. Reese keeps looking: a very important scavenger hunt. He'll bind up the clues with zip ties when he finds them, interrogate them, and then eat them.

An important nugget of information lurks under a staggering pile of numbers; it's the kind with powdered sugar on the outside and jam within. He's just about got the case in his hand when the pile falls on him with a loud crash, and he starts awake to find himself on a sofa in the Library, Harold watching him with a quizzical expression, head tilted like a bird's.

"Were you in China, Mr. Reese?" he asks.

Bear's tail thumps; Harold smiles, and John wakes up again, in the bed in his loft, alone.

[hedda62]

[First: I really loved writing this fic. I like the odd associations in dreams and the process of creating a narrative that seems dreamlike but also works as fiction, with consistent imagery and something that resembles a story arc. I've written a lot of dreams that fit into a broader story with awake protagonists; this was the first time I'd tried something that was all dreams. After I finished the story I started a post about writing dreams that I got partway into and abandoned; maybe I'll get back to it someday.]

[The first section of the story, just about before this, is Finch's dream, and I consciously made the images and sensations different, but they work together. Throughout the story there are repeated ideas about wounds and broken things that get repaired (or don't). That just happened halfway through, of course; it wasn't completely obvious to me yet at this point.]

Bear chases squirrels in dreams, and Reese chases miscreants, and they twitch in unison. Reese is aware of this, even sleeping; the claw-scratch of Bear's gallop sets the rhythm of his own stride, and for a moment he has four feet, [So, the whole John-is-a-dog thing. It's probably been overdone but it's kind of irresistible, because the show writers make the analogies so obvious. I've watched a lot of dogs twitch in sleep in my time, and it's clear that it's those running/hunting instincts coming out. And Reese has the same instincts and need for constant action, just on a more sophisticated level.] but he needs his hands to strike and punch and fire his gun. They say dreams are how we work out the problems of the day, [This is a repeated statement from the Finch section. I think it's the last time I state it outright, but the concept is there in other sections. And, though it's too simply stated here, it may actually be one of the reasons we have dreams.] and Reese is always working, [Yes. That's the sort of person he is, has to be doing something.] fine-tuning his reactions, making each movement count. He's in the middle of perfecting a particular chop to the throat [Could have been lots of other things, but association:]when the collar tightens against his windpipe and he's jerked away, scrabbling desperately [We have all seen dogs do this too, yes?] as he watches the number, the perpetrator, go down, sad history written in emails and photos and transcripts across his bleeding face. [The number equals the case and all its associated research; image worked for me.]

"No, Mr. Reese," Harold says reprovingly. "If you roll in it, I'll have to give you a bath, and you won't like that." [More being-a-dog, and probably something Harold said to Bear.]

This is a very distracting idea, [Oh, John, you are so obvious.] so much so that he's in the water before he knows it, [There's a fair amount of water in this fic, too, but then that's true of everything I write.] naked, blinking out the soap. He roars up, a sea monster out of the deep, and Harold pushes him under again. The bath is warm, and he almost doesn't want to come out, but he does, more subtly disguised as a snake, twining around Harold's body, [oh, you want to do that so badly] squeezing tight. [I wrote this part before "Proteus" aired, and I was curious about what they'd do with the myth. I know rather a lot about transformation myth and fairy tale, because of book research, and I couldn't resist sticking some of it in. This owes a specific debt to "Tam Lin," which tends to emphasize the Finch/Reesiness of the whole story, although they don't let the tale come to its finish. But Proteus and his transformations-as-avoidance are also good thematic material.] The eyes under the glasses grow large and frightened, but he's left the hands free, and with a loud zip his skin sloughs off and he falls back into the tub, man-shaped once more. [Skin coming off is a central image for a lot of transformation stories. Probably "Voyage of the Dawn Treader" (Eustace and the dragon) was the first example I was aware of, but it's in a lot of the fairy tales derived from "Cupid and Psyche" and turns up all over the world. See "The Crane Wife" and its antecedents. Speaking of birds, though we aren't yet.]

"Please don't do that again," Harold says, out of breath, and then, finding it, "Everybody deserves a second chance, [One of Reese's own sayings] but not a third transformation. [There should have been three, because there are always three. Although you could count the dog, I suppose.] Hold still and let me wash you." [And here's the shift into sexy religious imagery.]

It's a wound in his side that needs cleaning; [Because one can't somehow avoid remembering that Caviezel played Jesus.] the careful soaping and rinsing is an act of astonishing intimacy and mercy, and he has to bite his lip against a pang of affection. He wants to pull out a knife and slice into Harold's flesh, see the blood ooze out and the skin pale and shiver, so he can return the favor. [ha, h/c fic with a twist] The impulse shames him; friendship should be more than an equal exchange of hurts. Harold's precise, efficient manipulations mimic Kara's fiery caresses: it's been years since Reese could reliably distinguish pain from pleasure, and he's both achingly aroused at the touch and prickly with irritation, nettle-kissed, cactus-stroked. [I like all the contradictions here: affection paired with maiming, pain with pleasure, Harold with Kara. Poor boy, he's so mixed up.] [It's worth wondering here when this is set; the dreams in this story don't all happen at once. Second season, clearly, because of Bear, but I think before the arc that starts with "Shadow Box." I took a bomb vest reference out of this section purposefully once I figured that out.] He glances at Harold, working away with the calm tub-side manner of a doctor, [not a real doctor, but he occasionally plays one on TV] and wonders where the passion is hiding. Under the water, under the skin. [Both locations picked up from Finch's dream.] He can't find his either. He's searching a hall full of doors, scanning the shelves of the Library: [the first is pretty generic dream imagery, the second where he knows all the secrets are] still naked, still cold, still wounded; Harold's still patiently sewing up the hole in his side. [First time the repair is mentioned, though it's implied by the doctor line. See thread, below]There ought to be terror, delight, fury; instead there's doglike determination [heh, he knows it too] and a yearning toward wholeness. He's held together with thread and fed by a glacial river; there's a dormant volcano at his heart. [I looked up Puyallup, WA on Wikipedia; both the river and the volcano come from there.]

Somewhere in the Library is a photo from Harold's high school newspaper, the model of the galaxy he constructed out of pipe cleaners and styrofoam balls when he was eight, [should have been solar system, but Harold would do the whole galaxy] the key to his first car. Reese keeps looking: a very important scavenger hunt. He'll bind up the clues with zip ties when he finds them, interrogate them, and then eat them.

An important nugget of information lurks under a staggering pile of numbers; it's the kind with powdered sugar on the outside and jam within. [I think I edited "eat them" into the last paragraph after I invented this. Doughnuts, heh.] He's just about got the case in his hand [the laptop case] when the pile falls on him with a loud crash, and he starts awake to find himself on a sofa in the Library, Harold watching him with a quizzical expression, head tilted like a bird's. [Also very obvious, and Harold can't actually move his head that much.]

"Were you in China, Mr. Reese?" he asks. [Well, it had to be important somehow…]

Bear's tail thumps; Harold smiles, and John wakes up again, in the bed in his loft, alone. [And the dream within a dream, always enjoyable.]