Okay but imagine Yuuri retires from competitive figure skating at 27, and he decides to go back to college to become a teacher.
So this boy walks into class sporting the just-rolled-out-of-bed look with the sex hair and the big comfy sweater and the starbucks cup in one hand.
And you know, he’s enjoying his life, he makes friends in his program and on the weekends he helps his husband teach cute little kids how to skate and they have this cozy little house together in a nice neighbourhood. He probably has girls and guys falling for him left and right.
And then one day, Yuuri’s out with his friends, and they’re at a cafe or something.
And a group of girls comes up to them, and they’re all blushing and nudging each other saying “You talk first!”.
So Yuuri just turns this absolutely blinding smile on them and asks, “Autographs?”
The girls squeak, and nod furiously.
“Sure!” he says, reaching out for the notebooks they’re holding out for him to sign.
And about ten minutes later, after several selfies and autographs and a lot of gushing and squealing and “Please let Viktor know we’re looking forward to Yuratchka’s upcoming season,” the girls leave.
So Yuuri turns back to his friends, and they’re all just staring at him with wide eyes and gaping mouths.
Yuuri kinda wonders if there’s something on his face.
The first thing that comes out of anyone’s mouths is, “…who’s Viktor?”
And Yuuri’s kinda confused as he replies, “….my husband?”
“YOU’RE MARRIED!?!?!?!?” his friends all shriek.
Yuuri looks down at his hand to make sure his ring is still there. “Yeah?” he says, holding his hand up.
“I thought that was just a fashion statement!” one of the girls exclaims.
“Why did they want your autograph though?” asks another of his friends, and Yuuri just looks away sheepishly.
“I’m…uh….a retired competitive figure skater?” he asks, his voice going higher with embarrassment. “And I…uh…got 2 golds in the Grand Prix…and 2 golds in Worlds….and maybe a silver in Pyeongchang?”
His voice gets progressively quieter as his face gets even redder.
His friends are staring at him in horror and shocked disbelief now.
And he thinks he might as well get it all out now.
“And…my husband might be the most decorated athlete in figure skating history?”
Muhammad Ali with Malcolm X, Sam Cooke, his mother Odessa Clay and a crowd of fans at his home in Miami on February 28, just 3 days after winning his first Heavyweight title vs Sonny Liston on February 25, 1964.
Everything You Need to Know About Writing Successfully - in Ten Minutes
by Stephen King (reprinted in Sylvia K. Burack, ed. The Writer’s Handbook. Boston, MA: Writer, Inc., 1988: 3-9)
I. The First Introduction
THAT’S RIGHT. I know it sounds like an ad for some sleazy writers’ school, but I really am going to tell you everything you need to pursue a successful and financially rewarding career writing fiction, and I really am going to do it in ten minutes, which is exactly how long it took me to learn. It will actually take you twenty minutes or so to read this essay, however, because I have to tell you a story, and then I have to write a second introduction. But these, I argue, should not count in the ten minutes.
II. The Story, or, How Stephen King Learned to Write
When I was a sophomore in high school, I did a sophomoric thing which got me in a pot of fairly hot water, as sophomoric didoes often do. I wrote and published a small satiric newspaper called The Village Vomit. In this little paper I lampooned a number of teachers at Lisbon (Maine) High School, where I was under instruction. These were not very gentle lampoons; they ranged from the scatological to the downright cruel
Eventually, a copy of this little newspaper found its way into the hands of a faculty member, and since I had been unwise enough to put my name on it (a fault, some critics argue, of which I have still not been entirely cured), I was brought into the office. The sophisticated satirist had by that time reverted to what he really was: a fourteen-year-old kid who was shaking in his boots and wondering if he was going to get a suspension … what we called “a three-day vacation” in those dim days of 1964.
I wasn’t suspended. I was forced to make a number of apologies - they were warranted, but they still tasted like dog-dirt in my mouth - and spent a week in detention hall. And the guidance counselor arranged what he no doubt thought of as a more constructive channel for my talents. This was a job - contingent upon the editor’s approval - writing sports for the Lisbon Enterprise, a twelve-page weekly of the sort with which any small-town resident will be familiar. This editor was the man who taught me everything I know about writing in ten minutes. His name was John Gould - not the famed New England humorist or the novelist who wrote The Greenleaf Fires, but a relative of both, I believe.
He told me he needed a sports writer and we could “try each other out” if I wanted.
I told him I knew more about advanced algebra than I did sports.
Gould nodded and said, “You’ll learn.”
I said I would at least try to learn. Gould gave me a huge roll of yellow paper and promised me a wage of 1/2¢ per word. The first two pieces I wrote had to do with a high school basketball game in which a member of my school team broke the Lisbon High scoring record. One of these pieces was straight reportage. The second was a feature article.
I brought them to Gould the day after the game, so he’d have them for the paper, which came out Fridays. He read the straight piece, made two minor corrections, and spiked it. Then he started in on the feature piece with a large black pen and taught me all I ever needed to know about my craft. I wish I still had the piece - it deserves to be framed, editorial corrections and all - but I can remember pretty well how it looked when he had finished with it. Here’s an example:
(note: this is before the edit marks indicated on King’s original copy)
Last night, in the well-loved gymnasium of Lisbon High School, partisans and Jay Hills fans alike were stunned by an athletic performance unequaled in school history: Bob Ransom, known as “Bullet” Bob for both his size and accuracy, scored thirty-seven points. He did it with grace and speed … and he did it with an odd courtesy as well, committing only two personal fouls in his knight-like quest for a record which has eluded Lisbon thinclads since 1953….
(after edit marks)
Last night, in the Lisbon High School gymnasium, partisans and Jay Hills fans alike were stunned by an athletic performance unequaled in school history: Bob Ransom scored thirty-seven points. He did it with grace and speed … and he did it with an odd courtesy as well, committing only two personal fouls in his quest for a record which has eluded Lisbon’s basketball team since 1953….
When Gould finished marking up my copy in the manner I have indicated above, he looked up and must have seen something on my face. I think he must have thought it was horror, but it was not: it was revelation.
“I only took out the bad parts, you know,” he said. “Most of it’s pretty good.”
“I know,” I said, meaning both things: yes, most of it was good, and yes, he had only taken out the bad parts. “I won’t do it again.”
“If that’s true,” he said, “you’ll never have to work again. You can do this for a living.” Then he threw back his head and laughed.
And he was right; I am doing this for a living, and as long as I can keep on, I don’t expect ever to have to work again.
III. The Second Introduction
All of what follows has been said before. If you are interested enough in writing to be a purchaser of this magazine, you will have either heard or read all (or almost all) of it before. Thousands of writing courses are taught across the United States each year; seminars are convened; guest lecturers talk, then answer questions, then drink as many gin and tonics as their expense-fees will allow, and it all boils down to what follows.
I am going to tell you these things again because often people will only listen - really listen - to someone who makes a lot of money doing the thing he’s talking about. This is sad but true. And I told you the story above not to make myself sound like a character out of a Horatio Alger novel but to make a point: I saw, I listened, and I learned. Until that day in John Gould’s little office, I had been writing first drafts of stories which might run 2,500 words. The second drafts were apt to run 3,300 words. Following that day, my 2,500-word first drafts became 2,200-word second drafts. And two years after that, I sold the first one.
So here it is, with all the bark stripped off. It’ll take ten minutes to read, and you can apply it right away…if you listen.
IV. Everything You Need to Know About Writing Successfully
1. BE TALENTED This, of course, is the killer. What is talent? I can hear someone shouting, and here we are, ready to get into a discussion right up there with “what is the meaning of life?” for weighty pronouncements and total uselessness. For the purposes of the beginning writer, talent may as well be defined as eventual success - publication and money. If you wrote something for which someone sent you a check, if you cashed the check and it didn’t bounce, and if you then paid the light bill with the money, I consider you talented.
Now some of you are really hollering. Some of you are calling me one crass money-fixated creep. And some of you are calling me bad names. Are you calling Harold Robbins talented? someone in one of the Great English Departments of America is screeching. V.C. Andrews? Theodore Dreiser? Or what about you, you dyslexic moron?
Nonsense. Worse than nonsense, off the subject. We’re not talking about good or bad here. I’m interested in telling you how to get your stuff published, not in critical judgments of who’s good or bad. As a rule the critical judgments come after the check’s been spent, anyway. I have my own opinions, but most times I keep them to myself. People who are published steadily and are paid for what they are writing may be either saints or trollops, but they are clearly reaching a great many someones who want what they have. Ergo, they are communicating. Ergo, they are talented. The biggest part of writing successfully is being talented, and in the context of marketing, the only bad writer is one who doesn’t get paid. If you’re not talented, you won’t succeed. And if you’re not succeeding, you should know when to quit.
When is that? I don’t know. It’s different for each writer. Not after six rejection slips, certainly, nor after sixty. But after six hundred? Maybe. After six thousand? My friend, after six thousand pinks, it’s time you tried painting or computer programming.
Further, almost every aspiring writer knows when he is getting warmer - you start getting little jotted notes on your rejection slips, or personal letters…maybe a commiserating phone call. It’s lonely out there in the cold, but there are encouraging voices…unless there is nothing in your words which warrants encouragement. I think you owe it to yourself to skip as much of the self-illusion as possible. If your eyes are open, you’ll know which way to go…or when to turn back.
2. BE NEAT Type. Double-space. Use a nice heavy white paper, never that erasable onion-skin stuff. If you’ve marked up your manuscript a lot, do another draft.
3. BE SELF-CRITICAL If you haven’t marked up your manuscript a lot, you did a lazy job. Only God gets things right the first time. Don’t be a slob.
4. REMOVE EVERY EXTRANEOUS WORD You want to get up on a soapbox and preach? Fine. Get one and try your local park. You want to write for money? Get to the point. And if you remove all the excess garbage and discover you can’t find the point, tear up what you wrote and start all over again…or try something new.
5. NEVER LOOK AT A REFERENCE BOOK WHILE DOING A FIRST DRAFT You want to write a story? Fine. Put away your dictionary, your encyclopedias, your World Almanac, and your thesaurus. Better yet, throw your thesaurus into the wastebasket. The only things creepier than a thesaurus are those little paperbacks college students too lazy to read the assigned novels buy around exam time. Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule. You think you might have misspelled a word? O.K., so here is your choice: either look it up in the dictionary, thereby making sure you have it right - and breaking your train of thought and the writer’s trance in the bargain - or just spell it phonetically and correct it later. Why not? Did you think it was going to go somewhere? And if you need to know the largest city in Brazil and you find you don’t have it in your head, why not write in Miami, or Cleveland? You can check it…but later. When you sit down to write, write. Don’t do anything else except go to the bathroom, and only do that if it absolutely cannot be put off.
6. KNOW THE MARKETS Only a dimwit would send a story about giant vampire bats surrounding a high school to McCall’s. Only a dimwit would send a tender story about a mother and daughter making up their differences on Christmas Eve to Playboy…but people do it all the time. I’m not exaggerating; I have seen such stories in the slush piles of the actual magazines. If you write a good story, why send it out in an ignorant fashion? Would you send your kid out in a snowstorm dressed in Bermuda shorts and a tank top? If you like science fiction, read the magazines. If you want to write confession stories, read the magazines. And so on. It isn’t just a matter of knowing what’s right for the present story; you can begin to catch on, after awhile, to overall rhythms, editorial likes and dislikes, a magazine’s entire slant. Sometimes your reading can influence the next story, and create a sale.
7. WRITE TO ENTERTAIN Does this mean you can’t write “serious fiction”? It does not. Somewhere along the line pernicious critics have invested the American reading and writing public with the idea that entertaining fiction and serious ideas do not overlap. This would have surprised Charles Dickens, not to mention Jane Austen, John Steinbeck, William Faulkner, Bernard Malamud, and hundreds of others. But your serious ideas must always serve your story, not the other way around. I repeat: if you want to preach, get a soapbox.
8. ASK YOURSELF FREQUENTLY, AM I HAVING FUN?” The answer needn’t always be yes. But if it’s always no, it’s time for a new project or a new career.
9. HOW TO EVALUATE CRITICISM Show your piece to a number of people - ten, let us say. Listen carefully to what they tell you. Smile and nod a lot. Then review what was said very carefully. If your critics are all telling you the same thing about some facet of your story - a plot twist that doesn’t work, a character who rings false, stilted narrative, or half a dozen other possibles - change that facet. It doesn’t matter if you really liked that twist of that character; if a lot of people are telling you something is wrong with you piece, it is. If seven or eight of them are hitting on that same thing, I’d still suggest changing it. But if everyone - or even most everyone - is criticizing something different, you can safely disregard what all of them say.
10. OBSERVE ALL RULES FOR PROPER SUBMISSION Return postage, self-addressed envelope, all of that.
11. AN AGENT? FORGET IT. FOR NOW Agents get 10% of monies earned by their clients. 10% of nothing is nothing. Agents also have to pay the rent. Beginning writers do not contribute to that or any other necessity of life. Flog your stories around yourself. If you’ve done a novel, send around query letters to publishers, one by one, and follow up with sample chapters and/or the manuscript complete. And remember Stephen King’s First Rule of Writers and Agents, learned by bitter personal experience: You don’t need one until you’re making enough for someone to steal…and if you’re making that much, you’ll be able to take your pick of good agents.
12. IF IT’S BAD, KILL IT When it comes to people, mercy killing is against the law. When it comes to fiction, it is the law.
That’s everything you need to know. And if you listened, you can write everything and anything you want. Now I believe I will wish you a pleasant day and sign off.
Summary: A nonathletic!Jack fic, where grad student and history nerd, Jack Zimmermann meets the cute Samwell student/baker Eric Bittle at the Bread and Butter Bakery. Will the two make a love connection? For @devereauxsdisease and @victorineb who love this incarnation of Jack as much as I do.
They’d chatted at the bakery enough times that Bitty was able to pull the information from Jack. He’d started coming to the bakery about four weeks ago, and during that time Bitty became more and more charmed with the second year grad student.
He always sat in the corner armchair, ordered a black coffee, two macarons and a slice of whatever the pie of the day was. Bitty first noticed him when he came in to order a slice of Weary Willie cake.
Bitty loved his job at the bakery, it gave him some extra cash while he attended Samwell. Whenever Bitty was there, he was the de facto person in charge. Shirley and Spencer, the owners of Bread and Butter adored Bitty.
“We never had any kids of our own, so you’re the closest thing to it, Bitty,” Shirley said to him one evening over a cup of earl grey tea.
So Bitty stood there, face to face with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen the first time Jack walked in. The Clark Kent glasses in front of them did nothing to hide the fact that they were beautiful. It was a good face, a handsome face. He was burly and tall, and Bitty loved that. He smiled, and Bitty’s body language invited Blue Eyes to speak.
“Can I get a slice of the Weary Willie cake?”
“Sure can, handsome,” Bitty said as he began to ring up Blue Eyes’ order, who blushed furiously. “What else can I do you for?”
“Coffee. Black. Medium, please,” he replied looking down at the counter.
“Why don’t you go find yourself a seat and I’ll bring it out to you,” Bitty said with a warm smile.
“Thank you,” Blue Eyes said softly and then turned to walk toward the corner armchair.
When Bitty approached, Blue Eyes had pulled out a laptop and several textbooks, the one on top of the pile was called Foundations of Modern European Intellectual History.
“Doing a little light reading, huh?” Bitty said as he put the cake and coffee on the side table.
“Oh, haha. Yes.”
“Do you go to Samwell?”
“I’m finishing up my masters in history there,” he said as he held up his book.
“That’s great. I haven’t seen you here before,” Bitty said wanting to know more about History Blue Eyes.
“I saw the chalkboard outside listing the Weary Willie cake and the history nerd in me became curious.”
“Look at you! You certainly are a history major.”
“Did you make the cake?” Jack asked raising his eyebrows.
“Sure did. My moomaw had the recipe from her mama.”
“Well, it’s not often I find a somewhat obscure historical reference on my way back to the history building.”
Malcolm X looks on as Muhammad Ali signs autographs
outside the Trans-Lux Newsreel Theater in New York City on March 1, 1964.
They had just watched a screening of Ali’s title fight with Sonny Liston. Inspired by Malcolm X, Ali had converted to Islam but he kept his new faith a secret until after he won the heavyweight championship on February 25, 1964.
The so-called “Colchester Vase,” depicting four gladiators named by inscriptions as Secundus, Mario, Memnon, and Valentinus. Artist unknown; ca. 175 CE. Found in a Roman grave at West Lodge, Colchester (= ancient Camulodunum), England, UK; now in the Colchester Castle Museum. Photo credit: Carole Raddato.
Summary: A non athletic!Jack fic, where grad student and history nerd, Jack Zimmermann meets the cute Samwell student/baker Eric Bittle at the Bread and Butter Bakery. Picks up right after On History and Pie. Jack takes a chance and meets Bitty for dinner. It’s their first date. A collaboration with the wonderful @zim-tits featuring her lovely artwork. Also on AO3…
Bitty was closing up shop for the evening at Bread and Buttery Bakery when he heard a small tap. Lardo smiled as she looked through the large picture window and saw who was standing on the other side.
“It’s your boy, Bitty,” she said.
He glanced and saw Jack standing outside as he waved shyly.
Chowder unlocked and opened the door. “Welcome! Come on in.”
“Thanks,” Jack said as he came in slowly, looking at Bitty with a soft smile.
Bitty closed the register and smiled in return as he walked from behind the counter toward Jack.
“Hi, Eric. Bitty.”
The two wordlessly stared at one another, smiling. Lardo, taking pity on them, cleared her throat, “Uh, Chowder, can you help me with something in back?”
Chowder frowned disappointed he wasn’t going to be able to watch.
“You came,” Bitty said. “Thanks for that. Thanks for trusting me.”
“My uncle says… well, never mind, but I’m the one that should be saying thanks – for the shortbread. It was really good.”
“Really good? I was aiming for so amazing it would make you wanna slap your mama but then again, I’m sure you love your mama, so really good will do.”
Jack laughed softly, “I do. So, are you… that is… if you’re still interested…”
“Jack, would you like to go grab something to eat?”
Jack smiled, relieved that Bitty had taken the lead.