Being a native southerner and living in Georgia - the home of the great Dr Leonard McCoy and DeForest Kelley - I thought it would be fun to offer some tips for writing about the South. I love reading Bones fanfics, but I see a lot of misconceptions about my home state and city, Atlanta. THIS IS NOT MEANT AS CRITICISM OF ANYONE’S WRITING!!! Hopefully people will see it in the fun spirit with which it’s intended! I’ve also tagged a few people who have written Bones stories that I’ve really enjoyed. I hope that’s ok!! I love everything you creative writers do!!
1. Y’all is plural. And yes, we say y’all all the time, but only to refer to groups of more than one person. It’s never you guys or even you when referring to a group - ALWAYS y’all. I can’t talk without using that word!
2. Georgia is the peach state, but we’re not drowning in peaches. The state doesn’t smell like peaches, taste like peaches, or drip peach juice.
3. What we are drowning in is Coke. AKA Dixie champagne, the elixir of life, the secret formula. Nobody calls it Coca-cola, it’s just Coke. Coke is headquartered in Atlanta and employees are not allowed to have any other soft drink on pain of being fired if they’re caught! (True!!) I’ve known people who wouldn’t attend a church event because someone was serving Pepsi! Also, all soft drinks are called Coke. If someone says, “Would you like a Coke?” It means “Would you like any carbonated beverage of the Coke family?” It’s never called pop or soda or anything else (especially Pepsi.)
4. Atlanta is not a small town. It’s a city of about 450 million people. If your story setting is Atlanta, then remember that there are no rolling fields or country roads here. But there is Lenox Mall, Phipps Plaza, lots of nice restaurants, and lots of streets named Peachtree. Peachtree Street, Peachtree Way, Peachtree Avenue, and Peachtree Battle Ave. are all within about a mile of my house.
5. We don’t call each other “Darlin’”. Sometimes we call each other “hon’” or “sweetie” or I might call a boy “bud” or “buddy” but I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone called “Darlin’
6. I would suggest not writing in Southern dialect. It’s hard to read and frequently sounds more country than Southern. And yes, there is a difference. Country is more redneck, Southern is more elegant.
7. We frequently say “Bless your heart”, but it’s sort of a way of saying “Isn’t she/he sweet but stupid…” For example, “She ordered a Pepsi, bless her heart.”
8. Outside of metro Atlanta is rural. Really rural. Georgia is a beautiful state that has both beaches and mountains and we love to take advantage of both! But not everyone lives on a farm. I would love to read a story where Bones takes the reader to Amelia Island or St Simon’s Island - it would just be so real! Also, we don’t ever call it the shore. It’s always the beach.
9. It does get hot here. REALLY hot! And humid. But it also gets cold here - but cold to us is anything below about 45 degrees. And the reason we’re so cold is because nobody knows what to do with it - we might own one winter jacket, so when it goes down to 20 degrees everyone just freezes. But it’s not hot here year-round.
10. Manners are super-important. Children are taught to say “Yes Ma’am” and “Yes Sir” from birth. I still say yes ma’am and sir to people older than me. Gentlemen pretty much all still open doors for ladies, pull out their chairs, and stand when a lady approaches your dinner table in a restaurant (then the lady always says “Go ahead and sit!! Don’t stand on my account!”) McCoy would totally be into doing this. We ladies enjoy it. Nobody is insulted. But ladies also open doors for gentlemen. We just try to be nice to each other. I apologize if anyone ever met someone met someone rude from Georgia! They must have been having a bad day, bless their heart. (Maybe someone offered them a Pepsi…)
11. It’s true that tea is always iced. And sweet. And we drink it all the time. Unless we’re drinking Coke.
12. To me, McCoy does not sound like he has any accent, - I just don’t hear it. But Kirk sounds a little funny sometimes!
OK - I’m going to stop here. If anyone has any questions please feel free to ask!! I’m hoping to read a lot more Bones stories and I hope this helps!
Prompt: Hello you’re taking request yes? Could you write a bones fic where the reader gets a bit too drunk and he has to carry her home, please? :))
Word Count: 1195 NaNoWriMo Word Count: 6423/50,000 Warnings: Author’s Note: I love this.
Prompt: Ohhh an open request box!! Bones x reader. She’s a badass security officer (only red shirt who lives ;) ) and he’s always sorting out her injuries. He gets frustrated by her seeming lack of care of herself. She yells, he yells, Angry sex etc xx
Word Count: 1774 NaNoWriMo Word Count: 20,148/50,000 Warnings: Smut, just smut and language and dominating and no one under 18 please Author’s Note: I seem to have a thing for dom!Bones….Happy Monday everyone
In case some of you haven’t seen this yet, this is Leonard Nimoy and DeForest Kelley reading a short story at a con.
About 2 minutes into this clip, Bones refers to when the Enterprise went down and places his hand over his heart sentimentally. Spock follows suit, but then Bones skips over to him and moves his hand down to his side – which is where the Vulcan heart should be.
Apparently De commented “I’m his doctor, I should know” or something to that effect, although it’s drowned out by the audience’s laughter in this video.
Bones is a man of the deep south. I grew up in Arkansas. I can say it. People with southern accents arelazy speakers.
Put down the pitchforks, and hear me out.
We don’t like to enunciate. We don’t like syllables.
I’ll give you an example.
Ladies and gentlemen, when I was first exposed to the term, “y’all’d’ve,” I did not understand.
In fact, I’m not ashamed. I had to google it.
I immediately laughed so hard.
Because where I’m from, we don’t say, “Y’all’d’ve.”
As in, “Y’all woulda.”
There’s no V sound.
In fact, the idea of a V sound at the end of “you all would have” was so foreign to me that I did not even recognize it was a thing.
Which brings me back to “Len.”
Ask anybody south of the Mason Dixon to say, “Leonard.”
I’d bet good money that, phonetically, what comes out is “Len-ard.”
Leonard is two syllables (as I pronounce it - I’m sure some will disagree). Leo is two syllables. Len is the phonetic diminutive of Leonard (as the McCoy family likely pronounces it). Len is only one syllable.
Lazy speakers, remember?
In other words, what’s the point of a nickname that’s not any easier to spit out?
For the record, I absolutely love the name Leo. I think it’s adorable. It’s quirky and masculine. It’s a great name, and a great nickname. It’s just not Leonard McCoy’s.
I’ll admit, I have a little bit (little bit) easier time imagining Leo as a nickname for AOS Bones. That’s probably because I find it impossible to divorce De from the image of the quintessential “southern boy.” Not sure if it’s the cadence of his speech, or the way he says nuclear as “nucular,” or if it’s just because he’s the original, but De is Bones, Bones is Len.
Like I said, it’s the tiniest of nitpicks. I love a Leo fic as much as I love a Len fic.
Fandom: Star Trek
Pairing: Reader x Bones. Prompt: Requested by @musingsongbird - I wish you
would write a story where bones and the reader find the equivilant of a box of
kittens and have to take care of them and they curl up in bed with the kitties
between them and Leonard dreams of doing that with their own baby someday. Word Count: 1618.
Warnings:None. Rating:All ages. Author’s Note: Sorry this took so
long! I’ve been trying to figure out how
to approach it, but thanks to @fandomheadrush I’ve finally been able to finish
it up! Enjoy!
You feel a warmth and love for Leonard well in your chest as you watch him pick
up one of the kittens in the box between the two of you. He wasn’t overly fond of the idea of having
to shepherd a clowder at first, but your concerns over his reactions had dried
up the second you’d seen him smile at the sight of the six little fur balls in
It had all started in the med bay after a supplies delivery. You’d been unpacking the crates and stowing
supplies away when you’d heard a strange noise.
After investigating for a few minutes, you’d found the source of the
sound: a half dozen kittens, newly born and upset, stowed away inside of a box
that must have been mistakenly mixed in with the Enterprise’s cargo somehow.
You’d hastily put away the rest of the delivery and had excused yourself from
med bay to take the kittens down to zoology.
A biologist there had looked the kittens over, declared them free of
disease but somewhat malnourished, and had offered to care for them until they
could be dropped off at a shelter the next time the ship docked at a
starbase. As you’d stared at the little
critters, though, you’d found yourself unable to let them go and so the
biologist had sent you off with them, as well as with a number of droppers and
bottles, replicated formula to supplement their nutrition, and instructions to
bring them by for vet checks every few days to ensure they remained in good
health until they could be passed on to a proper facility off ship.
So, instead of studying for my impending pathophysiology exam, I was thinking about what a goddamn badass Leonard McCoy is.
Actually, I was thinking about drug shortages. I am a resident in the United States. The United States of America. First world medicine, folks. And sometimes - all too frequently - I have to revise the treatment plan of a healthy patient undergoing elective surgery because I do not have access to the ideal drug.
In other words, I compromise.
That’s a sickening feeling, friends.
Which brings me back to Bones.
Bones, Chief Medical Officer on a five year mission in deep space, where no man has gone before. Bones, who cares so goddamn deeply. Bones, desperately filing requisition forms for medications that he has no hope of receiving in the foreseeable future. Bones, elbow deep in a unfortunate ensign that caught the wrong end of a blast in engineering, sweat dripping in his eyes, nagging thoughts of, “is his name Jason or Joseph?” Bones, mad as hell because medical takes another budget cut. Bones praying frantically to a god he doesn’t believe in, “oh, please, not again.” Bones, eyeballing a unknown species and making a quick judgment call, based on a hasty heart rate calculation and estimated weight, the effective loading dose of a - probably - renal toxic drug. Bones, hissing at Spock to shut the hell up, all the while making his own calculations. Bones, who years after the mission has ended, bolts up out of a dead sleep in a panic of adrenaline, because endless nights of call have made gentle awakenings impossible. Bones, staring dumbstruck at Starfleet Medical’s supply rooms. Bones, dedicatedly carting his tiny medkit on his hip, facing an alien world with a tricorder and a few hypos. Bones, hiding in his quarters for days, pouring over all of the federation’s published xenophysiology records, searching for a connection, wondering where it went wrong. Bones replaying the day’s scene in his mind, fear still gripping his chest as Jim sleeps peacefully in the biobed. Bones alone in the field, performing a bilateral finger thoracostomy on a blue-lipped yeoman who reminds him a little too much of Joanna (if somebody does not write this fic, I will). Bones, fresh out of med school, feverently murmuring his oath with conviction and wide-eyed naivety. Bones blaming himself. Bones bitching about the unpredictability of genetically modified antimicrobials. Bones needing a goddamn drink. Bones, contemplating the nuances of therapeutic nihilism. Bones, forcing himself to meet Jim’s eyes as Jim officiates a funeral. Bones, calculating pharmacokinetics in his head. Bones, knowing there was nothing to be done, but dammit, what if? Bones, painstakingly documenting his every discovery, every treatment plan, every failure and every triumph, for the next generation of medical professionals. Bones in his office with his head in his hands. Bones, absolutely giddy and shaking with relief, “Don’t be so melodramatic; you were barely dead.”
Practicing medicine is terrifying. Every day, I am horrified at the thought that I will not be able to provide for my patients. I love my field with every breath in my body, but the responsibility is overwhelming, and sobering.
Disease and danger, wrapped in darkness and silence, indeed.
“By golly, Jim, I’m beginning to think I can cure a rainy day.”