(A bit about what sort of stories I like and what sort I end up writing.)
I myself think of fanfic as telling three sorts of stories, each with their own appeal.
Type one is a happy fluffy cuddlly fic that makes the world right for our characters. The road might have some bumps but there's going to be a happy ending, and you can see that from a long way off.
Type two is one where either the ending isn't happy, or the structure of the story is such that the reader (me!) frankly doubts that a happy ending is the obvious conclusion. IMO this is different from the standard quest plot, where the hero goes into darkness on his way to the glorious dawn. If we're always sure that everything is supposed to come out right, then it's not this kind of story.
A third kind is a sort without so much of an arc or journey, but is a description of our Heroes living their lives. I am a glutton for sense detail, and I love this sort of thing. When I'm not paying attention to plot, I think I write a lot of this.
When I am paying attention to plot, I end up with type II fics. I don't do a lot of happy.
Everyone has their own prefs - if we all liked the same things, we'd have a hell of a shortage of beet-and-cabbage soup.
My preferences are for gennish-romance, and for adventures with romance. I think there is more Type one out there than I can read (ie, I like a lot of it, but I don't wnat to read just that.)
I'm not crazy about most AUs and nearly all RPF. I try a lot of things, and many of them don't make them off my hard drive. Sometimes, they don't get past the back of my teeth, and that's okay, too.)
(TWD is the first fandom I've been at all active in for a long time. )
He doesn’t want her to ask about the scars.
[Reviews - 9] Just like it says on the inside of the box of chocolates.
The world had gone entirely dark, the first of the stars bright and fierce overhead. Daryl blinked and ran the sound through his head again, before asking, with that queer certainty that was coming more and more often now, around Carol, “What?
Drabbles and head canons.
Daryl stuffed the stinking burlap sack into the backpack and threw it at Glenn. “Savin’ your hide, chinaman. Again. C’mon, you’re with me this mornin’.”
Like any holiday with random in-laws, there were awkward, brittle silences and totally inappropriate comments that should have been left unsaid. They lived through it. Please note: This story shares a lot of themes with Imorca's wonderful story "Minding". I am not at all sure how much her story influenced this one, but it is a great Christmas fic and needs more love. Go, read!
Every day is like the others. Until it's not.
Lodestone: n; a a naturally magnetized piece of the mineral magnetite. From the Middle English 'journey stone' or 'leading stone.'
If something happens to me, you look out for her. Sasha and Tyreese talk, after Terminus. After everything.
Some things he’s not ready to do. Some things he won’t leave undone.
He counts time differently, now.
Two views on a morning hillside.
Anyone else would have left the strangers to freeze solid as the lost dead men. But Walt Longmire was, as both his best friend and his chief deputy would often say, a soft-hearted fool.
Any other band of bandits would have shot the lawman (and eaten his horse, saddle and all). But Rick Grimes was not above crazy acts of mercy, and too many of his group had a thing about horses.
Michonne has visitors at the guard tower.
A husband has a hard day at work. His wife spends all day doing laundry and taking care of their family. He comes home, they eat, get cleaned up and go to bed. (Version 'End of the world with the walking dead') A story told in 4 parts. 12,000 15,000 words.
Tomas busted the head of another fresh walker, wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. “I dunno what the girl saw. But I know what I saw, and I think it’s la llorona.”
Daryl folded his hands on top of the rebar, rested his chin on the back of his glove. “The crying woman. The momma lookin’ for her kids.” Well, hell.
Daryl swore. “Tell me this ain’t the damn dance audition.”
Alexandria Safe Zone throws a dinner party for the newest arrivals.
It’s really pissing Daryl off, how he’s coming to like these assholes.
Water scours some things clean. The rest it just washes away, until the only thing left is stone.
The rain never stays.
Your name - the all of your name - is Merle Morgan Grimes, and Early, and Magpie, and Story-Song-teller. Oh, and the Busybody. (That too.)
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