If your character and Kay need to get together for a personal conversation or some other kind of little-tiny-thing, and we're feeling too lazy to throw up a new post, we can spam it up in here.
They just call it York. It's an ocean away, though--I've never been. [Other parts of England, yes; that part in particular, no.]
[She shrugs. Fond memories thought she might have of her childhood home, 'familiar enough' is probably the more accurate phrase these days.] I imagine you'd like New York better, being from a big city yourself. It's a nice place--always something going on.
But your place's named after it. Huh. [Mildmay lives in a world without colonialism, or, at least, past Cymellune's expansionist phase enough for time to have momentarily forgot the concept; he's trying to think of a reason why you'd name a place after another place. Seems like a lot of work to him.]
Enough of the people who lived there a few hundred years ago were from the old York that they decided to call it New York. [Shrug.]
[And Kay won't be quick to disabuse him of the notion that New York is full of pale redheads unless he asks outright.] I like it well enough. It's the place to be if you want to write, so...
...There's a right place to be if'n you want to go into the published lie business? [Eyebrow raise. Mildmay still does not quite believe that Kay could actually get a respectable job in such a business. Or that such a business would exist in the first place.]
[She raises an eyebrow right back.] It sounds so much better if you use the euphemism. [You know. If "writing" is a euphemism.]
But yes, New York is where the big magazines are. I could mail in stories, if I still lived in Indianapolis, but I'd rather be able to deliver them myself.
[Mildmay would ask what a 'euphemism' is, but Kay's tone is perhaps a little too sharp and dry; Mildmay takes note note to call it 'writing' in the future.]
Magazines? [Storing... closet?] You mean broadsheets? There's broadsheets that publish stories?
Broadsheet? ...Like a newspaper? Magazines are a little different--the ones Jules and I are published in are like little books. Couple hundred pages each month, some stories, some articles--here, I'll show you.
[In the study, after all, there's an issue of Incredible Tales she picked up from the library a day or two ago. There's nothing of hers or Julius' in it that month, but it's from a date some time a few years hence, so she supposes it's just as well; the opportunity to peek into the future was too much to resist. While she's at it, she grabs the other books she took out from the library--including one she coauthored, taken from the shelf in a fit of yearning--and comes back out. Setting the books on the coffee table, she holds Incredible Tales out to Mildmay.] This is a magazine.
[Mildmay sees the cover (http://crotchetyoldfan.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/astounding_science_fiction_195512.jpg) and is unable to stop himself from letting out a thin whistle of surprise.] Well, that'll sell.
[He flips through through the thing fairly quick, clearly impressed for all his sarcasm. All of it makes a hell of a lot more sense to him, now. Holding evidence in his hands helps.] Sounds like nice work. Jules-- your husband-- he does this, too?
That's for sure. [Kay rolls her eyes. HER FEELINGS ON RITTERHOUSE, LET HER SHOW YOU THEM.] If I was in charge, the cover art'd be completely different.
[But then Mildmay asks her about her husband, and she sounds rather warmer.] Julius and I write together, usually. Most of our stories go out under both our names. [She nods over at the stack of paperbacks on the coffee table.] I found one of our books at the library, and a few others that look good. You're welcome to read them, if you like.
I can imagine. [Kay seems like the sort of lady who'd have, for lack of a better word, lots of opinions.]
[Mildmay eyes the books on the table with something like suspicion. Why does the reading thing keep coming up? He's gone three septads and some without having to ever come under too much fire for not really knowing his letters.] I'll think about it. I ain't much of a reader. [There's that lie again. He's getting pretty fucking sick of it, truth be told.]
[Kay raises an eyebrow once again. Say it one time, and she'll gloss over it, but again...] So what constitutes "not much of a reader," if you don't mind my asking? It's the second time you mentioned it. [Which clearly justifies asking, clearly.]
[Mildmay ducks his head, clearly not expecting Kay's curiosity. He is immediately flustered and ashamed; being illiterate is no uncommon thing, where he's from, but he's lived with Felix for long enough that he feels properly shamed by the thought. But he can't lie, and if he evades again, she'll know.]
[With a heavy sigh, he mutters, barely audible,] Can't read. [And then, figuring she couldn't understand him, because really, Milly-fox, you ain't even trying to be understood with that maw, he says again, more clearly:] Don't know how.
[Kay has a hunch she shouldn't've said that, but she waits patiently until he answers, rather than taking it back. And when he does, she aims for practical rather than pitying.]
Well, that's nothing to be ashamed of, plenty of people can't. And you can always learn. [It's not like there's anything else pressing they need to do here.]
[And Mildmay can not appreciate enough, the fact that he gets practicality over pity. He looks up at her again, face once more cooly neutral. He shrugs.] Can't learn.
Anyone can learn. [Though admittedly, she's slightly less firm about it when she catches sight of his face.] There's certainly no harm in giving it a try, especially if you're stuck here for the time being.
[Mildmay shrugs. To this, he has an answer.] Naw, too thick.
[But, now, it's probably best to change the subject before he does something stupid. He asks,] How d'you get into the writing business, then? [It seems like something just anyone can do, unless there's a special school...]
I doubt it. [But she lets it drop for the moment, shrugging at his question.]
I started telling people stories as soon as I could talk, started writing them down as soon as I learned my letters. [At first, it seems like a better idea to excise all the lesser bits of the story, but if he was willing to admit illiteracy, she can manage to mention the fact that she never finished college.] I was going to school for writing--well, English, anyway--but my parents couldn't afford past the first year. After a few years of working as a secretary, I had to start trying to sell my stories, or I was going to be bored senseless for the rest of my life.
[And Mildmay can appreciate that; having gone to school at all is impressive, but admitting you dropped out earns respect, in Mildmay's eyes, almost as much as doing what you meant to do anyway, even without the schooling, does.]
Makes sense. Sounds like it'd make for an entertaining job, I'll give you that. You make it all up yourself?
Some of it. [He gets a smile for the fact that makes sense is apparently his entire thought on the matter; it's a detail Kay's long left out of her history to most of her colleagues, for fear of adding one more reason not to be taken seriously.] Sometimes I borrow from real life. Sometimes I make Jules do all the work.
[And then, terribly curious--] Don't you make up any of the details when you tell stories? It seems like you'd have to.
[To Mildmay, it'd be far more odd if one did manage to afford college and attend completely. Dropping out gets far more of his sympathy and understanding. He nods again, makes sense, yeah.]
[At this, he raises an eyebrow.] Well, yeah. Gotta change it to suit whoever's listening. Or who's telling. I never leave in the part about Jericho getting ripped to shreds. [But that's a stupid bit. As Zephyr used to say:] Personal bias.
[Well, Mildmay's a good sympathetic ear, at least. Pity she can't swap him out with Herb on her way back home, the office might get through a meeting without an argument then.]
See, you'd be a good writer. [Another smile, fairly knowing.] You put enough personal bias into real life, and suddenly you're publishing lies for fun and profit.
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[She shrugs. Fond memories thought she might have of her childhood home, 'familiar enough' is probably the more accurate phrase these days.] I imagine you'd like New York better, being from a big city yourself. It's a nice place--always something going on.
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I think I had my fill of big cities, at this point. But it sounds like a nice enough place. [Let's be honest: Mildmay's just picturing Mélusine, but populated by redheads dressed like to Kay.]
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[And Kay won't be quick to disabuse him of the notion that New York is full of pale redheads unless he asks outright.] I like it well enough. It's the place to be if you want to write, so...
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But yes, New York is where the big magazines are. I could mail in stories, if I still lived in Indianapolis, but I'd rather be able to deliver them myself.
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Magazines? [Storing... closet?] You mean broadsheets? There's broadsheets that publish stories?
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[In the study, after all, there's an issue of Incredible Tales she picked up from the library a day or two ago. There's nothing of hers or Julius' in it that month, but it's from a date some time a few years hence, so she supposes it's just as well; the opportunity to peek into the future was too much to resist. While she's at it, she grabs the other books she took out from the library--including one she coauthored, taken from the shelf in a fit of yearning--and comes back out. Setting the books on the coffee table, she holds Incredible Tales out to Mildmay.] This is a magazine.
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[He flips through through the thing fairly quick, clearly impressed for all his sarcasm. All of it makes a hell of a lot more sense to him, now. Holding evidence in his hands helps.] Sounds like nice work. Jules-- your husband-- he does this, too?
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[But then Mildmay asks her about her husband, and she sounds rather warmer.] Julius and I write together, usually. Most of our stories go out under both our names. [She nods over at the stack of paperbacks on the coffee table.] I found one of our books at the library, and a few others that look good. You're welcome to read them, if you like.
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[Mildmay eyes the books on the table with something like suspicion. Why does the reading thing keep coming up? He's gone three septads and some without having to ever come under too much fire for not really knowing his letters.] I'll think about it. I ain't much of a reader. [There's that lie again. He's getting pretty fucking sick of it, truth be told.]
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[With a heavy sigh, he mutters, barely audible,] Can't read. [And then, figuring she couldn't understand him, because really, Milly-fox, you ain't even trying to be understood with that maw, he says again, more clearly:] Don't know how.
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Well, that's nothing to be ashamed of, plenty of people can't. And you can always learn. [It's not like there's anything else pressing they need to do here.]
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[But, now, it's probably best to change the subject before he does something stupid. He asks,] How d'you get into the writing business, then? [It seems like something just anyone can do, unless there's a special school...]
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I started telling people stories as soon as I could talk, started writing them down as soon as I learned my letters. [At first, it seems like a better idea to excise all the lesser bits of the story, but if he was willing to admit illiteracy, she can manage to mention the fact that she never finished college.] I was going to school for writing--well, English, anyway--but my parents couldn't afford past the first year. After a few years of working as a secretary, I had to start trying to sell my stories, or I was going to be bored senseless for the rest of my life.
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Makes sense. Sounds like it'd make for an entertaining job, I'll give you that. You make it all up yourself?
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[And then, terribly curious--] Don't you make up any of the details when you tell stories? It seems like you'd have to.
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[At this, he raises an eyebrow.] Well, yeah. Gotta change it to suit whoever's listening. Or who's telling. I never leave in the part about Jericho getting ripped to shreds. [But that's a stupid bit. As Zephyr used to say:] Personal bias.
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See, you'd be a good writer. [Another smile, fairly knowing.] You put enough personal bias into real life, and suddenly you're publishing lies for fun and profit.
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