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.
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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[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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