1. How about a brief introduction?
My name is Denzil. I am learning to be a card magician. I work for the government. My life has not been sufficiently believable to relate. But please ask me anything you wish. I will probably answer. Privately.2. What got you into fan fiction (and/or adopting muses)?
I had never heard of fandom until, apparently, July 2006. I was writing John anyway and Johnny Ringo found me and offered me a passport. I immigrated at once. Ever since I was a child though, I wanted more
from books when I had finished them. Certain characters resonated, living on and speaking to me. When I was very young I used to write them letters. Friends.3. What kind of fan fiction do you write?
I do not know. I have done a great deal of research. I use it. I listen to John. I am trying to write more stories. It is your (plural) stories that speak to me most and perhaps I wish to emulate you. I am jealous, wanting to speak to you in turn.4. Do you write for the same pairings/characters?
I write for John. He is real and has natural pairings. I write them as I have found them and as he tells me. There are other muses for whom he has come to care very much indeed. Are these pairings? As I say, I am new to fandom. And there is Gabriel. But again, that is as natural a pairing as anyone could find, and perfectly cannon. John Holliday and the Angel of Death.5. What is your most popular fic and why do you think people like it so?
I have no idea. I am always surprised if I am read at all.6. Forget other people, what is the fanfic you've written that you're most proud of and why?
I don’t know. I like it when he dreams. I am just the typist. I write what I am told. I like it when he tells an obscure story that shows more than an ill and bad-tempered killer. But you know John, I presume. He is right here. All right. Here is a Cthulhu story.
It is not popular, however. Only about three people have read it.7. Do you find writing easy? Hard? What aspects do you struggle with?
Writing is either easy or impossible. Sometimes my concentration is hi-jacked by foolish things at home. I think at night and wake with streams of words I am only sometimes able to recapture. This is frustrating. It is not the worst stories with which I have struggled, but I have not struggled with the best ones either. We both struggle with depression and all that means. Mostly, we are afraid to roleplay - afraid that John will be rejected for too much/too little, too hard/too soft, irrelevant. Both of us are struck terrified. But we ask anyway, we try anyway. Yep. That is what we struggle with. Almost like real life.8. Write a few sentences of your favorite pairing or character.
? *laughs merrily*
If you are not here, it is not that we do not love you. It is just that there is nothing impending at this time. And there is one more thing that John and I are arguing about. He will win. He always wins. There. He feels better about it already.
John curls against Gabriel so that he can see the little scar at his neck, out of focus an inch from his eyes. He touches it gently. Loss and redemption. Despite his safety and warmth, his heart is beating in concern. “Gabriel...” He thinks a great deal about Heaven, for it is near. “Gabriel, what about those who do not go to heaven... those who do not want to go? What if they are... loved? How can Heaven be a place of such mourning?” He does not know the answer, but he closes his eyes to hear, cradled if the truth is hard. And Gabriel will be there.
John looks at Paul, trying to throw water on the burning bridge between them. He is buttoned securely in linen, silk and fine wool as he always is, and Paul is dressed impeccably. Paul had been so drunk. Perhaps he does not remember. The anguished dismissal still rings for John, however and he moves carefully, as if to avoid irritating a friend’s hangover. He had failed with Paul. Utterly. So cold – he had felt so cold – bereft in the face of the man’s pain. He should have feared to try again, but he was never wise with such things. This is a small activity now – almost impersonal. “Summer suits. Casual clothes that are yet dignified. Something sartorial.” He smiles lightly. “I am sure you know what a well-dressed gentleman needs.
John balances the teacup on his knee, wrapping his palms around its heat, his fingers overlapping. It is near to burning and his hands are steadied by the thin china. He listens to Cecily. “Teach me,” He had said. Conversation is a ball, tossed back and forth. A small easy toss. He says something small and easy. His friend catches it. He understands. His friend tosses back the ball, this time with his off hand. John overcompensates and drops the ball on the ground. He has not understood. He kicks it instead of the regular easy toss. His friend disdains to pick it up again. “Cecily,” John asks, "What if catch becomes football?”
“Catch. With tackling.”
“No, John.” Cecily shakes her head.
John closes his eyes, his heart thudding nervously.
They have moved the narrow desk between the two beds so that they might play Faro. The casecounter is folded at the side with the silver dealing box atop it. The layout is scattered with chips and cards where John has been explaining the shuffles. It pleases him to talk about cards with someone who understands them. There is scotch, of course, and silver cups. On the bedside table is a large cage with a silver plaque engraved Pylades
. John likes silver. Also
on the desk are the high-stepping claws of a serious sad-faced rusty-coloured barn owl. “There. Stroke his chest like this, or the back of his neck. His beak. He likes that.” And indeed, as Damien pets him the bird stretches his head and squints his eyes closed. “Now give him a treat, and then a card, and tell him to bring it to me.” He steps into the washroom and John holds out a treat and then the Jack of Spades for Pylades.
The pub is old and warm, quiet with dark wood. There is a fire in the corner and the light is gold from old glass shades. It is just perfect to get to know someone and John feels at home. Opposite the fire is an upright piano, richly carved, and John touches the keys. He is early and plays a few phrases of a Nocturne. The bartender nods to him. Asking for a menu, he sits facing the door. And there is Remus, smiling if tired, with his case and teaching robe, his hair shaggy and dark red-blond in the lamplight, mixed with grey, John sees. Mixed with grey. John rises readily, welcoming, and the smile that greets this man is natural – quietly and deeply pleased. Looking inside, John sees that for himself at least it is more like seeing an old friend after long separation than meeting a new one. And for once in a way, his hands are not shaking.
It had been raining, but now the sky is blue with dark grey clouds. He smells earth and life. The sun makes sparks in the grass and his mind, if not his vision, sees the individual droplets: moving, lit, and magnifying each lined blade. He knocks on the door, his heart glad. He has not been invited to a family home
since he left Georgia. He had once gone to dinner, but this is a real family, with children. John loves children. He loves his friends. His arms are full. He’s brought something small for everyone, and scotch for Remus, and a cake for Tonks. Even though he is baking, he he feels it discourteous not to bring her sweets. The door open wide and Tonks is beaming for him, laughing at him. She hugs him warmly, packages and all. “What is all this
then?” She relieves him of several and two more fall to the porch. Nothing is harmed and he laughs with her as they crouch to re-collect them. “Welcome to our home!” And he is welcome.9. Are there any fan fiction trends/clichés you hate?
I am not about to reject anything
in total. Nothing is so soppy, outlandish or perverse that it could not be done well. As far as perversity is concerned, done well with reason and meaning, I don’t believe there is such a thing. Done wrong? I don’t even want to see you smile, all by yourself on the deserted desert.10. Are you guilty of any of the trends you hate?
Once I played – not in fanfiction but in an RPG – a well-armed teenage tattoo-artist who was a giant duck in a fedora. He fell in soppy love with another character who was a shiny tricycle. My boy bought him a new horn and a bouquet of handlebar ribbons and took him to a dance. I would not say it was well-done. But it surely covers both soppy and outlandish. Bat Masterson said John was perverse. He hates that. You can decide for yourself if I am guilty.