I just showed my 11-year-old son how many coffee shop AUs there are on AO3.
Why?
He sat down the other day to write a Minecraft story about three kids who go through a portal in their back yard and end up in the world of Minecraft where they have to battle all the big bosses (I didn’t even realize there WERE big bosses in Minecraft but that’s beside the point). He wrote three chapters with a little input from me – his first beta – and y’all?
He was fucking excited. To be writing a story.
Today he came home from school and seemed a little down, so I asked him about it only to find out that some little asshole at his school told him, “There is already a Minecraft story.”
Me: Okay? So what?
Lucifer: If there’s already a story, no one will read mine.
Immediately, I dragged him in and pulled up my AO3 account. My boys know I write fanfiction, so I showed him my account and how many subscribers I have. Then I showed him how many Teen Wolf stories there are. And then, because it seemed like the perfect analogy, I said, “What if I wrote a story where two characters meet in a coffee shop and fall in love? No werewolves, nothing at all to do with the actual Teen Wolf universe. Just Stiles and Derek meet in a coffeeshop and fall in love.”
He laughed.
I showed him Mornings Aren’t For Everyone. Showed him how many hits it had, how many kudos, how many lovely comments.
Then I said, “So do you think, if anyone else wrote a story about those exact same characters meeting in a coffee shop and falling in love… would anyone read it?”
He laughed and said, “No because you already did.”
So I clicked on the Sterek tag and refined to coffee shop AU. His mind was blown to see that they ALL had thousands of hits and kudos and comments. Then I clicked on JUST the coffee shop AU tag and showed him all the fics across all the fandoms written by countless different people.
I’m going to tell you all now what I told him because it applies to everyone.
Write your story. It doesn’t matter that someone else has written a story about that subject. They didn’t write YOUR story. Only you can do that.
I know I’ve talked about this before, but I’m really sick of seeing writers who should know better say things like, “Tragedy is more compelling than stories where characters have a nice day and nothing bad happens!” without understanding why.
Tragedy is an effective story element when it’s a deviation from the norm. A character’s peaceful existence is disrupted by a catastrophic event that throws everything into chaos. The character now has to either develop so they can cope with the new status quo, or find a way to put things back the way they were. There’s a good story in that.
But when a character’s life is an unrelenting cavalcade of misery, another heaping dose of shit isn’t all that interesting. At that point, a compelling deviation from the norm would be said character having a nice day where nothing bad happens. And modern fiction is chock-full of misery porn, so by this logic, it’s no wonder the coffee shop AU is such a popular fanfiction trope.
Derek Hale getting a dog and putting his life back together is way more interesting than Derek Hale’s life getting worse for the 26th consecutive episode.
Creators like to hold up “everything is fine and nobody dies” as a sign that fanfic is bland and badly written, but if anything, it’s an indicator that mainstream fiction is bland and badly written.
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I’ve discovered that rejections are not altogether a bad thing. They teach a writer to rely on his own judgment and to say in his heart of hearts, “To hell with you.
are you ever writing a thing and you compose a line that is such a killer, be it perfectly angsty or feelsy or dirty or what have you, and you have the sudden urge to stop typing and lie down on the floor because that’s it, you’re done, you can rest now, you did it
I feel like when you’re writing, organizing chapters and dialogue is easy
but jfc, the amount of time it takes to constantly keep people moving and make sure they’re in the right spaces and trying to come up with wording for it is always such a shock.
Like, fuck, I made you pick up a coffee cup, you need to put it down at some point. also I can’t remember what I dressed you in, can you push up your sleeves? I don’t remember if you even have your shirt on.
and YOU. YOU OVER THERE, you got out of your chair earlier, but did you come back yet? Are you coming back? Where did you even go and why’d you get up? Fuck, I can’t make you sit down again already, you just stood up, go…over there. go get more coffee. Did you bring your mug with you? fine. bring the pot to the table and—wait, wasn’t the coffee pot already over here? shit, hold on, I need to go back and re-read and re-write
*re-reads my own story*: Damn this is some good shit
*gets to the part where I stopped writing*: WTF WHERE’S THE REST OF IT HOW DO I GET MORE
Brain: You’re the author, if you want more you have to write it
Me: *flips tables*
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I was tagged by @jaimistoryteller to pick 10 of my stories and do a few paragraphs from them. This is gonna get long, folks, so I’ll put it under a cut:
It was plain to Greg that there was more there, secrets Mycroft was keeping. But he knew better than to push or ask. “But you still lost him. Sherlock still jumped off that roof.”
Mycroft looked towards the fire. “Do you know how many times I expected him to turn up dead when he was using? That brilliant mind of his and he was burning it up. He knew I kept an eye on him, but there were still times he gave my people the slip. And the more I pushed him to get clean, the greater he resented me.”
Greg moved towards him. “All of that and this was how he ended up,” he said softly, biting back the ‘I’m sorry’ that sounded shallow even in his own mind.
Mycroft nodded. “I remember when he was brought home from hospital as a newborn,” he said to the fireplace. “So small. They didn’t want me to hold him, afraid I would drop him. I promised I never would.”
“Don’t you dare walk out of here, Sherlock Holmes,” Greg growled.
Closing his eyes a moment, he turned to face them. John’s eyes went from rage to disbelief. Greg looked a little calmer, but he kept a firm grip on Sherlock’s elbow as he steered him to their table.
Sherlock sat where he was put, picking at the napkin in front of him, unable to look at either of them. Greg put a hand on John’s leg to contain him. “Explain,” he said to Sherlock, voice rough with emotion.
Eyes glued to the table, Sherlock mumbled his story. How he had to fake his death to protect them, how he’d spent the last two years dismantling Moriarty’s web.
When he finished John reached over and tilted up his chin. “We missed you.”
Sherlock stared into his eyes, fighting back tears. Greg reached across and took his hand. Sherlock shook his head and pulled away from them both. He could smell the difference in them, see the hint of a mark below John’s collar. “You’ve bonded. I can’t I…” He stood up suddenly and bolted, hearing Greg say something to John.
I turn my attention to what skin I can see and study his face. He is relaxed, softened. Unbothered by the nightmares that frequent us both. The steel blue eyes are hidden, golden lashes laying thickly on his cheek. He shifts as if aware of my gaze, eyes fluttering a moment before settling again. I cross the room and slip into bed beside him, sitting against the headboard as I resume my study of his careworn face.
An eyelash has fallen loose. I capture it and consider the way the light reflects the golden tones. Transfixed, I don’t realize he’s awoken until he speaks.
“Good morning,” he says, sleep still heavy in his voice. He stretches and rubs his shoulder before padding into the en suite. I carefully place my captured treasure aside, fairly certain that John would dub my intense fascination ‘not good’.
The next morning Greg was fixing breakfast in the kitchen when Sherlock stalked in. “Morning,” he said, not looking up from the stove.
Ignoring the greeting, Sherlock crossed the kitchen and kicked Greg as hard as he could in the shin.
“Bloody hell!” Greg shouted, nearly losing the pan as he jumped and winced in pain.
Before the boy could swing again, Mycroft appeared in the doorway. “Sherlock,” he said firmly. Sherlock turned to his big brother. “Mister Lestrade did not harm me.”
Looking from one to the other for a moment, Sherlock sagged. Mycroft stepped to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “This changes nothing between you and I. But we do still need to talk about your breaking and entering.”
The sound of wings could thrill him almost as much as the sound of the TARDIS. Jack smiled at the sound, turning to look behind him. Castiel stood solidly on the sea cliff, the breeze ruffling his hair and his coat billowing out behind him. The angel didn’t smile, but then again, he often didn’t.
“You called me,” he said, frowning.
“I did.” Jack quickly closed the gap between them.
“Is there a problem?” Castiel asked, confusion bleeding into his voice.
Jack shook his head and took his hand. “Isn’t this a beautiful sunset?”
Castiel looked from Jack’s face out across the water. The clouds were stained pink and blue and yellow; a world painted in soft pastels. Jack let go of Castiel’s hand to wrap an arm around his waist. He felt the angel relax against him and leaned in to kiss his temple.
John watched Sherlock sip soda through a straw. Whoever handed that straw to Sherlock Holmes should either be shot or given a medal. The detectives eyes were on the paper in front of him, but John was trying not to stare at the pout of his lips and failing miserably.
Licking his lips, John adjusted his erection under the table, glade for the distraction as the waitress brought then lunch.
Sherlock set down his cup. John pointedly picked up his fork and knife. Sherlock had ordered a fruit salad and John had to bite his lip as Sherlock picked up a cherry and sucked it off the stem.
John felt his face warm and reached for his water, gulping down the cold drink. When he looked at Sherlock again, the man was watching him, fingers steepled and tugging slightly at his bottom lip. “Everything all right, John?”
“Friends,” answered John, almost without thought. The conversation from that night was all but seared into his memory. It was the night he knew that Sherlock would never be his, but he’d follow him into hell anyway. “People they know, people they like, people they don’t like. Boyfriends, girlfriends…do you have a girlfriend?”
John watched a small smile play across Sherlock’s face as he kept his eyes on the window. “Not really my area.”
Heart skipping in his chest, John took a bite of food and kept his eyes on Sherlock. “Boyfriend then? Which is fine, by the way.”
Sherlock looked at him. “I know it’s fine. And no.”
John licked his lips. This was the point that Sherlock had told him he was flattered but he considered himself married to his work. He waited a few heartbeats, but the words never came. Steeling himself, expecting Sherlock to pull away, John reached over and touched Sherlock’s elegant fingers. “It is fine,” he said quietly. “And any man would be lucky to have you.”
“John,” he said quietly, looking away, as if not trusting himself to speak.
He was just drifting off again when the door opened and quietly closed. John. He knew by the scent of tea and the tread of his feet. He started to open his eyes, but then he felt John’s hand in his. “And one day the knight found the dragon badly injured and the knight called the dragon an idiot as he patched him up.”
Mycroft opened one eye, then the other. “That’s not how it goes.”
“Does in my version.” John leaned up and kissed his forehead.
Mycroft gave him a smile and squeezed his hand. “Good thing my knight happened to be close by.”
John paid the cabbie with a sigh. Three days in Yorkshire for a conference in the dead of winter was no one’s idea of a good time. It was damn good to be home and he was looking forward to a warm cuppa and maybe some crap telly while Sherlock told him about whatever cases had come up. His own bed with a Sherlock in it would be nice too. The cold drizzle offered extra encouragement to head inside and up the steps.
Pushing open the familiar door, John, couldn’t help but smile as he shrugged his coat off. Sherlock was curled up on the couch, asleep, wrapped up in one of John’s favorite jumpers. Shaking his head and leaving him there, John stepped into the kitchen to put the kettle on, noticing another jumper on the back of one of the chairs. They had texted the entire time John had been gone, but it seemed maybe Sherlock had missed him more than he let on.
Heading upstairs to drop off his bag, John could see his bed had been slept in, covers thrown to the footboard. The dresser drawer stood open and several jumpers lay on the bed while a few were missing alltogether. “It was three days, Sherlock,” he said quietly to no one.
“I missed you,” Sherlock’s voice behind him made John jump. He turned and laughed at the sight of Sherlock standing in the doorway, swallowed up by the jumper that rode too high on his stomach.
Mrs. Hudson found him there when she brought up a sandwich and tea for lunch. She set it in front of him and went into the kitchen. Sherlock was sipping his tea when he heard a small gasp as the fridge opened. “Sherlock, dear, do you really need so many kidneys?”
“It’s an experiment,” he called, turning a page as he absently ate.
There was the sound of Mrs. Hudson rearranging things in the kitchen. She came back out a few minutes later. “I put the kidneys in the crisper so they wouldn’t damage the cake.”
“Is that a concern?” asked Sherlock, looking up at her.
She smiled and patted his shoulder. “Did you get John a present?”
Sherlock blinked owlishly at her.
“There’s a sale on at Harrods, you should be back in time.”
Sherlock quickly finished his tea, grabbed his coat and scarf and bounded down the stairs, using his power to summon cabs as he exited the flat. “Harrods,” he said shortly.
He paid the cab driver too much and hurried inside. So many people. John…a jumper, yes, that should do. Quickly locating some he started sorting through them, hoping to find one John would like.
After a few minutes of frantic searching he found one with a large picture of some sort of dog. It was sort of a periwinkle color, but he hoped it would do. Uncertain of John’s size, he picked one more or less at random and took it to the cash. He had it gift wrapped and hurried out to catch another cab.
