Work Text:
The discovery of this hitherto-unknown (though much shorter) draft of The Waste Land has fascinated scholars due to its different thematic treatment of the central motifs, which Eliot must have jettisoned in the published drafts. This divergent focus has led to a mixed critical response. One critic has praised this draft as "much more relevant to today's audience than the published version. Well, more relevant to 1400 people, more or less." However, another anonymous reviewer stated: "Naw, it's just typical pretentious litfic wanker navel-gazing."
Nam tragoediam magno impetu exorsus, non succedenti stilo, abolevit quaerentibusque amicis, quidnam Aiax ageret, respondit, Aiacem suum in spongeam incubuisse. (1)
FOR THOSE WHO HAVE WRITTEN FOR ME
i migliori fabbri
I. The Beta of the Dead Fic
December is the cruelest month, breeding
Bears out of the wordless desert, mixing
Canons and desire, stirring
Dull minds with ideas filled with dnws.
In October we were fresh, excited by the assignment,
The empty page replete with possibility.
November brought bears, yet manageable,
With a smattering of words; we made an outline,
And drank coffee, and chatted for hours.
But now there is the panic as the deadline looms:
Fourth or fifth wind, and the strength of panic.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this rubbish coal? Child of Eve,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, a plot fractured,
The characters developing away from canon,
Events that never happened. Only
There are hippos here in the dark of discord
(Come in here to the tumult of discord)
And I will show you something different from either
Your morning typing when you should be working,
Or your word sprints at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you a beta in a handful of dust.
Madame Modhat, famous modiatrix,
Is known to have a faster algorithm
With wicked matching speed. Here, said she,
Is your match, dawdling Anonymous.
Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends.
Fear forgetfulness. Fear the deadline.
Unreal City,
This fic. Those characters would never do that,
That couldn't happen by the laws of physics,
And contradicts what canon says;
That entire section has to be redone.
Who taught you tenses? Past and present swirl
Together, but time travel is not tagged.
I saw the beta's edits and knew them all, and said,
"You have neither lost nor won, but have named
The shadow of ill-writing with your own name:
You! hypocrite lecteur -- ma semblable -- mon écrivaine!"
II. A Game of Signups
The Tag Set, full to bursting like a Ripened Fruit,
Is legion; it contains its multitudes
Of Anime and RPF, and Books
Beloved by one, or two, of you for more
Than twenty years, or thirty. And if you watch
The promo post, perhaps there will be offers.
Those two minor characters my dentist ships,
She nominated just those two. And then
There's worldbuilding; what does that even mean
For canons set in modern California?
But lacking in the tagset on display
Is still the canon of the sylvan scene
Of Winterblumensaat, as enthusiasts
Filled all the pages with its unique voice,
And still they write, and still the fans pursue,
That classic of the genre. (2)
O O O O that eclectic letter --
It's so elegant
So intelligent
"The prompts! The list of likes!"
"I'd write for it. If I knew the canon."
"Tell me again of AND matching.
I have offered A and B; my nemesis requested A, B, C.
Will I match?" "No."
Great letter, great prompts: does not comment.
Avoid.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
The one-day notice is now posted.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
"Check the letter app -- has there come a letter,
A single letter for my lonely fandom?
Should I drop my offer now?
Or test the matching algorithm?"
"Live dangerously. Offer it."
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Recall it used to be a week we waited for the matches.
A day seems awfully long now.
We are lying in wait
wait for it
wait for it
wait for it
III. The Shipping Sermon
The ship's main mast is broken: only one
Of two was nominated. Unrequested
Are the juggernauts; they have departed,
As I went down to the river to sail
Studying how to write that tropey tale
Of our heroine bed-sharing with
Her fake-date soulmate.
But always at my back I hear
The default deadline hurrying near.
Don't you love farce? My fault, I fear;
I thought you'd want what I want; sorry, my dear.
O Winterblumensaat
O Fiorentina
Only time will tell.
Unreal City
Would that limb truly fit on top of those?
That seems anatomically incorrect.
I Tiresias, old dame with wrinkled balls
Perceived the scene, and tried to plan the rest:
I too awaited the revealèd guest.
He, the young het handsome guy, arrives --
Unless he is a they, or it, or she,
Or all or none, or an OT3.
But still the choices grow apace:
A cyborg or a necromantic saint,
Or a tentacled monster, come from space,
Or an omega: Here is no constraint
For this recip who has many porny likes
Of many different flavors, and no DNWs.
never gonna give you up
never gonna let you down (3)
IV. Defaulting
A. Nonnimous, past default time,
Forgetting time zones, or the deadline date,
Whirls sans assignment, sans promised gift.
O you whose drafts are mutable and few,
So rough with pixels destined to be shed,
Consider Nonnimous, as anxious and as proud as you.
V. What the Mod Said
After the agony in writing sprints
The whinging and the shitposting
After the Admin comm and discord messages
Of mods announcing the due date
There is a bus pass
It will be checked. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet
Do not post a placeholder.
Here are no words
If there were words
There are a thousand words
If there were more words
If there were only plot and
Rich description
Thoughtful worldbuilding
Deep characterization
A good last sentence
(At least a good last sentence)
But there are no more words.
Then spoke the mod
Pinch hits incoming. Many pinch hits, with less time to write.
Consider pinch-hitting
What is that sound high in the air
The whine of anxiety
Will the recip like it
Will they comment
Unreal
Shall I at least set my bus pass in order?
But treats. The treats. They call.
Words for treats then. Words.
December twenty-fourth, the countdown clock
The collection is closing. Is closing, is closing.
I must not fear
Poet's Notes Found with This Draft:
(1) Suetonius, De Vita Caesarum
(2) Look, I wanted this poem to be super obscure, and I'm trying to make this as obscure as possible. If you've never heard of this book, that's good (although I'll make fun of you). That means I can tell you this entire poem is an extended metaphor based on it, and you can't argue.
(3) I put this footnote in so as to up the word count. That is the sole reason. I can do that, I'm the author. (seven more words right there in that previous sentence! heh heh)