The beginnings of a Geist background
Aug. 29th, 2011 01:41 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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writing_shadowsI was nothing special.
Oh, I thought I was, but we all do, don't we? We take our tiny little accomplishments and add them up, like children counting chocolate coins. 10 GCSEs, 4 A levels, and a string of 'A' grades. A photograph in the local newspaper when I got accepted into Oxford, and then another picture when I got my First and a prize for 'Best Undergraduate Thesis 2002'. And that made me special, I thought.
I was pretty as well, and knew it. I suppose I had my insecurities, like everyone does, but I knew that I was pretty as well. I used to smile when I caught sight of myself in the mirror and I was sure that when Mr Right came along (as he was going to, one day), he'd be pretty keen to get the full advantage of that smile.
And of course, I had hobbies. I wrote poetry and got one of my poems published when I was 16, which, of course, made me sensitive and creative instead of just clever, and my mother (who painted watercolours and sold them in local art shops around Lyndhurst area) smiled and said I got that from her side of the family. I liked horse riding and kept a small fat pony called 'Blackberry' until I was 11, and then kept a skittish chestnut mare called 'Dreamer'. I did ballet, and passed my grades with honours. Oh, and I was captain of the school swimming team, and even swum for the County.
Yes, I was pretty certain I was special.
I didn't think about all the ways in which I was ordinary. And worst of all, I didn't even notice the ways in which I was a lot less than ordinary, the things I just didn't have in my life. Because I didn't think they were even important.
I didn't have many friends for a start. Oh, there were other girls I used to hang out with. There were the other girls at the stables, or the girls on the swim team, or the girls I sat next to in class. But none of them were friends. It would never occur to me to call them, to listen to them, to really take the time to give a damn about any of the things that actually mattered to them. Why would I? I didn't really care. I had my books, my horses, my poems. I lived in my own happy little self centered world. What was there to ask about?
I didn't have a boyfriend either. I think I always assumed it would happen one day, but somehow it never did. There were boys who asked me out, but they were always too tall, or too short, or too dumb, or drove the wrong kind of car. No one was quite right and I didn't want to settle for anything less than perfect. After all, I was pretty damn close to perfect, wasn't I? So why should I settle for less?
And I never really thought about the world outside of my own happy little bubble. I was vaguely aware, I suppose, that there were starving children in Africa, and that racism was probably bad, m'kay. But that was it. I basically didn't care.
Still, that didn't matter, did it?
I went to Oxford, as I said, to St Hilda's College where I rowed for the Second Team in my first year, then stopped all that and concentrated on my History degree. My undergraduate thesis was on 'The figure of the bad mother in 19th century literature' and it won a prize. My father (who was the Headmaster of Lyndhurst First School) smiled and said I got that from his side of the family. I even got a bursary to do my Masters. I went to Edinburgh first, and then moved down to Cambridge when my supervisor moved. I found a thesis subject, and I still don't know why I chose it.
I came across it whilst I was still at Oxford, doing my undergraduate thesis. It was the story of a child abuse case in the 19th century, which gained quite a lot of attention at the time. A woman of very good family had a daughter who she came to believe was a changeling. Traditionally, if your child is taken by the fairies, the only way to get it back is to abuse the changeling until the little monster gets weary of it and goes back to fairyland, returning the true child in its place. And this is what that mother did. The whole thing culminated with the death of the child in 1859.
I don't know why I chose to write about child abuse in the 19th century. I didn't feel anything for it. I found it...interesting. It was an intellectual exercise, something I was proud of myself from being emotionally detached from. My supervisor complimented me for that. He said that women, in particular, tended to get too emotionally involved with their subjects.
I didn't even get emotionally involved with my poetry.
I sold another poem in the November. It was about the weather. I had a date with one of the junior lecturers at Cambridge. It didn't go anywhere. He wore a nasty jumper and talked to me about his love of Star Wars and I decided he was a geek.
Then, in December, everything changed.
I remember, when I was fourteen, one of my friends killed herself. She hung herself in her bedroom. I had seen her every day that week. I'd even sat in the bedroom where she would later die. She had kissed me, suddenly, her mouth warm against mine. I hadn't responded at first, and just sat there confused. She pulled back, and looked at me for a moment, then forced a smile. We hadn't discussed that kiss, but instead I turned the conversation back to our homework. When I got up to leave she gave me a locket. I knew it was her favourite, but I accepted it without thinking about it. Why shouldn't she give me a locket? It was pretty and I wanted it.
I didn't ask why. I didn't ask her anything. I just left to go home and then found out the next day that she had died.
I suppose I must have cried, although I don't remember doing so. Instead I just remember a vague sense of unease, a sudden realisation that the little bubble I lived in was more fragile than I had believed it to be.
I went home in December, partly to see my parents, and partly because the house where the events I was writing about for my thesis had taken place was just outside of Lyndhurst and I wanted to go there. I settled back into my old bedroom, with my old ballet shoes hanging up on the wall, and all my school books, still sitting on the shelf. I found that locket that I'd been given there, tucked away in a little box and for the first time since my friend had died I hung it around my neck as I opened up the box I kept all my research materials in and began to slowly read about the story of the little changeling girl...
Oh, I thought I was, but we all do, don't we? We take our tiny little accomplishments and add them up, like children counting chocolate coins. 10 GCSEs, 4 A levels, and a string of 'A' grades. A photograph in the local newspaper when I got accepted into Oxford, and then another picture when I got my First and a prize for 'Best Undergraduate Thesis 2002'. And that made me special, I thought.
I was pretty as well, and knew it. I suppose I had my insecurities, like everyone does, but I knew that I was pretty as well. I used to smile when I caught sight of myself in the mirror and I was sure that when Mr Right came along (as he was going to, one day), he'd be pretty keen to get the full advantage of that smile.
And of course, I had hobbies. I wrote poetry and got one of my poems published when I was 16, which, of course, made me sensitive and creative instead of just clever, and my mother (who painted watercolours and sold them in local art shops around Lyndhurst area) smiled and said I got that from her side of the family. I liked horse riding and kept a small fat pony called 'Blackberry' until I was 11, and then kept a skittish chestnut mare called 'Dreamer'. I did ballet, and passed my grades with honours. Oh, and I was captain of the school swimming team, and even swum for the County.
Yes, I was pretty certain I was special.
I didn't think about all the ways in which I was ordinary. And worst of all, I didn't even notice the ways in which I was a lot less than ordinary, the things I just didn't have in my life. Because I didn't think they were even important.
I didn't have many friends for a start. Oh, there were other girls I used to hang out with. There were the other girls at the stables, or the girls on the swim team, or the girls I sat next to in class. But none of them were friends. It would never occur to me to call them, to listen to them, to really take the time to give a damn about any of the things that actually mattered to them. Why would I? I didn't really care. I had my books, my horses, my poems. I lived in my own happy little self centered world. What was there to ask about?
I didn't have a boyfriend either. I think I always assumed it would happen one day, but somehow it never did. There were boys who asked me out, but they were always too tall, or too short, or too dumb, or drove the wrong kind of car. No one was quite right and I didn't want to settle for anything less than perfect. After all, I was pretty damn close to perfect, wasn't I? So why should I settle for less?
And I never really thought about the world outside of my own happy little bubble. I was vaguely aware, I suppose, that there were starving children in Africa, and that racism was probably bad, m'kay. But that was it. I basically didn't care.
Still, that didn't matter, did it?
I went to Oxford, as I said, to St Hilda's College where I rowed for the Second Team in my first year, then stopped all that and concentrated on my History degree. My undergraduate thesis was on 'The figure of the bad mother in 19th century literature' and it won a prize. My father (who was the Headmaster of Lyndhurst First School) smiled and said I got that from his side of the family. I even got a bursary to do my Masters. I went to Edinburgh first, and then moved down to Cambridge when my supervisor moved. I found a thesis subject, and I still don't know why I chose it.
I came across it whilst I was still at Oxford, doing my undergraduate thesis. It was the story of a child abuse case in the 19th century, which gained quite a lot of attention at the time. A woman of very good family had a daughter who she came to believe was a changeling. Traditionally, if your child is taken by the fairies, the only way to get it back is to abuse the changeling until the little monster gets weary of it and goes back to fairyland, returning the true child in its place. And this is what that mother did. The whole thing culminated with the death of the child in 1859.
I don't know why I chose to write about child abuse in the 19th century. I didn't feel anything for it. I found it...interesting. It was an intellectual exercise, something I was proud of myself from being emotionally detached from. My supervisor complimented me for that. He said that women, in particular, tended to get too emotionally involved with their subjects.
I didn't even get emotionally involved with my poetry.
I sold another poem in the November. It was about the weather. I had a date with one of the junior lecturers at Cambridge. It didn't go anywhere. He wore a nasty jumper and talked to me about his love of Star Wars and I decided he was a geek.
Then, in December, everything changed.
I remember, when I was fourteen, one of my friends killed herself. She hung herself in her bedroom. I had seen her every day that week. I'd even sat in the bedroom where she would later die. She had kissed me, suddenly, her mouth warm against mine. I hadn't responded at first, and just sat there confused. She pulled back, and looked at me for a moment, then forced a smile. We hadn't discussed that kiss, but instead I turned the conversation back to our homework. When I got up to leave she gave me a locket. I knew it was her favourite, but I accepted it without thinking about it. Why shouldn't she give me a locket? It was pretty and I wanted it.
I didn't ask why. I didn't ask her anything. I just left to go home and then found out the next day that she had died.
I suppose I must have cried, although I don't remember doing so. Instead I just remember a vague sense of unease, a sudden realisation that the little bubble I lived in was more fragile than I had believed it to be.
I went home in December, partly to see my parents, and partly because the house where the events I was writing about for my thesis had taken place was just outside of Lyndhurst and I wanted to go there. I settled back into my old bedroom, with my old ballet shoes hanging up on the wall, and all my school books, still sitting on the shelf. I found that locket that I'd been given there, tucked away in a little box and for the first time since my friend had died I hung it around my neck as I opened up the box I kept all my research materials in and began to slowly read about the story of the little changeling girl...
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Date: 2011-08-29 06:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-29 06:23 pm (UTC)In this case, however, this is a Part One background and the second half is meant to be a bit of a character revelation/change.
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Date: 2011-08-29 06:41 pm (UTC)(Although emotionally stunted characters aren't plot immune, of course...*cuddles her lovely indie game eidetic-memory/OCD Hermetic, who may or may not have gone round being Perfectly Functional for months while reality unspooled all Nephandic-like behind her eyes, after she looked at something Bad and it all went a bit Fractal...*)