I've seen it. Thousands of times over my eyes have waded through the thick, everlasting words that tear down everything in their path. Hate spews freely, things that are sure to bury in the innocent veins and sting like a bee's tale that's found it's home and final resting place. Watching time and time again, the things that keep coming around.
The category has fallen.
Shamelessly, people butcher everything that an author has taken time to piece together.
We don't need any more crap, the fandom's full of it already.
Fearlessly, they tear into flesh, unafraid to mock and scorn those that have failed to appease their high standards and guilty desires. Shame falls from their lips and fingertips only to land on the unsuspecting victim, the pure writers.
I was once told that there are storytellers, and then there are writers. And that's the truth; some people know how to say what other's need to hear to get by and plow through the pages with numb literature. They reach up with only their palms and attempt to grab at the bar that has been set for decency. They understand that some people can allow themselves to be the 'easy' of the reviewers. They can settle for anything.
Then there are the people who sit before monitors and notepads, eyes, hands, fingers all flickering and guiding the words into a place that suits them. The words are nestled between others where agreement is mutual. They allow magic to unfold with a stroke by pen or pointer. They reach out with long arms, fingers extended desperately to extend beyond the ordinary.
I used to sit, flip through the shamed eyes that have brought forth the reasoning behind loss of faith in writer's everywhere. I would read a listless amount of stories that weren't seemingly perfect—though no story ever could be—and make the minor adjustments.
Say this here.
Do this there.
Today, I walk through grand halls, crème colored with rich white trimming. They hang, unabashedly, lining these halls with a generous spacing between them, as if being examined in an art museum—exactly where they belong. Because each in its own is a form of art, beautiful and carefully put together. Believe you me, every single one deserves their place, hanging on these walls.
I'm proud to tell you that though the art itself is not my own, the home to these craftings belongs to me solely. I have rounded them together for viewers across the Percy Jackson and the Olympians fandom to be put on display, to restore hope, to bring peace to unsettled souls. Each day I see new faces pass through and stare admiringly, and I know somewhere deep down that I am succeeding.
It's not as great, this collection I have, as the ones still roaming with no place to call their own, but each piece has earned its spot in my Hall of Fame.
I stand before the greats of the archive before pulling open the door at the end of the hall. These pieces are merely the beginning—more are sure to come. And so I sit, swivel chair and desk, single large monitor on the smooth oak, and scan. I know, I know, it may seem boring. Flipping through fiction after fiction, some better than others, but it's my job and responsibility—somehow it came to be—to single out the stories that belong in this hall of mine.
And the start is page one of hundreds.
Oh my.
Introductions, I assume are in order, but you all will soon know my name. (Well, one can hope.) For now I stand firm with my alias, Jane. Jane Doe. Rather dull, but just the sort of thing you can adjust to without much thought (like if my name were something complicated, such as Crystal Aquamarine Atlanta Rainbow *Ahem*).
But my name has never really mattered (I just love to talk about myself, and some believe it's rather unhealthy, while others will argue that a little time for yourself is never a bad thing. I just happen to agree with the latter). The names that matter are the pennames of creators, masters of the written word, and angels of literature. The ones that hold firm the supports of the fandom, despite its crumbling walls. Their voices will be heard, and I'm proud to say that I'm handing over the microphone.
Cup bearer of Olympus, if you will.
Gotta say, new faces are enjoyed in this fine corridor.
A/N: Simply put, this is going to become the Percy Jackson Hall of Fame, updated annually. I'll filter through every—single—story in the archive (oh my goodness) and choose only that of a certain quality.
And I'd like an assistant. So, if you feel up to it (details below) then let me know and I guess I'll choose a person. I hate choices… They make me dizzy…
Anywho!
The job of my assistant is to suggest stories they've found interesting, with their reasons behind it, and then I'm going to look it over. And vice versa—I'll want your opinion on my selections, so I'll probably refer to some of your work to decide by your own quality (please be aware of this fact).
This will extend beyond just this year; it's a large-scale project, so you'll have to hang around for a while and get used to my whacky humor.
Keep tabs on this story because it's your chance to find the good fics.
Later, loves!