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[Occupation: a) English Literature, b) Philosophy, c) Creative Writing student]
[Career Prospects: Starving to Death, as a result of a), b), and c)]
[Runs #pointlessfactsbelowrammpics / #messerstein / #tillchardfans]
4:18am and finishing up a pro-functionalism essay
using ‘T’ and ‘G’ to denote characters in thought experiments designed to prove that robots can have mental states
life is good
So everytime I type something wrong or use the wrong word or the wrong tempus or grammar etc. I always get paranoid that someone who has english as their native language, will read what I wrote and spot all the mistakes I made and think, “Is she stupid or something??” or “Daamn, her english is horrible, I am never going to speak to her”.
Truth. I have a variant of this.
I’ve been in the UK for a damn long time and am actually fairly confident of my English skills - I think I’m better at it than my actual first language - but when I am writing and feel the limitations of language I tend to get frustrated and wonder if what I’m writing makes any sense
Also in English Lit I can get marked down for ‘Americanized’ spellings (e.g. using ‘z’ instead of ‘s’ in ‘-sed’ words) but I was initially taught American English and that habit is really hard to break
It doesn’t help that English grammar makes almost no sense compared to logical structures like German
And also Philosophy is all about being able to state your thoughts extremely clearly and holy shit even native English speakers struggle with this what chance have I got
i read a sentence like ‘The self is a relation which relates itself to its own self, or it is that in the relation that the relation relates itself to its own self; the self is not the relation but that the relation relates itself to its own self’ and that legit stops even looking like a sentence
I SHOULD ALSO ADD that I'm intoxicated and reading tabul rasa makes me want to curl up and cry in the fucking 85dehree heat.
Come here love
I hope that they were at least partly happy tears, Tabula Rasa is still one of the most optimistic fics that I’ve written. The Electroma pieces I’ve written are generally the kind of fics I am used to writing, I’ve been an angst writer for a long time…
If it makes you feel better (though I see you sent this three hours or more ago) some of my happy headcanon for TR is:
and so on.
I might have a small collection of drabbles taking place within the TR universe at some point (I hesitate to call it a ‘sequel’). But not until after this albatross of a human!DP fic is done.
I was dragging to spring training and so I'm reading your fics while burning in the sun and pondering robotics.
I have to pay much attention to names and formality when I write
English isn’t my first language and it always bothers me that it doesn’t distinguish formality when it would really come in handy, so I take it out on fics and daft punky trash instead.
I fixate on ‘Bangalter’ because to me that name is inherently hilarious
"You know," Guy says slowly. "… we’ve known each other for just over a week, and I don’t think that… we’ve… ever shared names."
"We haven’t," pause. The long-haired man doesn’t respond, though, so Thomas presses on, somewhat anxiously. "so, um, you first? What’s your name?"
"Guilliaume Emmanuel Paul de Homem-Christo, but no one has the time for that. I’ll accept any variation on that name, except ‘Paul’. I’m a lot of things, almost too many, so much that I know better what I’m not than what I am, and what I’m not is Paul. Seriously. What about me looks even half like a ‘Paul’? What were my parents thinking.”
Thomas blinks. When he asked for a name, he was expecting a name in return, not repressed teenage angst.
(Though it is memorable. No forgetting this name any time soon.)
"… So… uh, you’d go by pretty much anything in that name, except ‘Paul’."
The taller man grins a little awkwardly. “Well, I’m not in a position to be overly experimental. Maybe this just comes off as boring, but… ‘Guy-Manuel’? Or just ‘Guy’?”
"Either will do fine," Guy says - then smiles, so gently and coyly that Thomas is quite lost for words until the former extends his hand. "enchanté. Comment vous appelez-vous?"
"Thomas Bangalter," he responds, but he’s still fixated on that smile. He can guess that Guy doesn’t smile often, though God, he really should; it lends an almost-mischievous, schoolboyish air to his demeanor, makes him look at least ten times more approachable and friendly. He shakes Guy’s hand firmly with an ‘enchanté' of his own, unaware that the other was smiling because he was delighted by Thomas's accent on his name - four distinct syllables, but spoken as a singular 'Guy-man-nu-el’ instead of two hyphenated words. He hasn’t heard that variation before, and has found it really quite pleasant. “not quite as long and elegant as yours, I’m afraid to say.”
"Bangalter," Guy repeats to himself, and here Thomas has his own moment of delight regarding the pronounciation of his name; the final ‘r’ trilled softly at the tip of his tongue, unusual but dulcet. It comes even more as a surprise because he’s never done that with any other word before. Guy’s certainly quite something. “a nice name. I’ll keep that in mind.”
One must never underestimate the power of a Parisian accent.
Even other Parisians fall for it. It’s that charming.
Context: They’ve known each other eight days. We’re 6000 words in.
Guy has smiled once.
god freaking damnit guy-manuel
Also Guy used an alveolar trilled ‘r’ at the end, the usual French ‘r’ is guttural and pronounced at the back of the throat
it’s his fantastic old-timey portuguese descent comin’ through
It’s not about men or women.
Nobody should ever hit anyone.
Nobody should ever rape anyone.
Nobody should ever murder anyone.
Nobody should ever beat anyone.
Nobody should ever threaten anyone.
Nobody should ever insult anyone.
Nobody should ever make anyone uncomfortable.
Nobody should ever touch anyone without their consent.
Nobody should ever steal from anyone.
Nobody should ever humiliate anyone.
dear god I think this fic is going to be longer than Tabula Rasa
It’s 8000-words something and I am not convinced I wrote even half of it
It is three o’clock when Guy returns home; that twilight hour between dawn begins, tugging the morning along with it. He hangs up his jacket and tidies his windswept hair with one hand, gazing into his apartment with a thoughtful look on his face. He’s neglected the place for the past three days or so, having spent most of his days asleep or elsewhere, only stopping by to shower and change before heading out to the club; the apartment isn’t messy by any sense of the word, but laundry needs doing, and he should vacuum at some point in the near future. He’s quite a tidy person, all things considered, but he could always be tidier. One can never know who they might be entertaining as a guest, nor when.
Then he pauses, and reconsiders that thought. Guests?
No way. Guy has people whom he’s close to, but almost never that close, and that’s talking about people that he’s known for longer than just a few days. Beating around the bush is hardly his style, so he downright admits to himself that when he thought ‘guests’ an image of Thomas flashed across his eyes - and pushes the idea aside just as matter-of-factly. It’s too early for that. Oh, he enjoys Thomas’s company and has no qualms about continuing to see him; he finds the other quite charming beneath the clumsiness and overt chatter, too, neither of those things are so intolerable that he can’t work with them; but still, they’re hardly at the stage where they would want to invite each other over to watch movies together, sleep in the same bed, or engage in more intimate activities.
Everything has a fitting time and place. Guy takes off his shoes, arranges them neatly by the door, and sighs in half contentment as he enters the kitchen to pour himself a glass of red wine. His usual nightcap; there’s something about wine that makes him blush, his body filling with barely-metabolized warmth until he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep. Then he takes the glass, turns the lights in the kitchen out, and heads straight to his bedroom. Clothes are taken off and discarded carelessly, thrown towards some dark corner of the room; there’s a bedside lamp but he doesn’t bother turning it on, content enough with the moonlight drifting in through the window. His body is illuminated milky-blue as he settles himself onto the bed, wearing only boxers and quite ready to sleep. The streetlamp hums vaguely outside. All is well. He takes a sip out of his wine and closes his eyes.
Call me when you get home.
Ah. Of course. He opens his eyes again and moves off the bed without a sound, retrieving his trousers and the piece of paper folded up in his left pocket. Through the moonlight he can just about make out the sequence of numbers. Common sense tells him that he could leave it until the morning, that there’s a high chance that the other might be asleep by now - but if there’s anything he’s learnt in the past two weeks with the taller man, it’s that Thomas Bangalter does not operate via common sense.
And neither do I, apparently, he thinks as he reaches for the phone and dials the number, cradling the receiver between his face and shoulder as he slumps down onto the bed again. The signal tone drones on several times and his eyes flutter shut. He’s held on for exactly ten rings (and another swallow of the wine) before Thomas picks up at the other end. “Guy,” he immediately exclaims, skipping all the customary greetings; he must have been keeping himself awake, waiting for that one phone call, all this time. Guy finds himself rather touched at the thought.
"I was waiting for you," the other’s voice is oddly breathless but glad. "you’re home and safe?"
"Of course, why would I not be? I’m sorry that it got so late-" he takes a sip. "- I was actually thinking whether to leave the call until morning, you know. You might have been asleep," Thomas inhales slightly but sharply, and Guy knows that he’s about to retort. "but thank you for being awake, nonetheless. This is just as much me checking up on you as it’s the other way around."
And the momentary tension is defused, just like that. “Non, non. It’s me who should be thanking you for calling me. I was worried,” pause. “just a little. I know it’s silly,” another pause. Guy swirls the wine a little in its glass, starting to feel the drowsiness settle in. “but strange things can happen in the night. Anyway. Thanks again, I probably should go to bed now.”
"Yes, you ought to, and so should I. Dors bien. I’ll hang up first.”
sorry i am not good at writing human!daft punk
thomas isn’t as big a derp here. never thought that’d be a complaint
this is the daft punk fic that deals with personhood, morality, and free will that you’ve always wanted
daftrobotsinsuits, I am the writer of Tabula Rasa. I write more DP stuff.
Thank you for featuring me in this post and the ficrec one you posted some hours ago, I was wondering where all the AO3 pageviews were coming from too…
I read tags and comments on reblogs of this post as well and wow
I’m quite frankly bowled over by the fresh stream of comments and praise, I’m glad to have touched so many people’s emotions. I’m an actual philosophy student currently working on a functionalism-based paper on ‘whether machines can be said to have mental states’, and want to translate that beyond just an essay and into varying stories.
and a heart for you and a heart for you and a heart for you and a heart for someone else and a heart for the next and…
Oh gosh, all the hearts for you for writing such a great piece. I’m glad you came across the post! Your paper sounds like it’ll be quite interesting - are you looking at machine-state functionalism and expanding into other functionalist theories from there? (That sentence is probably 30% of what I know about functionalism at all, ha.)
I’m a history student who continually gets sidetracked into the future of personhood and artificial intelligence, which is one of the reasons I loved Tabula Rasa so much. Anything that examines the similarities and differences between machine and human mental states is pretty fascinating. I look forward to reading more of your work (and there are definitely a couple of your tumblr DP fics going on the next rec list).
(eeeeeee functionalist talk > w <)
Got it right there! I’m dealing with Putnam’s original 1967 article about the nature of mental states and multiple realizability. It seems patently obvious to a lot of people that robots can have mental states; but philosophically it is tricky to justify either the view that they can or can’t, and fiction more often than not doesn’t provide serious arguments regarding it. Keeping certain apparently nonreducible qualities such as intentionality/qualia is a beast, too. I got into this fandom just in time to deal with these problems. XD
There are more philosophical DP fics coming, yes. Almost inevitable.
Thank you so much for the feature, again!
I'm just shy, I'll go off anon when I submit, once I'm happy with myself. Ahhh I feel silly. n.n
Which is fair enough, I absolutely insist on respecting an author’s privacy if betareading. It’s always to their disclosure that their works were betaread by me, not to mine.
I am assuming you’re looking to have a DP fic checked. I look forward to it.
Can... Can I send you something I've written and you can uh like.. Look at it and tell me if it's good or bad, I just really admire you as a writer. I haven't quiet finished it so it won't be right now.
Who are you
Yes you can of course, I’m a betareader with plenty of experience
but it might be paramount that I know so I can privately respond
Shhhh, no you don't, love! They always say the most critical eye is the creator's. I suggest giving it some rest and re-reading it later. Make sure not to over-exert yourself, and writing these fics should not be purely stress (you deserve to enjoy the process as much as the reader, no?), and don't have to be absolutely "perfect". And you know what they say about being bad at something, practice makes perfect!
I am indeed my own worst critic. I honestly think that’s the way it should be. I’ve been writing for ten years now and there is always something to be improving oh my god it never ends
Most Daft Punk stuff I’ve been doing is light fare compared to the huge chapters I usually put out for primary fandom, I think that’s partially why I struggle. It’s also a revival of French usage which is a language I haven’t needed to use in about five years and now I’m suddenly back to four languages in my life and it makes me wonder at how much I remember and slightly frustrated at how much I don’t
When I write it hurts good, though.
Wouldn’t give it up for the world
(plus I’m writing that drying paint thing you suggested now and the absurdity does keep me going lol)
Did you ever think of writing something for Doin' It Right? It seems so care-free and happy enough for a fluff fic. Also, I'm wholeheartedly looking forward to the paint drying scene you hinted at. (Sorry if you aren't talking requests, I just heard the song and thought of your work!)
I am taking requests! I’ll update that on my fic page.
I was wondering who was eventually going to ask for Doin’ It Right, no plot has crossed my mind yet but when I first asked for song requests I was expecting to see that sooner than this. It’s a pretty cheerful song, for sure, most definitely fluffy
so no worries about me ruining it with death and despair and argh
bahaha. Thank you.
I am working on said paint drying right now. tis very metaphysical
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