[creativity. it's one of the few real comforts Stine can cling to in any moment of distress, no matter what the context is. he writes, if not through a tangible medium then in his head. if he can internalize a concept and break it down into the barest pieces of a story, he can rearrange them into something practical; something he can use. maybe it's not the most conventional form of problem solving, but it hasn't hurt him yet.
though, given this decidedly extraordinary situation, it might take him a few tries before it leads to anything beneficial. or healthy. or any outcome that doesn't involve him looking like a giant idiot — a insane giant idiot on the verge of exploding, perhaps — like he does now as he sits hunched over on a rickety city bench barely a block away from the hospital. the welcoming committee (read: mob) has long since dispersed, and now all he's surrounded by is...well, pamphlets. lots and lots of pamphlets. piles of pamphlets.
and some poor, misguided soul, no doubt completely unaware of the terrible door they've opened, has been naive enough to give him something to write with.]
Hm, stellar! They haven't invented the comma here yet, have they?
[he stabs his pen down onto the brochure he's holding and begins scribbling into the the edge of the paragraph he's currently skimming with manic fervor, jotting down yet another addition to the rather impressive collection of grammatical and spelling corrections he's been amassing on this particular page. he's turned semicolons into periods, replaced more than a few "there's" with "theirs", and has even rewritten several paragraphs entirely. why? well, it makes him feel better. what other reason does he need?]
Wouldn't have, not wouldn't of. [the smile plastered across his face is thin and forced and on the shaky verge of collapse.] I can't even— Do you even listen to yourselves talk?
[some people bite their nails when they're stressed. R.L. Stine turns into a grammar nazi.]
[two.]
[disembodied children's voices are never good news. Stine was unnerved even before he made it this far into the forest, but now he can safely say that he's chilled to the bone. he's not going to stick around to find out what's making those noises, thank you very much, and he feels pretty confident in his assumption that his new friend feels the same way. they can discuss the possibility of malevolent ghost toddlers when they get home, but for now? making a beeline for the clear direction of that-a-way seems like a solid plan.
strike that: a better one would be keeping one eye on the ground in front of them, because otherwise...]
YAAAAAGH!
[...you might end up walking straight into a hunter's pull-trap. the loop of rope laying on the forest floor is easily masked under a pile of leaves and dead vines, and unfortunately his left foot connects with it in just the right way to set it off. and there he goes — a shrieking, flailing mess yanked up into the air, dangling upside down. his glasses go flying off his face in the commotion. that's somehow the worst part of this for him because now he's dizzy and blind. whattacombo.]
r.l. stine (goosebumps: the movie)
[creativity. it's one of the few real comforts Stine can cling to in any moment of distress, no matter what the context is. he writes, if not through a tangible medium then in his head. if he can internalize a concept and break it down into the barest pieces of a story, he can rearrange them into something practical; something he can use. maybe it's not the most conventional form of problem solving, but it hasn't hurt him yet.
though, given this decidedly extraordinary situation, it might take him a few tries before it leads to anything beneficial. or healthy. or any outcome that doesn't involve him looking like a giant idiot — a insane giant idiot on the verge of exploding, perhaps — like he does now as he sits hunched over on a rickety city bench barely a block away from the hospital. the welcoming committee (read: mob) has long since dispersed, and now all he's surrounded by is...well, pamphlets. lots and lots of pamphlets. piles of pamphlets.
and some poor, misguided soul, no doubt completely unaware of the terrible door they've opened, has been naive enough to give him something to write with.]
Hm, stellar! They haven't invented the comma here yet, have they?
[he stabs his pen down onto the brochure he's holding and begins scribbling into the the edge of the paragraph he's currently skimming with manic fervor, jotting down yet another addition to the rather impressive collection of grammatical and spelling corrections he's been amassing on this particular page. he's turned semicolons into periods, replaced more than a few "there's" with "theirs", and has even rewritten several paragraphs entirely. why? well, it makes him feel better. what other reason does he need?]
Wouldn't have, not wouldn't of. [the smile plastered across his face is thin and forced and on the shaky verge of collapse.] I can't even— Do you even listen to yourselves talk?
[some people bite their nails when they're stressed. R.L. Stine turns into a grammar nazi.]
[two.]
[disembodied children's voices are never good news. Stine was unnerved even before he made it this far into the forest, but now he can safely say that he's chilled to the bone. he's not going to stick around to find out what's making those noises, thank you very much, and he feels pretty confident in his assumption that his new friend feels the same way. they can discuss the possibility of malevolent ghost toddlers when they get home, but for now? making a beeline for the clear direction of that-a-way seems like a solid plan.
strike that: a better one would be keeping one eye on the ground in front of them, because otherwise...]
YAAAAAGH!
[...you might end up walking straight into a hunter's pull-trap. the loop of rope laying on the forest floor is easily masked under a pile of leaves and dead vines, and unfortunately his left foot connects with it in just the right way to set it off. and there he goes — a shrieking, flailing mess yanked up into the air, dangling upside down. his glasses go flying off his face in the commotion. that's somehow the worst part of this for him because now he's dizzy and blind. whattacombo.]
Get me the— Get me down!