Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

It all makes sense now...

...after reading this scholarly and incisive exegesis of BtVS season seven.

But seriously. This is pretty much the definitive laundry list of all my issues with the final season. Very useful, as well as funny.




I had the most boring conference call this morning, and I had to come in at 8:30 for it. There's a double unfairness there, but then again I missed the last two or maybe three of these meetings for various reasons within my control, so I guess I deserve a dose of unproductive boredom.

Then I went out to get coffee, livesaving java, and saw my old coworker A.P., with his tiny cartoonlike spawn hanging off him in one of those marsupial baby-carriers. I crushed on this guy for a long time--rock drummer hair, intense work ethic, snarky attitude--and now he's married and got a kidling. Proof that people do get lives.

Have been feeling an itchiness to throw myself back into noir, back into a complex universe of interwoven plots and character arcs and so forth. But I've been in a funk for half a year now (Jesus fucking Christ--*half* a fucking *year*) and every weekend that goes by where I barely even try to write just leaves me even more bemused. I don't know what my deal is. I mean, I've had dry spells before, even long ones, but I think every block feels new and different, just like every love or fannish obsession feels unique--like the first time, like the strongest thing you've ever felt, etc. I long for the days when I was so driven I'd go home, sit down, start writing, and not stop until it was time to crash into bed. I'm sick of eating chips and watching cable television.
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