January 27th, 2003

elijah

Sunday became Monday. Again.

The weekend felt long, in a good way. I slept a lot, but got some stuff done too. Cursed Angel's move to Wednesday again, because without it on my radar I missed Gilmore Girls and The Crap That Is Charmed.

Dreamed today of a huge spider in my bathroom. Which is not quite as bad as *actually* having a huge spider in my bathroom would be, but it was damn fucking close. At the time. But, okay, in case any spider gods are squinting at me, I still don't want a real huge spider in my bathroom. The dream is preferable. Spiders be gone.

Speaking of which, all kinds of people are all of a sudden finishing up and posting great stories. A deluge of good fiction. I feel rich. Rich! But not in X/S smut, so someone needs to get on that, yo.

Speaking of which. I actually started the first story of my X/S "season" and, knock on wood, it is banging right out of the gate. I'm almost halfway done. If I stayed home tomorrow I bet I could just about finish it. Boggle at that, won't you. Not that I'm staying home tomorrow because I did that last week. Fuck.

Also sketched substantial part of an outline for next noir story, and wrote a few stray paragraphs to establish a starting point, even though they're not the opening paragraphs. Usually I do write in perfectly chronological order. Time is linear and one-way; so is traditional narrative. And as I write, things happen--maybe I've plotted out some beforehand, but it's still a forward process of momentum and chance.

Only the physical fact of tiredness and the need to go to work tomorrow is forcing me to bed right now. I hate when I have to cork up the creative flow. I'm so jazzed by the sandx (I needed a word like that) that I feel like shoving it on someone and saying, look, look! If I were the kind of person who posted teasers, I would, but I'm not.

I am sleepy, I must admit. Logged back on to jot more notes, but have to acknowledge the lure of the pillow and the defeat of the flesh.

And she said good-night.
elijah

On the subject of yogurt.

Any excuse is an excuse not to work. The excuse du jour is: "It's too dark in the office." I could remedy this by flicking on a light switch, but why?

Damn, how I want to be home writing. It's hours and hours away. After work, the gym. After gym, a haircut. These are necessities. And then I will snuggle up to my computer--but for how long?! Because I need to be in tomorrow at eight a.m. for a conference call.

I still punish myself by reading all of the "What I Will Never Ever Read" entries on incoming BetterBuffyFics introductions. There was a creative one recently that I'm going to pick on, a masterpiece of circumlocution designed to avoid saying, "I don't read slash," by stating that "I never read relationships not supported by previous evidence in canon." (And that's still my boiled down version.) To split hairs, no, this isn't anti-slash, because it assumes one will read Tara/Willow, but not Willow/Spike--to use the example given. And yet. For fuck's sake. Evidence is in the eye of the beholder. And you know, Joss could pull a rabbit out his ass tomorrow and marry it to Anya, and at least half the audience would say, "Oh, how romantic." I'm just saying. Spike. Anya. Was there any prior evidence for that little liaison before "Entropy"? No. And yet, there it is. Suck it up. It's all in how you sell it. And those Mutant Enemy writers? Are just as fanboy and fangirl geeky as we are, and have just as many naughty thoughts. Be sure of it. If they *could* get away with it, they'd have Xander and Spike shagging like minks, just because. But *they* have to make a finite number of choices with which to shape canon in twenty-two episodes, while satisfying Standards & Practices, and while trying to keep their ratings afloat besides. So run! Run fast! Cut yourself loose from the herd of ninnying, sheep-minded wankers who think love only shows its face in tidy forty-four minute increments, broken up by commercials for Ikea and Wheaties!

Wanker, meet imagination. Imagination, wanker.

I think that rant came out of my yogurt. I knew those weren't peach chunks in the bottom.