February 25th, 2003

elijah

muffins make everything good...

Especially the blueberry kind, with a great wodge of cream-cheese filling.

This morning I woke myself up with the thought: "Hey, this would make a great Sentinel story. Why hasn't someone ever written it?" And now I've totally and utterly forgotten what my brilliant idea was. Um. Yeah. hate that.

Okay, I lied. Muffins don't make everything good. They certainly don't sweeten my feelings about the arrogant, braying, condescending jackass I have to work with on our help UI. It would be really cool if I could arrange with Bud White and Ed Exley to come over and dangle W. out the window, like they did that little weasel Lowe. ("If I let you go, they'll be ten more web developers to take your place tomorrow. They just won't come on the bus, that's all.")

::simmering anger::

::deep steadying breaths::

Yeah. That'd be cool.

So, I watched a few vids to relax my sizzling nerves, but they're hopping around like...things that hop. Frogs on a griddle. I don't know. Great vids, though. I wish I could make out more of them; missed some stuff. I guess that's just an inevitable part of viewing vids online--the compression and darkness of clips?

I feel a light storm blowing in. Change in weather. Cold front in the brain: you look at your own writing, and all of a sudden it's utter crap, everything is crap. I re-read most of "Throwing Shapes" last night and hated it. Not with a savage hate, but with a mild, milky "god, how pointless" kind of hate. Stared at my boring, amateurish webpages and hated them, too. Fuck my lame-ass lack of Photoshop skills. I can't figure out how people make those gorgeous, complex pages with all sorts of overlaid images and neat designs.

Jesus, this jackass at work has pissed me off. In the hour and ten minutes this LJ window has been open, you can trace the precise degeneration of my mood. Everything is taking on a dark, ugly color. And, gee, I haven't been to the gym in a week and I've been eating bacon, and I've been drinking almost every day. I wonder whose fault this all *really* is.

I want the day off. Because I am a lazy, moody bitch.
elijah

catch-22

So, you're getting into a pairing or a narrative fantasy, and you can bring it to a fever-pitch of intensity by, say, listening to a certain song over and over again, thirty-seven times in a row, and you can visualize the scenes perfectly, and you've got dialogue and feeling, you've got jazz, and the thing is--

When you actually want to write a story, you have to shut all that down. Quiet the music, huddle in a storm shelter, in an empty quiet room where you are alone with your white space. You can't dance and sing in the ecstatic release of feeling--you're working a pick-axe against the rocks with a solid, busy, numbing rhythm, cracking the solid and brilliant mental story you had into a thousand pieces--words, sentences, paragraphs.

Sucks.

(Oh, you *can* keep the mental music on, play it loud, but I've seen the results of that ecstatic delusion, and they're almost always sad, sad, sad.)

Plus, sometimes you get that one scene, that one moment, which is a logical culmination of all your effortful fantasizing, and you want to write that and show it to people so that they get it, and the trouble is, you can't just rip it out of your head and offer it up--you have to work at laying all that background first.

Words, words, words.

I'm still not to the point where I want to turn the music off, and it's interfering with all my attempts to work.

Anyway. My god, Buffy was mind-blowingly great tonight. I'm still absorbing it. The wild laughter, the tears. I feel sorry for people who've come to hate the show. I just...feel sorry. Yeah.