October 20th, 2003


peep 2

I would like to point out that no het people were killed in the making of my last post and that I am, in fact, half het myself. Also, I am a blossom of eternal love for the universe, opening one petal at a time. Just not this minute.

dissociable chew bolshevik

My spam is surrealist. Meanwhile, people are talking about genre, porn, fanfiction.net, attitudes toward writing, etc.

And in other news, I was on crack last night! Apparently. I wasn't even drinking. I worry. But now I'm at work. I floated here under a Biblical deluge of rain. I have no meetings today! A Monday without meetings is a...well, it's still a Monday, but 10% nicer.

Random quote from Morford's morning fix: "Meanwhile, the universe took the tiny shriveled raisin that is Rep. George Nethercutt's soul and tied it to a little string and flung it around its head ten times really fast until it made this neat whooshing sound and let it fly, smack into a granite slab, where it stuck, momentarily, and slowly oozed down and plopped onto the ground, where it was promptly devoured by fire ants."

nwhepcat and others are master drabblers. There are drabbling communities. The drabble form seems uniquely suited to LJ. I was thinking I should drabble more--I mean, as long as I'm dribbling away my energy and talents in LJ instead of working on actual stories, maybe it would be fun to try and toss off short stuff, since even my wittering fantasy sketch writing tends to go long and take a while to get down. Then I decided I should not "drabble" per se, because I am anal-retentive and always take word limits seriously, plus what if I started Thinking Seriously about what to write? That'd be stupid. Why am I still talking?

Sometimes in the middle of fantasizing I'll come up with some dialogue I want to remember. If I don't jot it down, I forget utterly. I just realized that the other night I ran to my laptop and scribbled a whole scene...and that I later erased this document, a reusable scrap file, and overwrote it with one of my LJ entries. Also, I had something in my head night before last; I remember thinking, "Ooooh!" And that's gone too. However, I do have a scrap of paper in my backpack on which I jotted a Xander line: "I have respect for you. I have enormous, throbbing respect for you." I probably stole it from somewhere, unconsciously.


Meanwhile, another Xander is sitting in a dance club with Wes and Spike. Three men who, after my mental makeover efforts, would bring tears of joy to the Queer Eye. Wes and Xander have Spike bookended in a booth, arms laid along the seat back in a matched, trapping way. He's like a paranthetical remark slouching happily between them. Xander leans away for a moment, licks his own wrist and salts it, picks up a tequila shot and a lime, brings his wrist to Spike's mouth. Spike tongues all the way up to meet the shot Xander pours in and then Xander pushes the lime between his lips. Afterwards, Wes leans in and kisses him and Xander slides his hand all the way up the inside of Spike's thigh and massages there.

I remembered!

I remembered the gist of that scene I'd written and lost! Ha ha ha ha! The brain cells cling to the tree like leaves--dry and flapping but tenacious in the face of a chilling wind!


The concept was my attempt to explain Wes's personality changes over time, how the stiff British watcher-geek could morph into rogue demon hunter and then *back* into geek, and then become Wes 4.0, the new, improved, scruffier version with the deadly competence at guns and the deep sexiness, a Wes who has the mellow bitterness of a good whisky. I can't really figure him out (setting aside meta issues of writing and plot expediency and such). I'm not sure I know what makes people change. I don't have experience with people who adopt personas or who exhibit that kind of fast, erratic personal development, though I can believe they exist. It says to me that Wes is layered and volatile. He seems reliable, day to day, and yet he shows a willingess to make major life changes on short notice: he gives up watcherhood, hits the road to slay demons then joins up with a vampire, takes Connor and is ready to disappear forever, sleeps with the enemy, sets up his own operations, keeps a woman locked in a closet, etc.

He has all those father issues; when we see him on BtVS, the ultracorrect watcher in the pristine suits, he was probably following his father's role model, or trying to meet his father's expectations. But was he always like that? It's hard for me to see it, because of how he blossoms later; Wesley of Sunnydale is all artifice and picky manners, trying to carry out traditional watcher duties. I tend to think that all personality is veneer most of the time, but if you were going to compare early Wes with late Wes, Watcher Wes with Dark Wes, and ask which is truer and which is falser, I'd say that the more affected role is his watcher role, whereas his dark cynicism and competence after leaving A.I. isn't affected. He's just living in his skin there, getting by as best he can, trying to impress no one.

It's interesting to compare his show-offy, puffed-up exposition on BtVS--at a time when his knowledge was purely theoretical and bookish--to later developments, where it's *still* theoretical and bookish a lot of the time, but he's obviously come to realize the limitations of that knowledge. Also, though, he knows how to use it more effectively for what it is, and he's got a lot more experience under his belt as the years pass.

Anyway, all this is to say that darkness and complexity like that doesn't just grow out of nowhere; it makes Wes's Sunnydale watcher days seem suspiciously like the aberration, a role adopted as camouflage, out of necessity and fear--it's his first assignment, of course, and it must be a prize, considering that there's usually only ever one active slayer at any given time, compared to dozens if not hundreds of watchers. But if I were to imagine backstory, I'd imagine him operating here under paternal pressure, puppet strings being pulled, threats levied. Watcher Wes has the high, buffed shine of someone who is trying to redeem himself from *earlier* disgrace, failed rebellion. He also has the anxiety of someone who needs to prove to himself he's something other than what he fears. So, what happened? He tried to break away from his father and the career he'd been fated to, and things went bad. He didn't make it on his own; tried another career and made a hash of it. Or, like Giles qua Ripper, tried another lifestyle and nearly self-destructed, came close to the edge, scared himself straight for a time. Literally or figuratively.

Annnnnnnnyway. That's just a lot of contextual frill around a paragraph's worth of awkward dialogue in which I reduce all of Wes's problems to Sordid Sexual Trauma:
Wes rebeled against his father when younger and explored his sexuality by going out to clubs. One night he got into an ugly scene; wasn't raped so much as pressured to submit to group sex. He recounts what happened and says, "They weren't forcing me physically, but their persuasion was...forceful. There came a particular point when I thought, 'I could strike him, I could try to get away.' But I was afraid...it wasn't even that I might lose in a fight. I was afraid to find out that I'd need to fight. If there was no struggle, then surely I was making the choice to stay. I didn't want to find out that the men I'd been drinking and laughing with might go that far. I wanted to believe in their better natures."
After all that, in the cold harsh light of day--like Ted on "Queer as Folk"--a guy might drop a certain lifestyle of drugs, clubs, and excess and return to the straight and narrow, or try to.

Yeah, I'm a cheap and evil girl.

found items

Found on my hard drive as I was looking for something else just now. Apparently one day I scribbled the opening scene for one of those guys-return-through-the-portal stories I dwell on so often in my mind. Usually Spike comes back mute and mysterious but he's kind of perky here. I think I still intended him to be Xander's slave-vamp, though.

It's not especially good, but it's filler! Mmmm, filler.

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One can only hope that the tiny squeaky sounds I uttered as I made these icons were cute and not terrifying to the aliens who monitor my private activities. Er...see the pretty men! Listen not to what I say!

My icons! Mineminemineminemine. ::huddles and clutches them and protects them from the grasp of aliens::