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

cloneless in seattle

Work is draining this week. I am so very tired and I am taking tomorrow off. Hope to relax and maybe get some writing done.

I dreamed this morning of a restaurant with forthright menus: "Infinite Refills on Drinks (Because You Are a Pain in the Ass) -- $1.99." Later I dreamed that I was teaching a class on forensic pathology. We started the class off by having a cocktail.

Didn't watch Angel last night, still haven't caught up yet. Up until last night I had still been watching Smallville every week. But last week's was so boring that I think I may be ready to give up. The dullness of Lana just grinds out all my joy like the glow being crushed out of a cigarette butt and the current creative team for the show just doesn't reach very high. With few exceptions they don't aspire to greatness. They aspire to adequacy. They want to keep their viewing numbers and their formula. I'm feeling the same way about the current season of Stargate.

S3 Angel will probably be at the mailbox when I get home, and S3 Queer as Folk will be following soon. Which will be cool.

Last night on the bus home I read chapter four of Reorganization, the current story in progress from the Career Change/Advancement series. A new romantic direction the story is taking was confirmed in this chapter and made me incredibly happy. (I'm not sure I changed facial expression, but I was incredibly happy for a good fifteen minutes.)

I must must must write this weekend. I'm getting to where I'm not even pretending to try, as opposed to the weekly "I will I will I will...oh, crap" cycle I usually go through, and it's making me feel dull. Apparently I also have an iron deficiency. Doctor's follow-up Monday.

In my fantasies, I killed off Spike's boyfriend along with Anya and gave Spike and Xander a year to hook up. Spike, blind and amiable, wears Armani and holds Xander's daughter Annie on his lap, making approving noises as she shows him her drawings. She's added glitter and glued on some cat hair so that he can "see" it with his fingers. Later I sent him to a party at Steven Spielberg's.

The gulf between my unwritten fantasies and written stories is wide and strange.
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