This morning I dreamed that the Iraquis had floating warships and were attacking the city. I was hiding in a ground-level parking garage with wide, open bay doors, staring out as I watched them bomb nearby buildings. They were getting closer, and I ran back and forth like a mouse, not knowing where to most safely position myself, as any place seemed vulnerable and likely to collapse and crush me. I woke up scared, heart pounding.
In comments on a recent post of mine, drcoulter recced Pet's stories, including the Girl series, in which, yes, Spike turns into a woman. I read the first one this morning and laughed out loud in delight. My mood is uplifted, even though I am hungover. [Edited to add: the more I read of this, the more I love it. More than words can tell. Guh.]
I've managed to progress on the next sidelines far enough that I can see the finishing line in the near distance. In episode terms, I'm more or less in late act three, on the cusp of act four. It's funny, though--having maneuvered the plot to this point, I still have no real idea of what's going to happen. It's one of those scenarios where you toss the characters in the mix and let them react. I have the vague shape of what needs to happen. I write pretty much chronologically, sequentially, which can be interesting. It mimics how time really works of course, and there's a benefit to that, because you can often just progress from point to point, without needing to micromanage the characters. Buffy yells something, and Spike reacts, and off his reaction you can anticipate that Willow will bristle, and now it's likely that Xander will say something, but will it be predictable, or will he surprise us? Et cetera.
herself_nyc just posted about wanting to reach out and touch someone: "I feel deprived of a certain kind of human attention, isolated, hungry for more contact." I think I'm feeling that too. Ten minutes and two paragraphs ago I was happy. Now, I feel a vague pull of sadness, as if I noticed a loose thread on my sleeve and answered its irresistible lure, and it grew longer, unraveling to the tug of my fingers. I would like to touch the back of someone's hand, in that silky spot between the bones, the hand of someone who has just been gardening, making their skin sun-warmed. There'd be a freckle, and fine hairs on their wrist, and maybe a thin leather bracelet.