(no subject)
When you don't work, three-day weekends are not especially sweet. Pity, that.
Steeling myself, I read
paian 's SG1 darkfic, Palimpsest, ready for the poignance and horror of the characters' selves having been forcibly integrated with the fragmentary personalities they had each encountered, and what that misapplication of Ancient technology wrought. A terrible, well-written story.
On the other hand, a SG1-Highlander crossover that looks at first reading like a Marysue called The Middle Road, has in the first scene an Immortal red-haired British magician name of Pierson who can make Oma deSala shut up against her will, take the Middle Road across interstellar space (!), and Save Jack and Daniel. Aidan Logan, she ain't, but the author and her husband and daughter are writing this saga which includes "real people." They'll have to be very, very good storytellers and writers to overcome the dangers of putting themselves into the stories. The Really Old Guy Loop has a spate of messages about what constitutes a marysue, and so far it's been fairly tame and helpful, not that the author probably appreciates that it has been tame and helpful.
Friends culled my bookshelves last night whilst removing the books from the shelves, then moved the cases into the front room and the saved books onto the shelves and the books to be sold or traded to the used book store (the rejected texts to the friends-of-the-library sale) into tall stacks in the front room. On a Friday night after a week of office work, bless Kev's generous and hardworking heart, and truthfeather for reading each title as he cleared the shelves, so I could tell him to save or toss the title. I kept the poetry and cognitive science of religion and history and neurology of mind texts, but am clearing the house of education and French cultural theory. Kev made bisghetti with sausage, using my cooker for the first time in three years, and it was lovely.
The loveseat and desk are going to be swapped in the living room, tugged about as I can manage it, making sleeping warmer and perhaps patio-viewing too. The desk is more likely to be used near the sliders, facing the telly. Maybe for crafts more than writing; the laptop stays on the scooter-y desklet.
Corky clipped Oberon's nails -- he's been digging holes in his fur and skin around his collar line. The lidocaine isn't keeping the area numb enough to prevent scratching.
A gray, cold wet day, good for sleeping, supervised by my wounded master.
Steeling myself, I read
paian 's SG1 darkfic, Palimpsest, ready for the poignance and horror of the characters' selves having been forcibly integrated with the fragmentary personalities they had each encountered, and what that misapplication of Ancient technology wrought. A terrible, well-written story.
On the other hand, a SG1-Highlander crossover that looks at first reading like a Marysue called The Middle Road, has in the first scene an Immortal red-haired British magician name of Pierson who can make Oma deSala shut up against her will, take the Middle Road across interstellar space (!), and Save Jack and Daniel. Aidan Logan, she ain't, but the author and her husband and daughter are writing this saga which includes "real people." They'll have to be very, very good storytellers and writers to overcome the dangers of putting themselves into the stories. The Really Old Guy Loop has a spate of messages about what constitutes a marysue, and so far it's been fairly tame and helpful, not that the author probably appreciates that it has been tame and helpful.
Friends culled my bookshelves last night whilst removing the books from the shelves, then moved the cases into the front room and the saved books onto the shelves and the books to be sold or traded to the used book store (the rejected texts to the friends-of-the-library sale) into tall stacks in the front room. On a Friday night after a week of office work, bless Kev's generous and hardworking heart, and truthfeather for reading each title as he cleared the shelves, so I could tell him to save or toss the title. I kept the poetry and cognitive science of religion and history and neurology of mind texts, but am clearing the house of education and French cultural theory. Kev made bisghetti with sausage, using my cooker for the first time in three years, and it was lovely.
The loveseat and desk are going to be swapped in the living room, tugged about as I can manage it, making sleeping warmer and perhaps patio-viewing too. The desk is more likely to be used near the sliders, facing the telly. Maybe for crafts more than writing; the laptop stays on the scooter-y desklet.
Corky clipped Oberon's nails -- he's been digging holes in his fur and skin around his collar line. The lidocaine isn't keeping the area numb enough to prevent scratching.
A gray, cold wet day, good for sleeping, supervised by my wounded master.