Procrastination Technique #345
Dear Self,
This is an intervention. You cannot keep writing two fics at once and expect to get either or both done before NaNo starts kicking your ass. You need to focus on the one for spn_j2_xmas, because that's a present, it's even a present for someone on your flist, and they will cry if, come Christmas morning, they have no fic in their digital stocking.
So. Put aside your Wincest-in-Scotland fic. Yes, right now. It will wait. So will the boys. So will Scotland. There, now, pry those fingers loose, there's a good girl.
Here, how about this? Post a very little of it on your LJ as a promise to yourself that you will come back for it. You could not leave a 'cesty little kilted puppy to die, would you? No you would not. There, that's better, isn't it?
Love, Klu
P.S. Make sure the snippet is short enough to be gen-ish, so as not to scare away the squickers. ;)
Dear Klu,
HERE, GOD DAMN YOU:
They’ve already returned the car and-thanks to Open-All-Day! Businesses closing at fucking six-renting a different one is out of the question, and the agency opens too late in the morning for them to get a car and drive to Edinburgh before 7:30 the next day. Luckily some speed-flirting with the plump woman at Information sends them to the blue and purple buses that take them to Glasgow Queen Street rail station where they can catch the very last train to Edinburgh, or Dean might have made good on his promise to hotwire a double-decker.
(On Dean’s List of Things to Do in Britain, Sam is pretty sure it ranks just below Visit John Bonham’s Grave and right above Bang a Chick Wearing a Union Jack T-Shirt.)
“I hate this money,” Dean grumbles at a fist full of coins while Sam fights with the automatic ticket machine. “Seriously, how did I get this much change in twenty-four hours? I haven’t bought anything! And it’s heavy-and everything is the wrong size… What the hell is this shape, a hexagon?”
“Fifty pence, right?” Sam grunts and gives the machine a swift kick. Orange and cream colored tickets slip into the slot like an afterthought. Oh, did you really want tickets? Why didn’t you say, love? “God fucking-here.”
Dean fans them out like a deck of cards, looking confused. “Why are there five?”
“I don’t know-some of them are receipts?” Sam has a feeling he’s going to punch Dean if they miss this train. “Jesus, Dean-“
“You bought same-day return.” Dean’s grin is wide as the entire station, warmer than the surrounding concrete and iron by a good twenty degrees. Sam tells himself his flush is from anger and snatches the tickets back.
“Shut up.”
TBfuckingC...after November. DAMN IT. D: