The Monday Strkes Back
Note to Author:
Dear Author, if you need to include a thesis at the beginning of your story justifying the ways in which your characterization differs from canon, you’re doing it wrong. If you can’t sell me your version of the character in the course of the story itself, (and judging from the chapters I read, you can’t) you’re not going to do it in an author’s note.
Note to Self:
Dear Self, do NOT go searching for Buffy/Angelus fic. EVER. Even in the name of Science.
******
Other note to Self:
Next time, do not wear these clogs without socks.
******
In other news, back to work. There are a number of people on my flist who seem to lead incredibly productive lives - either they juggle families, jobs, and creative endeavors with effortless aplomb, or they chronicle an existence which seems to me enviably hip and bohemian. I once saw a quote about the Beatles which I can’t remember exactly, but it went something like “In the summer of ’67, John completed his musical masterwork, Paul broke all records for something or other, George attained Nirvana, and Ringo had his house painted.” I’m with ya, Ringo.
The lawn mocks me with its unmowedness. And if I don’t do it now, when it’s merely a hundred and five in the shade, it will be a vast ungovernable jungle by the time it’s a hundred and ten in the shade. :shakes tiny fist at Mother Nature:
Putting a second litterbox in the front bathroom seems to have eliminated the troubling tendency Cuervo was starting to develop of going in our bedroom. However, it’s not without its downsides. The joys of owning an elderly, semi-continent cat. :P Poor guy. He doesn’t seem to be hurting, but he’s just skin and bone; his appetite’s fine, but everything that goes in just comes right out again. We’ve tried Fortiflora (which seemed to help a tiny bit, but not a lot) steroids (which didn’t do a thing) and something the vet gave him I can’t remember the name of, (which helped as long as he took it, but he can’t take it long without risking other undesirable side effects.) About the only thing left to do for him would be going to antivirals, which I just can’t afford.
I seem to have finished another short story this morning, somewhat by accident. Yesterday I was putzing around with some of the things I’d started and abandoned during my mad scramble to get something ready for seasonal_spuffy, and I suddenly realized how one of them was supposed to end. I thought I already knew how it was supposed to go, but I was wrong, and realizing why let me finish it. Wrote the last couple of sentences this morning. It’s really rushed and needs a thorough revision, but there it is. I really need to stop doing ficathons. Invariably, I start obsessing about them and freeze up and get nothing done. And yet if I read the fruit of the ficathon, does it not behoove me to plant a seed? Or some goes-around-comes-around crap like that?
It really should be lunchtime already. Someone ought to look into that.
Dear Author, if you need to include a thesis at the beginning of your story justifying the ways in which your characterization differs from canon, you’re doing it wrong. If you can’t sell me your version of the character in the course of the story itself, (and judging from the chapters I read, you can’t) you’re not going to do it in an author’s note.
Note to Self:
Dear Self, do NOT go searching for Buffy/Angelus fic. EVER. Even in the name of Science.
******
Other note to Self:
Next time, do not wear these clogs without socks.
******
In other news, back to work. There are a number of people on my flist who seem to lead incredibly productive lives - either they juggle families, jobs, and creative endeavors with effortless aplomb, or they chronicle an existence which seems to me enviably hip and bohemian. I once saw a quote about the Beatles which I can’t remember exactly, but it went something like “In the summer of ’67, John completed his musical masterwork, Paul broke all records for something or other, George attained Nirvana, and Ringo had his house painted.” I’m with ya, Ringo.
The lawn mocks me with its unmowedness. And if I don’t do it now, when it’s merely a hundred and five in the shade, it will be a vast ungovernable jungle by the time it’s a hundred and ten in the shade. :shakes tiny fist at Mother Nature:
Putting a second litterbox in the front bathroom seems to have eliminated the troubling tendency Cuervo was starting to develop of going in our bedroom. However, it’s not without its downsides. The joys of owning an elderly, semi-continent cat. :P Poor guy. He doesn’t seem to be hurting, but he’s just skin and bone; his appetite’s fine, but everything that goes in just comes right out again. We’ve tried Fortiflora (which seemed to help a tiny bit, but not a lot) steroids (which didn’t do a thing) and something the vet gave him I can’t remember the name of, (which helped as long as he took it, but he can’t take it long without risking other undesirable side effects.) About the only thing left to do for him would be going to antivirals, which I just can’t afford.
I seem to have finished another short story this morning, somewhat by accident. Yesterday I was putzing around with some of the things I’d started and abandoned during my mad scramble to get something ready for seasonal_spuffy, and I suddenly realized how one of them was supposed to end. I thought I already knew how it was supposed to go, but I was wrong, and realizing why let me finish it. Wrote the last couple of sentences this morning. It’s really rushed and needs a thorough revision, but there it is. I really need to stop doing ficathons. Invariably, I start obsessing about them and freeze up and get nothing done. And yet if I read the fruit of the ficathon, does it not behoove me to plant a seed? Or some goes-around-comes-around crap like that?
It really should be lunchtime already. Someone ought to look into that.