not dead, I promise.
Although it's certainly not for lack of trying on my body's part. Eurgh. I loathe fevers. I'm by turns too hot or cold, and everything aches, my eyes are all puffy, and now-- for added fun!-- I can't manage to keep anything down. Joy.
So. We shall drink some nice ginger tea and curl up in bed after finishing this post, and hope tomorrow looks more promising.
This is all really to say: oh, man, have I fallen off the fandom bandwagon this past month or so. Desculpame, please (and add the requisite accent in your head, because I cannot be bothered to type it)-- I do promise I'll get back to writing sometime soon. I'm still puzzling over a Torchwood story at the moment, which has me stumped on a plot point. Hurrah for case stories and the difficulties of physics! I don't really mind being stumped on plot, however-- once I pull a few strings, everything should work out just fine. I think. I hope. What bothers me more is when I'm stuck on characterization-- but thankfully that doesn't seem to be an issue this time around. (I have discovered that I adore writing Tosh. Who knew? She takes a little finagling, but I like working on her.) I am having a bitch of a time writing the Doctor, though (different story)-- he keeps coming across as way too cartoon-y. I don't know, what do you think?
*
The man laughed delightedly. "Oh, you are sort of fantastic," he said. "Jack usually exaggerates something terrible, but this time-- here I am, saying, Hallo, did you know they've tea kettles with Elvis Presley's head printed on them twenty-six thousand light-years away in the Bluebeard system, and you've just gone all unflappable and Jeeves-ish on me." He looked Ianto up and down and grinned, his eyes crinkling up at the corner. "I can see why he likes you."
"It's the suit," Ianto said absently, moving his hand from the alarm button. Jack. White trainers. Right. "You'd be Jack's Doctor, then," he guessed.
"Yep," said the Doctor, bouncing on his toes. "Well. No. Well. Not any more than you're Jack's Ianto, but yes: the Doctor. That would be me." He stuck out his hand. "Ianto Jones, I presume?"
*
Clearly, this has all been Jossed to hell, which is an entirely separate problem, but. Voice? Does that sound Doctor-ish to you guys? Or is it a bright canary yellow beach ball bopping along the waves with absolutely no point? Or does that even matter?
Fever says go to bed and stop worrying about it. So I shall.
So. We shall drink some nice ginger tea and curl up in bed after finishing this post, and hope tomorrow looks more promising.
This is all really to say: oh, man, have I fallen off the fandom bandwagon this past month or so. Desculpame, please (and add the requisite accent in your head, because I cannot be bothered to type it)-- I do promise I'll get back to writing sometime soon. I'm still puzzling over a Torchwood story at the moment, which has me stumped on a plot point. Hurrah for case stories and the difficulties of physics! I don't really mind being stumped on plot, however-- once I pull a few strings, everything should work out just fine. I think. I hope. What bothers me more is when I'm stuck on characterization-- but thankfully that doesn't seem to be an issue this time around. (I have discovered that I adore writing Tosh. Who knew? She takes a little finagling, but I like working on her.) I am having a bitch of a time writing the Doctor, though (different story)-- he keeps coming across as way too cartoon-y. I don't know, what do you think?
*
The man laughed delightedly. "Oh, you are sort of fantastic," he said. "Jack usually exaggerates something terrible, but this time-- here I am, saying, Hallo, did you know they've tea kettles with Elvis Presley's head printed on them twenty-six thousand light-years away in the Bluebeard system, and you've just gone all unflappable and Jeeves-ish on me." He looked Ianto up and down and grinned, his eyes crinkling up at the corner. "I can see why he likes you."
"It's the suit," Ianto said absently, moving his hand from the alarm button. Jack. White trainers. Right. "You'd be Jack's Doctor, then," he guessed.
"Yep," said the Doctor, bouncing on his toes. "Well. No. Well. Not any more than you're Jack's Ianto, but yes: the Doctor. That would be me." He stuck out his hand. "Ianto Jones, I presume?"
*
Clearly, this has all been Jossed to hell, which is an entirely separate problem, but. Voice? Does that sound Doctor-ish to you guys? Or is it a bright canary yellow beach ball bopping along the waves with absolutely no point? Or does that even matter?
Fever says go to bed and stop worrying about it. So I shall.