Catch Up Day! Snowflake Challenges Ten - Thirteen!
*waves* Hullo! Well, 'Snowpocalypse' came and went, and it wasn't ver 'pocalypic' here - just freezing rain, slushy snow (2 inches?) and cold cold cold. A few hours north, though, my poor 
sweptawaybayou got over five inches and the power out (in most of the city) since 5 am Saturday. So she spent a *very* miserable 30+ hours huddling for warmth and hoping for a fix.
So, here we go - challenges!! A couple of these under the cuts are pretty long, so - you are warned.
Hrmmmm....things being what they are, I am not up to just *making* a fanwork at the moment. HOWEVER - I'll post a wee bit of my current WIP, a post-apocalyptic Steve/Bucky story, where the attack by the Chitauri and the Winter Soldier being sent after Steve happened at pretty much the same time....
"Fuck," he spits, and the word is - that is - that's a good word, that's …. "Scheisse, ублюдок, diu nei lo mo!, he says, panting, feeling a weird sort of impending doom with each curse. But he can, he's allowed, he's a grown man, I can say what I want, damn it, don't be such a putz, Ssss…..
"Fakakta," he mutters, but the fall of the water is drowning him out. It’s drowning out everything, even the constant hum of the lights, the throb of the generator. The water is falling clear, now, strong and steady. He's standing naked in a - fucking - latrine, knife in one shaking hand, too - damn - scared to stick his head under the water.
No.
He moves, deliberately, under the spray. It's warm - warmer than his body, at least - and he swears he can feel each individual drop as it impacts his skin. His now-sodden pants and socks are lumped near the drain, and he pushes them away a little before tipping his head forward and then back, the water pushing his hair away from his face. It feels strange, to be barefoot. To be wet, all over. Strange to feel water coursing over his face-
He snaps his head down, gasping, but the latrine is still empty, the doorway a bright rectangle that shows the deserted corridor and nothing else. He stands there until he's soaked, until his hair is flat to his skull and the water is steaming, humid in his lungs, soothing.
The knife transferred to his metal hand, he crouches down, slowly, stealthily, and reaches for the soap. He snaps the lid open with his thumb after a moment's confusion and then stands up, fast, scanning the room. He’s breathing too hard and too fast; the heat and steam are dizzying.
He lifts the bottle overhead and squeezes; feels the cold, thick gel glop down onto his head, his shoulder, his back, running down. He keeps squeezing until the bottle is crushed, and then he lets it drop. It's squished flat in the middle, the bottom and top still holding some pale-green soap. It bubbles as it slowly reinflates.
He scrubs at his hair with his flesh hand, foam crackling in his fingers. Scrubs the strange, dead-numb edges of skin that disappear under the metal of his arm. Scrubs across his chest and down to his belly, to his thighs, then back up to his neck, his jaw, and chin. A cautious, fast swipe over his face and instantly he's blinking, blinking, his eyes tearing. It hurts.
He tips his head back, letting the water flow over his face, into his half-open eyes, blinking and blinking while his hand continues to scrub. The sting eases, and he jerks his head down. He watches water bounce off the metal of his arm, off the knife; watches foam cascade to the tile, swirling, running in thin lines down the sealed-shut plates of the arm.
He cups between his legs, rubbing; reaches back and then forward again. A little shivery frisson of sensation makes him dart looks wildly around the room, but it goes away, it's fine, he has to get...between his toes, behind his ears (grow potatoes back there, did you even use soap), until he's rubbed and scrubbed and sluiced everywhere. His skin is pinking, the water is so warm, and it's hypnotic, to stand there, as the water falls and falls, rumbling, hissing, numbing-
...anything from the initial inspiration to how you feel after something’s done. Do you struggle with motivation or is it a smooth process? Do you have any tricks up your sleeve to pull out when a fanwork isn’t cooperating? What is your level of planning to pantsing/winging it?
Oh, well.... Hrmmm. Bunnies can come from anything: a random Tumblr/Twitter/LJ/DW post, to a picture, to a sudden line of dialogue or prose that pops into my head, to a conversation with my bff. And once that hits, then my brain starts working out *how* that moment happened. Why it happened. Ages ago, when I wrote 'Changes', I started at the moment in chapter 5, 'Radio', where Spike and Xander are sitting on the back porch, listening to music, Spike talking about the Blitz in London, and Drusilla.... That came first. Then I had to figure out how and why Spike and Xander were there, in that moment, and ...things happened, heh.
Sometimes I get lucky and the inspirational prose that strikes me is the first line of a fic, but not too often.
Sometimes I just want to write a trope that I like, but can't find a lot of fic that matches what i *really* want. I plan almost nothing, rarely know *exactly* how a fic will end (generally, a happy ending), and sadly i have slowed from being able to juggle several fic at once and update semi-regularly to working on only one thing at a time, and that just...glacially. It's very frustrating. I think some of it has to do with rl stress over job/money/life, and some of it is just...the changes that happen.
I still love to write, still do it almost every day. I love getting into that groove, where the story comes and the words flow and you are just *there*. I tend to get stuck and be not able to move forward if I can't find information on something, or if i'm writing about something i don't totally understand. Research is my motivator in those times; i cannot write, even a line or two, about asteroid core-drilling without researching real-life mining and deep-sea drilling so i have some clue how it all *works*.
Once I have that info, then as a rule I'm good to go. Having the right name for a thing/place/character can trip me up, too; writing with a 'placeholder' name won't work for me.
And when I'm done? YAYAYAYAYAY!! Hope you like it! Now what's next. :D
Hrmmm! Well...okay. I challenge all you flisties...to be nice to yourself. Stop with the self-denigration, the second-guessing, the 'well, this is just dumb, real adults don't like blah blah blah'. Fuck that noise. You are AWESOME and you should feel AWESOME, so go look in the mirror and say YOU ARE AWESOME and own it. 'Cause you are.
Ha, well. My goals for the year? Keep writing. And - get up off your ass and MOVE AROUND OMFG. I really really really need to do that.
So - there we go! I hope you all are having a good day, had a good weekend, aren't too cold or too hot or too wet, heh. I saw the trailer for the Spider-verse movie (which i had been ignoring), and it looks adorable as fuck. :D
Originally entered at https://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/204208.html - comment where you please!
sweptawaybayou got over five inches and the power out (in most of the city) since 5 am Saturday. So she spent a *very* miserable 30+ hours huddling for warmth and hoping for a fix.
So, here we go - challenges!! A couple of these under the cuts are pretty long, so - you are warned.
Hrmmmm....things being what they are, I am not up to just *making* a fanwork at the moment. HOWEVER - I'll post a wee bit of my current WIP, a post-apocalyptic Steve/Bucky story, where the attack by the Chitauri and the Winter Soldier being sent after Steve happened at pretty much the same time....
"Fuck," he spits, and the word is - that is - that's a good word, that's …. "Scheisse, ублюдок, diu nei lo mo!, he says, panting, feeling a weird sort of impending doom with each curse. But he can, he's allowed, he's a grown man, I can say what I want, damn it, don't be such a putz, Ssss…..
"Fakakta," he mutters, but the fall of the water is drowning him out. It’s drowning out everything, even the constant hum of the lights, the throb of the generator. The water is falling clear, now, strong and steady. He's standing naked in a - fucking - latrine, knife in one shaking hand, too - damn - scared to stick his head under the water.
No.
He moves, deliberately, under the spray. It's warm - warmer than his body, at least - and he swears he can feel each individual drop as it impacts his skin. His now-sodden pants and socks are lumped near the drain, and he pushes them away a little before tipping his head forward and then back, the water pushing his hair away from his face. It feels strange, to be barefoot. To be wet, all over. Strange to feel water coursing over his face-
He snaps his head down, gasping, but the latrine is still empty, the doorway a bright rectangle that shows the deserted corridor and nothing else. He stands there until he's soaked, until his hair is flat to his skull and the water is steaming, humid in his lungs, soothing.
The knife transferred to his metal hand, he crouches down, slowly, stealthily, and reaches for the soap. He snaps the lid open with his thumb after a moment's confusion and then stands up, fast, scanning the room. He’s breathing too hard and too fast; the heat and steam are dizzying.
He lifts the bottle overhead and squeezes; feels the cold, thick gel glop down onto his head, his shoulder, his back, running down. He keeps squeezing until the bottle is crushed, and then he lets it drop. It's squished flat in the middle, the bottom and top still holding some pale-green soap. It bubbles as it slowly reinflates.
He scrubs at his hair with his flesh hand, foam crackling in his fingers. Scrubs the strange, dead-numb edges of skin that disappear under the metal of his arm. Scrubs across his chest and down to his belly, to his thighs, then back up to his neck, his jaw, and chin. A cautious, fast swipe over his face and instantly he's blinking, blinking, his eyes tearing. It hurts.
He tips his head back, letting the water flow over his face, into his half-open eyes, blinking and blinking while his hand continues to scrub. The sting eases, and he jerks his head down. He watches water bounce off the metal of his arm, off the knife; watches foam cascade to the tile, swirling, running in thin lines down the sealed-shut plates of the arm.
He cups between his legs, rubbing; reaches back and then forward again. A little shivery frisson of sensation makes him dart looks wildly around the room, but it goes away, it's fine, he has to get...between his toes, behind his ears (grow potatoes back there, did you even use soap), until he's rubbed and scrubbed and sluiced everywhere. His skin is pinking, the water is so warm, and it's hypnotic, to stand there, as the water falls and falls, rumbling, hissing, numbing-
...anything from the initial inspiration to how you feel after something’s done. Do you struggle with motivation or is it a smooth process? Do you have any tricks up your sleeve to pull out when a fanwork isn’t cooperating? What is your level of planning to pantsing/winging it?
Oh, well.... Hrmmm. Bunnies can come from anything: a random Tumblr/Twitter/LJ/DW post, to a picture, to a sudden line of dialogue or prose that pops into my head, to a conversation with my bff. And once that hits, then my brain starts working out *how* that moment happened. Why it happened. Ages ago, when I wrote 'Changes', I started at the moment in chapter 5, 'Radio', where Spike and Xander are sitting on the back porch, listening to music, Spike talking about the Blitz in London, and Drusilla.... That came first. Then I had to figure out how and why Spike and Xander were there, in that moment, and ...things happened, heh.
Sometimes I get lucky and the inspirational prose that strikes me is the first line of a fic, but not too often.
Sometimes I just want to write a trope that I like, but can't find a lot of fic that matches what i *really* want. I plan almost nothing, rarely know *exactly* how a fic will end (generally, a happy ending), and sadly i have slowed from being able to juggle several fic at once and update semi-regularly to working on only one thing at a time, and that just...glacially. It's very frustrating. I think some of it has to do with rl stress over job/money/life, and some of it is just...the changes that happen.
I still love to write, still do it almost every day. I love getting into that groove, where the story comes and the words flow and you are just *there*. I tend to get stuck and be not able to move forward if I can't find information on something, or if i'm writing about something i don't totally understand. Research is my motivator in those times; i cannot write, even a line or two, about asteroid core-drilling without researching real-life mining and deep-sea drilling so i have some clue how it all *works*.
Once I have that info, then as a rule I'm good to go. Having the right name for a thing/place/character can trip me up, too; writing with a 'placeholder' name won't work for me.
And when I'm done? YAYAYAYAYAY!! Hope you like it! Now what's next. :D
Hrmmm! Well...okay. I challenge all you flisties...to be nice to yourself. Stop with the self-denigration, the second-guessing, the 'well, this is just dumb, real adults don't like blah blah blah'. Fuck that noise. You are AWESOME and you should feel AWESOME, so go look in the mirror and say YOU ARE AWESOME and own it. 'Cause you are.
Ha, well. My goals for the year? Keep writing. And - get up off your ass and MOVE AROUND OMFG. I really really really need to do that.
So - there we go! I hope you all are having a good day, had a good weekend, aren't too cold or too hot or too wet, heh. I saw the trailer for the Spider-verse movie (which i had been ignoring), and it looks adorable as fuck. :D
Originally entered at https://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/204208.html - comment where you please!