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Not much to say today because I am tired. God knows why because all I've done is watch TV and read more of Dark Companions. I meant to write as well but never got around to it. I suspect it's because I've had no tea today. Why that should make a difference, I don't know, but I've noticed that since I've taken up tea, my creative output is directly related to its consumption. I can still write without my daily cuppa, but the process isn't nearly as smooth, as organic, without my dose of sweet, warm, PG speed. I wonder if I've unwittingly developed a low-level addiction, or if I've just associated tea with productivity and therefore "need" it to write efficiently. I wonder because Neil Gaiman mentioned a temporary ebb in creative drive when he swore off tea recently.
If I do have a jones for caffeine, it's nothing compared to my mother's caffeine monkey. She needed two pots of coffee and three Diet Cokes daily to get through a day, and at one point, her kidneys nearly shut down because they weren't being flushed properly. She added water to her intake after she spent a week in the hospital with a near-fatal kidney infection.
Jones or not, it sucks to be spent by 9:30PM and staggering to bed like a narcoleptic drunk by 11PM. Ah, for my youth, when 11PM-4AM were my prime writing hours and churning out five or six pages nightly was nothing. But youth has fled in the face of adulthood and its attendant pleasures, like stiff joints and moderate myopia. I should be grateful I'm not mixing Geritol kamikazes and calling myself a rabble-rousing hellraiser for making it to sunset or Jeopardy, whichever comes first.
At least the SPNfic is progressing; Part II is nearly done. Once it's finished, I'll return to the playing field of Et Tu. Haldirbun is still roaming the lettuce patch, as is Dowdbun, which, quite frankly, surprises me. Dowdbun was a preemie kit, little more than a scrap of idea, gossamer as wedding lace. I was sure he'd die, yet here he is two years later, robust and hopping madly in an effort to attract my attention. He's determined to be written, so much so that I've begun having dreams about Tommy Dowd and the SVU world.
I've talked about ideas for a Tommy Dowd fic before; if I recall, I was going to give him a blind paramour named Molly Donovan. The basic premise still holds, and Molly and Tommy are growing ever more vivid in my imagination, but I have two problems.
The first is that I've no idea what it's like to be blind; this might not seem like a major hurdle, but it is. Since I don't know what it means to be blind, and cannot possibly know short of severing my optic nerves, I run the risk of misrepresenting the experiences of the blind, or worse yet, insulting the blind. I have no idea how the blind conduct transactions involving paper money, for instance, or what sex is like without the visual stimulus. I can't fake it, nor would I want to. I know how angry I'd be if someone who'd never spent an hour in a wheelchair tried to write about that experience and got it wrong. I would, in fact, think they were a clueless clod with delusions of arthouse greatness.
My second problem is more universal. I have no idea where to stop. I have ideas for dozens of great scenes and dialogue, but if I wrote them all, the story would span eight years. I need to find a stopping point before I start.
If I do write it, it'll be nice to write smut without fretting over whether or nor each position is possible within the limitations of a disabled partner. Even in writing, crip sex is hard.
Ha, ha, I said sex was 'hard'. And now that I'm channeling Butthead, I need to sleep. Now.
ETA for the hell of it:
Commas, people, commas. They're the orthographic equivalent of Nerf bumpers and keep your drunken clauses from rear-ending one another on the Strunk and White Freeway.
If I do have a jones for caffeine, it's nothing compared to my mother's caffeine monkey. She needed two pots of coffee and three Diet Cokes daily to get through a day, and at one point, her kidneys nearly shut down because they weren't being flushed properly. She added water to her intake after she spent a week in the hospital with a near-fatal kidney infection.
Jones or not, it sucks to be spent by 9:30PM and staggering to bed like a narcoleptic drunk by 11PM. Ah, for my youth, when 11PM-4AM were my prime writing hours and churning out five or six pages nightly was nothing. But youth has fled in the face of adulthood and its attendant pleasures, like stiff joints and moderate myopia. I should be grateful I'm not mixing Geritol kamikazes and calling myself a rabble-rousing hellraiser for making it to sunset or Jeopardy, whichever comes first.
At least the SPNfic is progressing; Part II is nearly done. Once it's finished, I'll return to the playing field of Et Tu. Haldirbun is still roaming the lettuce patch, as is Dowdbun, which, quite frankly, surprises me. Dowdbun was a preemie kit, little more than a scrap of idea, gossamer as wedding lace. I was sure he'd die, yet here he is two years later, robust and hopping madly in an effort to attract my attention. He's determined to be written, so much so that I've begun having dreams about Tommy Dowd and the SVU world.
I've talked about ideas for a Tommy Dowd fic before; if I recall, I was going to give him a blind paramour named Molly Donovan. The basic premise still holds, and Molly and Tommy are growing ever more vivid in my imagination, but I have two problems.
The first is that I've no idea what it's like to be blind; this might not seem like a major hurdle, but it is. Since I don't know what it means to be blind, and cannot possibly know short of severing my optic nerves, I run the risk of misrepresenting the experiences of the blind, or worse yet, insulting the blind. I have no idea how the blind conduct transactions involving paper money, for instance, or what sex is like without the visual stimulus. I can't fake it, nor would I want to. I know how angry I'd be if someone who'd never spent an hour in a wheelchair tried to write about that experience and got it wrong. I would, in fact, think they were a clueless clod with delusions of arthouse greatness.
My second problem is more universal. I have no idea where to stop. I have ideas for dozens of great scenes and dialogue, but if I wrote them all, the story would span eight years. I need to find a stopping point before I start.
If I do write it, it'll be nice to write smut without fretting over whether or nor each position is possible within the limitations of a disabled partner. Even in writing, crip sex is hard.
Ha, ha, I said sex was 'hard'. And now that I'm channeling Butthead, I need to sleep. Now.
ETA for the hell of it:
Commas, people, commas. They're the orthographic equivalent of Nerf bumpers and keep your drunken clauses from rear-ending one another on the Strunk and White Freeway.
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