Getting Off at The Lonely Depot With a Battered Valise in My Hand

Noodling around with a few fic ideas, but who knows which, if any, will bear fruit? In the meantime, I've posted some of my older work to AO3 and generated...zero interest. My ego, she is bruised, and damned if I don't feel not just old, which I am in fannish years, but irrelevant and invisible. Fandom mores and expectations have shifted, and I'm not into the current popular fandoms. I love the MCU, but I don't want to write about it or that world, and I give less than a rank, wet rip about Riverdale. My most recent fandom is Almost Human, and that's four-and-a-half years dead. So I guess I've come to my last stop on the cultural trends whistlestop tour. Truth be told, I'm not much fussed. I'll write what I'll write, and when the stroke or the heart attack or the raging infection runs me to ground, maybe some irritated distant relative who met me twice in their lives and never wanted the job will find all these parts of myself that I have never shown on a creaking hard drive not long for the world. Like as not, they'll never be found at all and will die with the hard drive and leach into the rotting soil of the landfill along with the toxins in its capacitors.

On a cheerier note, after weeks of rain and drear and squelching mud, the weather promises to be clear. Maybe I can venture out this weekend to reward myself for paying the car insurance, getting the car inspected, and renewing the tags. Maybe a movie, or maybe I'll buy a bottle of bubbles and blow them at the end of the driveway.