The 35th Precinct

Soon, I will be setting of on my next odyssey. There are so many things I should be doing--ficcing, writing to my long-suffering German penpal--but allow me to present the whole of my thought processes since March: OMG, OMG, OMG, I'm going to see Rammstein again! Yeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Oh, my God, what if the car blows up somewhere in the Arizona desert, and what if CC hates my guts and spends the entire trip fantasizing about shoving my ass out of the car at eighty miles and hour, and what if we're molested by dirty cops in some Texas outpost or kidnapped, cornholed, and beheaded by members of the Mexican drug cartel, or what if the paper wasps infest the house in our absence, and we come home to a buzzing cloud of furious vengeance?"

I never did get around to buying binoculars; I still could, I suppose, and I probably should if I want a better view of Richard and Christoph. I've just been reluctant to do so because evey time I mention a desire to buy something for the trip that isn't absolutely essential, Roomie rolls his eyes and stomps around the house like a panicked baby hippo and then buys himself the latest season of South Park, which is fifteen dollars more than the cheap binoculars in which I was interested. It's not worth the aggravation and guilt, and so I just let it go. It's hard to act put-upon when he's driving my ass two thousand miles to see a band because he knows it will make me happy.

The last of the bills are paid and will be mailed out tomorrow, and once they've gone out, there'll be nothing for it but to pass the time. My mother is flying home for my grandmother's birthday tomorrow, and so I'll be pet-sitting her dog and cat until she returns, so that will provide a needed if nettlesome distraction. Matters are complicated by the fact that during a phone conversation this afternoon, she casually mentioned that the dog has grown increasingly finicky and will only nibble tiny cuts of meat or chicken tenders. This worries me, as the dog previously demanded anything comestible and would inhale crumbs the second they hit the floor. She's quite old, and the last thing I want or need is to wake up one morning and find her stiffening on the couch. It was horrific enough to see Maggie the dowager beagle in that condition. If she dies while my mother is away, I don't know what we're going to do. She should be buried beside her sister in my mother's backyard, but I'm not storing her in the freezer next to the Hot Pockets until my mother comes back. Frankly, I don't think she should leave the dog if she's ill, but my mother doesn't give a damn about anything but what she wants at any given time, and so I'm going to be waiting for a sweet, decrepit poodle to die in my care. And I don't doubt that she'll accuse me of killing her.

We also plan to see Thor on Friday, but after that, it will be up to my immensely-talented mind monkeys to keep me occupied. Most likely, I'll end up on Herzeleid, waiting to see the setlist for the Jersey show.


Really, Neil? This Congressman might be a petty ass for making insulting remarks about your neck and insinuating that you "stole" from Minnesota by doing public readings and book signings and bloviating for just recompense, but obliquely siccing your fan hordes on him in retaliation is pettish, and disguising it as righteous indignation on behalf of the office of governorship is even more so. I very much doubt you give two damns and a fig about Congressional dignity and are simply pissed that he besmirched your reputation as the affable, cuddly Brit who writes whimsical, wondrous things.

Of course, I've thought Gaiman a berk since he leapt to Amanda Palmer's defense during her sneering dismissal of disabled people and their outrage over the EvelynEvelyn affair, so this doesn't surprise me in slightest. Ever since he found her, he's taken a great deal of pleasure in smugly showing his ass

Yet another reason to love Neil Gaiman. I wish he'd written this years ago, when SLS fans were haranguing me about delivering the next chapter. I loved the story, and still do, but the constant harping about updates--or a lack thereof--transformed a joy into an onerous obligation that I began to resent. The more readers asked for updates, the less able I was to provide them, not through any desire to be contrarian or spiteful, but because each query, no matter how well-intended, inspired guilt. I'd bought into the idea that beginning a story was an implied social contract with the reader, a promise that I would finish it. When the writing became the dirty, yeoman scut work of one word at a time rather than the giddy euphoria of inspiration and readers began to complain that the story was getting bogged down in the minutiae of the telling, I was suddenly paralyzed. I felt like I was disappointing them and the story by not being good enough, by Doing It Wrong. And I decided that I would rather disappoint them by leaving it undone than by presenting them with a finished story that didn't live up to its initial potential. So I did.

If I read this back then, I might not have succumbed to gnawing guilt and self-doubt. I might've realized that I didn't owe the readers a damn thing, that a fannish want wasn't a need I was obligated to fulfill. That it was all right to be tired or uninspired or just plain bored, and that I didn't owe fandom an explanation. If I had understood then what I understand now, SLS might have been finished, or nearer to it, at least. As it is, I hope my next stories benefit from the lessons of SLS and the wisdom of Mr. Gaiman.

As I've previously mentioned, I have a Dreamwidth account. There won't be an exclusive content, that is to say, posts you can't read on LJ, but if you're moving and want to keep abreast of my oh-so-thrilling life, drop me a line.

( CSI:NY Finale RUMORS--SPOILERS )