Well it was a blood red sunset last night and the air is thick with acrid smoke again - and I'm inside, at work, sitting up at my desk, writing gothic western drivel until the lads come in. It's nice and quiet. I could write more but it's time to stop now, alas. I just hate getting interupted mid-scene, never mind any work ethic. These last few days have kind of bruised that out of me again, anyway.
Speaking of slogging away for little or no thanks, I must say how much I appreciated the thanks from the Farscape fans for getting the photos. And the thanks from the Orlando fans for winkling out tales from the set of Ned Kelly (qv email@example.com). From the Stargate fans, silence as usual. Another proof for my theory that Farscape fans are nicer than Stargate fans. Scapers seem to be about the show, much like SAAB fans, whereas your Gater, if they ever mention the show at all, well, it's cause to buy a lottery ticket. I was thinking maybe it was because of artistic egos that Stargate fans are so political and backstabby, but Scape fans are just as creative. So maybe it's the slash thing, because most of the Scape and SAAB fans I hang with are gen. I don't know why but I find it so. I think the last ten years would have been a lot less miserable for me if I'd stayed well away from that thundering bag of bitches that is slash fandom.
Certainly I write better and more often just by myself, for myself. Like this morning. My last M7 fic has gone all gothic and I love it, love it, love it. More please. Too bad they can't stay away all day. Please let me go home early today.
Intended to go home super early yesterday, especially as the network was kaput and it was the episode of Buffy with Spike and Max: Lie to Me. But they cranked up the network just as I was heading out the door at 3.15, so I thought I should at least stay and do the media realeases.
Did manage to catch the end of Bridget Jones Diary, which I adored. Yes, I've never seen it, horrors. I never get to the cinema, they always have it only at silly times on cable and like American Beauty, I rented it enough times to buy it three times over, but never got to watch it. You see, when I see a nice quiet weekend ahead I'm thinking I'll rent a few movies, sit back and try and unclench my jaw, and hopefully let the muses sing. Only mother thinks quiet weekend equals me moving cupboards, etc. So I never get to watch any movie I rent unless I get up to watch it at 2am and I only seem to make that committment to Michael Biehn.
Finally saw American Beauty on tv, and only because they screened it super late, as a repeat. I dare say I'll never see the first half of Bridget Jones' Diary until they play it late, either. Ah, why can't I find a man and/or friends who'll love me just as I am. Sigh. My eternal lament. You hit your 30s and you're just tired of trying to shoehorn yourself into these moulds people want you in. So nice to see somebody else feeling the sameway, instead of having people yelling change, change, change from the sidelines like some demented American cheerleaders. Don't wanna. Want to be comfy and Scottish and have people like me just the way I am. And really, what the hell is wrong with that?
I mean, it's not like I'm evil. I give to charities, I feed birds, I water my garden with buckets of run off from my shower. Hardly the profile of selfishness I've been accused of - though I often suspect my being selfish is sometimes just me not doing what other people want. My horoscopes all said I'd be feeling fed up with being owned by too many people this year. More hard work, always so much work and duty to perform, such is the life of a Capricorn, but this year I would yearn to be free. Oh yeah. I want to be free.
Which is why I'm going to take down more of The League. I'm tired of snarky emails re the smaller pics. I'm tired of snarky emails full stop. Obviously what I do gives people no pleasure, and they're certainly taking away what little pleasure my outlets gave me. Yup, back to writing in a vacuum. Works best for me.
Hmmm, not in yet. Hmmm, do I dare delve into the jungle with Jack? Bet they're in by the time I have a pee and grab a cup of tea. Bugger. Please let me get home early today so I can get all the washing, watering etc out of the way and still have time to write before I fall asleep.
Oh, I forgot to mention we watched Elizabeth and Essex the other day, because one can never have too much Errol. Was trying to ftp stuff at the same time so I was MST3King it rather mercilessly, though it actually works if you start dubbing it in Soprano speak. Much whacking to be had - giggle. Essex was an enormous dolt though. Sheesh. Gullible ain't in it.
Nearly forgot, last night was double Max because aside from Jase in Buffy, it was the episode of Roswell where they stick Max in the white room. Mother was rather upset about them torturing little Maxy. Me, I broke out the still melted chocolates. But yeah, seeing the episodes in order makes Roswell a better viewing experience and I can see now how Max changed after being tortured, and why he was so cold and brutal and totally turned towards his alien side for most of seasons two and three. It made him an unpleasant character, but at least I can see why and feel sorry for him, sympathy I'd been unable to muster until now, missing dorky Max rather too much. One of these days that brilliant Roswell fic Keiko dreamed up will be written, by somebody.
The slash zone. A snippet from M7-09, getting strangly gothic, rated MA for nudity and scenes of a sexual nature.
The rain splattered down over his bare skin in ice cold rivers of water, but Ezra didn't care. The wind tried to pull at the damp threads of his hair, tried to raise goosebumps on his naked torso, rendered alabaster by the occasional flashes of lightening. The thunder rumbled and cracked deep in his belly.
He leant on the cold slippery stone of his veranda, watching the storm shoot dreadful fingers of pure white light down into the ground, stalking across the plains in spidery towards him.
A flash of light and a clatter behind him startled him, making him turn quickly, instinctively drawing for the gun which wasn't there.
The door had blown open. Framed in the doorway was a silhouette, a figure that haunted his waking dreams as well as his nightmares. The man in black, clad now only in his skin, a wild, feral look in his eyes as the storm brushed his skin, the air crackling between them.
Ezra couldn't speak, couldn't move as the man prowled across the few steps like a panther on the hunt, fingers snaking through his damp curls as other hand bound him up like a steel band, pressing their bodies together, one made of warm flesh, the other as cold as the near icy rain.
"Chris, Christian," Ezra tried to murmur between assaults on his mouth, but Chris just lay a gentle finger across his lips, shaking his head slightly. No words, no thoughts. Just flesh and bone and skin sliding together under the rainstorm.