Hmmm, not much news. Worked, somewhat dully, came home early as I became duller still and after a brief spot of dinner, feeding the very cranky birdies the leftovers, especially the magpies who seemed in a dreadful temper today for some reason, perhaps because yesterdays tea was very much not to their liking, watered the garden with my ever present buckets, I just crashed in front of the tube. Charmed decided to do a comic book hero story and bored me. So sad that Julian's the best thing in it at the moment. Some classic Spelling jiggling bits too. To quote MST3K: "I detect the liver spotted hand of Aaron Spelling."
SVU followed, as the SMH said, another ponderously worthy episode but there was lots of Munch and Chris rolled up his sleeves, always a good sign, and got nasty on a perp and all of a sudden I was craving Oz again, of which I've only seen a clips tape of edited highlights.
After that it was the Dead Zone which has turned from SF to Christian television big time so I think I'll turn off from now on, thank you. Keep your preaching to yourself.
Anyways, speaking of Oz, there's a discussion on firstname.lastname@example.org about how many slashers hate Oz and QAF for outing tv and bringing subtext into text and homosexuality into the mainstream and how dare they and I had no idea there was such hostility. Who knew slashers were such a bunch of homophobes, though it shouldn't surprise me, considering how conservative, orthodox and fundamentalist they are.
The Slash Taliban then went on to lay down the law as to what was and wasn't slash. Like I could care, I'm so not into definitions, labels or pidgeon holes, like I depise the caste system they have in LA where an actor who does cult tv is not allowed to do anything else. It appears to be breaking down quite a bit recently, with film actors trying to get onto HBO standard arty tv shows etc. I was just appalled that for some people it was all about categorising and gatekeeping as to what and wasn't slash, what you could write about, who could write and how you could write it.
I write for my own amusement, I get my ideas from the air and I'll let my stories and characters go wherever they want to and do whatever they want to because I find it's better than way. I can always edit them a bit later. I like to experiment, I"ll use anything as inspiration and I'm influenced by film, tv, docos, news, magazines, art, comics, manga and music as well as my life so sometimes I'll write like I'm scripting a comic book, just because it feels right to me to do so.
I certainly don't write to a political agenda, or to a formula, or a list of what must and must not happen, of what characters I may and may not use and how. Fuck that. I write what I want and if it's not predictable and safe and falls into the same old mass produced expectations that these people seem to insist on, then fuck 'em. I won't post warnings at the start of my fic to give away every plot development in case somebody reads something that provokes a reaction - I mean, heavens to murgatroid that they should experience an emotion from the written word. I will not write to fit into any narrow categories to suit people's comfort zones. So long as I'm paying for my writing myself everyone else can go to buggery. If you like and get my stuff, great, welcome to the minority. If you want some non threatening mass produced pap with generic characters who just bonk each other in nameless hotel rooms, well, I'm not sure we'd have much in common.
That's the other thing I read that really irritated me. People just changing the names in their slash fic and publishing it. I'm sorry, but I just can't do that with my stuff. Changing the names and/or setting isn't gong to disguise characters with specific quirks, patterns of speech, habits, foibles, histories and motivations that propel them through the story. I find it inseperable when I write and I really dislike people who write stuff that's so generic you can just change the names.
And this thing where you can only have certain plot elements in your fic? Purlease. It's like Tropfest films all having to feature a certain theme or object. It's a gimic, but is it art? And if you don't think there's anything creatively stifling about insisting people stick to certain rules and formats in their projects then I'd like to introduce you to my friend D'Argo who has more than a few words to say on the matter.
Oh well, just me being precious I guess but until I'm paid lots of money I won't change a fic just so it can fit into someone's narrow definitions of what's acceptable and what's not. I'd rather live outside the circle, the way I have my whole life. For now I'm writing for my muses' pleasure and I'm willing to let the journey take me where it will. I guess, much like that article in the Herald yesterday, I'm not a map person. When on holidays I just usually wander about about and let my holiday happen to me. I like it like that, all those happy accidents and coincidences and lucky chances. The one time I tried to structure my holiday like people said I should, it was so horrible I nearly died several times over and I still bear the scars.
Okay, excuse the rant but I'm just so shocked that people who write porn are so fundalmentalist. Next thing you know they'll be chopping off people's hands for daring to write couples they don't approve of - no, wait, I think they're doing that already J.
Personally, I think slashers setting themselves up as Oliver Cromwell or the Inquisition are stiffling to creativity and evoloution. Sign me up for the revolution or burn me as a witch but these puritan arseholes have got to go back under the rock they crawled out of.
Although if they wanted to ship off all those dreadful people who wrote all those dreadul K/S or Pros fics where they were elves, pirates, highway men or gak, fawns, to a Pol Pot styled re-education camp, I wouldn't protest too loudly. Oh, wait, those people ARE the Slash Taliban. Silly me. J
So while I'm in rant mode (sorry but it is that time of the month, afterall, and somebody did just hit all my buttons like a jammed lift) I'll mention how losing all my mail saved me from a fate worse than boredom. I decided to check out the MBfic archives to see if I'd missed anything interesting. Nope and nope again. While Ezra/Vin fans appear over fond of the anonymous fuck in a hotel room three pager, MB fans seem to be stuck in a rut, and it doesn't matter whether it's Magnificent 7, Aliens, Navy Seals or what, they just have the poor boy in a hospital bed in a coma the whole time while character X sits by his bedside wringing their hands. Even if the poor boy awakes he's always lost the power of speech. Aside from being disturbingly one stop short of necrophilia, what the? If this plot means they can't write MB, why bother? It's not that hard to try and get into the character, surely? I know it took me nine stories to really get a handle on the essence of Chris, and sure, I banged him up quite a bit along the way, but at least I tried. At least he had lines (and thoughts and feelings and actions and consequences and...). Whatever rocks their boat, I guess, but it's a damn strange thing to find fic after fic like that. Maybe it's some sort of Tropfest theme.
Anyways, just had a chat about the current crusades with a work colleague and we muttered about extremists (on both sides) wanting to inflict their beliefs and value sets on everyone else and we're like, I don't think so. Whatever happened to live and let live? Why is everyone telling me how to live my life? In every detail? Saw an interview last night with the US Today show weather guy and he was talking about being bullied by the fat police. He was joking about it but you could tell he was bitter. I've had the fat police on my case daily and if one more friend tries to tell my sympathetically that they've seen people fatter, why, I think I'll deck them. I know I shouldn't get this cranky over anything, least of all slash, and I should just sit back and let the world happen to me, but this constant nagging about what I eat, what I do, what I read, what I write, how much work the house needs, how I still need to learn more advanced Flash and Cold Fusion, what I wear, how much excercise I get, where I go on my holidays, etc, etc. Enough already. It's my life, as the old Talk Talk song used to go (with the Optus ad video).
Don't know why I'm so cranky today. Probably the whole Dubbo thing. I mean, the bus driver liked my little pink magic wand, how mardi gras can you get, and the Salvation Army guy said I looked well after my holiday. Not I suspect now. As the old song goes: Things justa don't seema to be going right
Just figured out why I'm so grumpy. Cough, wheeze, sneeze. Don't know why I always dummy spit before I go down with the collywobbles, but I do. Picture me sinking beneath my desk in a haze of flu germs. I told you I don't do 12-16 hour days.
You are now entering the fic zone. Rated PG for nothing much at all really, but spare a thought for the intense on the ground research I did this this fic. Suffer for my art? You bet. SNAFU continues:
Jack didn't wave or smile: he wasn't that big on goodbyes. He just hefted his pack again, checked his sidearm and started walking, though he could still feel Daniel watching him from the doorway of the little VIP hut, like they were in some weird fusion of some civil war movie and the Flintstones. His guides, all young warriors armed only with spears, shepherded him forward through the chattering village, smiling and waving and calling out to friends and relatives as they passed, but everything was pretty much business as usual. The old men were lying about in the shade chewing what Daniel had discovered was the local version of khat, a mild narcotic. Daniel chewed it in the evenings to help him sleep, so Jack knew Daniel's wound must still be troubling him, more than he said. At least it was better than betel nut which had left Daniel's mouth stained dark red like he'd just eaten raspberry icecream. Not an attractive look, to Jack's mind.
The children of the village were scampering about playing warriors and magicians. The women were sitting around gossiping, either plaiting long dried grasses, grinding some local palm nuts into a coarse flour or butchering the remains of a carcass of the largest animal Jack had ever seen, hanging up the strips of glistening flesh to dry in the sun. Again the Flintstones flashed into Jack's mind because he was looking at the giant rack of ribs the size of Jack didn't want to know what. Jack's hand automatically fingered his MP-5 again. He had his rifle, his sidearm, a couple of grenades and his knife. No doubt at Daniel's discrete prompting his knife had been found and duly returned with an understanding that no warrior of Jack's standing liked to be without his prized weapon, and Jack must surely be a great warrior to possess such a knife. Jack was fast learning a serious respect for their indigenous knives of chipped stone, though. He'd cut himself quite deeply trying to shave with a small flat spearpoint and he knew it was going to leave a scar. Daniel had joked that Jack had been lucky the spear point hadn't been dipped in frog poison. Then he'd realised Daniel hadn't been joking.
The large woodbeamed gates that barred the way to the village swung open, somewhat ominously, and now Jack couldn't get King Kong out of his head, and with the gates swinging shut behind them with a sense of finality that dropped like a stone in his stomach, the small party set off, Jack following the lead of his young guides.
Daniel had explained the reason for Jack's journey and the chiefs had known exactly where they wanted to go, and they'd been impressed, for both Jack and Daniel claimed to be able to speak to the gods through the stone, and the chiefs weren't about to dispute that claim. Just the weapons Jack carried were proof enough of their fantastic tales.
The breathless heat of the jungle surrounded the little party almost instantly, so thickly humid and rank with rotting vegetation that Jack had to choke for air, almost wishing he had gills. Sweat just rolled down his face and into his eyes and Jack was instantly glad of the thick sticky mud paint that Daniel had smeared all over him because it kept off most of the mosquitos that buzzed around him like a thick grey cloud. He seemed to attract every critter that could bite or sting in miles but they could only get him where his sweat had trickled tracks through the paint so Jack found himself constantly pausing for a touch up as he went. Give him a compact to check himself as he did so and he'd be all set. Just as well Carter couldn't see him now.
It was dark, down there under the tree canopy, all the light filtered into green up above and browns down below. The ground where they walked was a spongy humus of dead leaves and bark and everywhere there were trees and ferns and vines of all description climbing over each other to get up into the light. In the undergrowth and out of sight things rustled and snuffled and shuffled and just occasionally crashed and scattered but so long as the locals weren't worried, Jack resolved not to be either. Sometimes something stirred or bubbled or slid and plopped in the muddy swampwaters that lead down into the river, but Jack resolved not to let that bother him either.
By Jack's estimation, it was nearly a three day walk to the gate. With these guys, it'd probably take less than two. He didn't know which way they were going, but he was hoping it was the quick way. He was itching to get back, to get in contact and tell somebody they were still alive.