it's 11:22 p.m., on 2001-07-12 - serious Doqz crushin'.
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I'm so fucking out of it that I can't even face editing the new Oasis story I'm semi-working on. All I keep thinking is, 'this is never going to say what you want it to! This sucks camel! Which ends up turning into me thinking about camel sex, which is a lot more amusing and makes me want to write journal entries.
But I should do something other than talk about camel sex here, and idiots at Crantz. So I will name-drop casually Pilar (!!! Crushin' on, here), who said All My Lesbians. Which made me crack up way more than it should have, but it did nonetheless and I wanted to share it.
And now I will tell you a little more about the awful Roswell story Riv and I started. I saw awful because really, it is. The phrasing might give me a hard-on, in places, but the actual fic is Not Good.
But, so there's the five of them out in the desert, because Max saw a dead girl. Pretty. Crushed under a rusted out car. Next, Michael sees a blond, strangled to death. 'Okay,' you think to yourself, 'whoever this sick twist is, they're targeting pretty skinny girls.'
So then they find this big guy, and I don't know how.
The real fun of the story is Guess The MO. Who's he killing off and why? It really does't make sense in light of the story, but it really makes sense in light of River and I.
Yes, I know that it's not quite good form, the way we're forming the story: crossover, first off, for no apparent reason; making Julie Benz rather Darla-ish just because I want to be Darla's loveslave supreme and because I always think of her as Darla; making fun of Mulder any chance we can; doing things not because they make sense to the plot, but just because we want to, and; wanting to write something like Oklahoma, but going to fail miserably, and trying anyway. ;)
And no, we're not really, um, planning on posting it anywhere. But we never planned on posting the buffy-shift stories, and I *like* those, still, and we have to finish the Spike one and the Darla one and the Dru one and the Buffy one.
Maybe I'll do those when I get fed up with the Oasis. Or, fed up of not having what I write about the Oasis turn out right. Though, maybe it is turning out right and I don't know it.
Today in the car (I'm carpooling! Pride. Carpool lanes during rush hour. We Like Elizabeth) Elizabeth and I started talking about writing. She's a creative writing major, and for this reason I am very intimidated to talk to her. Because, I know I have skill, but I don't know what kind of skill compared to those people who do Masters and write a book.
But, she asked what my biggest challenges were right now. I said I felt like my style had plateaued -- but I said it far less gracefully than that, because it was eight thirty in the morning and I was tired. So she suggested I read some Steinbeck, and look at his paragraph structures, the differentiation of his sentences.
And she said, 'read more'.
I think that might be my problem -- I never *read* anything anymore.
Also, I mentioned recurring themes, and she said, 'if you're getting recurring images, you should probably try and write about those images themselves, rather than try and work them into something else that you're doing. If things keep coming up, there's probably something there that you're trying to hit on and haven't yet.. so maybe, write about the desert itself, rather than something and the desert as a background.'
Anyway.
I don't think I'm quite ready, really, for actual writing seminars. I have an intense dislike of actual communication with people about writing -- I think it has to do with the internet, strangely enough [sarcasm ended] -- and the one I went to started with poetry and really, didn't interest me.
Might have also had to do with the fact that it wasn't fic-related. Which is where my love lies burning, right now.
Some day, I will go and do something un-fic. Now, maybe. A few paragraphs all about stickiness, all in sentence fragments.
Hot. Sticky hot, dribbling down past shoulderblades and curved spine, rolling past waistbands into the clefts of asscheeks. Heat-stroke infected thinking; slow, lethargic, flighty. Walking with swaying hips, little darker stains of salt and evidence of that sticky mess.
And her face shines, runny grease smears and butter tract marks. Shouldn't be attractive, this oiled woman, this sweaty mess of curls and her sweat-soaked denim.
--I just said to Matt, 'I shall never sleep with another Matt! Cross my heart.' And then, 'Oh, darling! I knew you loved me!' then I told him I was fucked up tonight. Which isn't a lie.
But I can be fucked up at him, and I'm pretty sure of the fact that he won't mind too much. He might giggle, but he probably won't mind.
I don't have that of many people. So that's good. I appreciate y'all, man. Even Lynxie, who laughs loud and long *G*... but I'm comfortable enough to do it to anyway-- you guys that end up hearing my inane chatter at five in the morning. Thanks.
A side note. Doqz rocks my world. He's one of those people online that I call a hero. My heros, y'all rock my world, too.
A few of you who're my friends are also my heros. You guys are my tribe.
Shalom. mox, dormit. sed cupio scribere; debo iaceo. --yeah, whatever. I like 'naviae suis amorant.' The sailors love each other. Or something approximating that.
Which is always the best kind of history to learn.
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