State of the Fic
So it's business as usual, fic-wise, which is to say that I have a lot of ideas about where my... *counts on fingers* fuck it. Where my umpteen or so projects should go, and not much in the way of results. I dither a lot; it's one of my bigger failings as a writer.
Currently, I'm working on a Victorian Romance Emma fic, two or three fics for my 30_kisses claim, two new Aveyond fics, and a vaguely Rashomon-esque post-series Harry Potter fic (Pansy kills Draco. Film at eleven!). But those are just the ones on the back burner - my main projects are a weird fairy tale-ish Kaiba fic; the Mai-Returns-to-Domino fic; and an original story. They're all going fairly well; the Kaibafic needs a few last tweaks, the Mai-Returns-to-Domino fic is coming along in bits and pieces, and the origific... well, here's the first bit I have written:
Stella woke at two p.m. with a splitting headache and her foot in a plate of week-old spaghetti. She considered moving it, but decided not to. Perhaps there were small flesh-eating creatures dwelling in the pasta, creatures that would strip the flesh off her bones before someone came to evict her. Wouldn’t they be surprised?
Beyond her feet, she could see the wreckage of the past week. A tasteful array of beer bottles and empty chip bags was spread out along the floor, accented here and there with the occasional bit of stray food that she hadn’t bothered to clean up. To the left was the couch, surprisingly pristine except for the long gashes in its seat cushions. And to the right, her sister’s photograph. Or at least, where the photo used to hang before she’d thrown it at the wall. Now it was on the floor, broken glass all around it. She’d nearly cut her foot on the stuff before she’d stopped bothering to get up off the floor.
She should eat something. Something that wasn’t junk food. And then take a shower, change her clothes, clean up her apartment, and start looking for another job. But she’d left all her “shoulds” in the wrecked backseat of her car, and even though she knew that she should - there was that word again - stop feeling sorry for herself, she couldn’t seem to remember why that was. It wasn’t as if her sister was going to call to remind her.
She was just wondering if the crumbs near her right hand were edible when, with a rush of air, an angel appeared.
It towered above her, radiant and unearthly. Blinding white wings stretched from wall to wall, filling the sudden stillness with the rustle of feathers. At the moment, it was staring down at her with a faintly puzzled expression.
“I’m sorry,” it said. “Am I interrupting something?
Currently, I'm working on a Victorian Romance Emma fic, two or three fics for my 30_kisses claim, two new Aveyond fics, and a vaguely Rashomon-esque post-series Harry Potter fic (Pansy kills Draco. Film at eleven!). But those are just the ones on the back burner - my main projects are a weird fairy tale-ish Kaiba fic; the Mai-Returns-to-Domino fic; and an original story. They're all going fairly well; the Kaibafic needs a few last tweaks, the Mai-Returns-to-Domino fic is coming along in bits and pieces, and the origific... well, here's the first bit I have written:
Stella woke at two p.m. with a splitting headache and her foot in a plate of week-old spaghetti. She considered moving it, but decided not to. Perhaps there were small flesh-eating creatures dwelling in the pasta, creatures that would strip the flesh off her bones before someone came to evict her. Wouldn’t they be surprised?
Beyond her feet, she could see the wreckage of the past week. A tasteful array of beer bottles and empty chip bags was spread out along the floor, accented here and there with the occasional bit of stray food that she hadn’t bothered to clean up. To the left was the couch, surprisingly pristine except for the long gashes in its seat cushions. And to the right, her sister’s photograph. Or at least, where the photo used to hang before she’d thrown it at the wall. Now it was on the floor, broken glass all around it. She’d nearly cut her foot on the stuff before she’d stopped bothering to get up off the floor.
She should eat something. Something that wasn’t junk food. And then take a shower, change her clothes, clean up her apartment, and start looking for another job. But she’d left all her “shoulds” in the wrecked backseat of her car, and even though she knew that she should - there was that word again - stop feeling sorry for herself, she couldn’t seem to remember why that was. It wasn’t as if her sister was going to call to remind her.
She was just wondering if the crumbs near her right hand were edible when, with a rush of air, an angel appeared.
It towered above her, radiant and unearthly. Blinding white wings stretched from wall to wall, filling the sudden stillness with the rustle of feathers. At the moment, it was staring down at her with a faintly puzzled expression.
“I’m sorry,” it said. “Am I interrupting something?