a fool's musings

Fool, said my muse to me, look in thy heart and write...

Warning: Adult Content achromatic unfinished fic graveyard recs journal new stuff recent stuff my back pages January 2004 December 2003 November 2003 October 2003 September 2003 August 2003 July 2003 June 2003 May 2003 April 2003 March 2003 February 2003 January 2003 December 2002 November 2002 October 2002 September 2002 August 2002 July 2002 June 2002 May 2002 April 2002 March 2002 February 2002 January 2002 December 2001 November 2001 the five Ws, or, all about me profile e-mail victoria my livejournal the original P&R comments current mood: "pathological and unbalanced" Items of Interest People LiveJournal folks Baraita bishclone claritylit Jintian Kat Allison Kit Mason metablog mix-tapes Neil Gaiman Nestra Sarah T. Seema Shrift Sundry Mourning zendom Music Walk On - U2 Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen If I Can't Change Your Mind - Sugar Sick of Myself - Matthew Sweet Town Called Malice - The Jam One - U2 The Space Between - DMB Books Lord of the Rings Catch-22 The Neely Trilogy Absalom! Absalom! Possession: A Romance Foucault's Pendulum Dreamhouse LA Confidential I Capture the Castle Sandman Waking the Moon Shows Angel Buffy the Vampire Slayer (in reruns) Alias West Wing The Simpsons webrings < ? fanfiction ! > < ? writers ! > diaryreviews.diaryland.com NYC Bloggers Comments by Haloscan.com all links, if I haven't screwed up somehow, should open in a new browser window

04.12.03 - 9:55 p.m. nothing much going on Very quiet day. Went to the eye doctor; he agrees the left lens is defective, so I'm getting a new one. Mostly, I napped, watched CoS, and then worked on Remix...Redux stuff. By my count, I'm still missing 14 stories. Of those, 6 have been in touch regarding their progress. I will be emailing the others soon, and then... public humiliation begins, starting with a list posted here in my diary and on the LJ, and then on the Remix...Redux website itself. I've got nothing else. I'm thinking thoughts, and I've got to reconcile a stupid future tense paragraph that somehow worked its way into the revisions of Sublimation, and also decide how to revise the last bits of Nothing Like the Sun so it matches what actually happened previously. That's why I don't like writing out of order - too much stuff has to be changed and reconciled. It gives me hives, because I'm always afraid I've missed some important point that I should have caught. Sigh. ~victoria link [current mood: mellow] [current music: some tv show in the background] [random quote: \"There are three kinds of liars. Liars, damned liars, and statisticians.\" Benjamin Disraeli] ~*~ 04.11.03 - 1:35 p.m. Thank heavens for Great-Aunt Hermione Hmph. I'm not sure this is working for me. And I need to check my Veritaserum facts in GoF tonight (speaking of HP and tonight - apparently the copies of CoS - one for me, one for Marg and one for themselves - that my parents ordered haven't come yet, so when I called, my father was heading to Blockbuster to rent it, per my mother's demands. She won't go to the theatre, but she wants to see her movies. I come by my fannishness honestly. ::snicker::). But this is a first stab (well, not first, as I've been messing with it a bit) at the scene that was killing me. And possibly Draco. ::snicker:: Ron was dead. The game was over. Hermione stumbled home, her mind awhirl with plans to avenge her fiancé. She discarded the Unforgivable Curses. Too messy, and she knew that Harry wouldn’t approve, even if Malfoy deserved it. She found herself thinking that Harry was way too soft on his enemies. He didn’t have the burning hate she did; he’d spent so long fighting that he seemed to almost respect the Death Eaters, as if they were playing chess and Voldemort were a worthy opponent. And thinking of chess made her think of Ron and their first adventure, the first time Harry had faced Voldemort at Hogwarts. She shook her head, and fell asleep to dream of Ron as the knight he’d been so long ago, and she was the queen who’d struck him with her broadsword. Only this time, Ron didn’t survive. She killed him, and stood weeping tears of blood over his body. Hermione woke with a start. She had similar dreams the next two nights, her usually nimble mind indulging in a usually repressed tendency for morbid melodrama, instead of cooperating with her determination to plan Malfoy’s painful demise. She spent those two days in a haze of alcohol, anger and sorrow, and no workable plan presented itself to her. She had no way of knowing where exactly Malfoy was, beyond the vague intel Dumbledore's spies provided, and Harry was being less than forthcoming with her. He often let loyalty and friendship blind him to things -- that was how she’d hidden the whole sordid mess from him for the past three months -- but even he could see that her slow deterioration had accelerated, and his mouth was set in grim lines when she refused to explain why. And then Draco, in his wonderful, egotistical way, made all her planning moot. He Apparated into her apartment three nights after their meeting at the pub, his face a mask of indifference, but there were lines around his eyes she’d never noticed before. He didn’t speak, and she realized she had nothing to say to him. She knew what she had to do, though. All the edges were blurred, thanks to the vodka still lingering in her bloodstream from her liquid dinner. She felt remote, as if she were watching instead of acting, and that made playing the scene easier. She pulled him down on the bed with her, mouth eagerly seeking the heat of his, hands fumbling at the buttons on his trousers. He didn’t speak, didn’t seem surprised at her desperation, the speed at which she had him inside her. He thrust into her with fierce abandon, the only sound the moist slap of his flesh against hers, and the small grunts they both made as they strained for release. The waning moon, two days past full, bathed the bedroom in brightness, and she spent a moment memorizing his cold, pale beauty, silvered but never softened by moonlight. He lost the rhythm first, his eyes screwed shut, his mouth drawn into a grimace that could have been pain as easily as pleasure. She reached over to the night table, fingers first stroking then gripping the heavy Waterford crystal vase that had been an engagement gift from her great-aunt Hermione, for whom she’d been named. Draco came, shuddering in her embrace, and when he collapsed against her, she hit him in the head. Twice. He groaned and passed out. *** You know, usually I don't post the climactic scenes of a story in here unless I'm posting the whole story. But I want to feel like this is at least somewhat formed, so I can then move on to the task of tying him up and getting him to the supersekrit good guy hide out so the ending can happen. And now I think I need lunch. I wish the weather was nicer. I walked home last night and the sunlight was fading and it was so nice, even if it was a little windy. Today is just the very definition of a blustery day. And it's *April*, not November, so there's no call for blustery days, dammit. ~victoria link [current mood: bemused] [current music: Bringing on the Heartache - Def Leppard] [random quote: “It’s all about the he-said/she-said bullshit” – “Break Stuff” – Limp Bizkit] ~*~ 04.11.03 - 11:15 a.m. The difference between men and women... I sit right outside the little pantry and the copy room. Every morning, some kind soul makes two pots of coffee - regular and decaf. Or two kind souls each make one pot. Whichever. This morning, A. comes over and says, "Huh. Only decaf." He walks away and goes downstairs to the deli to buy a cup of coffee. L. comes over, sees that there's only decaf, and *makes a pot of regular.* L., needless to say, is a woman. This dichotomy never ceases to amaze me. And don't get me wrong - half the time, the people who make the coffee are men. But sometimes... sometimes they fall back into their unreconstructed ways, and it amuses me. G. is still going nuts - he has high blood pressure (and I mean really high. Before I worked here, he was apparently subject to nosebleeds once or twice from stressing out and driving his BP so high), and he's been all sweaty and red the past two days and it worries me. Because I am sucktastic in medical emergencies. Though I guess I could handle a nose bleed, I really, really don't want to. Ah well, back to the grind... ~victoria link [current mood: amused] [current music: Drift Away - Uncle Kracker] [random quote: I wake up scared I wake up strange I wake up wondering if anything in my life is ever gonna change] ~*~ 04.10.03 - 11:55 a.m. He's having the year-end wiggins Don't mind me. I'm just fiddling with the sidebar, getting rid of diaries I no longer read or that are no longer updated, having been replaced by livejournals. Speaking of which, I rambled charmingly about elves and canon this morning. I can't focus enough to write and G is driving me fucking insane. Year end crap will be done soon (end of the week if we're lucky) and he's a madman at this time of year, and he's making me crazy. Arrrggh! ~victoria link [current mood: tired and cranky] [current music: If You See a Chance - Steve Winwood (LOVE this song. Love. It.)] [random quote: If you see a chance, take it, wrong romance, break it, because it's all on you] ~*~ 04.09.03 - 10:49 p.m. Drabble update Updated the site tonight, adding the two most recent drabbles: Aftermath and This Sucks. I never can resist dead letters fic. I still haven't made a decision on the Eowyn issue for Sublimation. Because if he has slept with Eowyn, and Arwen finds out, that's a whole different level of betrayal. And I'm not sure I can handle that in this story. On the other hand, part of me likes the idea of Aragorn/Eowyn desperately shagging before or after the battle, and well, if there were a way to indicate that that happened without Arwen realizing it, it might be worthwhile to include in the story. I have to think on it more. ~victoria link [current mood: okay] [current music: What I Got - Sublime] [random quote: living until we die is the only way to stay sane / let the loving, let the loving come back to me] ~*~ 04.09.03 - 12:39 p.m. Aragorn is a big Numenorean slut Remember the other day it was PJ Harvey night at Casa di P? Well, last night was Sinead O'Connor night, and I blame her for this. It's funny, because just the other day I was feeling like I have no new inspiration, that I'm just sort of tying up loose ends, finishing WsIP but not really coming up with anything new. And then this. I'd say the Professor is rolling in his grave about this, but since he's probably been spinning non-stop for years, I figured it wouldn't make much difference. Unbetaed, god knows, it needs a stronger ending (or a continuation, but I'm still wavering on the Eowyn issue (yes, hossgal, I managed to figure out how they could meet, if the movie follows the book even in a vague way. Because they ride to Isengard and then return to Dunharrow, where there's that lovely, "Wilt thou go?" "I will" moment [which I still want to write about *g*] so I figure that moment can be moved to Helm's Deep)). Because the Eowyn issue is far more complex than the others, and well, I have no handle on Arwen -- she just started talking last night during "The Emperor's New Clothes" and didn't shut up all the way through "The Last Day of Our Acquaintance." I may also have to blame Twinkledru (eep. Sorry I spelled it wrong. Stupid typos). And Aragorn, for the record, is a big Numenorean slut. ::snicker:: Sublimation Arwen always knows when Aragorn takes a new lover. In their early years, before she gave herself to him fully, she feared he might lie with one of her brothers. The resemblance among the three of them is startling, but Aragorn has never been so obvious, even when driven into the arms of another by desperation or loneliness. No, back then, before she was sure of his love, he had become entangled with Haldir of Lórien. She has nothing to prove it, nothing except her grandmother's vague murmurings and the way Aragorn’s eyes would slide from hers when Haldir entered a room or spoke. That entanglement ended upon their betrothal on the hill at Cerin Amroth, and Haldir has never spoken of it to her, and Aragorn only in a sideways manner, many years later. After their betrothal, they spent many long nights together, learning each other's bodies in the ways of love. And then he left her again, to walk the Wild in defense of his people, preparing always for his time, which drew ever nearer. Those halcyon days linger at the top of her memory, almost tangible, all the more precious because of how rare such leisurely bliss has become in these dark times. In those days, the years seemed to weigh on him as little as if he were an Elf himself, and she knows it is because of his destiny. She will be at his side when he comes into his own; her gift of foresight is not, perhaps, as powerful as Elrond’s or Galadriel’s, but she has it nonetheless. He spent years in the company of the Elves of Mirkwood, and she remembers when he came to her afterward, a few days respite over Yuletide. His hands on her body were quick, his lips moved over hers like the fluttering of a hummingbird's wings. He was tentative, and waited for her to push him down onto the bed. He let her lead him, submitting himself to her every whim, and seemed to prefer it that way, which both pleased and surprised her. During that visit, she found a bundle of feathers in his gear, fletching that matched none of his arrows. It was bound with a lock of pale gold hair. She never saw it again, but when Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, leapt to Aragorn's defense at the Council, so many years later, she knew. She let her eyes wander over his whipcord-thin frame, and watched him watch her beloved. Before he left, in what she chooses to believe is their last parting, Aragorn tried to free her, but she has not yet accepted defeat. She has hope, and with her body she tries to infuse him with it when he would despair. Their loving is fierce, yet tender, and her heart is full to the brim with sorrow when the Fellowship sets out from Imladris. Parting from Aragorn is bitter this last time; the world rests on his shoulders, and she worries for him, for herself, for all of Middle-earth. She would go with him if she could, smooth his way, calm his fears, but it is not her road, and they both know it. She knows, as she watches them, that soon, he will take someone else to his bed, another pair of hands will ease his distress, bring him fleeting joy under the stars. She wonders if it will once again be the young prince of Mirkwood who assumes her position, and she can't find it in her heart to condemn either of them. Love in darkness is a blow for light, she believes, and if Aragorn needs support, she is glad he finds it in such staunch companions. She knows his love for her has never wavered, that it runs bone-deep in him and sings in his very blood. But they are ever parted, and though memories of her own lovers have faded, and all that remains of them are the faces of a fair few maids of Lórien who eased her loneliness and sorrow in years long past, she understands the needs of the body. She would never begrudge him that comfort. In secret she completes the banner she has worked on for him for so many years, the banner that will proclaim him King of Gondor and Arnor, and she makes plans to see him again. On the road to the Grey Havens, she slips away, meets up with Elladan and Elrohir, and together they ride for the plains of Rohan. She carries with her the banner of the king and Andúril, the sword reforged from the shards of Narsil. He greets her with great joy, though sorrow weighs heavy on him. He takes counsel with her brothers, and then leads her a ways apart from the rest of the riders. She presents him with her gifts. "Either our hope is fulfilled or all hopes are at an end," she says before he takes her mouth with his in a kiss that leaves her breathless and aching for him. He has never looked more kingly, more like an Elf-lord of old than a Man of these twilight days. The blood of Númenor runs true in him, and her breath catches in her throat when he looks at her with his heart in his eyes. When they stop for rest, his hands on her body are rough, plundering rather than worshiping, and she has a sudden flash of insight. She recognizes the vambraces that he removed so carefully, delaying their embrace. She never would have guessed that Boromir of Gondor would steal a piece of Aragorn's heart, but she recognizes in her beloved now a resolve that was formerly missing. She thinks the Steward's son had -- in life and in death -- has something to do with that, and she is grateful. All roads lead to this road, she believes, and everything they have done has been in preparation for this. She talks with Legolas and Gimli of the things they have seen, and marvels secretly at their easy accord. Gimli tells her, his eyes shining with a faraway light that reminds her of her mother, of Galadriel’s gift, carried always close to his heart. Legolas looks away for a moment, abashed, but she reaches out and takes his hand. It is a strong hand, skilled with bow and knives, his fingers long and pale and elegant even under the grime of long travel. His hand reminds her of her own, and she smiles at him. He returns her regard, and sighs in what may be relief. She will not be finding any more feathers in Aragorn's gear. In fact, if she has any skill at reading the hearts of her own people (and she does), soon Gimli will carry another golden lock at his breast, this one tied into a love knot. To assuage her curiosity, she asks them to tell her of Boromir, and tales of his deeds fill the time as they make haste toward Helm's Deep. The portrait they paint for her makes sense. Boromir was a Man of honor and valor, and his love for his people, his city, permeates every memory the others have of him. It is this love that has finally broken through Aragorn’s reserve, his fear of failure, and his diffidence toward his birthright. Arwen says a silent prayer of thanks that her beloved has finally learned to accept who -- what -- he is, for it is only in that acceptance that he can succeed. His success is interdependent on the Ringbearer’s, but Aragorn’s new resolve gives her hope in that regard as well. They reach Helm's Deep as the evening deepens into full dark, and the sight of the place of their great victory lightens Arwen's heart. There is always hope, she believes, and she has shared hers with the world. ~*~ Okay, maybe that last line is a little too ... snicker-inducing when you consider it, but I couldn't resist. It's an echo of what Gilraen says before she died ("I gave Hope* to the Dunedain and kept no hope for myself"), except that Arwen plans to plumb the full depths of Hope when the whole thing is over. And the people who understood the pun in the last sentence didn't need that explanation, and the people who didn't understand it are probably even more confused. Now back to fleshing out the big Hermione/Draco scene I've been working on. Whee! Productive! *Aragorn's childhood name was Estel, which means "Hope" in Elvish (Sindarin, I think). ~victoria link [current mood: amused] [current music: Night Moves - Bob Seger - strangely appropriate.] [random quote: Is a dream a lie if it don't come true Or is it something worse?] ~*~ 04.08.03 - 2:48 p.m. Some of us are always going to be Salieri So, I read a Buffy fic last night that I really liked. But there's one thing about it that really grated on me, so much so I couldn't add it to the recs It had bitchy!Buffy. And you know, Buffy can be a bitch. She's by far my least favorite of the Scoobies, even now. And also, there were points when it was First!Buffy, and not Real!Buffy, and that's clearly distinguished, both to the readers and to the characters. And yet when the characters discover they've been duped, after much nastiness, there is no apology to Real!Buffy. I mean, she and Xander have an argument. Then First!Buffy appears to him and says some really horrendous things. Then he says awful things back to Real!Buffy. And he never apologizes. The fic just *ends*. Gah. Forty-five pages (I printed it to read on the bus), and the author couldn't be bothered to throw in a Xander/Buffy reconciliation scene? It just felt incredibly wrong. And god knows, I'm not one of Buffy's defenders. I think she's always treated Xander like shit, and even on a bad day, my kneejerk reaction to Xander/Buffy as a ship is that he's too good for her. But this bothered me enough that I specifically left it off the recs list. Now I'm wondering if it'd be worth it to send fb to the author and in the midst of complimenting her Xander-voice and her lovely take on the Xander/Willow friendship and her beautifully broken Faith, asking her about Buffy and why she's left dangling. I hate loose ends in fiction. Life is full of 'em. I don't want 'em where they're avoidable, you know? I also have to send feedback for Just Let It Be by Nym, which is the story whose babies I want to have. Go read it! Anyhow, I also, thanks to Jugrox, I found two of my favoritest ever West Wing fics and copied them to disk so I don't have to bemoan their loss. For those of you keeping track at home, that'd be Galatea and Camelot by Pix. Pix is one of those people who've mostly left fandom, but she's one of the writers I most admire and would like to write like. In fact, I can compile right now a list of writers I would die to write like, and half of them would be West Wing writers. Strange, eh? Pix (sadly no longer present on the web). Luna. Marguerite. Molly. Elizabeth. darkstar (except, you know, with happy endings). Unfortunately, I *don't* write like them, and while I think reading them over the years has had a slight influence, specifically in word choice and also in encouraging my own tendency to be vague and elliptical, I really haven't absorbed much in the way of the brilliant lyricism they all write with. Sigh. Some of us are always going to be Salieri, and generally, that's not a bad thing to be. Except that, you know, Mozart happened to be around at the same time. There are others who could be on this list: august. Punk. Hope. JennyO. (again, two WWers) But they don't evoke the same, "I will never write again" reaction after I read their stories. I'm able to more easily step back and evaluate what works and what doesn't and *why* without being incapacitated by feelings of blind envy and sheer inadequacy. And now I've let my chicken fingers get cold, so I'll go. New Gilmore Girls tonight, I think. Whee! ~victoria link [current mood: thoughtful] [current music: Go Your Own Way - Fleetwood Mac] [random quote: I figure that if you love someone, they bring out the best in you, and they inspire you to be your best for them.] ~*~ 04.07.03 - 10:49 p.m. Recs for April Recs updated! Whee! Look at me being all productive! 21 stories in 5 fandoms, including Buffy, Angel, Firefly, HP and LotR. Mostly LotR, mostly Legolas/Gimli, wee!Legolas or Eowyn-centric. 'Cause that's what Ima like. Go. Read. Send love to the authors. I command you! ~The Maleficent Vicificus link [current mood: accomplished] [current music: Gravel - Ani DiFranco] [random quote: You were never a good lay you were never a good friend oh oh what else can I say, I adore you] ~*~ 04.07.03 - 11:55 a.m. zen state "I want to be a comfort to my friends in tragedy and I want to laugh with them in triumph, and in between, I just want to be able to look them in the eye." Josh Lyman, The West Wing That's all I want, and I feel like I'm constantly falling down on the comfort part, especially right now. I'm tired and worn, and one of my stupid new contact lenses is defective, so I feel like my left eye is not focusing completely. Vision in my right eye is much sharper, which is odd, because I think the vision in my left eye is actually quite a bit better, sans aid, than the vision in my right. Of course, I could have that backward. Of course, I wonder how much of this is due to the fact that I forgot to get my prescription filled, so yesterday and Saturday I was operating on half the dose of paxil I've gotten used to. Stress, sorrow and lack of meds are a bad combination. Must call CVS and get refill tonight. I attempted to catch up slightly on my friends list and other things, but I'm feeling incredibly out of sync, fan-wise, which is okay. I mean, I was already feeling that way anyway. Because my interests have shifted but my friendships haven't. I like my friends. Duh. But it's weird when the thing that originally brought you together is now something that one or the other of you no longer has interest in. Some fan-forged friendships don't survive. Some do. The thing is, I'm not looking for new friends. I mean, I have no interest in being involved in any new fandoms. I can barely muster energy to be involved in the fandoms I'm supposed be providing infrastructure for, or that most people associate me with. I think I've finally slipped completely into Bitter Old Fic Queen status, and you know what? I'm happy there, mostly. I mean, I'm a veteran fan, now, though I don't have quite as much mileage as some people, I've been in online fandom in one way or another now since November 1997. That's a good 5+ years. I don't want to join any more lists. I don't want to be involved in any more fannish politics. I don't care if half a fandom hates me and the newbies don't know who I am. I'm reaching a zen state of fandom, where the only things that matter are my writing and my friends, and everything else can go to hell. My arguments now are more for fun than because of a passionate need to sway the world to my point of view. I like to argue. I always have. It's one of my favorite things, and if I find someone else who's good at it, and who takes it in the same spirit, I am a happy, happy woman. There are some people it's not worth the time or effort to argue with, and there are some people I have a great time with, even if we're never ever going to agree. I just wish more people would come to that conclusion. Because let's face it, when you're kneeling in front of the badly-made-up body of someone you love, how much feedback you got or didn't get is not something that crosses your mind. You're not thinking redemptionista v. evolista when you have to hug someone who just lost his wife or his mother. And you're certainly not debating the finer points of Clex v. Clana when your 18-month-old niece says your name for the first time. Fandom is a wonderful, life-altering hobby. I've met some great people (and some people I'd go out of my way to avoid). I've made some wonderful friends, who have since spilled over into the non-fannish areas of my life. But like any other hobby, when you're taking it too seriously, when it's become the be-all and end-all of your existence, and you can't separate the stupid shit from the important stuff -- and really, you know what's important in fandom? Having fun, making friends, and [for me as a writer] writing good fic, [for me as a reader] reading good fic, and just *enjoying* the things I love. When your form of escapism/fun is more stressful than what you're trying to escape from, my advice is step away from the keyboard and go frolic in the lovely snow that's now snowing down like blazes. Do people still piss me off? Yeah, of course. I'm still one of the angriest people I know, and I have no patience for certain personality types (which fandom seems to attract in droves), but I've learned to disengage from them. Because in the end, your fandom experience is what *you* make of it, and if you're not enjoying it, take a look at what *you're* doing, and why. Meh, I didn't mean to get all soap-boxy. I'm still feeling all disconnected and strange. I'm also working on Nothing Like the Sun again, thanks to Dee, which gives me a great big happy. And fighting off Angel/HP crossover ideas. Because Wesley keeping Draco locked in his basement is a bad, bad idea. ~victoria link [current mood: disconnected] [current music: Can't You See - Marshall Tucker Band] [random quote: You got to learn to live with What you can't rise above] ~*~ previous - next DiaryLand Disclaimer: Reading this diary is not required by law. If you do not like or agree with the contents herein, or find them to be offensive on more than one occasion, please go elsewhere and don't come back. Management is not responsible for any adverse reactions to content within. The painting is "Boreas" by John William Waterhouse. 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