~~birthday fic. h/d. weird snarky fluffiness.

wah. am late, late, late.
but, better late than never?
i didn't want to finish it -tomorrow-, because if i don't do it today, i never do it tomorrow. i'm just... one of those people who -has- to seize the day. anyway.

Happy Birthday, ashkitty & nmalfoy~!

( this is just... a ficlet, except it got out of hand. i hope you like. tried to make it fluffy but y'know... not too much. hee. `Little Details' - H/D, of course. happy birthday to two spiffy writers that make me just that much happier to be in this fandom. and guh, this is certainly long enough for the both of you ^^; )

~~this goes out to the coffee-girl...

war.
i thought i didn't have much to say, because i don't follow the news and i'm avoidant, and blah blah and blah...

but since kassie wanted to see some discussion, here i go. (anything for youuuuuu~:)

war. (*prepares 2nd grade speech*)
war is bad. i don't like war, it scares me, and makes me think the planet is about to blow up and i can't do anything about it and i don't want to die, dammit. i mean, it's not like my life is that great or anything, and it's not like i don't continuously screw it up, but things dying scares me, even though obviously it happens a lot. and war is all about things dying. and people being mean and stupid, and interrupting my smut reading to blow up the nearest building, which is a no-no.

i don't think there's anything i can do, however, because i don't have enough mental armor to ever be politically active, and i don't have enough of a thick skin to start yelling and ranting about how stupid everyone is. so i may as well enjoy myself, and hope we aren't stupid enough to blow ourselves up.

hopefully most people don't have a death-wish. i try to think that maybe this is "normal"-- after all, there was all those years of the cold war, and all those years of the war of the roses, though of course there were no means of really blowing everything up back then, and the plague was better at killing people, still, than people were. ahhh, the good old days.

anyway. i figure since my response to all this is fear and worry and disgust and outrage, and none of those constructive, i may as well ignore it. i know it sounds ridiculous, but i may as well live the best i can, and not have those idiots rule my life the way they think they do. i mean, i can mess things up all on my own, as i said, i don't need "them" to help me.

and thus endeth my "war rant", now back to the underage-boy smut.

p.s. feel free to tell me if my last fic sucked. or if you read it. you know how it goes. i'm sensitive but desperate enough so that i'll take anything ><

~~on the ease & sublimity in reading & writing

wah. i'm in (fucking) love. my comparative lit professor uses words like "fuck" and "shit" so -seriously-, except -not-, and he's this old white guy, and it's just hilarious. i mean... hearing someone say "fucking" in a really proper sort of tone is just priceless. (and also, casually, about some french philosopher-writer: "he was a fag, by the way" and i just -died-. er. i don't -think- he meant it offensively. i mean. you just had to hear it. priceless.)

but anyway.
he said something that really made me think. "You begin to write when you start to stammer and you don't know what to say." my last fic came pretty easily to me. it was just fluff, just complete randomness and "pushing ideas around" and not really Saying Something about harry/draco or Their Great and Tooby Love or what have you. i was just writing it hoping it would please and amuse. and yet, i came to the point, near the end, where i wasn't sure what to do. i was -really- tired and almost falling asleep, and i was really almost panicking because i -had- to finish, but i didn't have any more tricks up my sleeve at that point, and i didn't know what was going to happen.

this happens to me a lot in stories. i'm coasting along, happy as a clam, scribbling and scribbling and then scribbling some more, having snark and sex and magic and so on, and then i hit a wall. and at that point, the inspiration hides behind a cloud or something, and i just don't -know-. it's like i'm the reader, not the writer anymore, and i was never very good (as a reader) at figuring out plot-points. which is to say, i suck very horribly at it.

( but maybe being good at something isn't the point.... )

~~
EDIT -
it occurs to me that comparing myself to people who either make me weep with overwhelmed ardor at their writing, or conversely laugh wickedly at their awkwardness isn't the point either. i mean, they either do it for me or they don't, and when they do i want to pretty much bow down in worship, but that's just -me-. those feelings are -mine-, and while the writer inspires them in me, the reading is really a two-way process. the writer needs me too, to truly make that story everything it could be. i always need to keep reminding myself of that. it's so easy to feel swept away, overwhelmed, positively a part of the story so much that i kind of lose myself. but not everyone reacts the same way. a number of people read that same story, and while they appreciate it, they don't weep and rave and feel their insides melt into a liquefied puddle at the glory of it all.
    it's hard to remember that it's my imagination too, my feelings that are -there- to be called upon, my sensitivity responding to the inspiration of the prose. even if i'm a sensitive reader, that is something, that is a way to participate in the beauty of the art. it's not merely creating that's vital and beautiful. the responding is also a part of it, that being the only way we even have of -knowing- it's -worked- and the intent has been received. no writing can be brilliant without a certain sort of brilliance in the reader, a certain -openness-, a receptivity.

i despair and angst and wring my hands, thinking i can never touch anyone the way aja touches me with virtually anything she writes, but her ficlets in particular, like today with her MPI ficlet, `still'. i want to make people feel the way her writing makes me feel. i want to attain some sort of communion with language, where it bends to my will entirely. but unless i had the right readers, it won't happen. there's talent of course, which makes it easier, but that's all it does. makes it easier.
    and maybe writing is merely -projecting- the same thing you are able to truly perceive and understand on this sublime level. sublime. that's the only word i can use to describe things that touch me. i am a part of it, receiving or projecting. i am either finding a beam of light, someone's words reaching me, or i am beaming out my own flashlight, hoping, hoping. it's not fair to just -compare- myself, and disparage my own writing, because i don't have the -readers- to tell me anything, and it's just myself. i can't really -know-, not really. i can only know the sublimity i find, merely in having written. and i think 99% of the time, that is enough.