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Like pulling out my own eyes with a spoon
It's Sunday. It's raining. I have no work outstanding. My partner is upstairs in bed with a cold. It's quiet. I am undisturbed and likely to remain so for most of the day. Ah ha, I think; I shall write my fic! I have the whole day, I can make goodly progress, maybe, even, finish the thing...
::Cue the sound of hollow laughter. A cork is pulled, a drink poured and tossed back, then another, and another. There is the sound of gentle sobbing::
Eleven am 'till two-thirty pm: Two cups of Japanese green-cherry tea are drunk. A bagel is consumed. LJ is perused at frequent intervals. Eighty words are written.
Two thirty pm till three-twenty pm: Two cups of coffee are made and consumed - Proper coffee, made in the espresso machine, the milk steam-frothed because this consumes more time that might otherwise be passed staring in horror at a Word document filled with eighty tear-stained words of despair.
Three-twenty pm till four twelve pm: Nine hundred and thirty words are written!
Four-eighteen pm: Time for more coffee and a read through. OK, see, I know 930 words is a distinct improvement on eighty, but It's not right. I really need this from Jim's point of view. The story's almost done; this is practically the last chance for some high Jim-angst and he's not cooperating! He's just sitting there in the truck being all stoic, damn him! Oh, he's clutching Blair to his chest and providing a strong shoulder for his sweetheart's tears and holding it all inside while wanting to rip out the OC's eyes for having hurt his baby, but he's not saying anything! The bastard!
::slopes off to kitchen in disgust, hoping maybe a shot of Cuban caffeine will loosen the fucker's tongue::
::Cue the sound of hollow laughter. A cork is pulled, a drink poured and tossed back, then another, and another. There is the sound of gentle sobbing::
Eleven am 'till two-thirty pm: Two cups of Japanese green-cherry tea are drunk. A bagel is consumed. LJ is perused at frequent intervals. Eighty words are written.
Two thirty pm till three-twenty pm: Two cups of coffee are made and consumed - Proper coffee, made in the espresso machine, the milk steam-frothed because this consumes more time that might otherwise be passed staring in horror at a Word document filled with eighty tear-stained words of despair.
Three-twenty pm till four twelve pm: Nine hundred and thirty words are written!
Four-eighteen pm: Time for more coffee and a read through. OK, see, I know 930 words is a distinct improvement on eighty, but It's not right. I really need this from Jim's point of view. The story's almost done; this is practically the last chance for some high Jim-angst and he's not cooperating! He's just sitting there in the truck being all stoic, damn him! Oh, he's clutching Blair to his chest and providing a strong shoulder for his sweetheart's tears and holding it all inside while wanting to rip out the OC's eyes for having hurt his baby, but he's not saying anything! The bastard!
::slopes off to kitchen in disgust, hoping maybe a shot of Cuban caffeine will loosen the fucker's tongue::