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itsallovernowI am slowly recovering from the space plague - and have passed it on to several of my co-workers. They're understandably thrilled. But gah, I've felt like I've been underwater this whole week. I finally taught belly dance tonight, which was good, but then I could barely walk out of the studio and now I'm hazy and dazed and wondering what prompted me to spout off about scifi and gender politics. Shrug.
Actually, I'm mostly surprised at how easy it was for me to go from my experience to assuming a collective experience. And I know better.
There was a meme going around (I think started by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
troyswann) about the fic you want to write, or wanted write, and won't.
And I have a couple FS fics that fall into that category, but I have a recent SG-1 fic that I know I'm not going to write. I have the beginning, but it would involve plotting out the middle part and I don't think I'm committed enough to telling a long story in this fandom or this universe in order to make the plot really resonante. However, I am pleased with the beginning.
He catches sight of her in the the Whole Foods off the highway, the one patronized by busy working moms and the few yuppies who moved out to Rockrimmon before it really became the burbs.
It's the blackness of her hair that catches his eye, the way that she tilts her head. Most women here don't know how to do that, to catch their lips between sharp teeth, to sweep down dark lashes and convince an entire room that giving up their will is a good idea.
He doesn't call out to her, instead watches while she pays for Italian water and smoked ham and slips organic chocolate into her purse along with a white peach from California. Her sweater is dark blue, nighttime indigo and comes all the way up to her neck. She's wearing tight, expensive jeans and heavy boots and he's hardly the only one to watch her walk out the door, watch her heft her bag in one arm and pull her blood colored coat close to her body with the other. He leaves the few groceries he'd picked up in the cart, and trails her out the door, through the snow as she walks across the strip mall, across Woodman to enter a small set of apartments nearly a mile away from the stores.
The apartments don't seem like her style. They're colorless, lifeless, and he's pretty sure she must have needed to provide references. He wonders if someone, somewhere in Stargate command had said that "Yes, we did at one time employ a Vala Mal Doran."
He waits until he's back in his car to call Jackson, hangs up the phone when the man answers. He calls Teal'c instead, trying hard not to grin knowing that the big man's ring tone plays Baby Got Back.
"Mitchell." Teal'c's also got caller ID.
"She's not dead."
There's a long pause. "Colonel, that statement could apply to any number of people."
***
He sits in the car outside of her apartment for the rest of the night, waiting to see if she has somewhere to go. She never leaves. He sees the flicker of the television through the thin curtains, sees the lights go off around 2 a.m. but the TV stays on.
It's 5 a.m. before he realizes that Teal'c should have sounded more surprised.
I'll never write it because in addition to the plotting, and the actual having to pay attention to the Orii and what 's going on there, I'd have to write it before canon made it obsolete.
Other stories that I know I'll never write are stories that also have a beginning and an ending but no middle. It's a flaw. Sue me.
Talking tocofax7 about a potential short story contest, I definitely have a short story idea of a group of people all jammed into the Beverly Hills Hotel, unwilling to come out and deal with a radically altered society. They flit around, half washed, half starved, drinking champagne and Drambuie because there's no water, convinced that they've been barricaded in, but the truth is that the barricade came down days ago, but no one in the hotel wants to hear, wants to face a society where they have nothing.
Actually, I'm mostly surprised at how easy it was for me to go from my experience to assuming a collective experience. And I know better.
There was a meme going around (I think started by
troyswann) about the fic you want to write, or wanted write, and won't.And I have a couple FS fics that fall into that category, but I have a recent SG-1 fic that I know I'm not going to write. I have the beginning, but it would involve plotting out the middle part and I don't think I'm committed enough to telling a long story in this fandom or this universe in order to make the plot really resonante. However, I am pleased with the beginning.
He catches sight of her in the the Whole Foods off the highway, the one patronized by busy working moms and the few yuppies who moved out to Rockrimmon before it really became the burbs.
It's the blackness of her hair that catches his eye, the way that she tilts her head. Most women here don't know how to do that, to catch their lips between sharp teeth, to sweep down dark lashes and convince an entire room that giving up their will is a good idea.
He doesn't call out to her, instead watches while she pays for Italian water and smoked ham and slips organic chocolate into her purse along with a white peach from California. Her sweater is dark blue, nighttime indigo and comes all the way up to her neck. She's wearing tight, expensive jeans and heavy boots and he's hardly the only one to watch her walk out the door, watch her heft her bag in one arm and pull her blood colored coat close to her body with the other. He leaves the few groceries he'd picked up in the cart, and trails her out the door, through the snow as she walks across the strip mall, across Woodman to enter a small set of apartments nearly a mile away from the stores.
The apartments don't seem like her style. They're colorless, lifeless, and he's pretty sure she must have needed to provide references. He wonders if someone, somewhere in Stargate command had said that "Yes, we did at one time employ a Vala Mal Doran."
He waits until he's back in his car to call Jackson, hangs up the phone when the man answers. He calls Teal'c instead, trying hard not to grin knowing that the big man's ring tone plays Baby Got Back.
"Mitchell." Teal'c's also got caller ID.
"She's not dead."
There's a long pause. "Colonel, that statement could apply to any number of people."
***
He sits in the car outside of her apartment for the rest of the night, waiting to see if she has somewhere to go. She never leaves. He sees the flicker of the television through the thin curtains, sees the lights go off around 2 a.m. but the TV stays on.
It's 5 a.m. before he realizes that Teal'c should have sounded more surprised.
I'll never write it because in addition to the plotting, and the actual having to pay attention to the Orii and what 's going on there, I'd have to write it before canon made it obsolete.
Other stories that I know I'll never write are stories that also have a beginning and an ending but no middle. It's a flaw. Sue me.
Talking to
cofax7 about a potential short story contest, I definitely have a short story idea of a group of people all jammed into the Beverly Hills Hotel, unwilling to come out and deal with a radically altered society. They flit around, half washed, half starved, drinking champagne and Drambuie because there's no water, convinced that they've been barricaded in, but the truth is that the barricade came down days ago, but no one in the hotel wants to hear, wants to face a society where they have nothing.
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no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 07:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 07:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 07:18 am (UTC)Thanks for sharing.
Now to bed and happy dreams.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 07:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 07:30 am (UTC)And the short story contest sounds marvelous, and the trapped in the hotel thing is bringing back vivid memories of Hotel Rwanda.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 08:19 am (UTC)And yeah, the story doesn't exactly relate to the contest, but it was sparked by the idea.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 07:59 am (UTC)Have you read that Ann Patchett book? The...Bel Canto! If not, remind me to loan it to you. Similar aesthetic to this -- diplomatic bourgeouisie at a gala with a famous operatic diva performing, and they get trapped in there when insurgents attack the home. Pretty awesome and I think you'd like it.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 08:15 am (UTC)Mostly I like the idea of people deliberately ignoring several layers of their reality in the face of a changing landscape, that there's a moment when they could leave, but they choose not to without every really acknolwedging that it's a choice.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 09:31 am (UTC)Nice SG drabble, whether or not you ever write a story.
I hope you feel better very soon. (((Thea)))
no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 05:35 pm (UTC)And thanks dear.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 12:11 pm (UTC)glad you're feeling better, and also, that's an intriguing idea about the people in the hotel. *g*
no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 05:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 10:40 pm (UTC)and driving jack nuts about it. ;)
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Date: 2006-01-27 03:25 pm (UTC)And if you write that short story, I'd definitely love to read it! Sounds fascinating.
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Date: 2006-01-27 05:25 pm (UTC)And I'm very tempted to write them both now. Grrr.
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Date: 2006-01-27 05:01 pm (UTC)Nooo, write it anyway and call it AU. 99 to 1 it'll be more interesting than canon anyway.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-24 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-24 06:10 pm (UTC)