Fannish Off-Switch
Aug. 14th, 2007 11:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowFan? What's that?
I've been missing my fannish involvement lately while not having much room for it, regardless. I think what I miss most is the constant hamster wheel of activity in my brain - all those what ifs and scenarios and sort of day dreamy moments of speculation that seemed to rest in my brain like the grooves in a CD-RW, running parallel to other content, but not necessarily crossing it.
I've been watching TV, but I haven't been watching anything that pushes speculative buttons, that I think about outside of the moment. Burn Notice and Entourage bring me significant pleasure (and possibly if I were in a different emotional place, I'd crave fic for Burn Notice. As it is, I wouldn't turn it down. Particularly hot, sweaty desert fic with Michael Westin waiting for a contact in someplace kind of seedy and difficult.) But I'm not terribly interested in reading or writing anything these days. Sadly, that's spilled over into my normal book reading as well. I have an absolute stack of novels I want to finish, and I'm just having trouble with any sort of motivation to finish them.
(On the other hand, I do have some interesting thoughts on what it is that I think Burn Notice is doing really well, and how that ties into my normal viewing kinks. Mostly, it's confidence and identity and creating an independent set of rules from the ones governing normal society. That is, aside from the hip divots that Jeffrey Donovan is sporting. Mmmmm. And the fact that I'm really liking how they're painting Fiona as someone who can be lethally competent and edgy and dangerous and funny and also have regular girl concerns about relationships. Not whiny concerns, more, look what are we doing, what were we doing, what are we going to do type concerns.)
Real Life. Oh yeah.
I'm barely writing on the NIP (it's actually on a summer hiatus), and my short story is calling but I'm feeling so sort of burnt and crispy round the edges, and right now, the purpose behind that story (expelling all my AU ghosts in real life) is melding too much into actual, non-AU life and making me teary and uncomfortable. But I'm at that place with the fiction writing that if I don't actually finish something, I'm going to give up completely. I'm so terrified that I won't be able to finish, that I'm all flash and no substance. That I can make anything sound good, but I can't actually tell a real story. It's the same old set of fears, they've just been particularly prominent lately. I think some of it is the new job, and some of it is just the same old shit of what am I doing and why am I doing it here.
I talked to my father yesterday and he's playing the health card (that "you should feel guilty for not calling more because what if I AM DYING!!!" card), and I think, god, what if I am that selfish. What if I stay here and he dies and I've spent the last five years being angry at him for being him? For suffering the consequences of his own decisions? I just... it sounds cold, but I lack the compassion to feel any sort of sympathy that isn't tinged with anger and I have to let that go. I just have to, for both of our sakes.
Always end the conversation with breasts
In conclusion, I'm wearing a shirt today that makes my boobs look gigantic and I sort of hate it, wish I could go home and change. I never connected the fact that getting fatter would make me bustier, and sometimes, even more than the poochy stomach and flabby things, it's the giant breasts that make me weepy over the state of my body. Because, you know, I signed on for teacups and these are frigging soup bowls these days (yes, yes, I know those of you with legitimately large breasts think I'm on crack, but imagine if instead of having a maltese strapped to your chest, you all of a sudden had a beagle. It would be disturbing now, wouldn't it?) I think I just hate that the extra weight robs me of my ability to be delusional about my looks - there's no doubt that I look like a big northern european peasant, that I'm not at all exotic, and while I'm generally pretty okay with my physical self, sometimes the dislike gets to be a little much. I know how to fix it. I know I'm happier when I'm thinner for many reasons - flexibility, strength, stamina, physique and all of the things that go into that pump up my confidence and my resources. I just... like everything else, I need to just get off my ass and stop making excuses.
I've been missing my fannish involvement lately while not having much room for it, regardless. I think what I miss most is the constant hamster wheel of activity in my brain - all those what ifs and scenarios and sort of day dreamy moments of speculation that seemed to rest in my brain like the grooves in a CD-RW, running parallel to other content, but not necessarily crossing it.
I've been watching TV, but I haven't been watching anything that pushes speculative buttons, that I think about outside of the moment. Burn Notice and Entourage bring me significant pleasure (and possibly if I were in a different emotional place, I'd crave fic for Burn Notice. As it is, I wouldn't turn it down. Particularly hot, sweaty desert fic with Michael Westin waiting for a contact in someplace kind of seedy and difficult.) But I'm not terribly interested in reading or writing anything these days. Sadly, that's spilled over into my normal book reading as well. I have an absolute stack of novels I want to finish, and I'm just having trouble with any sort of motivation to finish them.
(On the other hand, I do have some interesting thoughts on what it is that I think Burn Notice is doing really well, and how that ties into my normal viewing kinks. Mostly, it's confidence and identity and creating an independent set of rules from the ones governing normal society. That is, aside from the hip divots that Jeffrey Donovan is sporting. Mmmmm. And the fact that I'm really liking how they're painting Fiona as someone who can be lethally competent and edgy and dangerous and funny and also have regular girl concerns about relationships. Not whiny concerns, more, look what are we doing, what were we doing, what are we going to do type concerns.)
Real Life. Oh yeah.
I'm barely writing on the NIP (it's actually on a summer hiatus), and my short story is calling but I'm feeling so sort of burnt and crispy round the edges, and right now, the purpose behind that story (expelling all my AU ghosts in real life) is melding too much into actual, non-AU life and making me teary and uncomfortable. But I'm at that place with the fiction writing that if I don't actually finish something, I'm going to give up completely. I'm so terrified that I won't be able to finish, that I'm all flash and no substance. That I can make anything sound good, but I can't actually tell a real story. It's the same old set of fears, they've just been particularly prominent lately. I think some of it is the new job, and some of it is just the same old shit of what am I doing and why am I doing it here.
I talked to my father yesterday and he's playing the health card (that "you should feel guilty for not calling more because what if I AM DYING!!!" card), and I think, god, what if I am that selfish. What if I stay here and he dies and I've spent the last five years being angry at him for being him? For suffering the consequences of his own decisions? I just... it sounds cold, but I lack the compassion to feel any sort of sympathy that isn't tinged with anger and I have to let that go. I just have to, for both of our sakes.
Always end the conversation with breasts
In conclusion, I'm wearing a shirt today that makes my boobs look gigantic and I sort of hate it, wish I could go home and change. I never connected the fact that getting fatter would make me bustier, and sometimes, even more than the poochy stomach and flabby things, it's the giant breasts that make me weepy over the state of my body. Because, you know, I signed on for teacups and these are frigging soup bowls these days (yes, yes, I know those of you with legitimately large breasts think I'm on crack, but imagine if instead of having a maltese strapped to your chest, you all of a sudden had a beagle. It would be disturbing now, wouldn't it?) I think I just hate that the extra weight robs me of my ability to be delusional about my looks - there's no doubt that I look like a big northern european peasant, that I'm not at all exotic, and while I'm generally pretty okay with my physical self, sometimes the dislike gets to be a little much. I know how to fix it. I know I'm happier when I'm thinner for many reasons - flexibility, strength, stamina, physique and all of the things that go into that pump up my confidence and my resources. I just... like everything else, I need to just get off my ass and stop making excuses.
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no subject
Date: 2007-08-14 08:14 pm (UTC)Also, I have an extreme kink for spies and conmen flicks. I realize that they are not nearly as sexy in real life, but let me have my fantasies.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-14 08:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-14 08:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-14 08:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 01:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-15 03:28 am (UTC)I for one am confident you can tell a real story and not just flash. Of course, the important thing is for you to believe it, but I offer it FWIW.
I suppose Yay giant boobs! doesn't help, huh? ;) Body image stuff sucks, and I send my support in dealing with it.