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Aug. 6th, 2008 10:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeOogh so tired. Stayed up longer than I meant to writing TM prompt responses and the first installment of my La Llorona based fic. Which has become either generic Dresden fanfic instead of the RP plot point originally thought (she popped up in my head and proceeded to creep everyone out, so no big loss there) or just generic fic. Jury's still out. And then proceeded to wake up and write another TM prompt. I have no idea why or where this one is going, it just happened.
"My lady..."
He didn't need to tell her, of course. She already knew. Her back was tight, bracing for the impact she had already felt; he could see the tips of her fingers from behind where her hands were wrapped round her arms. Her head was still high. Of course.
"I know, Sam." Which was a bit of a misnomer; he wasn't Sam today. Not in this office, not even in his face, right now. Tonight he was her Sorcerer, older, graying, lined in the face and dignified. Steady. Her old friend.
He came up behind her and laid his hands over her shoulders for the warmth and weight of it, and only began to knead loose the knots when she leaned into him, giving him that sign. Which was a little while. It wasn't so much that it was a shock, not when she'd been expecting this outcome underneath all the hope and cheery talk ever since the beginning, but it was still a disappointment. That was the risk that hope brought you. This was why he tried not to indulge in it.
"So..." she murmured, finally turning her head a little until he laid gentle fingertips along her cheek and turned it back, thumbs pressing out tense muscles in her neck. "What do we do now?"
"We rebuild."
It was a strange sort of question and answer. It was reversed, it was usually him asking her things like this, and her giving the right answers. Well, no. It was whoever needed to hear the answers asking the questions, call and response, the ritual giving them comfort as much as the questions or the reassurance, or anything words and touches could give.
"We rebuild. We go on. The alternative is to stop," and there he deviated from the ritual, a dark little smirk easing its way into his tone as comforting in its own regular and traditional, downright common way as anything they had done so far. "And you don't want to stop, do you?"
"Don't be daft," she said, absently, looking out skyward. "We go on. We have to."
Originally posted on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
oldestbeloved
Inventory continues, although right now I procrastinate by making this LJ entry and emailing people to tell them their stuff has shipped. So it's not really procrastinating since at least half of that is my job. Hah.
I think I've had a mini revelation regarding writing. It was one thign to write, to try to get published, to continually get rejection letters (which are still fucking depressing) when the only alternative was to go full time at a job I loathed beyond Carrot Top, reality TV, and Dubyah. But it's another thing entirely to write, to try to get published, when writing isn't my best ticket out. When I'm working at a job I actually enjoy with people I love. Sure, getting published would be great. The need isn't half so desperate. And there are other things open to me now, such as eventually (if more people join in because no way in hell am I doing this on my own) taking over the business. In ten or fifteen years.
So, maybe writing will be easier for me now. Less stress. Less pressure. More writing stories and having fun and submitting and polishing and submitting, and less flipping out because I'm almost out of potential agents on my book and no one will publish me.
Um. Mostly that's about it for today. Or at least until lunch, which. Heh. I need to stop running up to the corner market for a sandwich or a cookie. Money's going to be tight this month between bills and rent, and paying down my credit card by large chunks, which, while good for my overall debt? Bad for my pocketbook. I think I'm going to make it through this month paying bills with about 200$ to spare.
But on the other hand I should be free of credit card debt by the end of the year. And that'll be a nice feeling.
"My lady..."
He didn't need to tell her, of course. She already knew. Her back was tight, bracing for the impact she had already felt; he could see the tips of her fingers from behind where her hands were wrapped round her arms. Her head was still high. Of course.
"I know, Sam." Which was a bit of a misnomer; he wasn't Sam today. Not in this office, not even in his face, right now. Tonight he was her Sorcerer, older, graying, lined in the face and dignified. Steady. Her old friend.
He came up behind her and laid his hands over her shoulders for the warmth and weight of it, and only began to knead loose the knots when she leaned into him, giving him that sign. Which was a little while. It wasn't so much that it was a shock, not when she'd been expecting this outcome underneath all the hope and cheery talk ever since the beginning, but it was still a disappointment. That was the risk that hope brought you. This was why he tried not to indulge in it.
"So..." she murmured, finally turning her head a little until he laid gentle fingertips along her cheek and turned it back, thumbs pressing out tense muscles in her neck. "What do we do now?"
"We rebuild."
It was a strange sort of question and answer. It was reversed, it was usually him asking her things like this, and her giving the right answers. Well, no. It was whoever needed to hear the answers asking the questions, call and response, the ritual giving them comfort as much as the questions or the reassurance, or anything words and touches could give.
"We rebuild. We go on. The alternative is to stop," and there he deviated from the ritual, a dark little smirk easing its way into his tone as comforting in its own regular and traditional, downright common way as anything they had done so far. "And you don't want to stop, do you?"
"Don't be daft," she said, absently, looking out skyward. "We go on. We have to."
Originally posted on
oldestbelovedInventory continues, although right now I procrastinate by making this LJ entry and emailing people to tell them their stuff has shipped. So it's not really procrastinating since at least half of that is my job. Hah.
I think I've had a mini revelation regarding writing. It was one thign to write, to try to get published, to continually get rejection letters (which are still fucking depressing) when the only alternative was to go full time at a job I loathed beyond Carrot Top, reality TV, and Dubyah. But it's another thing entirely to write, to try to get published, when writing isn't my best ticket out. When I'm working at a job I actually enjoy with people I love. Sure, getting published would be great. The need isn't half so desperate. And there are other things open to me now, such as eventually (if more people join in because no way in hell am I doing this on my own) taking over the business. In ten or fifteen years.
So, maybe writing will be easier for me now. Less stress. Less pressure. More writing stories and having fun and submitting and polishing and submitting, and less flipping out because I'm almost out of potential agents on my book and no one will publish me.
Um. Mostly that's about it for today. Or at least until lunch, which. Heh. I need to stop running up to the corner market for a sandwich or a cookie. Money's going to be tight this month between bills and rent, and paying down my credit card by large chunks, which, while good for my overall debt? Bad for my pocketbook. I think I'm going to make it through this month paying bills with about 200$ to spare.
But on the other hand I should be free of credit card debt by the end of the year. And that'll be a nice feeling.