"Scooch on over closer, dear, and I will nibble on your ear..."
Monday, January 5th, 2009 09:04 amThe kids are back in school, the Husbandly One is back at work, and I have the house to myself once again. It's quiet, peaceful, and chilly. Though, it's amazing how much the house warmed up when I remembered to reverse the ceiling fans again and set them on slow. I had re-set them to the summer position (clockwise) just before Christmas because... it was warm and muggy.
I think that should have told me right there that Christmas was going to be off this year. The weekend before Christmas had been so cold, the way it's supposed to be... and then Christmas Eve day had been so warm I was actually wandering around the house barefoot and in shorts. Sweating.
*shakes head*
In fact, it stayed warm all the way until yesterday morning. The times I've worn my hoodie since Christmas has been because it's been cold indoors, like at the hospital in San Marcos. Or because I was experiencing personal winter.
Right now, though, I'm cold because it's cold outside. It's raining and 34 degrees. Great for the first day back to school, right?
I'm relieved, though. Time to myself is writing time, and I am very badly backed up where that is concerned. I mean, I've been writing, but in dribs and drabs. I think the last thing I posted was the follow-up to "A Visit," and then, the piece I wrote for![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
harry_holidays. I'm working on more original stuff than fan fiction, these days, and I suppose that's only natural. My little notebook, which I keep in my purse, is full not only of the notes I keep to myself, reminding myself of phone numbers, things I need to do, and all the other things I have to write down in order to remember them (I call it my "low tech Blackberry"), but it is also full of writing notes. Story ideas, plots, drabbles, you name it. I've learned to jot such things down the moment they pop into my head, or at least as soon as possible, because many times, they flutter right back out, which is frustrating.
For example, on one page, I've scribbled, "My dreams were full of fire and smoke, heat curling the edges of a paper I held in my hands, smoke that burned my throat as I tried to peer through it, trying to figure out where I was, and why I was there. Even after I woke up, and started about my day, smoke seemed to permeate everything, hazing my vision as I walked outside for the paper, making my throat and chest ache ..."
I have no idea where I was going with that, nor what the heck I'm going to do with it.
How about this little tidbit? ...
He stared up at Draco, shivering as even the warming charms couldn’t warm his failing body any longer. Draco held his hand, staring back, trying to memorize every single detail of his face, of his eyes, of the way he just… looked. James swallowed, reaching up to touch Draco’s jaw. “Who wants to live… forever… anyway,” he rasped as tears filled the dark eyes.
Draco lifted the frail hand to his lips. “I don’t,” he whispered. “Not without you.”
James’ pale lips trembled. “I… I would do it… if I could… for you, Draco… I swear I would…”
“I know, love, Shhhhh,” said Draco, letting his own tears fall. “Shhhh… I know you would…”
“I tried so hard, Draco,” he whispered, the tears finally beyond his control and spilling from his eyes. “I tried so hard to live… I did…”
“I know…”
“I want to live,” he said, fiercely. “I… I want to live, Draco… and… and be with you…”
“I know, James…” He closed his eyes, kissing the hand in his, pressing it to his wet cheeks. “I want… so much with you, James. But… I’m grateful for what we’ve had.”
“I’m not,” said James, almost angrily. When Draco looked at him, startled, he closed his eyes. “I want more… I’m greedy, I want… I want more… it’s not enough…”
Hermione was sobbing quietly into Ron’s chest, and Ron was watching them with a dull-eyed despair. Harry had turned away from Ginny and was staring resolutely out the window, almost past his endurance.
“I love you,” whispered Draco. “I have loved you since the first moment I saw you, on the train in third year. I have known you were the one from the moment you fell in my lap that day, and… I never stopped hoping, somehow, someway… that… that we would…”
“Draco,” James whispered, and Draco stopped, staring at him, then he stood.
“No! No, not yet, not now, James, no, you can’t! You can’t die yet, please, baby, please… one more minute, please… I love you, don’t go, don’t leave me… James, James, please, please!!!!”
James stared at him intently. “I… I love… you… love you… always… love… my Draco… love…” and then he was struggling to suck in a breath, trying to breathe, his eyes focused so hard on Draco, who wanted to shout for a healer, but didn’t want to look away, didn’t want to waste that last moment, the very last moment he’d see love and life in those beautiful, luminous eyes. Slowly, the focus shifted, he was staring at Draco, but no longer seeing him, his eyes on some far horizon, and on a rasping, wheezing exhale, he breathed, “Free…” and was gone.
“James!” The wail was ripped from Draco’s heart, and he fell forward on the still breast, sobbing. “James! James, oh, gods, James…”
???
Who the heck is James, and what was I thinking when I wrote this? I've left no clues to myself, and yet, there it is. Nice little bit, a bit sobby, a bit schmaltzy, maybe a bit cathartic, but...*shrugs*
Then there's this lovely little piece that looks promising... if I can just figure out where I was going with it...
When Brian, exasperated beyond bearing, found Joshua, it was after hearing music drift down the stairs. Some sort of stringed instrument by the sound of it. He followed the elusive notes up the stairs, around a corner, and up another set of stairs hidden behind a tapestry until he found himself on a rooftop platform. His host was perched on the railing, one knee up, one leg down, while his back was braced against a column that provided support for an even higher platform. His face was turned toward the setting sun as he cradled a mandolin against his belly, his fingers moving idly over the neck as he played only to amuse himself, eyes lost to imaginary wanderings that left his lips upturned in a quiet smile...
Like I said, I have no idea where I was going with that.
I'm awfully glad THO is accustomed to living with a writer, even to the point of helping me do research from time to time. Though, really, he kinda enjoys helping me do some of that research...
Though I would like to know why I wrote "Expresso/no expresso, cheese, sandwich, no filler..."
*ponders*
Nope. Nothing. No idea, really. I imagine if any of you tried to plumb my mind, you would find it an inconveniently dark, slightly damp, and completely confusing place. With unexpected corners. And Labrador Retrievers bounding up to knock you over and drool on your shoes. Or something like that.
Yes, I am going into writing mode. Can you tell? Well, I'm off to huddle over my keyboard for an incomprehensible two or so hours, and then I'll be much more coherent and together. I hope.
Distractedly,
Auntie
I think that should have told me right there that Christmas was going to be off this year. The weekend before Christmas had been so cold, the way it's supposed to be... and then Christmas Eve day had been so warm I was actually wandering around the house barefoot and in shorts. Sweating.
*shakes head*
In fact, it stayed warm all the way until yesterday morning. The times I've worn my hoodie since Christmas has been because it's been cold indoors, like at the hospital in San Marcos. Or because I was experiencing personal winter.
Right now, though, I'm cold because it's cold outside. It's raining and 34 degrees. Great for the first day back to school, right?
I'm relieved, though. Time to myself is writing time, and I am very badly backed up where that is concerned. I mean, I've been writing, but in dribs and drabs. I think the last thing I posted was the follow-up to "A Visit," and then, the piece I wrote for
harry_holidays. I'm working on more original stuff than fan fiction, these days, and I suppose that's only natural. My little notebook, which I keep in my purse, is full not only of the notes I keep to myself, reminding myself of phone numbers, things I need to do, and all the other things I have to write down in order to remember them (I call it my "low tech Blackberry"), but it is also full of writing notes. Story ideas, plots, drabbles, you name it. I've learned to jot such things down the moment they pop into my head, or at least as soon as possible, because many times, they flutter right back out, which is frustrating.For example, on one page, I've scribbled, "My dreams were full of fire and smoke, heat curling the edges of a paper I held in my hands, smoke that burned my throat as I tried to peer through it, trying to figure out where I was, and why I was there. Even after I woke up, and started about my day, smoke seemed to permeate everything, hazing my vision as I walked outside for the paper, making my throat and chest ache ..."
I have no idea where I was going with that, nor what the heck I'm going to do with it.
How about this little tidbit? ...
He stared up at Draco, shivering as even the warming charms couldn’t warm his failing body any longer. Draco held his hand, staring back, trying to memorize every single detail of his face, of his eyes, of the way he just… looked. James swallowed, reaching up to touch Draco’s jaw. “Who wants to live… forever… anyway,” he rasped as tears filled the dark eyes.
Draco lifted the frail hand to his lips. “I don’t,” he whispered. “Not without you.”
James’ pale lips trembled. “I… I would do it… if I could… for you, Draco… I swear I would…”
“I know, love, Shhhhh,” said Draco, letting his own tears fall. “Shhhh… I know you would…”
“I tried so hard, Draco,” he whispered, the tears finally beyond his control and spilling from his eyes. “I tried so hard to live… I did…”
“I know…”
“I want to live,” he said, fiercely. “I… I want to live, Draco… and… and be with you…”
“I know, James…” He closed his eyes, kissing the hand in his, pressing it to his wet cheeks. “I want… so much with you, James. But… I’m grateful for what we’ve had.”
“I’m not,” said James, almost angrily. When Draco looked at him, startled, he closed his eyes. “I want more… I’m greedy, I want… I want more… it’s not enough…”
Hermione was sobbing quietly into Ron’s chest, and Ron was watching them with a dull-eyed despair. Harry had turned away from Ginny and was staring resolutely out the window, almost past his endurance.
“I love you,” whispered Draco. “I have loved you since the first moment I saw you, on the train in third year. I have known you were the one from the moment you fell in my lap that day, and… I never stopped hoping, somehow, someway… that… that we would…”
“Draco,” James whispered, and Draco stopped, staring at him, then he stood.
“No! No, not yet, not now, James, no, you can’t! You can’t die yet, please, baby, please… one more minute, please… I love you, don’t go, don’t leave me… James, James, please, please!!!!”
James stared at him intently. “I… I love… you… love you… always… love… my Draco… love…” and then he was struggling to suck in a breath, trying to breathe, his eyes focused so hard on Draco, who wanted to shout for a healer, but didn’t want to look away, didn’t want to waste that last moment, the very last moment he’d see love and life in those beautiful, luminous eyes. Slowly, the focus shifted, he was staring at Draco, but no longer seeing him, his eyes on some far horizon, and on a rasping, wheezing exhale, he breathed, “Free…” and was gone.
“James!” The wail was ripped from Draco’s heart, and he fell forward on the still breast, sobbing. “James! James, oh, gods, James…”
???
Who the heck is James, and what was I thinking when I wrote this? I've left no clues to myself, and yet, there it is. Nice little bit, a bit sobby, a bit schmaltzy, maybe a bit cathartic, but...*shrugs*
Then there's this lovely little piece that looks promising... if I can just figure out where I was going with it...
When Brian, exasperated beyond bearing, found Joshua, it was after hearing music drift down the stairs. Some sort of stringed instrument by the sound of it. He followed the elusive notes up the stairs, around a corner, and up another set of stairs hidden behind a tapestry until he found himself on a rooftop platform. His host was perched on the railing, one knee up, one leg down, while his back was braced against a column that provided support for an even higher platform. His face was turned toward the setting sun as he cradled a mandolin against his belly, his fingers moving idly over the neck as he played only to amuse himself, eyes lost to imaginary wanderings that left his lips upturned in a quiet smile...
Like I said, I have no idea where I was going with that.
I'm awfully glad THO is accustomed to living with a writer, even to the point of helping me do research from time to time. Though, really, he kinda enjoys helping me do some of that research...
Though I would like to know why I wrote "Expresso/no expresso, cheese, sandwich, no filler..."
*ponders*
Nope. Nothing. No idea, really. I imagine if any of you tried to plumb my mind, you would find it an inconveniently dark, slightly damp, and completely confusing place. With unexpected corners. And Labrador Retrievers bounding up to knock you over and drool on your shoes. Or something like that.
Yes, I am going into writing mode. Can you tell? Well, I'm off to huddle over my keyboard for an incomprehensible two or so hours, and then I'll be much more coherent and together. I hope.
Distractedly,
Auntie
