I mentioned fanfiction before, and there is an author that I'm really into right now. She writes simply the best, true-to-series X-Files fanfiction I've ever read. Her name is Joann Humby and she has a lot of stuff archived at Gossamer. Two serial fic's of hers that I highly recommend are Consequential Loss and Disconnected. I'm making my way through all of her stuff in my off hours ;-) Her Mulder and Scully are lovely, and her Skinner is tortured and her Krycek is ...well, let's just say he's fleshed out the way I always wished they'd have fleshed him out in the series. If you're looking for fic that is imaginative, original and plays like a really tight, excellant X-Files episode (or movie) in your mind, you should give her a look.
Good stuff.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Sunday, September 03, 2006
On Fanfic
Oy.
First of all, I'm just going to say that I write what is in my head. I'm not a great writer, but that's good; I've got a goal that way, see?
Secondly, I get bored easily by the same old, same old, and my mind wanders to the different avenues, the little back streets, the messy little greasy spoons, precisely because they are the road less traveled.
When you're writing in a forum which is open to eeeevvvverrrryyybody and their brother, you are gonna get all kinds of stuff -- or you should, anyway. And all I was seeing was the same stuff over, and over, and over. I envision something...else.
My name at the forum is the same as here. And I'm not that prolific -- I've only got two stories -- one that is basically abandoned, and one that I just started. Both were based on popular shows... One, a dinosaur that's still limping along on the N_ _ network, and one that put Fox (both of them) on the collective consciousness's map. I cherish my stories, y'all, because writing is a dream that detoured in my life, and something that I am compelled to do... like breathing, right?
If I think the former nurse turned doctor and the rich boy doc who feels called to Africa really, truly belong together... and I write it in my little fanfic and that bugs.. well, you're entitled to be bugged, but get over it. I watched it faithfully, and that is what I thought should happen. If the powers didn't exactly agree with me, so what. Their's is a money game, so I understand. Gotta squeeze that teet as long as the cow is still standing, right?
If I think the dirty double agent who doesn't like to be discarded like somebody's bad prom date (and -- what a shame -- lost one of those enormously attractive arms) and the inscrutible doc from Quantico with the creamy skin turned alien chaser make for more interesting possibilities in my little passion play, who CARES? The show has been in the can for FOUR YEARS. The double agent doesn't even talk about his time shillin' for the mytharc anymore and the inscrutible, beautiful doc with the delicate skin is busy setting up housekeeping in London and doing stage plays. Meanwhile the Favored One, the Agent everyone loves best, the one everyone thinks the lady doc should have ended up with is busy parody-ing Agent Fox, painting charity pictures with his butt aided by his very, very funny wife and enjoying being a dad.
I don't think my doofy little fanfic is bothering any of them, really.
So every.single.person.writing.x-f fanfic thinks MSR is a religion... I don't. Never did. Can't make me see it that way... (oh, yeah -- here's more treachery: it ended for me at the foxy one's disappearance. The truth wasn't out there after Season 7)
Besides, it's so much more fun when there's lots of variety.
So, as far as my stress-busting creative pursuits are concerned, Bad boy double agent? you go for it, boy -- enough skulls, get you some skully in your closet.
And Doctor Former Nurse, if you're going to stay with the Croatian, get him to lighten up.
First of all, I'm just going to say that I write what is in my head. I'm not a great writer, but that's good; I've got a goal that way, see?
Secondly, I get bored easily by the same old, same old, and my mind wanders to the different avenues, the little back streets, the messy little greasy spoons, precisely because they are the road less traveled.
When you're writing in a forum which is open to eeeevvvverrrryyybody and their brother, you are gonna get all kinds of stuff -- or you should, anyway. And all I was seeing was the same stuff over, and over, and over. I envision something...else.
My name at the forum is the same as here. And I'm not that prolific -- I've only got two stories -- one that is basically abandoned, and one that I just started. Both were based on popular shows... One, a dinosaur that's still limping along on the N_ _ network, and one that put Fox (both of them) on the collective consciousness's map. I cherish my stories, y'all, because writing is a dream that detoured in my life, and something that I am compelled to do... like breathing, right?
If I think the former nurse turned doctor and the rich boy doc who feels called to Africa really, truly belong together... and I write it in my little fanfic and that bugs.. well, you're entitled to be bugged, but get over it. I watched it faithfully, and that is what I thought should happen. If the powers didn't exactly agree with me, so what. Their's is a money game, so I understand. Gotta squeeze that teet as long as the cow is still standing, right?
If I think the dirty double agent who doesn't like to be discarded like somebody's bad prom date (and -- what a shame -- lost one of those enormously attractive arms) and the inscrutible doc from Quantico with the creamy skin turned alien chaser make for more interesting possibilities in my little passion play, who CARES? The show has been in the can for FOUR YEARS. The double agent doesn't even talk about his time shillin' for the mytharc anymore and the inscrutible, beautiful doc with the delicate skin is busy setting up housekeeping in London and doing stage plays. Meanwhile the Favored One, the Agent everyone loves best, the one everyone thinks the lady doc should have ended up with is busy parody-ing Agent Fox, painting charity pictures with his butt aided by his very, very funny wife and enjoying being a dad.
I don't think my doofy little fanfic is bothering any of them, really.
So every.single.person.writing.x-f fanfic thinks MSR is a religion... I don't. Never did. Can't make me see it that way... (oh, yeah -- here's more treachery: it ended for me at the foxy one's disappearance. The truth wasn't out there after Season 7)
Besides, it's so much more fun when there's lots of variety.
So, as far as my stress-busting creative pursuits are concerned, Bad boy double agent? you go for it, boy -- enough skulls, get you some skully in your closet.
And Doctor Former Nurse, if you're going to stay with the Croatian, get him to lighten up.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
I'm cozy in the rocket
When my head begins to get too big, full of notions that I'm a true individual, that I listen to all sides of an argument before making an informed, personal decision... That I'm not a follower of the crowd, that I trail-blaze my own path, that I don't acquiesce to the press of popular opinion...
Something comes along to knock that self-satisfied impression right out of my head.
The feeling that we are individual, and special is a not-uncommon feeling; everyone wants to feel that way, a few of us actually do... Most of us, though, are shocked to find out just how like we are to our neighbor.
Usually this feeling is brought about by some life-event, like marriage or a very first job search or, going back even further, getting that first car. Invariably, if the money issues forth from the pocket of the parents, the car will be a sensible one with good gas mileage and absolutely zero cool factor.
But if we've saved up our own money, we are as likely to pick a car low on internal advantages, and high on looks as we are to hate our parents with a seething passion at the ripe age of 15. But then, "cool" is a priviledge of the teen years, and the desire for it outgrown as surely as the ignorance of the importance of good gas mileage evaporates, upon footing the cost for the first month's supply of that hungry machine.
It's usually the detritus of life that sways upon the cool factor -- the stuff that won't make a bit of difference when life begins that steep slope toward the inevitable-- the stuff that is engineered to be hot right now, and passe 15 minutes hence. Cars, clothes, shoes... the term "planned obsolescence" comes to mind. "Style" is perpetuated by it, spring, winter, fall and summer clothes lines thrive on it, and where would Bill Gates be without it?
There are some things, though, that even within the confines of planned obsolescence, transcend the bounds and appeal to a wide swathe of people and have some staying power... Jeans, for instance. Hi-rise, boot-cut, low-riders, ripped, patched, bleached, scorched and yes, even the whole-heartedly despised mom jeans-- despised even by the very moms encased uncomfortably within them-- there are as many styles as there are bodies to fit into them... One positive, universal appeal of jeans, though, is the fabric from which they are crafted... If there is anything better than cotton denim I haven't experienced it yet... and, interestingly, the very thing that makes jeans so wide-spread in their appeal also ensures the extremely slim possibility of their ever being "planned" into "obsolescence."
Jeans are to the clothing world what the humble potato peeler is to the kitchen gadget industry; it's just not possible to "build a better mouse trap" in either instance.
Television shows, however, are in another realm altogether... Other than the ridiculously ever changing clothing lines that the fashion industry foists upon the hapless, vapid fashionista, they are far and away the most lacking in any crumb of longevity. Once the industry discovered that syndication produces Midas-ian wealth, the aim switched from crafting an entertaining show as long as it appeals to the public, to "keep it on air and wring every last drop of creativity, freshness, intventiveness, and plausibility until it remains a mere shell of what it was at it's inception. I have more gripes than I care to recount in detail, so I will just toss out some "knee-jerk" words -- XFiles, Seinfeld, ER (a pox on you, tptb), Alley McBeal... all shows which became colossal disappointments in their endgame.
Also, it has nothing to do with my point, but I would feel remiss if I didn't mention, briefly, at the extreme opposite end of the wading pool -- the shows which were cut off before they should have been -- Sports Night (what the heck happened there?), Once and Again, Flying Blind (hello. did "Dharma" first. and did it BETTER), Futurama (come on; for a sophomore effort it beats the hell out of American Dad, any day. And while I'm on the subject -Seth, be careful, your crappy Dad, is killing the creativity of your far superior Guy.)
The disillusion abounds. You get to where you numb yourself to the gi-normous dearth of quality, creativity and innovation, until one day, you take a page from your husband's play book, and start channel surfing... and lo and behold you come across... blue jeans. Not just any old k-mart version, either...but real 501, button fly, gently used in the seat and knees, washed to softly perfect...perfection. The kind of jeans that, from all evidence, just sputtered right out of the factory, like, yesterday, but have the unmistakeably old soul of a pair of Miner 49ers.
Before you know it, you're hooked. Bad. You can't wait for Sunday nights at 10 (9 central, ABC) when you can get your weekly fix of this very good thing. You're cruising along, enjoying the sheer pleasure of having discovered something rare -- something actually creative, and fun, as well as moving (gag) ... but then you discover that the whole world (all six and a half BILLION people) are watching, and appreciating, and digging what you're digging.... And you don't feel quite so special anymore... but you know what? You don't care.
Because it's JEANS man.
Something comes along to knock that self-satisfied impression right out of my head.
The feeling that we are individual, and special is a not-uncommon feeling; everyone wants to feel that way, a few of us actually do... Most of us, though, are shocked to find out just how like we are to our neighbor.
Usually this feeling is brought about by some life-event, like marriage or a very first job search or, going back even further, getting that first car. Invariably, if the money issues forth from the pocket of the parents, the car will be a sensible one with good gas mileage and absolutely zero cool factor.
But if we've saved up our own money, we are as likely to pick a car low on internal advantages, and high on looks as we are to hate our parents with a seething passion at the ripe age of 15. But then, "cool" is a priviledge of the teen years, and the desire for it outgrown as surely as the ignorance of the importance of good gas mileage evaporates, upon footing the cost for the first month's supply of that hungry machine.
It's usually the detritus of life that sways upon the cool factor -- the stuff that won't make a bit of difference when life begins that steep slope toward the inevitable-- the stuff that is engineered to be hot right now, and passe 15 minutes hence. Cars, clothes, shoes... the term "planned obsolescence" comes to mind. "Style" is perpetuated by it, spring, winter, fall and summer clothes lines thrive on it, and where would Bill Gates be without it?
There are some things, though, that even within the confines of planned obsolescence, transcend the bounds and appeal to a wide swathe of people and have some staying power... Jeans, for instance. Hi-rise, boot-cut, low-riders, ripped, patched, bleached, scorched and yes, even the whole-heartedly despised mom jeans-- despised even by the very moms encased uncomfortably within them-- there are as many styles as there are bodies to fit into them... One positive, universal appeal of jeans, though, is the fabric from which they are crafted... If there is anything better than cotton denim I haven't experienced it yet... and, interestingly, the very thing that makes jeans so wide-spread in their appeal also ensures the extremely slim possibility of their ever being "planned" into "obsolescence."
Jeans are to the clothing world what the humble potato peeler is to the kitchen gadget industry; it's just not possible to "build a better mouse trap" in either instance.
Television shows, however, are in another realm altogether... Other than the ridiculously ever changing clothing lines that the fashion industry foists upon the hapless, vapid fashionista, they are far and away the most lacking in any crumb of longevity. Once the industry discovered that syndication produces Midas-ian wealth, the aim switched from crafting an entertaining show as long as it appeals to the public, to "keep it on air and wring every last drop of creativity, freshness, intventiveness, and plausibility until it remains a mere shell of what it was at it's inception. I have more gripes than I care to recount in detail, so I will just toss out some "knee-jerk" words -- XFiles, Seinfeld, ER (a pox on you, tptb), Alley McBeal... all shows which became colossal disappointments in their endgame.
Also, it has nothing to do with my point, but I would feel remiss if I didn't mention, briefly, at the extreme opposite end of the wading pool -- the shows which were cut off before they should have been -- Sports Night (what the heck happened there?), Once and Again, Flying Blind (hello. did "Dharma" first. and did it BETTER), Futurama (come on; for a sophomore effort it beats the hell out of American Dad, any day. And while I'm on the subject -Seth, be careful, your crappy Dad, is killing the creativity of your far superior Guy.)
The disillusion abounds. You get to where you numb yourself to the gi-normous dearth of quality, creativity and innovation, until one day, you take a page from your husband's play book, and start channel surfing... and lo and behold you come across... blue jeans. Not just any old k-mart version, either...but real 501, button fly, gently used in the seat and knees, washed to softly perfect...perfection. The kind of jeans that, from all evidence, just sputtered right out of the factory, like, yesterday, but have the unmistakeably old soul of a pair of Miner 49ers.
Before you know it, you're hooked. Bad. You can't wait for Sunday nights at 10 (9 central, ABC) when you can get your weekly fix of this very good thing. You're cruising along, enjoying the sheer pleasure of having discovered something rare -- something actually creative, and fun, as well as moving (gag) ... but then you discover that the whole world (all six and a half BILLION people) are watching, and appreciating, and digging what you're digging.... And you don't feel quite so special anymore... but you know what? You don't care.
Because it's JEANS man.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
O brother, where art thou?
He's my brother. And I haven't heard from him in a long, long while. We used to be close; I would listen to his girl woes, and he would listen to my advice. Somewhere along the way, though, he didn't like who I'd chosen to become, and he cut himself out of my life.
For a long time this cut me to the bone; I was proud of him, and worried for him. I wanted all these good things for him --a relationship with a nice girl, a good job which fulfilled him creatively (he's a phenomenal artist) but most of all, I wished him peace. With himself, the world and our past.
Now... I just feel sad that he doesn't know his nieces. He met our oldest, who asks about him every so often, when she was only a year old, and has never met our youngest. She rarely asks about him... but I know she wonders about him. We've built them a life which is full; full enough to compensate for a missing piece which probably doesn't want to be found.
He's a very unique individual... maybe he's even felt pidgeon-holed by people around him... maybe he's struggled with the same fears I've struggled with... I don't like to be put into a box, and labeled neatly. The box may constrict the life right out of me or be too big to fill from one moment to the next - who needs that, right? I don't want to be defined. I just want to be.
But he stuffed me in a box many years ago... I don't know what was happening in his mind, but I think it went something like this: our mother was dead, he had unresolved feelings and thoughts about her, and he transferred them to me.
Eww. I get a little squicked just thinking it -- much less typing it out. But it's my version of what happened. He, no doubt, has his own. Neither is the real truth... but somewhere in the middle, I guess.
He's a non-entity in our lives... he's a persona non-grata (although he extracted himself) he's... he's a phantom. A living dream state... someone I remember... but with soft edges, and dim color -- like an old photograph from the 70's or something. He chose to give me up; not the other way around... and yet, I'm the one who feels the guilt. And the loss.
He's out here, somewhere, in blog-space. Hey, Bro. If you're ever in the dust-bowl, look us up. We've left a candle burning for you. There's a couple of little people here who'd really like to know you.
For a long time this cut me to the bone; I was proud of him, and worried for him. I wanted all these good things for him --a relationship with a nice girl, a good job which fulfilled him creatively (he's a phenomenal artist) but most of all, I wished him peace. With himself, the world and our past.
Now... I just feel sad that he doesn't know his nieces. He met our oldest, who asks about him every so often, when she was only a year old, and has never met our youngest. She rarely asks about him... but I know she wonders about him. We've built them a life which is full; full enough to compensate for a missing piece which probably doesn't want to be found.
He's a very unique individual... maybe he's even felt pidgeon-holed by people around him... maybe he's struggled with the same fears I've struggled with... I don't like to be put into a box, and labeled neatly. The box may constrict the life right out of me or be too big to fill from one moment to the next - who needs that, right? I don't want to be defined. I just want to be.
But he stuffed me in a box many years ago... I don't know what was happening in his mind, but I think it went something like this: our mother was dead, he had unresolved feelings and thoughts about her, and he transferred them to me.
Eww. I get a little squicked just thinking it -- much less typing it out. But it's my version of what happened. He, no doubt, has his own. Neither is the real truth... but somewhere in the middle, I guess.
He's a non-entity in our lives... he's a persona non-grata (although he extracted himself) he's... he's a phantom. A living dream state... someone I remember... but with soft edges, and dim color -- like an old photograph from the 70's or something. He chose to give me up; not the other way around... and yet, I'm the one who feels the guilt. And the loss.
He's out here, somewhere, in blog-space. Hey, Bro. If you're ever in the dust-bowl, look us up. We've left a candle burning for you. There's a couple of little people here who'd really like to know you.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Been a Long Time...
The Holidays were a whirlwind.
They seem to go by faster every year. Is that because I'm getting older... or is time, actually, speeding up? I don't know, but at this rate I'm going to be 110 next year.
I made no New Year's resolutions this year... because last year's was to never make New Year's resolutions. Again. Ever.
It's the first successful New Year's resolution ever I made. Yay! me.
Happy (belated) New Year, everyone.
They seem to go by faster every year. Is that because I'm getting older... or is time, actually, speeding up? I don't know, but at this rate I'm going to be 110 next year.
I made no New Year's resolutions this year... because last year's was to never make New Year's resolutions. Again. Ever.
It's the first successful New Year's resolution ever I made. Yay! me.
Happy (belated) New Year, everyone.
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