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Last weekend, I was in New York doing OMG Redux. This weekend I am curled up in the kitchen, revising for collections. There is some profound significance in this juxtaposition of statements, but I can't be bothered to figure out what it is. And oh, I know nothing about political theory, nothing at all, and even less about IR, and yes I am aware that my entire flist is awash with collections-related woe, but still. Collections are horrible. They are pointless and horrible and I am so very doomed.
And the last half an hour or so, I have spent finishing and posting my remix, and it's awful. It's terrible fiction. It has no point, and no real ending, and I hate it. There aren't even any good lines in it. The problem is the original story was great on its own, it didn't need to be remixed. And thus my remix has no real point to it, other than being a different receptacle for the same dialogue. Quite possibly I'll like it better when the stories go public, but quite possibly not.
And speaking of loathing one's own writing, oh I do hate revising for collections. Most of all I hate reading my own essays, which are always long and really, really boring. I nearly put myself to sleep with the Michaelmas sexuality-and-gender essay, which does not bode well for all my other essays. I'm just not working very productively right now, which is bad, which is very bad, because I have two collections and two essays to do in the next week or so, but I can't help it.
(Actually, I came to a realisation last night. It goes like this. It does not matter, in the greater or lesser schemes of things, if I don't do anything during the summer that will go on my CV, and I don't have to stay in Oxford. I've had a good year, CV-wise, and I can spend July and August at home, working at Pritchard's on the lovely still summer afternoons, selling books - which is what I do best, really; I'm not cut out for anything more exacting - and that's all I have to do. I don't have to do anything else. I can write fic and catch up with my philosophy reading. I can go for walks by the sea.
Which is a lovely realisation to have had; it means I can get through this term knowing there's peace on the horizon, and that's always good.)
Er, what else? I have seen some of Doctor Who, but not all; I went out for a meal with my parents last night and had to take a shower in the middle. So I missed the plotty bits, but saw all the character bits (I think). And in the absence of a proper review for Gridlock, I will just say "Oh, Doctor," and leave it at that. That was sad. There's no other word for it. It's all wistful and self-loathing and angsty and oh.... oh, oh. And I really love Martha. She's marvellous. She's all self-contained and witty and cool. I have much love, and possibly a girlcrush.
Okay. I am unproductive. I'm going to bed.
And the last half an hour or so, I have spent finishing and posting my remix, and it's awful. It's terrible fiction. It has no point, and no real ending, and I hate it. There aren't even any good lines in it. The problem is the original story was great on its own, it didn't need to be remixed. And thus my remix has no real point to it, other than being a different receptacle for the same dialogue. Quite possibly I'll like it better when the stories go public, but quite possibly not.
And speaking of loathing one's own writing, oh I do hate revising for collections. Most of all I hate reading my own essays, which are always long and really, really boring. I nearly put myself to sleep with the Michaelmas sexuality-and-gender essay, which does not bode well for all my other essays. I'm just not working very productively right now, which is bad, which is very bad, because I have two collections and two essays to do in the next week or so, but I can't help it.
(Actually, I came to a realisation last night. It goes like this. It does not matter, in the greater or lesser schemes of things, if I don't do anything during the summer that will go on my CV, and I don't have to stay in Oxford. I've had a good year, CV-wise, and I can spend July and August at home, working at Pritchard's on the lovely still summer afternoons, selling books - which is what I do best, really; I'm not cut out for anything more exacting - and that's all I have to do. I don't have to do anything else. I can write fic and catch up with my philosophy reading. I can go for walks by the sea.
Which is a lovely realisation to have had; it means I can get through this term knowing there's peace on the horizon, and that's always good.)
Er, what else? I have seen some of Doctor Who, but not all; I went out for a meal with my parents last night and had to take a shower in the middle. So I missed the plotty bits, but saw all the character bits (I think). And in the absence of a proper review for Gridlock, I will just say "Oh, Doctor," and leave it at that. That was sad. There's no other word for it. It's all wistful and self-loathing and angsty and oh.... oh, oh. And I really love Martha. She's marvellous. She's all self-contained and witty and cool. I have much love, and possibly a girlcrush.
Okay. I am unproductive. I'm going to bed.
