clo_again

I really need to get back in the habit of doing this. I mean, I'm procrastinating from writing to do this but when did I ever post to LJ when I wasn't procrastinating from writing? (tip: I was always procrastinating from writing).

I mean, writing is going pretty well at the moment. For me, anyway; I've posted something within the last week which is a rare enough occurrence to rate as 'pretty well', and the thing I wrote when I had writer's block on the other thing is 2k plus and climbing, so I figure I'll get that done pretty soon before I work on the next chapter of before you come to evening. And I reread 10k of reaction-fic I wrote after Novak lost Wimbledon last year, which I'd relegated to my Dead Letter Box folder (for fic I have no intention of finishing) because I hated it and thought it was boring, but today I enjoyed it and was sad to hit the end of what I'd written, and frustrated. What were you thinking past self? I don't understand; you were on a roll. Quit quitting stuff.

I don't know if I'll finish it. Elements of it surfaced in the coming of the fall which I wrote a couple of months after, but all the set-up is done; the sticking point is that the scene I didn't write was The Scene That Was the Entire Point and Reason which are always the worst. But this one had snuggling. Maybe when Wimbledon rolls around again I'll be reinspired, or I'll post it undone over at clofic maybe, or maybe it'll be my writer's block fic for the next chapter of before. I guess clofic is going to be my work-in-progress dump over here, since all finished stuff is now going on AO3. If you want free snippets, or wips, or fic fanmixes or whatever, follow over there.

The other weird thought that occurred after rereading the Wimbledon Reject Fic; I've spent almost ten months now musing on The Fall of Novak Djokovic in one way or another, and I'm still no closer to having a grip on it or why I care. I've never liked Novak the way I like Roger, or Roddick or Muzz, not in the simple and uncomplicated way of wanting them to win everything they touch and being happy when they do. Novak's disingenuous and desperate for attention; I never quite believe him when he says the sky is blue and grass is green (like when he falls and hurts himself only to win the match, when he says he's injured, when he says he isn't, when he says he's fine when he's clearly losing weight, about to burst into genuine pained tears in the US Open final, when he falls and hits his head so hard in Qatar that Muzz came across the court to check on him), but I'm so used to resenting him for beating Roger and begging for attention and being gloriously untouchable, having him broken and off-colour is disconcerting. I know what I think happened after the French last year but Becker's gone and Jelena's pregnant again because we all know having a second kid when things are miserable is a surefire way to fix life's problems (except for all the ways it isn't) and Novak's still this weird echo of himself.

I don't like worrying about goddamn Novak Djokovic but apparently I am, anyway.

At least Roger is back on glorious GOAT form this year and is doing me a solid by skipping the clay season which I can never watch because it's on when I'm in work. Work is a whole 'nother kettle of fish (mostly not awful, but complicated).

The housing situation is at the opposite end of the extreme and is all kinds of ongoing disaster but I've procrastinated all my time away and anyway, there's not much I can say about it that isn't a complaint. Basically it's stressful and come June (our contract here ends July 3rd) I'm going to be a lot less chill about it than I am right now. Get back to me in a month.

I have no idea what that whole "Courier makes Murray introduce his team by name and role for all the slash writers in da house" was about but it was brilliant and now my life is about a hundred times easier because I hate doing research on tennis players' entourages (like the woman in his box that he just pointed out; no one online could've told me that she's from his management company or even if they could, they wouldn't have known that she's been cooking for the rest of them this week because they're all men who spend their entire lives travelling around the world to play/discuss/think about tennis and are apparently incapable of everyday tasks like cooking and laundry. And definitely, definitely, no one would've been able to tell me that Andy Murray doesn't make his bed in the morning.

Except, based on all the evidence from the last two weeks, possibly Novak Djokovic).


Now, it's 4:36am and I need to be asleep an hour ago. I'm hungry - because dinner was a long time ago - but my auntie's Shih Tzu puppy is in the kitchen and if I wake him up again, I suspect this time he may actually bark until someone gives in and plays with him. So, am nomming leftover Xmas chocolate before bed because of a four-month-old-puppy's reign of terror. Dammit.

Bed. Still didn't do anything useful tonight. >_< Argh. DO BETTER TOMORROW.


(And now Casper has just made me let him outside, only it's so cold that I absolutely have to let him back in before I sleep, so that's waiting ten minutes for him to get over the outsideness. ARGH, CAT. WHY. WHY COULDN'T YOU DO THAT HALF AN HOUR AGO.)

So about... two and a half hours ago, I thought "I shall fic! But first I shall nap for half an hour to kill my random headache" (this never works but I'm like Barnabas trying to dig holes in the plastic bottom of his wheel; it never works and yet I keep forgetting I unsuccessfully tried the same thing yesterday). And this time, maybe because I was thinking about the fic I should be writing or to punish me for hitting 'off' instead of 'snooze' on my alarm, my brain decided to give me a random nightmare. But with completely random unscary tennis players! I know. What.

( If you're interested... )


So analyse that Freudians. I don't even know, other than I suspect the tennis players were thrown in because I went to sleep thinking about tennis. I don't know why Djokovic was lovely but also the creepy monster. So confused.

And as much as I'm happy not to be stuck in a house with lights that won't turn on (I hate that; nothing creeps me out more except things lurking in the dark which is probably related), I never got Roger Federer's autograph. Dammit!