Although Friday was officially the last day of actual vacation (one I spent getting a extraordinarily mild case of heat exhaustion by driving in an un-airconditioned car at rush hour; long story, won't be told) today was actually the last day before I head back to work. Normally, after a week of vacation, I'm filled with regret at all the tasks I'd planned to complete that never got done. It's practically a tradition at Casakaffyr: plan to do too much, get nothing done, then obsess about inadequacy.
I may accidentally have acquired at least intermittent wisdom in my more or less old age, because I stopped worrying about what I might not get done about halfway through the week. Which was a good idea, since this was the week we'd decided to get the last of FB's stuff out of his former bedroom, and to turn it into our office, with the requisite moving of large, heavy bookcases and Too Much Stuff. That would be more than enough to send me into a blue funk normally, especially since FB wasn't able get his friend with the van to come and pick up the detritus. Still, we were able to move it all out into the hall, rent a carpet cleaner, and FB was able to come over and help BB move the two big bookcases. It's an altogether respectable start, and I'm willing to live with the piles of books and other stuff offloaded from the bookcases and the dining room office equipment, because sometime within the next week and half, we'll have everything moved.
(Since BB's desktop died the final death this week, and can't be revived without a new motherboard and processor, he'll have to live with my laptop, while I use the work Mac. Once we have a little more money in the bank, he'll buy the equipment, install it, and raise the 'puter, like Lazarus, from the dead. But that's hardly a glitch in the new office plan.)
While we were unpacking the office, I ran across a box of really old completed and incomplete original fiction I'd written a long time ago. How long ago? Some of it is more than 30 years old and written on typewriter. Typewriter. And a lot of it sucked. But some of it looks as if I might be able to salvage it, and I'm intrigued by the idea of doing so; I think I've improved considerably as a writer, thanks to age, experience and fanfic writing, and I'd like to match that ability up with some of the raw good ideas in my old stories, then strip away a lot of the frankly horrific execution in my first attempts. We'll see.
And finally? Torchwood: Miracle Day, E4. Woo-hoo! I haven't written anything about the season prior to now because I haven't been posting a lot, period, but I have really enjoyed it thus far. I know a lot of my f'list, who don't find it to be, well, Torchwood-like, and who have noted an Americanization of the ambiance. BB has mentioned the same thing. I'm therefore in a minority when I say it feels precisely the way Torchwood at its best has always felt to me, with a minimum of adjustment for American audiences.
- Bright rogue agents of sometimes ambiguous character who nonetheless work for the forces of goodness, but who do excruciatingly stupid things at times? Check.
- Moments of emotionally riveting personal interaction followed by anvilicious thematic writing and autorial and acting scenery-chewing of one type or another? Check.
- Remarkable concepts occasionally torpedoed by bad pacing and over- or under-writing? Double check (although RTD's fellow writers have helped a lot this time around.)
In a slightly less sercon vein, and as I posted to azriona 's journal (she has a wonderful theory about who's behind the villainy):
I love your theories (although cryptic Mister I-Used-to-be-Just-As-Creepy-on-Criminal-M
Well, this has been long, and I need to get some sleep, but I'm glad I had the chance to finally post something resembling real thought. Goodnight