Sep. 12th, 2015

miramira: book stack (Default)
Okay, I know I haven't used this journal for journaling in way too long. Real life has really, really not been worth writing about. (TL; DR: Left job that was sucking my soul dry for ostensible dream job, left dream job when dream turned out to be more of a nightmare, and am now consulting from home - which is now Philadelphia, with the boyfriend, so it hasn't been all terrible - while I try to put the shattered pieces of my self-confidence and career plan back together and figure out what's next.) And most of my fandoms these days are in their dotage, too tiny to have any real presence, or would require venturing into what I am told are some of the more disturbing corners of Tumblr.

But that's not what I'm here to vent about. No, I am here to sing of my muse, who appears to set the LSD aside temporarily and is now bingeing on pot brownies. Of all the fic I have written, of all the headcanon and plotbunnies and "someday maybe I'll expand on this" that I never have and never will follow through on, why is the one about insurance mascots in love demanding a sequel? And not more zombie apocalypse crack, either. An actual look at how this world works on a normal basis, with babies and company politics and literal existential crises and everything. And probably actual chapters and subplots, too. I don't write longform stuff in fandoms where people might read it. Heck, I don't count on people to read any of my stuff outside of an exchange any more. Why has my brain latched on to this?

I don't know whether I need an intervention or an enabler. I really don't.

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