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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2ltAIxc:
I keep starting and deleting posts about what I’m writing because I’m feeling lost and blocked and stuck and lonely and disconnected, but also am convinced that nobody wants to hear about any of it, so anyway, that’s a highly effective way of wasting a ton of time it turns out.
Bodhi in this A/U is turning out really really sad and it’s just awesome because I was trying to write fluff.
He stalked [his sister’s] Facebook, but she’d locked it down when her older kid started kindergarten. Fortunately he’d saved the photo of her first day, her in pigtails holding a sign that said “First Day Of School!” and her little brother holding one that said “I Wanted A Sign Too”, and he had it in his phone still, but ever since then her page had displayed nothing beyond her profile picture, cropped from a photo Bodhi himself had taken of her at her wedding with the fancy camera he used to own.
This package had a pair of fluffy bunny slippers he’d found, luckily in her size, in the clearance bin at Target, because of a joke they’d shared as children. He’d written a note and tucked it inside the toe of one of the slippers, just saying that he hoped she was having better luck staying warm in this weather than he was.
He couldn’t give her any way to contact him in return, though, because he knew she’d turn it over to their parents, and he couldn’t face that, couldn’t face them.
It was like being a ghost, only sort of in reverse: he couldn’t see them, or know anything about them, but he could send them signals. He didn’t know her kids; they’d been so little when he’d left, they hadn’t had defined preferences yet. He never knew whether any of his gifts had been popular or ignored. His sister might just throw them away. But he still felt compelled do it, and was always collecting things to send, assorted little things in a basket in his closet. Every time he sent a package he thought he should stop doing this, and sometimes he even lasted a week or two without anything in that basket, but inevitably he’d see something perfect and pick it up before he remembered to think better of it, and then there he was again with a collection started, just waiting for his next trip far enough out of town.
(Thirty miles, was his threshhold. More than thirty miles from where he lived, he’d consider sending a package or dropping a postcard into a mailbox. But only eastward. He wouldn’t send one from westward, to keep anyone alert from triangulating. His sister was an engineer, after all; she could probably pinpoint his location with not a great deal of data.)
(If she cared to. He didn’t know if she would. It wasn’t worth the risk that she might. He wouldn’t let himself have that wistful bit of self-sabotage, of hoping she’d care to.)
I keep starting and deleting posts about what I’m writing because I’m feeling lost and blocked and stuck and lonely and disconnected, but also am convinced that nobody wants to hear about any of it, so anyway, that’s a highly effective way of wasting a ton of time it turns out.
Bodhi in this A/U is turning out really really sad and it’s just awesome because I was trying to write fluff.
He stalked [his sister’s] Facebook, but she’d locked it down when her older kid started kindergarten. Fortunately he’d saved the photo of her first day, her in pigtails holding a sign that said “First Day Of School!” and her little brother holding one that said “I Wanted A Sign Too”, and he had it in his phone still, but ever since then her page had displayed nothing beyond her profile picture, cropped from a photo Bodhi himself had taken of her at her wedding with the fancy camera he used to own.
This package had a pair of fluffy bunny slippers he’d found, luckily in her size, in the clearance bin at Target, because of a joke they’d shared as children. He’d written a note and tucked it inside the toe of one of the slippers, just saying that he hoped she was having better luck staying warm in this weather than he was.
He couldn’t give her any way to contact him in return, though, because he knew she’d turn it over to their parents, and he couldn’t face that, couldn’t face them.
It was like being a ghost, only sort of in reverse: he couldn’t see them, or know anything about them, but he could send them signals. He didn’t know her kids; they’d been so little when he’d left, they hadn’t had defined preferences yet. He never knew whether any of his gifts had been popular or ignored. His sister might just throw them away. But he still felt compelled do it, and was always collecting things to send, assorted little things in a basket in his closet. Every time he sent a package he thought he should stop doing this, and sometimes he even lasted a week or two without anything in that basket, but inevitably he’d see something perfect and pick it up before he remembered to think better of it, and then there he was again with a collection started, just waiting for his next trip far enough out of town.
(Thirty miles, was his threshhold. More than thirty miles from where he lived, he’d consider sending a package or dropping a postcard into a mailbox. But only eastward. He wouldn’t send one from westward, to keep anyone alert from triangulating. His sister was an engineer, after all; she could probably pinpoint his location with not a great deal of data.)
(If she cared to. He didn’t know if she would. It wasn’t worth the risk that she might. He wouldn’t let himself have that wistful bit of self-sabotage, of hoping she’d care to.)
