impulsereader (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
impulsereader) wrote2012-05-28 01:18 am
impulsereader) wrote2012-05-28 01:18 am
Entry tags:
The Bartok Quartets
I have found Sherlock. I now know what he is doing in this fic. He is still finding his way home; and he is doing it through music. This is so terribly, fearfully, insanely beautiful - and I have no idea if I am capable of getting the point across.
As of my last post I cannot even decide where to set Much Ado. How can I possibly reconcile Sherlock with home? I am not even a musician. I cannot possibly relate to his character on this level.
I've been plotting this story all weekend, and I came home tonight with a perfect, guaranteed solitary opportunity to translate some of it to actual writing - and immediately found I couldn't do anything - at all - so I ate corn and watched A Scandal in Belgravia for lack of a better idea. I sulkily researched cricket, science experiments, and Bartok. Bartok turned the key.
Now it is too late to write, as sleep is actually advisable at some point, and I have even more words pressing uncomfortably into my brain. I don't know whether to be happy that I might have reached a jumping off point or upset because this story just keeps expanding. I haven't yet learned how to properly keep hold of a story; how do I know when one has gotten away from me? Right now it seems as if I have just discovered an element which was always meant to be here, but I am worried that the dictation into my brain doesn't automatically come with a side of neat organization - HA! - I fear I am a Sherlock without a John by my side.
typing both gets me in trouble and sorts out my brain.
New worry - No One is going to want to read this fic except me...Shakespeare, Bartok, crossover, and excess of original characters - WTF?
As of my last post I cannot even decide where to set Much Ado. How can I possibly reconcile Sherlock with home? I am not even a musician. I cannot possibly relate to his character on this level.
I've been plotting this story all weekend, and I came home tonight with a perfect, guaranteed solitary opportunity to translate some of it to actual writing - and immediately found I couldn't do anything - at all - so I ate corn and watched A Scandal in Belgravia for lack of a better idea. I sulkily researched cricket, science experiments, and Bartok. Bartok turned the key.
Now it is too late to write, as sleep is actually advisable at some point, and I have even more words pressing uncomfortably into my brain. I don't know whether to be happy that I might have reached a jumping off point or upset because this story just keeps expanding. I haven't yet learned how to properly keep hold of a story; how do I know when one has gotten away from me? Right now it seems as if I have just discovered an element which was always meant to be here, but I am worried that the dictation into my brain doesn't automatically come with a side of neat organization - HA! - I fear I am a Sherlock without a John by my side.
typing both gets me in trouble and sorts out my brain.
New worry - No One is going to want to read this fic except me...Shakespeare, Bartok, crossover, and excess of original characters - WTF?
no subject
no subject
And as always, I start wondering about John's experience of these things, and what little 'treats' the soldiers would make for themselves for afternoon teas in Afghanistan, in between patrols. Spam on crackers? Jam on cold toast? Trading Jammy Dodgers with the Australians, who were bastards with their going rate of 5 JDs to a single Tim Tam? (Tim Tams are chocolate biscuits, similar to UK's Penguins, I'm told).
Tea would be fine: very strong, very black, very sweet tea, if my experience of it in Egypt is anything to go by. And thick turkish coffee. And middle eastern pastries, which all seem to be combinations of wheat, pistacchio and honey in a variety of proportions and shapes.