writing

anyone else ever have this problem? (also, story meme!)

Right now I'm sort of . . . paralyzed, I suppose, for lack of a better word. I want to write, need to write, have what feels like eighty billion (well, more like eight or nine) stories yammering to be written (and a whole bunch more waiting patiently on the sidelines)--

And I can't write. I try to, but it's like my brain's trying to go in nine different directions at once, and so I end up going nowhere. Or maybe a better way of putting it is that all these stories are like sheep and my brain is like a door, and they're all trying to get out at the same time instead of waiting their turn, and so my brain is currently jammed too full of fuzzy idiots to go anywhere.

Er. Something along those lines.


Give me a number, and I will give you a piece of the corresponding story. These are listed roughly in order of current priority.

1. A Single Dram of Heaven: a revised and extended version of this. (planned submission for that $500 prize)

2. Ficathon story: can't tell you the title or what it's about, but I can give you snippets of what it's not about.

3. I've Been Here Before: for the "second verse" sga_flashfic challenge--John from "The Siege" gets downloaded into John from "The Rising". Things go a little differently.

4. Turn the Light Out When You Go: right, you know the story. Everyone on Atlantis dies, John's traumatized, and Jack O'Neill insists on being the one to tell the story but is currently refusing to talk to me.

5. Theory of Parallels: John and Rodney in college, semi-realistically.

6. Tailfeathers: John starts turning into a bird.

7. Inebriate of Air: floating fortress/city-thingy. And bandits. And not-bats.

8. The Way to the Green Chapel: SGA meets Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, with John and the team stuck in the middle.

9. Death of a Unicorn: unicorns in gardens, artists wielding shotguns, and game wardens wearing ill-fitting uniforms.
#9
"Are you saying I'm not capable of checking out someone's backyard?" Ginny didn't sound angry, exactly, but there was a look in her eye that promised Bad Things should he give the wrong answer.

"No," Doug lied, and wished he were outside with Abigail James, where he wouldn't have to worry about being throttled by the homicidal pregnant woman.

"Well then." Ginny heaved herself to her feet. "Let's go take a look. The station can mind itself for a couple of hours."