It's been forever since I wrote anything. I just don't have room for it in my life. I signed up for a fanfic challenge because nothing gives you instant happy feedback like scratching fangirls' (and guys') itches. It was kind of great, and I hadn't done anything like it in forever.
So I have a fic up, a SG:A fanfic (McShep, as that's the nature of the challenge) for the final-ever edition of the McShep Match. They're anonymous thru the end of the month; cookies to anyone who can guess which one I posted. Hints: I'm on Team Cool, and it's long, and it's already been posted. So go, if that interests you, and read, and vote: The Last Annual McShep Match Challenge
. Try to guess which one's mine. :)
In the wake of that, I've been posting all the deleted scenes-- I was so absorbed in it, and it had been so long since I'd written anything, that I wrote probably a hundred thousand words, and just picked the tens of thousands that best fit the prompt to put up for the challenge. I managed to cadge an invite to AO3, finally, from a McShep teammate, and now I owe him a ficlet featuring thigh holster porn. I am ruminating on this as we speak, because, mmmmmm, thigh holsters. Yep.
(edited to add: duh, AO3 link. http://archiveofourown.org/users/bomberqueen17/works
The other thing I'm working on is that a Pennsic buddy persuaded me to come to a WWII re-enactment with him. French Resistance, which means that I, dressed as a woman, can historically-accurately run around and shoot blanks with the boys. I'm kind of psyched; my father only ever did military stuff, and of course there was no room for women; I used to dress up as a boy and go along, but I really, really, really can't pass as a man nowadays, not with 40" long hair and 36HH boobs. No way.
So I have some cheapish faux-leather oxfords from Amazon, a straw cloche hat from Amazon, a linen button-up collared blouse from the thrift shop, a proper girdle (i already owned it, of course), and a model 1917 US rifle
borrowed from my father. I thought the rifle was a bit of a stretch but looking it up, it was actually issued to the Free French Army by the US in WWII so it's not entirely implausible.
I also have a 1937 Voigtlander Bessa
camera that a customer gave me when he heard why I was looking for one. It takes 120 film, but I can't get the shutter to operate; if I can, I'd be able to really use it. So in our fake identity papers, my friend has listed my occupation as a "photographer's assistant". A functional camera would be so much cooler than a decorative one, but either way, it's pretty cool. It's definitely a beautiful object in and of itself.
I'm still working on getting Z to actually dress up. I got him some corduroy trousers at the thrift store today on my lunch break, and bought him some suspenders from Sockdreams.com. That plus a non-button-down collared shirt plus his old beat-to-hell chukka boots will do it, I figure. He has no interest in carrying a gun. Which is just as well, since I don't have one; Dad had a perfect WWI .45 pistol (the original M1911 Colt), but I don't have a pistol permit and wasn't about to transport it across state lines or hell, even across the doorstep without one. Not with all the current rampant hysteria. Z was kind of worried about the rifle but please, it's a bolt-action rifle of a type that can't even accept a magazine (you can use a stripper clip to load 5 rounds at once, but there's no magazine whatsoever). Still, Dad offered me live bullets in case I had a chance to get to a range, and I said no, and only took blanks. I don't need that worry-- you can still maim yourself pretty good with a blank, but it's nothing like a bullet that, Dad explained, that gun can throw about six miles. ("It won't be going very fast when it lands," he hedged, "but it'd still be going, if you judged the curvature right and the wind didn't do anything crazy.")
The thing's insanely heavy, but I was reassured that I'm actually a decent shot with it. I hadn't fired a gun in a long time; it's fun, but I'd usually rather take photographs of my family while they do, so I've gone along and not shot lately. I do like doing it.
Dad was reserved about it, but it sort of slipped out toward the end that he was cautiously a little pleased that I was interested in re-enactment, because he has all this stuff, all the eras he's researched, all the stuff he's collected, and it sort of makes him a little sad to think that none of his children are interested. I'm interested, I'm just, well, a woman, and can't use the military stuff. (He happens to be a very small man-- waist size about 32-- and I'm a large woman, more like a 42 waist.) But I did decide I should probably get a pistol permit-- I don't really want a pistol, in my current lifestyle it would just be a headache to keep track of the damn thing, but as Dad gets older he's worried that if he dies and none of us has a permit, the guns will be confiscated. My younger sister keeps saying she'll get a permit, but never does, so maybe I'll just do it. I hope I don't have to actually get a pistol to get the permit, though. I don't have a range locally that I care to patronize and don't want to become a Gun Person, y'know?
That's what I'm up to.
And oh, while I was visiting my folks to pick up the rifle, I helped Dad paint the sign he's making for our parish's church cemetery. (I paint a lot, so I was freehanding the border around the largest letters for him.) I was sitting in the driveway doing this when Dad suddenly perked up and ran to the end of the driveway, and called my name. I stood up, and heard the sound of a very loud airplane.
"That's a B-17," Dad said, and sure enough, it was. Four Wright Cyclone engines, growling and throbbing, and the thing lumbered by, north to south, the Liberty Belle, on its way back to the Albany Airport, where they were doing rides for $450 a pop.
I considered it a good omen and am proceeding with my life accordingly.