(no subject)

Okay, you know what I hate?

I hate being that person who could potentially say to a writer, Heeeeeeeeeeey, I have this here great story .....

Because I do.  The other day, during my evaluation, when I was free-associating while teaching "Bluebeard," I hypothesized the story where the key in question is a network key, and the closet of the villain is the one our heroine discovers when she snoops in his e-mail to find that he's on the d-l.  I even have a title.  "Beard."

Since the 'Gnu got his new job, I've been itching to write an "East of the Sun" variant that has a bride tracking her errant husband across various time-zones.

(Yes, god help me, as a fairy tale specialist, I married myself a beastly bridegroom).

I want to write stories where fairy stepmothers dance at their daughter's wedding's in hot red shoes, and I have a whole thing planned out where Captain Hook hires Mary Poppins to quell that enfant terrible, Peter Pan.

But I just don't seem to have the time, and I hate it.

And now, I want to write something about Father Time chiding his daughter about prioritizing, because god knows my father does it to me. 

Aaaaaaaaaaargh.

It's like I managed to pick up a Muse in place of the stomach-flu that  I rightly ought to be having as a professor.

(no subject)

Okay, you know what I hate?

I hate being that person who could potentially say to a writer, Heeeeeeeeeeey, I have this here great story .....

Because I do.  The other day, during my evaluation, when I was free-associating while teaching "Bluebeard," I hypothesized the story where the key in question is a network key, and the closet of the villain is the one our heroine discovers when she snoops in his e-mail to find that he's on the d-l.  I even have a title.  "Beard."

Since the 'Gnu got his new job, I've been itching to write an "East of the Sun" variant that has a bride tracking her errant husband across various time-zones.

(Yes, god help me, as a fairy tale specialist, I married myself a beastly bridegroom).

I want to write stories where fairy stepmothers dance at their daughter's wedding's in hot red shoes, and I have a whole thing planned out where Captain Hook hires Mary Poppins to quell that enfant terrible, Peter Pan.

But I just don't seem to have the time, and I hate it.

And now, I want to write something about Father Time chiding his daughter about prioritizing, because god knows my father does it to me. 

Aaaaaaaaaaargh.

It's like I managed to pick up a Muse in place of the stomach-flu that  I rightly ought to be having as a professor.