![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Thanks to all who sent birthday greetings. Me and Beethoven. But he's dead and doesn't read LJ. It was one of those kinds with the zero on the end, which always leads to much introspection.
I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
I received many birthday pictures of the lovely (and presumably talented, at least in some regard) Boyd Holbrook. Thank you so much. Um, do you all think I have an obsession of some kind?
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I also thank each and every one of you who wished me a happy birthday. A year ago, I would never have expected people in far-away lands to even know who the hell I was, let alone take time and LJ space to send their affection. What a great fandom - even in spite of the infrequent wank.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.
Mr. Geoviki is taking me into town tomorrow (well, it's not that far) where we shall stay at an historic hotel, go out to a nightclub, I shall have a lovely massage at the spa, we will drink and dine and enjoy ourselves, and upon retiring...fade to black.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves, Combing the white hair of the waves blown back, When the wind blows the water white and black.
On a writerly note, I have one scene left before the draft is complete for the sequel to A Thousand Beautiful Things. Reading all the absolutely jaw-dropping fics that have appeared this week, I let myself wade through the shoals of "Why can't I write that well?" and nearly shipwrecked on the "Who would miss my H/D if I dropped off the face of the Earth?" But I'm all okay again. It's good. It's interesting. It at least has a plot, which is one of the gifts I have to offer up.
I have discovered that I enjoy the rewriting more than the writing.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea, By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown, Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
And![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ravurian? It took T.S. Eliot quite a while before the Crash Test Dummies found his lyrics. You, too, can be a rock star someday.
I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
I received many birthday pictures of the lovely (and presumably talented, at least in some regard) Boyd Holbrook. Thank you so much. Um, do you all think I have an obsession of some kind?
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I also thank each and every one of you who wished me a happy birthday. A year ago, I would never have expected people in far-away lands to even know who the hell I was, let alone take time and LJ space to send their affection. What a great fandom - even in spite of the infrequent wank.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.
Mr. Geoviki is taking me into town tomorrow (well, it's not that far) where we shall stay at an historic hotel, go out to a nightclub, I shall have a lovely massage at the spa, we will drink and dine and enjoy ourselves, and upon retiring...fade to black.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves, Combing the white hair of the waves blown back, When the wind blows the water white and black.
On a writerly note, I have one scene left before the draft is complete for the sequel to A Thousand Beautiful Things. Reading all the absolutely jaw-dropping fics that have appeared this week, I let myself wade through the shoals of "Why can't I write that well?" and nearly shipwrecked on the "Who would miss my H/D if I dropped off the face of the Earth?" But I'm all okay again. It's good. It's interesting. It at least has a plot, which is one of the gifts I have to offer up.
I have discovered that I enjoy the rewriting more than the writing.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea, By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown, Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
And
ravurian? It took T.S. Eliot quite a while before the Crash Test Dummies found his lyrics. You, too, can be a rock star someday.
