Holy Crap!
Dec. 27th, 2016 01:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
asphaltcowgrrl(This is not a sad post, damnit!)
I just saw a prompt for author’s choice – Misery AU. And I immediately heard Ethan saying, “I’m your biggest fan, Travis…” OH. MY. GOD. I need to save this for Halloween. Oh, and hide the hatchet* while I’m at it.
*When I got to that particular part while reading Misery in high school, I legit screamed, scaring the shit out of my stepfather. He came running down the hallway, worried I’d hurt myself. I handed the book over and made him read the passage and he just shook his head at me. The movie does not do that scene justice.
In other news, on Christmas Day, I overheard my mother telling my two girls and my niece that she wanted to give them something jazzy for Christmas and I swear to all that’s holy, I almost spit my coffee all over my mother’s kitchen floor. This is the problem with being a writer. Or even a reader, really. TOO MANY THINGS hit you the wrong way at the worst possible time and then you’re either subjected to nasty looks or being forced to explain things that make absolutely no sense outside of the interior of your own head.
Okay… tirade over. You can carry on now with whatever you were doing before.
I just saw a prompt for author’s choice – Misery AU. And I immediately heard Ethan saying, “I’m your biggest fan, Travis…” OH. MY. GOD. I need to save this for Halloween. Oh, and hide the hatchet* while I’m at it.
*When I got to that particular part while reading Misery in high school, I legit screamed, scaring the shit out of my stepfather. He came running down the hallway, worried I’d hurt myself. I handed the book over and made him read the passage and he just shook his head at me. The movie does not do that scene justice.
In other news, on Christmas Day, I overheard my mother telling my two girls and my niece that she wanted to give them something jazzy for Christmas and I swear to all that’s holy, I almost spit my coffee all over my mother’s kitchen floor. This is the problem with being a writer. Or even a reader, really. TOO MANY THINGS hit you the wrong way at the worst possible time and then you’re either subjected to nasty looks or being forced to explain things that make absolutely no sense outside of the interior of your own head.
Okay… tirade over. You can carry on now with whatever you were doing before.
