I’m never more productive as a fic writer than when I have other crap that I should be doing: papers to write, student work to comment on, emails to respond to, reading to complete for the coming week. Ho hum.
Something about resistance, about pushing futilely back at what will have to get done, eventually, is really freakin’ inspirational. It’s no mystery as to why I started writing Supernatural fic over Thanksgiving break, or why my Cas/Dean series was born during a period when I was supposed to be prepping papers for two conferences, or why inspiration for my new series has popped up, helpfully, during spring break.
And yet, I can’t neatly separate these two worlds, ’cause they all live in the space in my head, I guess. For example, reading rhetorical theory in concert with writing “Take A Look At Me Now” meant that Cyril Welch’s notion of what “good” writing does—it reflects “what is” and writes towards “what could be”—ended up in Sammy’s mouth; in a very different context, mind you, but still. It wasn’t conscious, which is what I find weird or interesting, I guess. How much of me—or whatever’s rattling around in my brain at a given moment—ends up in my fic.
It’s kind of awesome, actually; writing towards a mirror, like that. Maybe it’s like Lacan says: the image of the other is the figure of desire, the manifestation of what is not us and what we cannot have, but what we spend our lives trying to reach, obtain, make part of ourselves. We want what others tell us we should want, too; our sense of what we should desire is shaped by those around us: our parents, our culture, our peers. So somewhere in my negotiations with the mirror, my attempts to make material something that isn’t me—something I desire, fine, ok [jesus, can you blame me? sheesh.]—some part of me springs into being, or comes into focus.
And wow, does that sound overly earnest and self-absorbed. But it is Lacan, after all. I think that’s like, required.