Eildon Rhymer (rhymer23) wrote,
Eildon Rhymer

I can't!

I can't do it! I can't do it! I've just tried to do a bit of writing, and my brain brings me to a crashing halt. "I can't do it!" it insists. "That's Joe you're trying to get me to write about, not Sheppard. I shook his hand. I saw him helpless with laughter on stage. I heard him chat about his interests. Now, be a good girl and let me write about fluffy kittens or the world economy or something, and stop trying to get me to injure a nice and very real man."

A different part of my brain keeps trying to… Hmm… I think I need names for these different parts of my brain that are causing me trouble, like, er… Mavis, or Evadne, or Tiddles, or something. But since I do probably need to appear at least moderately sane, maybe I'd better not.

So where were we? Oh yes. This different part of the brain is going firmly up to the over-dramatic "oh no, I can't!" part and speaking sternly about compartments. "Joe is Joe. He's an actor", it says. "You know? Actor? A person who plays a role? I mean, you did always know that John Sheppard was a fictional character, didn't you? So what's your problem? John Sheppard flies puddlejumpers and fights aliens, and it's okay to beat him up. Joe Flanagan doesn't, and it isn't. They happen to look similar, but they're different people, separate and locked away in their own little compartments: Joe, Sheppard; real, not real; actor, character. So get writing and stop being so silly!"

At this point, the over-dramatic part of brain makes a brave attempt to pull itself together, and gets out the hammer and nails and starts building compartments, then readies itself to cram Sheppard, kicking and screaming, into his stark, chain-ridden compartment, and to politely ask Joe to stroll into his well furnished and very respectful one, but then it all falls apart again. "I can't!" it wails. "I can't! And, look! There's Jason over there, bounding around on stage like a boisterous and rather lovely puppy. How can I ever write Ronon again? How?"

The sensible part of my brain clears its throat and taps its feet and… well, generally disappears into a stew of confusingly mixed metaphors before it throws its hands up in despair, leaving the over-dramatic part of my brain to run around in circles, wailing, "I can't! I can't!"

I need a cure, quick!
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