My notebook

For half a second I thought I'd lost my writing notebook. For half a second I almost had a panic attack large enought to consume me whole . . .

Do you keep a writing notebook? Mine is a red spirax one from Target, with hard covers and spiral binding down the side. (Binding down the side is better than binding up the top when you're left handed.) My favourite biros fit nicely in the spiral.

I carry it with me everywhere usually (forgot it today which was A Bad Thing. (Capital B, Capital T) )In it there are random pieces of writing including original fiction and fan fiction. (No poetry. It's been a long time since I wrote a poem I was even half satisfied with.) My fandoms include: West Wing, Harry Potter, Angel, Buffy, M*A*S*H, Baby Sitters Club and Sweet Valley High (Liz's fault, blame her). I seem to write a fair bit of slash, which is funny, because I've only ever finished two slash stories . . .

A bit of Xander . . .

I've never written Xander in my life. But late one night he began talking to me . . .
~*~

He sat in the easy chair, where he was able to see the ocean. It was a strange thing, changing and harsh and just there. He adored it for its very strangness.

His right arm was hurting again, reacting to the threat of rain. The doctor said it might, moisture was no good to old injuries.

The doctor was younger than the other ones he had seen, young and shiny and eager to perform a full and thorough check on his patient. He browsed through Xander's medical records, his eyes growing large at each new injury recorded.

"You must have been in a lot of fights, hey Mr. Harris?"

Xander just smiled.

If he had read closer, the young doctor would have realised that the injuries stopped the year he turned twenty-five. The year he left Sunnydale for good.