Bottle it, sell it, make my fortune

[jadesfire]

I wish I could bottle and sell the feeling I get when a story comes into shape in my head. The way I see them, they're kind of like long balloons, and when I'm trying to get them to work, they're sort of shapless and deflated. I prod and plan and wrestle with it, but it just keeps slipping though my fingers. Then I remember that I can't compose stories at a keyboard and that I hae a stylus for my iPad. Okay, my e-handwriting sucks, but just writing the first couple of sentences by hand usually kickstarts my brain enough that I can carry on by typing.

Does anyone else have that? It's like I *literally* cannot compose a story unless I hold a pen in my hand at some point, and sometimes unless I write most of it out. Which doesn't bode well for my Big Bang, which is shaping up to be 50K, if the image in my head is the right size *whimper* Maybe I should start doing strengthening exercises now.

All of which is a transparant attempt to distract from the fact that it is the end of the month and I have only finished one more prompt. And it's a drabble. Ah well, at least I can cross it off.

For rustydog who wanted Eleven teaching Stormaggedon to make an omelette. As usual, I went off-prompt, but the mental image made me smile anyway.



Breaking Eggs

At the back of his mind, the Doctor had the feeling that he'd forgotten something. He'd mixed everything properly, made sure the pan was smoking hot, remembered salt and pepper and even used some of his special purple bacon from Graxis that he'd been saving for a special breakfast. River would forgive him. Eventually. Probably.

Across the table, Alfie prodded the omelette with one finger again, then gave him a very unimpressed gurgle.

"Well it should say that on the packet then, shouldn't it?" the Doctor said indignantly. "How was I to know I was supposed to peel them first?"