Unsorted data fragments
Apr. 27th, 2006 10:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pasitheaBackstory
When I was younger, I was a fairly good storyteller, quite probably also a liar. Or at least someone exaggerated egregiously with quite a bit of regularity. I grew up in a world of storytelling, I suppose. We only had 3 TV channels, and frequently as not, my summer nights were spent at a campfire rather than in a house. I've heard hundreds of variants of ghost stories, urban and rural legends, and dirty jokes.
Rumination
I guess I gave it up for several reasons. First and foremost: Everyone fancies themselves a writer. Writers are even more common than artists. The truth, of course, is that most of us aren't nearly as good at it as we believe we are. Writing can be fully stream of consciousness and only your own mind can complete the image. It's the rare writer who can focus that image for others AND make it interesting to read as well.
I believe also, I found it difficult to find ways to advance in writing. My artistic abilities had so many obvious flaws that it was easy to see where I needed improvement. It's also fair to state that it's much easier to get someone to comment on your art rather than writing since writing nearly always requires a more serious investment of time and mental faculties. It takes 10 seconds to say 'That character has a broken wrist and the hands are too small.' but perhaps 20 minutes to read a short story and say, "Why is Bob going to kill Stella? Where did he find a pipe wrench on an empty street?'
Getting to the point
Another story that was more subtle but perhaps more profound is a fear of getting the facts wrong. Writing requires research and structure and these things don't mesh well with spontaneity. I guess this is a big hang-up for me. Catching a detail that I know is totally wrong breaks the suspension of disbelief. This is my single biggest block to writing.
A couple of examples and a rant
Yesterday I was listening to a stream of 50's 'scary' stories on internet radio and there were two stories back to back which pissed me off. Stripped down, the two were basically identical. In one, a guy in old clothing appears, and our good white christian americans follow a map he was carrying back into the mountains where they find a hidden society of druids with their huge gold idol to Crom Croauke which is alive and demands human sacrifice! In the second story, a stone idol of Siva with rubies in each of her hands hunts down the good christians and demands blood for taking her jewels. She's the wife of the GOD OF DEATH, you know.
A LOT of the 50's stories are this way.'s God has an evil lust for blood and stalks our poor innocent white people, who either A) die because the were greedy or B) prevail because they're so much more clever than the 'pagan' cultures or because their God is soooo much stronger than those EVIL gods.
A few ideas
The revulsion of yesterday's programs lead me instantly to my own version of their stories, of course: The corpse that walked.
I felt a terror rising within me as the great stone boulder rolled back from the entrance of the cave. The odor of death and incense rushed out to greet me. Frankenscence and Mur, and the stale decay of rotting flesh. His eyes were upon me, burning. Those hollow dead eyes, the cheeks sallow and slack, caked with dried blood run down from the crown of thorns. I stood paralyzed as the slow heavy footfalls approached me.
Or how about a comic book series about the Last Roman Soldier. Been done, you say? Not my way. In my version he is immortal in the sense that every time he dies, he is reborn in a new body. He may or may not regain his memories, sometimes it takes a while. He is cursed to live an eternity of wretched lives, each time he is reborn he is cast into some pained or crippled form. He is left with one burning desire. To refind his spear. The spear that can slay a God. He seeks revenge. Release from his eternal torment by this twisted diety. Or perhaps he's just mad, a crazy homeless person killing the pious for no reason.
Comments
It's really easy to write when you have no respect for the source material. On the other hand, it's very limited in your audience. Some group of people is going to be pissed off or at the very least, not enjoy reading your story because you 'got it all wrong' and what's the compromise potential? You could set the story in an alien world, but then you have to expose the details of your fictional race and hilight the similarities and differences between your alien religiona nd the Earth ones it's based on. Either the writing is totally obtuse (back to stream of consciousness) or so thinly veiled that it's again unpalatable.
Voices in my head
Another issue for me with writing is the tone I use. I have several identities in my head that I can pick and write in their voice. The particular one in use for this writing is something like 'dispassionate secretary'. There are many voices I'm afraid of using to write though. Vicious heartless murderers and rapists, violent psychotics, the completely insane, gibbering power-mad megalomaniac, and the intensely depressed woman standing, arms spread on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the cold crashing sea below.
I think this must be an issue for a lot of would-be writers. Good characters in your head are stronger than just elements of the story, they are whole other personnas and there's always a lurking fear that if you open up to them, write as them, let them possess you, there may be no way back. Probably we are creatures of habit and would eventually return to the pathways more familiar to our brains, but it's still a fear and one that definitely limits my own writing potential.
A dream
Along that same vein, I had a dream last night. I am a living scar. My whole body is covered with them. I have a high pain threshold. In my dream, this was taken to an extreme. I was in a battle, machine guns firing, the person shooting at us wouldn't go down. Too much armor. Finally, I knew what I had to do. I stood and took aim, unprotected, just as he was, in all his armor, staring back at me, firing wildly. Burning red hot pain ripped through my shoulder. Black fog swept in around a tiny spec of vision. The trigger pulsed beneath my finger and the gun jerked. I saw it hit it's mark.
I dropped to the ground, expose on my back. My eyes opened again, just in time to see a tiny metal pineapple arc above me, dropping towards me, filling my mind with panic. I couldn't move. Something heavy pinning me. I threw my arms over my eyes and then it was black again.
The smell of gunpowder, blood, and burned flesh woke me. No, it was Aaron. I tried to move but felt throbbing pain in my arms, legs, shoulder, and an overwhelming weight on me chest. I couldn't breath. I tried to focus. He tore the metal plate and sandbag flack jacket off me. I tried to sit up but the dull ringing pain brought blackness flooding back to my vision.
I was moving. Not of my own accord. Someone was moving me. People, a cart, the antiseptic smell of an ambulence. The lights didn't flash, the siren didn't sound. No. They were there. Faint, muted, distant. "I am not dead.", I mouthed dryly. I felt a hand touch mine. I repeated it. I said it begin. It became a mantra. I flung it at myself in rage, "I AM NOT DEAD.". Somewhere inside I felt rage boil up. Contempt with myself for being so careless. My eyes snapped open. I sat upright. Pain ripped through my arms and legs. I clamped my teeth together, eyelids and fists clenched. daggers ripped through every inch of me. My ears rang with pain. I could feel the fly's foot touch of a hand against my shoulder, the muted feeble bleating to lay back down. I refused. I focused on the pain, let it possess me, run through me, become a part of me. I winched my eyes open and looked. My arms and legs were cut deeply, ragged shards of metal embedded in flesh. Black gelatinous blood fused around them. The cuts were deep but somehow, nothing really vital seemed damaged. The bullet too, appeared to have passed through cleanly.
I saw one of the medics preparing a syringe and forbade it. Dream gets fuzzy here. Returns in hospital, still injured badly, the first-response medics have left the metal shards in me. There are a lot of sick and dying here. I want away. My friend comes to find me. He's brought me a bottle of vodka to 'kill the pain'. I instead pull the sharp metal from myself and pour the alcohol over the deep gashes. It's intensely painfully, making every raw nerve burn. A lot of it needs stitches but for now, I soak clean blue shop towels in vodka and wrap them tight around my legs. Blood stains them purple but it will hold until I can get out of here.
Thankful
Finally, a few closing thoughts in writing all this. I love my job. This may seem totally tangental but it's not at all. It's a creative place, I can come and go as I please. It's beautiful outside right now and I'm sitting in a park just north of the Bay Bridge, looking out at all the ships. I saw a submarine earlier (I think. It was long and very very low in the water. Looked like half of it was submerged) and there's a big freighter in the bay and across on the far side, a fire boat is spraying looks like 5 cannons of water into the air.
I'll probably end up staying late at work, of course. I do that a lot. But just knowing that no one is going to give em a hard time about taking a break and getting some sun is really nice.
It also amuses me that there is an open wireless network here, which means I should be able to post this from this park. I think I'll try that, then head on in to work. I've got a project I'm really enjoying that I'd like to get back to. :)
-me
When I was younger, I was a fairly good storyteller, quite probably also a liar. Or at least someone exaggerated egregiously with quite a bit of regularity. I grew up in a world of storytelling, I suppose. We only had 3 TV channels, and frequently as not, my summer nights were spent at a campfire rather than in a house. I've heard hundreds of variants of ghost stories, urban and rural legends, and dirty jokes.
Rumination
I guess I gave it up for several reasons. First and foremost: Everyone fancies themselves a writer. Writers are even more common than artists. The truth, of course, is that most of us aren't nearly as good at it as we believe we are. Writing can be fully stream of consciousness and only your own mind can complete the image. It's the rare writer who can focus that image for others AND make it interesting to read as well.
I believe also, I found it difficult to find ways to advance in writing. My artistic abilities had so many obvious flaws that it was easy to see where I needed improvement. It's also fair to state that it's much easier to get someone to comment on your art rather than writing since writing nearly always requires a more serious investment of time and mental faculties. It takes 10 seconds to say 'That character has a broken wrist and the hands are too small.' but perhaps 20 minutes to read a short story and say, "Why is Bob going to kill Stella? Where did he find a pipe wrench on an empty street?'
Getting to the point
Another story that was more subtle but perhaps more profound is a fear of getting the facts wrong. Writing requires research and structure and these things don't mesh well with spontaneity. I guess this is a big hang-up for me. Catching a detail that I know is totally wrong breaks the suspension of disbelief. This is my single biggest block to writing.
A couple of examples and a rant
Yesterday I was listening to a stream of 50's 'scary' stories on internet radio and there were two stories back to back which pissed me off. Stripped down, the two were basically identical. In one, a guy in old clothing appears, and our good white christian americans follow a map he was carrying back into the mountains where they find a hidden society of druids with their huge gold idol to Crom Croauke which is alive and demands human sacrifice! In the second story, a stone idol of Siva with rubies in each of her hands hunts down the good christians and demands blood for taking her jewels. She's the wife of the GOD OF DEATH, you know.
A LOT of the 50's stories are this way.
A few ideas
The revulsion of yesterday's programs lead me instantly to my own version of their stories, of course: The corpse that walked.
I felt a terror rising within me as the great stone boulder rolled back from the entrance of the cave. The odor of death and incense rushed out to greet me. Frankenscence and Mur, and the stale decay of rotting flesh. His eyes were upon me, burning. Those hollow dead eyes, the cheeks sallow and slack, caked with dried blood run down from the crown of thorns. I stood paralyzed as the slow heavy footfalls approached me.
Or how about a comic book series about the Last Roman Soldier. Been done, you say? Not my way. In my version he is immortal in the sense that every time he dies, he is reborn in a new body. He may or may not regain his memories, sometimes it takes a while. He is cursed to live an eternity of wretched lives, each time he is reborn he is cast into some pained or crippled form. He is left with one burning desire. To refind his spear. The spear that can slay a God. He seeks revenge. Release from his eternal torment by this twisted diety. Or perhaps he's just mad, a crazy homeless person killing the pious for no reason.
Comments
It's really easy to write when you have no respect for the source material. On the other hand, it's very limited in your audience. Some group of people is going to be pissed off or at the very least, not enjoy reading your story because you 'got it all wrong' and what's the compromise potential? You could set the story in an alien world, but then you have to expose the details of your fictional race and hilight the similarities and differences between your alien religiona nd the Earth ones it's based on. Either the writing is totally obtuse (back to stream of consciousness) or so thinly veiled that it's again unpalatable.
Voices in my head
Another issue for me with writing is the tone I use. I have several identities in my head that I can pick and write in their voice. The particular one in use for this writing is something like 'dispassionate secretary'. There are many voices I'm afraid of using to write though. Vicious heartless murderers and rapists, violent psychotics, the completely insane, gibbering power-mad megalomaniac, and the intensely depressed woman standing, arms spread on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the cold crashing sea below.
I think this must be an issue for a lot of would-be writers. Good characters in your head are stronger than just elements of the story, they are whole other personnas and there's always a lurking fear that if you open up to them, write as them, let them possess you, there may be no way back. Probably we are creatures of habit and would eventually return to the pathways more familiar to our brains, but it's still a fear and one that definitely limits my own writing potential.
A dream
Along that same vein, I had a dream last night. I am a living scar. My whole body is covered with them. I have a high pain threshold. In my dream, this was taken to an extreme. I was in a battle, machine guns firing, the person shooting at us wouldn't go down. Too much armor. Finally, I knew what I had to do. I stood and took aim, unprotected, just as he was, in all his armor, staring back at me, firing wildly. Burning red hot pain ripped through my shoulder. Black fog swept in around a tiny spec of vision. The trigger pulsed beneath my finger and the gun jerked. I saw it hit it's mark.
I dropped to the ground, expose on my back. My eyes opened again, just in time to see a tiny metal pineapple arc above me, dropping towards me, filling my mind with panic. I couldn't move. Something heavy pinning me. I threw my arms over my eyes and then it was black again.
The smell of gunpowder, blood, and burned flesh woke me. No, it was Aaron. I tried to move but felt throbbing pain in my arms, legs, shoulder, and an overwhelming weight on me chest. I couldn't breath. I tried to focus. He tore the metal plate and sandbag flack jacket off me. I tried to sit up but the dull ringing pain brought blackness flooding back to my vision.
I was moving. Not of my own accord. Someone was moving me. People, a cart, the antiseptic smell of an ambulence. The lights didn't flash, the siren didn't sound. No. They were there. Faint, muted, distant. "I am not dead.", I mouthed dryly. I felt a hand touch mine. I repeated it. I said it begin. It became a mantra. I flung it at myself in rage, "I AM NOT DEAD.". Somewhere inside I felt rage boil up. Contempt with myself for being so careless. My eyes snapped open. I sat upright. Pain ripped through my arms and legs. I clamped my teeth together, eyelids and fists clenched. daggers ripped through every inch of me. My ears rang with pain. I could feel the fly's foot touch of a hand against my shoulder, the muted feeble bleating to lay back down. I refused. I focused on the pain, let it possess me, run through me, become a part of me. I winched my eyes open and looked. My arms and legs were cut deeply, ragged shards of metal embedded in flesh. Black gelatinous blood fused around them. The cuts were deep but somehow, nothing really vital seemed damaged. The bullet too, appeared to have passed through cleanly.
I saw one of the medics preparing a syringe and forbade it. Dream gets fuzzy here. Returns in hospital, still injured badly, the first-response medics have left the metal shards in me. There are a lot of sick and dying here. I want away. My friend comes to find me. He's brought me a bottle of vodka to 'kill the pain'. I instead pull the sharp metal from myself and pour the alcohol over the deep gashes. It's intensely painfully, making every raw nerve burn. A lot of it needs stitches but for now, I soak clean blue shop towels in vodka and wrap them tight around my legs. Blood stains them purple but it will hold until I can get out of here.
Thankful
Finally, a few closing thoughts in writing all this. I love my job. This may seem totally tangental but it's not at all. It's a creative place, I can come and go as I please. It's beautiful outside right now and I'm sitting in a park just north of the Bay Bridge, looking out at all the ships. I saw a submarine earlier (I think. It was long and very very low in the water. Looked like half of it was submerged) and there's a big freighter in the bay and across on the far side, a fire boat is spraying looks like 5 cannons of water into the air.
I'll probably end up staying late at work, of course. I do that a lot. But just knowing that no one is going to give em a hard time about taking a break and getting some sun is really nice.
It also amuses me that there is an open wireless network here, which means I should be able to post this from this park. I think I'll try that, then head on in to work. I've got a project I'm really enjoying that I'd like to get back to. :)
-me
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-30 11:37 pm (UTC)Speaking from someone who has creatures in her head, don't be afraid of them. I personally don't want the sucidal woman to take over because I like having you on this planet but they are a part of you. The thing that you may be afraid of is that your personality could be subsumed into one that you create through your writing. Don't be! Here is the thing to remember, if creepy serial killer becomes the dominant personality it may be the true core of you. Yes, society may be unhappy with you and I would prefer that my body parts do not end up as a doily on your couch but you would be who you truely are. That being said, I do not think that cliffjumper and bloodbath are your core heart anymore than I think that Lovecraft was Cthulu. You embrace life and creativity as your core and even though there are certain people that you would like to remove from the gene pool, you still think that they might see the error of their ways and be better human beings. I, on the other hand, am a cruel selfish serial killer at my core, chilled harder than that crust of ice that always forms in a refrigerator. The only reason certain people keep on breathing is the knowledge (hardwon and earned) that it would be difficult to get away with it and I feel that I should not have to waste my precious time on such useless flesh bags, giving them any sort of power over me and mine. Threaten my husband or my future child, all bets are off. Anyways, you are a sproingy, glittering fountain of creativity and imagination. Don't worry, you are ascendant over your "others."