Yeah, I've lost count of how many days I was there. 13, according to the calendar.
Movies:
"Children of Srikandi" - a bold experimental documentary about queer women (lesbian, bisexual, transgender, etc.) in Indonesia. An interesting concept, but poorly executed. Eight different women told eight different stories eight different ways without any sort of explanation of what was going on. It was also scripted. A good documentary, but no "Kuchu."
"Unforgiveable" - a French movie set in Venice about some very tangled relationships between an older man, his younger wife, her ex-girlfriend, and the ex-girlfriend's teenage son. Quirky and fun until the dog gets killed.
"Transgender Tuesdays" - an amateur but well-made documentary about the first public clinic to offer health care and hormones for transgender people. The most enthusiastic audience ever. I think most of them had some connection to the clinic, as it was/is in San Francisco. Lots of good historical background on the trans community as well.
"Wordly Women" - a shorts program featuring lesbian films from all over the world. They were all about sex, or were weird. Or both. I did not feel represented.
"Let My People Go!" - Jewish comedy + French comedy + gay comedy + dysfunctional family comedy = the funniest movie I have ever seen.
"Cloudburst" - an elderly lesbian couple breaks out of a nursing home, aiming for the Canadian border so they can finally get married. A hysterical romp with a bittersweet ending. See, everyone loves crazy old ladies; these ones just happen to be a couple.
Best moment:
I really really wanted a Frameline t-shirt, partly for the memories and partly because the slogan was "Find your story," and I thought that was really appropriate. By the time I actually got around to buying one, though, they were out of smalls and mediums. "Are you a filmmaker?" the woman selling them asked me. I looked down at my camera bag, which I carried with me everywhere.
"Kind of," I answered. "I'm from the University of Wisconsin - Eau Claire..."
The woman thrust a Large t-shirt at me. "Take it," she said. "Don't pay for it. We love you guys, and we really appreciate you coming all the way out here."
So what could I do but take the shirt and thank her as many times as I could?
Pride:
Because this is still a class, our professors told us to think about the concept of power while we were at Pride. I didn't actually make it to the PrideFest, but I was in the Trans March and the Dyke March, and saw the Pride Parade.
The Trans March:
I was shocked at how many people were there. I mean, I care about transpeople, but I didn't realize that so many other people did. And then when the march started, I was completely overwhelmed by the sense of solidarity and activism and pride. It was glorious, even if I did get overstimulated from the crowd.
The Dyke March:
If the Trans March was so wonderful, then the Dyke March should be even better, because these are actually my people, right? No. That was the biggest disappointment the trip. See, I love my gay male friends, and I love my pansexual female friends, but sometimes I feel like I'm the only lesbian in the world. And then when I do encounter lesbians, in books or film or at the Dyke March, I feel no connection. Am I still a lesbian if I don't go to bars and pick up chicks for one-night stands and dance in the street without a shirt? I have not found a single lesbian image that I can connect with, which might be why I sometimes act bisexual; because even though that's not what I identify as, it's who I identify with. Maybe I'm bisexual-sexual.
This is all very confusing.
The Pride March:
In addition to Pride, there is also a group called Gay Shame, and I'm starting to agree with their stance even if I think they really need a new name. OccuPride is another similar group that seems to be doing better, though. Both these groups are against the corporatization of Pride.
Pride disgusts me a little. It's just a big gay block party. And yes, it's great that we can celebrate out identity, and sexuality is inherently sexual, but...let's think about power for a minute. Why do so many corporations have floats in the parade? It's because even though we are a minority and a marginalized population, we have power. Not only buying power ourselves, but we have enough allies that it is for the most part no longer socially acceptable to be a homophobe. It's no coincidence Obama voices support for gay marriage just before election season. He said he supported it the first time he got elected; is he really giving us more than empty words, and are we content to accept them because he says them in his beautiful black Morgan Freeman voice? (I have a joke theory that Morgan Freeman was a catalyst for Obama being elected, because he taught our generation love the sound of a black man's voice).
Now let's go back to gay power. We've come a long way since Stonewall, since reclaiming the streets, since the rage of ACT UP and the AIDS epidemic. It's illegal to kill us and legal for us to have sex, and most of us our content with that. We're complacent. We have some rights, we have our annual party, and we've lost the will to fight for more. We have forgotten that we have power, and we've forgotten how to use it. We used to march for rights, to save our lives and our jobs and our friends, to spur the government to action against AIDS (the political history of AIDS is actually very interesting). Now we march because we can, because we want to get drunk and take our clothes off.
See, what really disgusts me about Pride is not how wildly everyone parties; it's because this is the one time a year people can feel comfortable celebrating being gay, and most of them feel like it is enough. It is because this day manifests 364 days of repression, and what if we could be gay every day? I don't think Pride is enough; I think it's mainstream America trying to appease us. I think it's time we take back our power and use it for marriage reform, immigration reform, global rights, am I forgetting anything? Am I still coherent? I'm not all the way finished with this think, so I might not end up where I intended. I'm not trying to say that you should stop your annual party (though personally I'd be happy with that, but I'm not a partier and I try to respect people who are), but I don't think you should be content with that. That party is a symbol of power, and I don't think you should let that power go during the rest of the year.
Showing posts with label In Which I Talk About Myself. Show all posts
Showing posts with label In Which I Talk About Myself. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
San Francisco - Days 3-4
The days are starting to blur together into a montage of movie theaters.
Day 3 we got our storyboard approved. And my video still sucks, but I'm getting better. I think.
I skipped the girls shorts (films) to see a documentary about the history of San Francisco as a gay city, which sounded interesting and I wanted to solicit the director, but it did not have Amber Benson in it. It was quite a disappointment. It was boring, shots of buildings with anecdotes narrated by voice-overs, the camera was so, so shaky, and the music was kind of trippy. . The whole thing made me want to put my head between my knees and cover my ears. Actually, I kind of did a few times.
Afterwards I tried to solicit the director, but he was squirrely. I managed to pin him down for a fime later that day, which led to some really messy phone calls trying to get my group together. On the way down, I called to say we were running a few minutes late. "That's okay. We could even do it another day if you wanted." Yes. Yes. Another day. Why did I not suggest this before? Because he was so squirrely I was afraid he was going to run away. But we're actually doing him today.
Day 4 we pushed the morning class meeting an hour earlier, because some of us (mostly me) wanted to see a film that was playing at nine. We almost did not make it, though, because that turned into the meeting where everyone talks about their feelings. Honestly, tell us we seriously need to check in, and that we should be responsible enough to take out our own trash, and it's all good. Don't spend an hour talking about how unappreciated you feel.
We literally ran to the Bunnies (quick like a bunny!) and made it with plenty of time to spare what with traliers and everything. I was in such a hurry I did not even grab tissues, so of course this was the first film to make me cry. There's just something about a fluffy animated bunny saying "I love my girlfriend" that makes me really happy. The part that made me lose it, though, was "Met a girl. Broke her tree. Now I feel bad" - "So fix it!" - "Fix it?" There's a quote from Margaret Atwood about why we cry at hapy endings - because we know they are impossible. It's just so simple and beautiful and perfect, like life never is! But it is in bunny world.
After that, though, and even during that, I started feelng like the odd kid out at the party. Which really shouldn't happen in San Francisco. But the people who went with me to see the Bunnies didn't want to see it because they thought a bunny with a chainsaw sounded like the coolest thing ever; they wanted to see it to gawk at how weird it was. And later I tried to get people to go out with me while I took footage of the street, but everyone had gone out for a birthday party th enight before, and was trying to do homework today. And then no one at all wanted to go to the animated shorts, instead seeing a movie with lots of gay sex where apparently it's not even simulated, they're actually having sex on camera. Too bad, because the shorts were fantastic. I just don't have anyone to talk about them with.
And it isn't even that everyone was busy; it's just that people kept saying yes and then changing their minds. None of them love me more than shopping. And really, we just met, and all our group cohesiveness is a mutually maintained illusion, because I don't actually know these people, but I like that illusion. I hope this doesn't turn into Marburg. This can't turn into Marburg. It's just a reminder to myself that Marburg is always with me.
At least the weather is nice today. Cloudy with a high of 62. No, seriously, I'm really excited. I'm in the mood for a dreary day, not in a sulky emo way; I find it soothing, sometimes.
Day 3 we got our storyboard approved. And my video still sucks, but I'm getting better. I think.
I skipped the girls shorts (films) to see a documentary about the history of San Francisco as a gay city, which sounded interesting and I wanted to solicit the director, but it did not have Amber Benson in it. It was quite a disappointment. It was boring, shots of buildings with anecdotes narrated by voice-overs, the camera was so, so shaky, and the music was kind of trippy. . The whole thing made me want to put my head between my knees and cover my ears. Actually, I kind of did a few times.
Afterwards I tried to solicit the director, but he was squirrely. I managed to pin him down for a fime later that day, which led to some really messy phone calls trying to get my group together. On the way down, I called to say we were running a few minutes late. "That's okay. We could even do it another day if you wanted." Yes. Yes. Another day. Why did I not suggest this before? Because he was so squirrely I was afraid he was going to run away. But we're actually doing him today.
Day 4 we pushed the morning class meeting an hour earlier, because some of us (mostly me) wanted to see a film that was playing at nine. We almost did not make it, though, because that turned into the meeting where everyone talks about their feelings. Honestly, tell us we seriously need to check in, and that we should be responsible enough to take out our own trash, and it's all good. Don't spend an hour talking about how unappreciated you feel.
We literally ran to the Bunnies (quick like a bunny!) and made it with plenty of time to spare what with traliers and everything. I was in such a hurry I did not even grab tissues, so of course this was the first film to make me cry. There's just something about a fluffy animated bunny saying "I love my girlfriend" that makes me really happy. The part that made me lose it, though, was "Met a girl. Broke her tree. Now I feel bad" - "So fix it!" - "Fix it?" There's a quote from Margaret Atwood about why we cry at hapy endings - because we know they are impossible. It's just so simple and beautiful and perfect, like life never is! But it is in bunny world.
After that, though, and even during that, I started feelng like the odd kid out at the party. Which really shouldn't happen in San Francisco. But the people who went with me to see the Bunnies didn't want to see it because they thought a bunny with a chainsaw sounded like the coolest thing ever; they wanted to see it to gawk at how weird it was. And later I tried to get people to go out with me while I took footage of the street, but everyone had gone out for a birthday party th enight before, and was trying to do homework today. And then no one at all wanted to go to the animated shorts, instead seeing a movie with lots of gay sex where apparently it's not even simulated, they're actually having sex on camera. Too bad, because the shorts were fantastic. I just don't have anyone to talk about them with.
And it isn't even that everyone was busy; it's just that people kept saying yes and then changing their minds. None of them love me more than shopping. And really, we just met, and all our group cohesiveness is a mutually maintained illusion, because I don't actually know these people, but I like that illusion. I hope this doesn't turn into Marburg. This can't turn into Marburg. It's just a reminder to myself that Marburg is always with me.
At least the weather is nice today. Cloudy with a high of 62. No, seriously, I'm really excited. I'm in the mood for a dreary day, not in a sulky emo way; I find it soothing, sometimes.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
I Want to Do Something Stupid...
A friend of mine wrote a poem that stuck in my brain.
I want to do something stupid
While I can still blame it on being young -
I want to go to New York to study literary translation. I'm not good with strange places and strange people, I grew up in the suburban Midwest and went to school in a medium-sized town - I don't think I can handle New York. I have been assured by my professors - as well as the program director at NY - that I will not be able to make a living with literary translation. Not to mention that it is a dual program in Translation AND Creative Writing - and while last semester I proved to myself that I can handle a Creative Writing class, it's still not my favorite thing to contend with.
Really, I should just forget about that program as impractical in every way, and just go to Kent State, like my professor advised. (I told her I wanted to get out of Wisconsin - believe it or not, there is a translation school in Milwaukee - and she gave me Ohio. Well, perhaps I should have been more general.) The program there is technical translation, legal and medical and computer, all sorts of things that people actually pay translators for, and while it's certainly not the best field, I will likely do as well as can be expected.
But that's the safe option. I've always taken the safe option, and frankly, I'm sick of it. Not many people know this, but I almost applied for UAA - the University of Alaska, Anchorage. If I'd done that, I'd probably be looking at Applied Linguistics and native language preservation by now. And I'd probably know how to dogsled. It was a pleasant dream my junior year, but when I actually started applying, I thought of so many logistical and practical barriers, that in the end I never even applied. I went to safe, 90-minutes away, whitewashed, Midwestern Eau Claire. And I met so many wonderful people here, and have enjoyed myself immensely and grown so much, and I have pushed my boudaries, really. But Eau Claire is not Alaska.
I almost went to Graz, Austria, for my semester abroad, instead of Marburg, Germany. But no one else was going to Graz; besides, the Austrian dialect is so thick it's hardly even German. There, it is a complete immersion experience, and you take classes with native speakers in the native language. Marburg, on the other hand, gives you German-for-foreigners with other foreigners. Safe.
That was a mistake.
Long story short I was bored out of my mind and depressed for about six months straight. That's what comes of taking the safe option.
Granted, I haven't even applied, much less gotten in. The New York program is very competitive, and I'm going up against people who are already professional translators and want to expand their horizons a bit. There is, however, another translation school with a good reputation in Monterey, California. Monterey, from what I can gather, is the Eau Claire of California - there's nothing to do, and you're only there if you're a student or retired. Monterey is the compromise option. Monterey is the Eau Claire between the U of M and Alaska (though it is a bit closer to Alaska than the U). So I can safely go there without feeling like a coward. And I think in typing this I just convinced myself to go there after all.
But I'm going to at least try for New York. I have to. If I don't get in and end up at Monterey, that's fine, but if I never even try...well, that's just pathetic. And if I do get in, and end up going there, and it ends up being a horrible mistake, at least I made an interesting mistake instead of a boring one.
I want to do something stupid
While I can still blame it on being young -
I want to go to New York to study literary translation. I'm not good with strange places and strange people, I grew up in the suburban Midwest and went to school in a medium-sized town - I don't think I can handle New York. I have been assured by my professors - as well as the program director at NY - that I will not be able to make a living with literary translation. Not to mention that it is a dual program in Translation AND Creative Writing - and while last semester I proved to myself that I can handle a Creative Writing class, it's still not my favorite thing to contend with.
Really, I should just forget about that program as impractical in every way, and just go to Kent State, like my professor advised. (I told her I wanted to get out of Wisconsin - believe it or not, there is a translation school in Milwaukee - and she gave me Ohio. Well, perhaps I should have been more general.) The program there is technical translation, legal and medical and computer, all sorts of things that people actually pay translators for, and while it's certainly not the best field, I will likely do as well as can be expected.
But that's the safe option. I've always taken the safe option, and frankly, I'm sick of it. Not many people know this, but I almost applied for UAA - the University of Alaska, Anchorage. If I'd done that, I'd probably be looking at Applied Linguistics and native language preservation by now. And I'd probably know how to dogsled. It was a pleasant dream my junior year, but when I actually started applying, I thought of so many logistical and practical barriers, that in the end I never even applied. I went to safe, 90-minutes away, whitewashed, Midwestern Eau Claire. And I met so many wonderful people here, and have enjoyed myself immensely and grown so much, and I have pushed my boudaries, really. But Eau Claire is not Alaska.
I almost went to Graz, Austria, for my semester abroad, instead of Marburg, Germany. But no one else was going to Graz; besides, the Austrian dialect is so thick it's hardly even German. There, it is a complete immersion experience, and you take classes with native speakers in the native language. Marburg, on the other hand, gives you German-for-foreigners with other foreigners. Safe.
That was a mistake.
Long story short I was bored out of my mind and depressed for about six months straight. That's what comes of taking the safe option.
Granted, I haven't even applied, much less gotten in. The New York program is very competitive, and I'm going up against people who are already professional translators and want to expand their horizons a bit. There is, however, another translation school with a good reputation in Monterey, California. Monterey, from what I can gather, is the Eau Claire of California - there's nothing to do, and you're only there if you're a student or retired. Monterey is the compromise option. Monterey is the Eau Claire between the U of M and Alaska (though it is a bit closer to Alaska than the U). So I can safely go there without feeling like a coward. And I think in typing this I just convinced myself to go there after all.
But I'm going to at least try for New York. I have to. If I don't get in and end up at Monterey, that's fine, but if I never even try...well, that's just pathetic. And if I do get in, and end up going there, and it ends up being a horrible mistake, at least I made an interesting mistake instead of a boring one.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Slytherin Syndrome
Slytherin Syndrome: 1. The process of overtly villfying a group of people without explicitly saying they're all evil; we just know they are because there is no evidence to the contrary. 2. Claiming the moral high ground on arbitrary personality characteristics while villifying others.
This is not a jab at Harry Potter. Disney is also to blame. All the hyenas are evil, after all.
But first let's look at Harry Potter. Slytherins are evil. All of them. Name me one good one. Snape. Okay, name me two. In any case, we spend the first six books thinking he is evil, and his revelation does not really call into question previous assumptions about other Slytherins.
But what is a Slytherin? That is easier to answer than what is a Hufflepuff. Slytherins are ambitious. Ergo, they are all cowardly cruel bullies. Because that's what ambition means, right?
What an impressionable child understands of this dynamic is that being brave is good, and being ambitious is bad. Being intelligent or diligent (I think that's what Hufflepuff is; we're just going to go with that) is not bad, but it is not particularly good either. Nothing to be proud of.
Let's look at ambition first. Ambition to take over the world and make all Muggles your slaves, bad. Ambition to find a magical cure for cancer, good. Ambition to invent a flying machine/win the Olympics/bring peace to a war-torn nation: you get put on a motivational poster.
So really, there is nothing wrong with being ambitious. There is nothing wrong with aspiring to greatness. And they wonder why kids these days aren't performing up to par academically, why they don't aspire the way they used to, what happened to the enterpreneurial spirit of America, why they're all so damn apathetic. Well, who wants to be ambitious? Be brave (and reckless), be smart (and arrogant), or be diligent (and humorless). Just don't be ambitious.
It's not just a Harry Potter problem. In children's books or shitty fantasy with a teenage protagonist, the hero always whines about "Why do I get stuck with the magic powers? Why do I have to be king? Why can't I just live on the farm and have people tell me what to do?" Not that the hero isn't constantly being told what to do by helpful wizards and deities that all secretly wish the Chosen One wasn't such a whiny bitch. Frodo did not whine. Frodo volunteered. Did we forget that after Eddings? I think we did.
In contrast, the villain is the one who is trying to get magic powers or become king. In fact, the villain is the only one that shows any gumption. See, it's more morally right to have life give you power than to seek it, which is why we have a democracy where people run for office instead of a monarchy where they are born into it. The reason villains are always more interesting is because villains have plans and goals, and don't just go where the plot takes them. Which makes them bad people.
They have ambition.
Look at Disney. Scar saw what he wanted and took action to get it. Simba dodges responsibility until he gives into peer pressure. Ursula was a shrewd businesswoman. Ariel was just...Ariel. Why shouldn't Jafar be sultan? Jasmine's father is kind of a dope - and is that really who you want leading the nation? Didn't we try that in America? How did that go?
Harry just wants to goof off with his buddies. BORING! Voldemort wants to change the world.
What really set me off on this, though, was realizing that I am a lot more interested in analyzing literature than writing it. I'm a critic. The bitchcritic. Which, if you have seen Ratatouille, makes me the bad guy. But really, is not the highest honor a rat could receive the approval of the bitchcritic? It's not that he hates everything, he just has high standards, and doesn't it make you proud to know that you are awesome enough to meet those standards?
You know, this only happens because all our creative writers and filmmakers see themselves as intrepid inventors that the world cannot do without, and anyone who criticizes them as evil.
So I'm evil. Fine. Actually, no not fine. I'm not okay with being evil. They tell the hero that they can be whatever they want, be it chef, warrior, prince, princess, human, king. But no one tells that to the villain.
Because we're ambitious.
I am the bitchcritic and proud. And to everyone out there who has an ambition (and just how different is that from a dream, Ms. Disney Princess?) - go for it. As long as you have the intelligence to come up with a plan, the diligence to follow through, and the courage to risk it.
This is not a jab at Harry Potter. Disney is also to blame. All the hyenas are evil, after all.
But first let's look at Harry Potter. Slytherins are evil. All of them. Name me one good one. Snape. Okay, name me two. In any case, we spend the first six books thinking he is evil, and his revelation does not really call into question previous assumptions about other Slytherins.
But what is a Slytherin? That is easier to answer than what is a Hufflepuff. Slytherins are ambitious. Ergo, they are all cowardly cruel bullies. Because that's what ambition means, right?
What an impressionable child understands of this dynamic is that being brave is good, and being ambitious is bad. Being intelligent or diligent (I think that's what Hufflepuff is; we're just going to go with that) is not bad, but it is not particularly good either. Nothing to be proud of.
Let's look at ambition first. Ambition to take over the world and make all Muggles your slaves, bad. Ambition to find a magical cure for cancer, good. Ambition to invent a flying machine/win the Olympics/bring peace to a war-torn nation: you get put on a motivational poster.
So really, there is nothing wrong with being ambitious. There is nothing wrong with aspiring to greatness. And they wonder why kids these days aren't performing up to par academically, why they don't aspire the way they used to, what happened to the enterpreneurial spirit of America, why they're all so damn apathetic. Well, who wants to be ambitious? Be brave (and reckless), be smart (and arrogant), or be diligent (and humorless). Just don't be ambitious.
It's not just a Harry Potter problem. In children's books or shitty fantasy with a teenage protagonist, the hero always whines about "Why do I get stuck with the magic powers? Why do I have to be king? Why can't I just live on the farm and have people tell me what to do?" Not that the hero isn't constantly being told what to do by helpful wizards and deities that all secretly wish the Chosen One wasn't such a whiny bitch. Frodo did not whine. Frodo volunteered. Did we forget that after Eddings? I think we did.
In contrast, the villain is the one who is trying to get magic powers or become king. In fact, the villain is the only one that shows any gumption. See, it's more morally right to have life give you power than to seek it, which is why we have a democracy where people run for office instead of a monarchy where they are born into it. The reason villains are always more interesting is because villains have plans and goals, and don't just go where the plot takes them. Which makes them bad people.
They have ambition.
Look at Disney. Scar saw what he wanted and took action to get it. Simba dodges responsibility until he gives into peer pressure. Ursula was a shrewd businesswoman. Ariel was just...Ariel. Why shouldn't Jafar be sultan? Jasmine's father is kind of a dope - and is that really who you want leading the nation? Didn't we try that in America? How did that go?
Harry just wants to goof off with his buddies. BORING! Voldemort wants to change the world.
What really set me off on this, though, was realizing that I am a lot more interested in analyzing literature than writing it. I'm a critic. The bitchcritic. Which, if you have seen Ratatouille, makes me the bad guy. But really, is not the highest honor a rat could receive the approval of the bitchcritic? It's not that he hates everything, he just has high standards, and doesn't it make you proud to know that you are awesome enough to meet those standards?
You know, this only happens because all our creative writers and filmmakers see themselves as intrepid inventors that the world cannot do without, and anyone who criticizes them as evil.
So I'm evil. Fine. Actually, no not fine. I'm not okay with being evil. They tell the hero that they can be whatever they want, be it chef, warrior, prince, princess, human, king. But no one tells that to the villain.
Because we're ambitious.
I am the bitchcritic and proud. And to everyone out there who has an ambition (and just how different is that from a dream, Ms. Disney Princess?) - go for it. As long as you have the intelligence to come up with a plan, the diligence to follow through, and the courage to risk it.
Friday, February 10, 2012
What Was I Thinking?
Hello Hello! I'm still here. I don't know if you are, though. Ah well. I don't take blogging seriously, like some people I've met. I believe I'm going to consider this my training blog, so that when I'm a published writer and people actually care what I have to say, then I'll know how to say things worth saying.
Blah blah blah aside, I'm doing better and worse on the writing front. Worse, because I haven't written anything of significance in...well, I'm not even sure. Since I decided to finally put that nameless Baleful Polymorph that I'd been working on since high school out of its misery and be DONE WITH IT FOR REAL THIS TIME. I am now free to work on my multitude of side stories that are all so much more interesting!
...
...
You know, despite being a hideous monster with a broken plot that had gone through so many versions it didn't even know what it was anymore...I don't really feel the same sort of dedication for anything else. Maybe it was just my age, and now I realize it was crap, I'm hard pressed to come up with something new that isn't. At this point I'm tempted to take it out of storage, dust off the pieces, and see if there's anything I can stitch together. But I can't. It's dead. As it should be and it's time to move on.
I did say I was doing better, though, and here's why: I'm taking Creative Writing. Yep. I displaced some poor Creative Writing major who won't be able to take any actual CW classes for another semester. Eh. They have so many generals and literature components they won't really fall behind. It seems that a lot of the people in that class aren't CW majors either, so it's a nice laid-back atmosphere for me to finally rid myself of this damn phobia.
For those who haven't been following, I have an absolute terror of sharing my writing with other people - what I like to term "page fright." What I noticed the first time I had to read a poem in that class, however, is that it was mostly physiological. I was twitchy and tense and kept fidgeting with a yo-yo while I took deep breaths and tried to keep my vision from blurring. You know, like I was on the verge of a panic attack. Only I wasn't actually scared. It was weird. And they liked my poem. Better than some of the others. A lot of the others. I'm not going to say there are some bad writers in that class, but some are better than others.
So I think I'll be able to kick this habit, since it seems to be a Pavlovian reflex more than an emotional response. Problems: It's exhausting. Writing a poem every week. Reading twenty poems a week. What was I thinking? I'm a prose writer. I'm sick of poetry, and we're not even halfway through the poetry unit. There's only one short story required for the class, and - best part - the professor will not accept fantasy.
Now, if his rationale had been that traditional High Fantasy requires a great deal of worldbuilding that does not work well in short works - okay. I can accept that. But no, he just doesn't like fantasy because he thinks it's crap. This guy, by the way, writes crime fiction. Murder mystery detective stories. Room to judge? I don't think so. He also refuses trashy paranormal romance - but you know that several girls are going to write trashy mundane romances anyway.
Does it matter if a stupid girl is in love with a stupid angsty hipster or a stupid angsty vampire? At least if there's a vampire, you know that someone's going to bleed eventually. And you know, just bcause a story is a paranormal romance does not mean it has to be trashy - people just write with that assumption. The thing is, there are some good mundane stories about lovers - The Time-Traveller's Wife, The Gargoyle - okay, I lied when I said mundane. But this just proves the point I was going to make anyway! Fantastical elements do not automatically make a story crap! It is how you use them that determines the quality of your story.
Better stop now, I'm rambling. I shall return anon!
Blah blah blah aside, I'm doing better and worse on the writing front. Worse, because I haven't written anything of significance in...well, I'm not even sure. Since I decided to finally put that nameless Baleful Polymorph that I'd been working on since high school out of its misery and be DONE WITH IT FOR REAL THIS TIME. I am now free to work on my multitude of side stories that are all so much more interesting!
...
...
You know, despite being a hideous monster with a broken plot that had gone through so many versions it didn't even know what it was anymore...I don't really feel the same sort of dedication for anything else. Maybe it was just my age, and now I realize it was crap, I'm hard pressed to come up with something new that isn't. At this point I'm tempted to take it out of storage, dust off the pieces, and see if there's anything I can stitch together. But I can't. It's dead. As it should be and it's time to move on.
I did say I was doing better, though, and here's why: I'm taking Creative Writing. Yep. I displaced some poor Creative Writing major who won't be able to take any actual CW classes for another semester. Eh. They have so many generals and literature components they won't really fall behind. It seems that a lot of the people in that class aren't CW majors either, so it's a nice laid-back atmosphere for me to finally rid myself of this damn phobia.
For those who haven't been following, I have an absolute terror of sharing my writing with other people - what I like to term "page fright." What I noticed the first time I had to read a poem in that class, however, is that it was mostly physiological. I was twitchy and tense and kept fidgeting with a yo-yo while I took deep breaths and tried to keep my vision from blurring. You know, like I was on the verge of a panic attack. Only I wasn't actually scared. It was weird. And they liked my poem. Better than some of the others. A lot of the others. I'm not going to say there are some bad writers in that class, but some are better than others.
So I think I'll be able to kick this habit, since it seems to be a Pavlovian reflex more than an emotional response. Problems: It's exhausting. Writing a poem every week. Reading twenty poems a week. What was I thinking? I'm a prose writer. I'm sick of poetry, and we're not even halfway through the poetry unit. There's only one short story required for the class, and - best part - the professor will not accept fantasy.
Now, if his rationale had been that traditional High Fantasy requires a great deal of worldbuilding that does not work well in short works - okay. I can accept that. But no, he just doesn't like fantasy because he thinks it's crap. This guy, by the way, writes crime fiction. Murder mystery detective stories. Room to judge? I don't think so. He also refuses trashy paranormal romance - but you know that several girls are going to write trashy mundane romances anyway.
Does it matter if a stupid girl is in love with a stupid angsty hipster or a stupid angsty vampire? At least if there's a vampire, you know that someone's going to bleed eventually. And you know, just bcause a story is a paranormal romance does not mean it has to be trashy - people just write with that assumption. The thing is, there are some good mundane stories about lovers - The Time-Traveller's Wife, The Gargoyle - okay, I lied when I said mundane. But this just proves the point I was going to make anyway! Fantastical elements do not automatically make a story crap! It is how you use them that determines the quality of your story.
Better stop now, I'm rambling. I shall return anon!
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Cleaning up the Mess
So, back in November I participated in 30 days of awesome hell called NaNoWriMo. I ended up with 50,000 words of garbage, and have made it my goal for January - NaNoEdMo - to sort through it and look for anything worth saving. Well, initially I set out intending to create a readable second draft, but...yeah. That's not going to happen.
So how do I edit? I normally don't get this far, so I'm making this up as I go along. Of course, that's what I did when I first started writing. Heck, that's what I still do, so I don't know what I'm complaining about. Anyway, I borrow techniques from several writers I respect (note "respect," not "like"). First step is the read-through. This is why EdMo is January and not December, besides the fact that in December you are too burned out to even think about writing. You have to read it as though it is not your own work. The month-long interval gives you some distance, so that you can read as a reader and not a writer. Usually it's not as bad as you remember, at this point.
Of course, "not as bad as you thought" is not the same as "good." On the second read-through, you are allowed to make notes about what needs to be improved - the first time through, you are not allowed to criticize. I realized very quickly that none of the actual scenes were salvageable. I had to create a whole new outline for the story I ended up with, rather than the story I began with. I made notes about which scenes can be used for reference (more just to make me feel that this is a second draft and not a complete overhaul), but over half of it has to be written from scratch, and I have no idea how some of the new plot points are supposed to happen.
In fact, looking at it all now, I realize I have two choices. Well, three, but the third doesn't really count. I can 1) Add in the new scenes. Somehow. 2) Cut down what I have and strip it down into a short story. 3) Toss it all out and give up (You can see why this one doesn't count, but technically it is an option)
I think I might end up going with 2, and possibly taking it a step further and just making it backstory. You see, my novel did a funny thing this year. Around page 55, which was about halfway through the month this year, I had nothing left for the story I was trying to write. So I wrote a slightly related story about witch hunters. No planning, no prior imaginings, just a desperate gimmick to add words and keep creativity flowing.
Predictably, that is the part of the month I think has the best chance of being saved.
That is what happens during NaNo. If you look at the pep talk of successful (published) NaNovelist Erin Morgenstern and her novel The Night Circus, her story is that when her NaNovel wasn't going anywhere, she sent her characters to a circus, which turned out to be much more interesting than the original story. Now she's published and there are over a hundred requests on her book at the library, so I probably won't get to it until after break. The point is that writing is a process of discovery. Creation is discovery. That's what makes it interesting, more so than arranging information into an essay or solving a math problem. You have control over the novel, but at the same time, the novel has power over you.
Going to stop now before I get too postmodernly semantical. Have to get back to that editing. Or possibly that new story with the shapeshifter that's lurking in the back of my mind...
So how do I edit? I normally don't get this far, so I'm making this up as I go along. Of course, that's what I did when I first started writing. Heck, that's what I still do, so I don't know what I'm complaining about. Anyway, I borrow techniques from several writers I respect (note "respect," not "like"). First step is the read-through. This is why EdMo is January and not December, besides the fact that in December you are too burned out to even think about writing. You have to read it as though it is not your own work. The month-long interval gives you some distance, so that you can read as a reader and not a writer. Usually it's not as bad as you remember, at this point.
Of course, "not as bad as you thought" is not the same as "good." On the second read-through, you are allowed to make notes about what needs to be improved - the first time through, you are not allowed to criticize. I realized very quickly that none of the actual scenes were salvageable. I had to create a whole new outline for the story I ended up with, rather than the story I began with. I made notes about which scenes can be used for reference (more just to make me feel that this is a second draft and not a complete overhaul), but over half of it has to be written from scratch, and I have no idea how some of the new plot points are supposed to happen.
In fact, looking at it all now, I realize I have two choices. Well, three, but the third doesn't really count. I can 1) Add in the new scenes. Somehow. 2) Cut down what I have and strip it down into a short story. 3) Toss it all out and give up (You can see why this one doesn't count, but technically it is an option)
I think I might end up going with 2, and possibly taking it a step further and just making it backstory. You see, my novel did a funny thing this year. Around page 55, which was about halfway through the month this year, I had nothing left for the story I was trying to write. So I wrote a slightly related story about witch hunters. No planning, no prior imaginings, just a desperate gimmick to add words and keep creativity flowing.
Predictably, that is the part of the month I think has the best chance of being saved.
That is what happens during NaNo. If you look at the pep talk of successful (published) NaNovelist Erin Morgenstern and her novel The Night Circus, her story is that when her NaNovel wasn't going anywhere, she sent her characters to a circus, which turned out to be much more interesting than the original story. Now she's published and there are over a hundred requests on her book at the library, so I probably won't get to it until after break. The point is that writing is a process of discovery. Creation is discovery. That's what makes it interesting, more so than arranging information into an essay or solving a math problem. You have control over the novel, but at the same time, the novel has power over you.
Going to stop now before I get too postmodernly semantical. Have to get back to that editing. Or possibly that new story with the shapeshifter that's lurking in the back of my mind...
Monday, January 2, 2012
Time
Time is a funny thing. It is elastic, like a rubber band, so the same length of it can feel very long or very short. Seconds can grind slow as hours if you are giving a presentation in front of a class, but you can sit down to talk with a friend you have not seen in far too long, and find the hours flying by like seconds.
So whether this was a long year or a short year, I cannot say. A year ago today I was on a airplane to Germany, somehow convinced I was going to have the time of my life, despite the frightful doubts in my head that I was in completely the wrong place. Empty lonely hours stretched long in the Scheissburg, but back at school my life was carried away by a whirlwind until I finally took it back by force. Then stood staring, wondering what to do with it.
One year ago today I took to the air and I still cannot say if I have landed safely.
There was a lot this year. I hit the low point of my life, and pray to whatever gods may be that I never go there again. I have discovered I am not who I thought I was, and though I no longer have the adolescent urgency to figure it out, I am looking down a lifelong road through self-discovery.
This was a year of redefining - redefining of relationships, goals, desires. And though I don't feel like I have any more answers than when I started, what I have is, I think, enough to carry me through 2012.
These were my goals for 2011:
1. To no longer be afraid of things that won't kill me.
2. To stop making things my problems that aren't.
I think I did okay on those. Certainly not going to leave them behind, but I think I need some new ones for 2012.
1. Take control of my own life.
2. Make new friends and take care of the ones I have.
3. Show someone a story (a real one, one that matters). Shouldn't be a problem if no one bugs me about it.
4. Actually learn to play something on the guitar.
5. Redefine my relationship with my body.
If you know me and don't know what #5 means, don't ask. I'll tell you in my own time.
(Why do I post things I don't want to talk about? I guess I feel more comfortable writing than talking sometimes. It makes me uncomfortable to talk about the things I blog about, which is why I blog about them instead of talking - like they are still being expressed, more than in a private diary, but I don't have to say anything, and I don't get immediate responses. Things I need to say but can't. I forget sometimes that real people I know read this. Like it doesn't exist in the spoken reality. Ah well.)
So whether this was a long year or a short year, I cannot say. A year ago today I was on a airplane to Germany, somehow convinced I was going to have the time of my life, despite the frightful doubts in my head that I was in completely the wrong place. Empty lonely hours stretched long in the Scheissburg, but back at school my life was carried away by a whirlwind until I finally took it back by force. Then stood staring, wondering what to do with it.
One year ago today I took to the air and I still cannot say if I have landed safely.
There was a lot this year. I hit the low point of my life, and pray to whatever gods may be that I never go there again. I have discovered I am not who I thought I was, and though I no longer have the adolescent urgency to figure it out, I am looking down a lifelong road through self-discovery.
This was a year of redefining - redefining of relationships, goals, desires. And though I don't feel like I have any more answers than when I started, what I have is, I think, enough to carry me through 2012.
These were my goals for 2011:
1. To no longer be afraid of things that won't kill me.
2. To stop making things my problems that aren't.
I think I did okay on those. Certainly not going to leave them behind, but I think I need some new ones for 2012.
1. Take control of my own life.
2. Make new friends and take care of the ones I have.
3. Show someone a story (a real one, one that matters). Shouldn't be a problem if no one bugs me about it.
4. Actually learn to play something on the guitar.
5. Redefine my relationship with my body.
If you know me and don't know what #5 means, don't ask. I'll tell you in my own time.
(Why do I post things I don't want to talk about? I guess I feel more comfortable writing than talking sometimes. It makes me uncomfortable to talk about the things I blog about, which is why I blog about them instead of talking - like they are still being expressed, more than in a private diary, but I don't have to say anything, and I don't get immediate responses. Things I need to say but can't. I forget sometimes that real people I know read this. Like it doesn't exist in the spoken reality. Ah well.)
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Re-emerging Into Reality
You may have noticed that I have been somewhat less diligent about posting in this month of November. That is because I have been participating in a cult group madness challenge called NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month. 50,000 words. 30 days. One writer.
Okay, not one writer. That is what is so wonderful about NaNo. Writing is by nature a solitary activity, and sitting in a group of people all absorbed in their own laptops writing their own novels does not sound like a party by anyone's standards. Still, it is a great way to stay motivated. I tend to write in creative spurts, but I have a hard time finishing. I get about half or two-thids of the way through, and the story starts to sag, and I start to see all the places I went wrong, and I want to start over and fix things. And I get to a point where I don't know where to go next and I don't really care.
But with NaNoWriMo, every word counts. Rule #1 is DO NOT DELETE. Rule #2 is DO NOT GIVE UP. I was up to being seven days behind, but I made up the difference in the last few weeks and pulled across the finish line with hours to spare.
I have done NaNo several times in the past, and this was a year of firsts for me. It was the first year I made an outline the night before from a story I thought of that day. It was the first time I threw out that outline on the first day and started with a story that had been smoldering in my head for a while. And it is the first year that I re-started on the second day with a completely new story that had been gestating but I had not considered ready to be born; but it was my most viable option. It is the first year I had no idea where the story was supposed to go.
That is another thing about NaNo. It forces you to be creative. For the first 20k or so I was writing myself in circles. Then I added witch hunters. I never thought I would until I realized that I needed something new. And there they were. That got me close to 40k before that arc came down. The rest was a first person account filling in the gaps of the first arc. Note: First person in lovely for wordiness. You can throw in so much opinionation and asides and rants. It's wonderful.
Then I was still about a thousand short and spat out half a bonus scene with the witch hunters.
Every year after that first one I have told myself that I won't do NaNo - I don't have time, I don't any good ideas, I'm in the middle of another project - and yet somehow I always do. And I don't regret it. Any of it. Even though all my drafts so far have been shit, and I don't very much think this one is any different, I wrote that damn novel. I have proven to myself that I can can overcome my creative barriers. It does not take skill to write, after all. Skill can be learned. It takes determination and persistence, and I definitely leveled up in that area this month.
Now for a rest. This is also the first year my wrist actually started twinging (at the 47k mark, when I was starting to think I might actually make it). That has not stopped me from starting a new crochet project. I want to get back to my translations - I've been making trips to the career center to see what the heck I can do with my life, and translator is still one of my options. I also want to start reading books again. Am halfway through the third Temeraire book and also for some reason have a strong urge to re-read the entire Chronicles of Chrestomanci. Oh yeah, finals are coming up too.
Blah blah words blah oh wait, I don't have to count them anymore.
Okay, not one writer. That is what is so wonderful about NaNo. Writing is by nature a solitary activity, and sitting in a group of people all absorbed in their own laptops writing their own novels does not sound like a party by anyone's standards. Still, it is a great way to stay motivated. I tend to write in creative spurts, but I have a hard time finishing. I get about half or two-thids of the way through, and the story starts to sag, and I start to see all the places I went wrong, and I want to start over and fix things. And I get to a point where I don't know where to go next and I don't really care.
But with NaNoWriMo, every word counts. Rule #1 is DO NOT DELETE. Rule #2 is DO NOT GIVE UP. I was up to being seven days behind, but I made up the difference in the last few weeks and pulled across the finish line with hours to spare.
I have done NaNo several times in the past, and this was a year of firsts for me. It was the first year I made an outline the night before from a story I thought of that day. It was the first time I threw out that outline on the first day and started with a story that had been smoldering in my head for a while. And it is the first year that I re-started on the second day with a completely new story that had been gestating but I had not considered ready to be born; but it was my most viable option. It is the first year I had no idea where the story was supposed to go.
That is another thing about NaNo. It forces you to be creative. For the first 20k or so I was writing myself in circles. Then I added witch hunters. I never thought I would until I realized that I needed something new. And there they were. That got me close to 40k before that arc came down. The rest was a first person account filling in the gaps of the first arc. Note: First person in lovely for wordiness. You can throw in so much opinionation and asides and rants. It's wonderful.
Then I was still about a thousand short and spat out half a bonus scene with the witch hunters.
Every year after that first one I have told myself that I won't do NaNo - I don't have time, I don't any good ideas, I'm in the middle of another project - and yet somehow I always do. And I don't regret it. Any of it. Even though all my drafts so far have been shit, and I don't very much think this one is any different, I wrote that damn novel. I have proven to myself that I can can overcome my creative barriers. It does not take skill to write, after all. Skill can be learned. It takes determination and persistence, and I definitely leveled up in that area this month.
Now for a rest. This is also the first year my wrist actually started twinging (at the 47k mark, when I was starting to think I might actually make it). That has not stopped me from starting a new crochet project. I want to get back to my translations - I've been making trips to the career center to see what the heck I can do with my life, and translator is still one of my options. I also want to start reading books again. Am halfway through the third Temeraire book and also for some reason have a strong urge to re-read the entire Chronicles of Chrestomanci. Oh yeah, finals are coming up too.
Blah blah words blah oh wait, I don't have to count them anymore.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Epiphany
I just realized something today.
Yes, Marburg was the worst experience of my life. I spent nine months clinically depressed. I failed so many times to establish relationships that I came scarily close to giving up on anything.
But if I had never gone, I never would have been introduced to the anime Princess Tutu.
In fact, I would probably not have rekindled my love of anime at all. Thanks to my one friend in that country, anime became a lifeline.
Was it worth nine months of depression? Probably no. But is it a damn good show? Yes. I can finally say that something good came out of that experience.
Note: This is not a show for people who do not already have a healthy respect for anime. The first six episodes seem silly and girly and fluffy and weird. But if you can watch every episode from beginning to end without shedding a tear, you have no soul.
Yes, Marburg was the worst experience of my life. I spent nine months clinically depressed. I failed so many times to establish relationships that I came scarily close to giving up on anything.
But if I had never gone, I never would have been introduced to the anime Princess Tutu.
In fact, I would probably not have rekindled my love of anime at all. Thanks to my one friend in that country, anime became a lifeline.
Was it worth nine months of depression? Probably no. But is it a damn good show? Yes. I can finally say that something good came out of that experience.
Note: This is not a show for people who do not already have a healthy respect for anime. The first six episodes seem silly and girly and fluffy and weird. But if you can watch every episode from beginning to end without shedding a tear, you have no soul.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Calm After The Storm
FFF.
Fuckin' Folk Fair.
What is Folk Fair? For those of you who don't know, it is a large culture fair that takes over one of the academic buildings on campus. Every cultural organization (and then some) gets a room or a table to put up an informational display about their country. And sell food. Seriously, people only really come for the food.
This year was particularly exciting because FFF fell on Halloween weekend, which is really weird timing, and also because none of us had ever planned a FFF before. Nor did any of us live off campus and have a nice private kitchen and a grown-up refrigerator. Fridge stuffed full of butter. The worst part is that we grossly overestimated how much we needed. We would have been more than okay with half the amount. Fuckin' butter.
It's for cheesecake. German cheesecake, that I should be allowed near because I ended up destroying two when taking them out of the pans and making one that did not get cooked all the way through (which really wasn't my fault, but I still had a hand in making it). It is an absolute bitch to make, but after the first bite, you suddenly remember why we go through all this trouble every year for that damn cheesecake, because it is so freakin' good.
And it's over. One more year done. I swear I will never do it again, at the same time knowing that I will in fact get suckered into it. But at least I have another ten months to relax and not think about it. I can focus on distributing the gear to the fencing team, which shouldn't be too hard except that one girl is MIA and I'm starting to get a little worried. Then I have to get the team to a tournament, which would be a lot easier if I knew how many were going, but they have not responded to at least a dozen emails. Like herding canaries.
I have an exam on Monday, and an exam on Tuesday, and a research paper I should probably get started on, I still have no idea what I'm going to do for NaNoWriMo, and I'm likely going to catch my roommate's cold tomorrow. Yeah. Now that FFF is done, I can totally relax. At least I don't have to bake anything.
Fuckin' Folk Fair.
What is Folk Fair? For those of you who don't know, it is a large culture fair that takes over one of the academic buildings on campus. Every cultural organization (and then some) gets a room or a table to put up an informational display about their country. And sell food. Seriously, people only really come for the food.
This year was particularly exciting because FFF fell on Halloween weekend, which is really weird timing, and also because none of us had ever planned a FFF before. Nor did any of us live off campus and have a nice private kitchen and a grown-up refrigerator. Fridge stuffed full of butter. The worst part is that we grossly overestimated how much we needed. We would have been more than okay with half the amount. Fuckin' butter.
It's for cheesecake. German cheesecake, that I should be allowed near because I ended up destroying two when taking them out of the pans and making one that did not get cooked all the way through (which really wasn't my fault, but I still had a hand in making it). It is an absolute bitch to make, but after the first bite, you suddenly remember why we go through all this trouble every year for that damn cheesecake, because it is so freakin' good.
And it's over. One more year done. I swear I will never do it again, at the same time knowing that I will in fact get suckered into it. But at least I have another ten months to relax and not think about it. I can focus on distributing the gear to the fencing team, which shouldn't be too hard except that one girl is MIA and I'm starting to get a little worried. Then I have to get the team to a tournament, which would be a lot easier if I knew how many were going, but they have not responded to at least a dozen emails. Like herding canaries.
I have an exam on Monday, and an exam on Tuesday, and a research paper I should probably get started on, I still have no idea what I'm going to do for NaNoWriMo, and I'm likely going to catch my roommate's cold tomorrow. Yeah. Now that FFF is done, I can totally relax. At least I don't have to bake anything.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Responsibility
My life in isolation in Scheissburg drove me over the edge, but I think it is fair to say that I had been pushed to the edge by the previous semester. Long story and confidential events shortened, I became Mark from the musical Rent. I watched my best buddy Roger get his heart torn apart by Mimi (or perhaps he would be Benny by now), and dealt with Maureen's craziness on the side. I watched my world and my friends sink into hell, and there was not a damn thing I could do about it, not even make a stupid movie. Mark is a really sucky character to be. He doesn't actually do anything. Just stands around and mopes while everyone deals with crap. He doesn't even affect anything. He doesn't end up with a lover. FML.
The play neglects to mention, however, just how much it hurts to be in that situation. To simultaneously be certain there is nothing you can do and still have the urge to fix everything. Torn apart, much?
In summary, my two resolutions for this year are: 1. Stop being afraid of things that won't kill me (did I mention that already?) and 2. Don't make things my problem that aren't. Because I came to the realization that I can't take care of anyone else if I can't take care of myself.
So now that we're in the second act, Maureen is having trouble with Joanne, and I can tell him what we all know he needs to do. I can assure him a thousand times over that yes, people are going to be upset with him, but we as his friends will never abandon him. But when it comes right down to it, this is something he can only do himself.
Last fall got to the point where I wanted to confront Mimi/Benny and have a very frank conversation with him about my take on what was going on. That did not happen until after it was essentially too late. Now, I'm choking off the impulse to do the same with Joanne. She barely knows me. And yet...I know she's about to go through hell. A part of me thinks I could say something, do something, to make it easier. So where do I draw the line? Is she my problem, or isn't she? Do I keep from getting involved, or am I already involved?
What is going to happen is that I won't say anything unless she approaches me. Then all bets are off. This is a very delicate situation, and any direct interference from me could very easily swing things the wrong way. So Mark, get thee behind thy camera where you belong. The best thing I can do now is call encouragement as the actors play their parts. For I am an actor too, and I have my own parts to play.
How did we get here? How the hell - ?
Pan left. Close on the steeple of the church...
Why are entire years strewn on the cutting room floor
Of memory?
When single frames from one magic night
Forever flicker in close up
Of the 3D Imax of my mind?...
Why am I the witness?
And when I capture it on film?
Will it mean that it's the end, and I'm alone?
The play neglects to mention, however, just how much it hurts to be in that situation. To simultaneously be certain there is nothing you can do and still have the urge to fix everything. Torn apart, much?
In summary, my two resolutions for this year are: 1. Stop being afraid of things that won't kill me (did I mention that already?) and 2. Don't make things my problem that aren't. Because I came to the realization that I can't take care of anyone else if I can't take care of myself.
So now that we're in the second act, Maureen is having trouble with Joanne, and I can tell him what we all know he needs to do. I can assure him a thousand times over that yes, people are going to be upset with him, but we as his friends will never abandon him. But when it comes right down to it, this is something he can only do himself.
Last fall got to the point where I wanted to confront Mimi/Benny and have a very frank conversation with him about my take on what was going on. That did not happen until after it was essentially too late. Now, I'm choking off the impulse to do the same with Joanne. She barely knows me. And yet...I know she's about to go through hell. A part of me thinks I could say something, do something, to make it easier. So where do I draw the line? Is she my problem, or isn't she? Do I keep from getting involved, or am I already involved?
What is going to happen is that I won't say anything unless she approaches me. Then all bets are off. This is a very delicate situation, and any direct interference from me could very easily swing things the wrong way. So Mark, get thee behind thy camera where you belong. The best thing I can do now is call encouragement as the actors play their parts. For I am an actor too, and I have my own parts to play.
How did we get here? How the hell - ?
Pan left. Close on the steeple of the church...
Why are entire years strewn on the cutting room floor
Of memory?
When single frames from one magic night
Forever flicker in close up
Of the 3D Imax of my mind?...
Why am I the witness?
And when I capture it on film?
Will it mean that it's the end, and I'm alone?
Monday, August 1, 2011
Writing Again
Sometimes it's easy.
Sometimes it feels like the story is writing itself, like it's all already there and you just have to record it. Every word it perfect, every plot twist just the way it has to be, the characters developing in new and exciting directions so fast you can barely keep up. It's like something is burning inside you, just under the ribcage. It's like being horny; that maddening need to be with the story, to let it consume you.
Other times it's hard. So hard, you don't want to face it. You look at what you've written, and you wonder "How did I come up with that shit?" and it doesn't seem worth it to fix any of the millions and millions of problems with the text. The characters are flat, the whole concept is unoriginal. Your story is boring. Your initial creative rush has died to a trickle of foul sludge. New, exciting ideas hover at the edge of your mind, and you want to leave this one behind and chase them, even though you know it will all end the same, and that you won't be able to commit until you finish this one, and maybe, just maybe, a part of you still believes in that boring old story.
It is this that separates the writers from the dreamers. Even when you don't want to face the story, you do it anyway, and stare at the document for hours, forcing out a sentence every few minutes. Then it feels like the story is there again, but trapped behind a glass wall, and it can't get out. Still, you plow on ahead.
Even when your mother walks into your room and asks "Oh, what are you doing? Are you writing?" "Yes." "Is it for your blog?" "No." "Oh, do you have some sort of project, a story?" "I don't really want to talk about it." "Well, you could just say a manuscript," as she goes off in an offended huff, because even though we usually get along great, if there is a problem with our relationship then it's always my fault, and she never bothers to ask me if maybe I'm being belligerant because I'm upset about something, and what might that be? Not unless I have a complete emotional breakdown and burst into tears, and even then it's hard to get her to actually listen. Note to self: When you start seeing a counselor in the fall, make sure to bring up your crapsaccharine relationship with your mother.
And then you're all frazzled and can't concentrate, and feel oddly violated and raw, so you maybe force out another sentence or at least finish the one you were on, then close down and let the story recover. But it is still there, that nagging, unfinished business that you cannot quite leave behind you. And you're going to have to go through it all over again tomorrow.
This is what separates the writers from the dreamers.
Sometimes it feels like the story is writing itself, like it's all already there and you just have to record it. Every word it perfect, every plot twist just the way it has to be, the characters developing in new and exciting directions so fast you can barely keep up. It's like something is burning inside you, just under the ribcage. It's like being horny; that maddening need to be with the story, to let it consume you.
Other times it's hard. So hard, you don't want to face it. You look at what you've written, and you wonder "How did I come up with that shit?" and it doesn't seem worth it to fix any of the millions and millions of problems with the text. The characters are flat, the whole concept is unoriginal. Your story is boring. Your initial creative rush has died to a trickle of foul sludge. New, exciting ideas hover at the edge of your mind, and you want to leave this one behind and chase them, even though you know it will all end the same, and that you won't be able to commit until you finish this one, and maybe, just maybe, a part of you still believes in that boring old story.
It is this that separates the writers from the dreamers. Even when you don't want to face the story, you do it anyway, and stare at the document for hours, forcing out a sentence every few minutes. Then it feels like the story is there again, but trapped behind a glass wall, and it can't get out. Still, you plow on ahead.
Even when your mother walks into your room and asks "Oh, what are you doing? Are you writing?" "Yes." "Is it for your blog?" "No." "Oh, do you have some sort of project, a story?" "I don't really want to talk about it." "Well, you could just say a manuscript," as she goes off in an offended huff, because even though we usually get along great, if there is a problem with our relationship then it's always my fault, and she never bothers to ask me if maybe I'm being belligerant because I'm upset about something, and what might that be? Not unless I have a complete emotional breakdown and burst into tears, and even then it's hard to get her to actually listen. Note to self: When you start seeing a counselor in the fall, make sure to bring up your crapsaccharine relationship with your mother.
And then you're all frazzled and can't concentrate, and feel oddly violated and raw, so you maybe force out another sentence or at least finish the one you were on, then close down and let the story recover. But it is still there, that nagging, unfinished business that you cannot quite leave behind you. And you're going to have to go through it all over again tomorrow.
This is what separates the writers from the dreamers.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Blah blah blah
First of all I feel that I owe my very best friend in the whole wide world an apology, because I've been avoiding him. Why? I just sent him the first draft of the aforementioned vampire story and asked him to critique it. Then I spent the next few days convincing myself I was busy, when really I just wanted to convince myself that I had never written anything and no one had ever read it.
I think I need to give a name to this problem. Presentation Anxiety, how about? It's like stage fright, only with the written word, instead of spoken.
So right now, having finally worked up the nerve to check my email, I feel pretty wretched. Nausea is my chief emotion at the moment, a side affect of the anxiety. I also feel a crushing doubt in my abilities as a writer, and a voice in my head is trying to convince me that I am not up to the challenge, that I should just keep these stupid little attempts at stories to myself and not try to do anything with them. See, I don't write for enjoyment or ambition. I write to keep my sanity. So all that matters is that I write, right? I can handle the world of the writer, but the world of readers is too big for me.
I am now telling that stupid little voice to shut up, because I can get over this. I've heard everything I knew made that story suck, but I also heard the things I might have forgotten that made it good. Right now the vampire plot feels a bit off - and I'm thinking "Why did it have to be vampires? Seriously, where did that come from? I don't even like vampires." - and it needs complete overhaul. I might even nix it completely and go for a mundane plot. Okay, probably not that; I'd get bored, not to mention that thwe whole story sprang from the first line, in which a vampire is essential. So some hardcore reimagining. (But seriously, why vampires?)
Not to mention that the only scene in the story that seems to work and that I actually like (and my beta-bestie agrees) is a scene that has no vampires...
Ah well. Here, have a metaphor. It's like (okay, simile) a massive home improvement project. You have to rearrange all the furniture and completely gut a room, and then fix whatever is wrong, and then you find other things going wrong and have to fix them, and then you make a mistake and have to fix that, and it's just so much work, you don't even know if it's worth it anymore.
Is it worth it to me? I'm not going to answer that yet. I'm just going to say that if I should give up any sort of publication aspiration, I should have a better reason than fear.
I think I need to give a name to this problem. Presentation Anxiety, how about? It's like stage fright, only with the written word, instead of spoken.
So right now, having finally worked up the nerve to check my email, I feel pretty wretched. Nausea is my chief emotion at the moment, a side affect of the anxiety. I also feel a crushing doubt in my abilities as a writer, and a voice in my head is trying to convince me that I am not up to the challenge, that I should just keep these stupid little attempts at stories to myself and not try to do anything with them. See, I don't write for enjoyment or ambition. I write to keep my sanity. So all that matters is that I write, right? I can handle the world of the writer, but the world of readers is too big for me.
I am now telling that stupid little voice to shut up, because I can get over this. I've heard everything I knew made that story suck, but I also heard the things I might have forgotten that made it good. Right now the vampire plot feels a bit off - and I'm thinking "Why did it have to be vampires? Seriously, where did that come from? I don't even like vampires." - and it needs complete overhaul. I might even nix it completely and go for a mundane plot. Okay, probably not that; I'd get bored, not to mention that thwe whole story sprang from the first line, in which a vampire is essential. So some hardcore reimagining. (But seriously, why vampires?)
Not to mention that the only scene in the story that seems to work and that I actually like (and my beta-bestie agrees) is a scene that has no vampires...
Ah well. Here, have a metaphor. It's like (okay, simile) a massive home improvement project. You have to rearrange all the furniture and completely gut a room, and then fix whatever is wrong, and then you find other things going wrong and have to fix them, and then you make a mistake and have to fix that, and it's just so much work, you don't even know if it's worth it anymore.
Is it worth it to me? I'm not going to answer that yet. I'm just going to say that if I should give up any sort of publication aspiration, I should have a better reason than fear.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Writing
I'm not even insomniac right now. A symptom of summer vacation.
So anyway, there's this.
For those too lazy to click on the link, it's a gay writing contest. I could be published. Seriously.
And so, in a major counting chickens way, I am going to go pretentious writer on you and talk about my writing process.
It starts, naturally, with ideas. I looked at the contest guidelines, and all it gave me was a fictional (check) unpublished (check) short story about "being queer." That should be easy, I thought. Everything I touch turns to gay. Honestly. Even dragons (though really it's more like they're third-gendered...hey, they're my dragons, I can give them whatever biology I want!).
Then I dug up the short pieces I currently have in the works (a very generous way of saying a couple paragraphs saved in a word document), and realized that they somehow all featured heterosexual relationships. No cheating on this one; I would have to start from scratch.
It was obvious to me that there would have to be some sort of fantastical or supernatural element to the story. Because it's me. So in a sense this story would be a double subversion, both of a typical fantasy story and of the typical gay story. No gay angst or bully-story (I hate bully stories, with utmost apologies to anyone who has ever been bullied). And absolutely NO. LESBIAN. PARENTS. I will save my rants on the gay-lit genre for other posts; suffice to say that, as my last post hints at, a major part of my inspiration for writing comes from being annoyed at how stories are all written this way, when I would much rather someone tried writing it that way.
Essentially, that is how I decided on a recently-outed lesbian high-schooler with a vampire brother.
Sometimes, writing it easy. The story is just there, burning like an overly poetic flame, and you have to dash to capture it all on paper before it burns out. Yes, I really do mean paper. I feel like I think better with paper. This feeling rarely lasts for more than a week, which is one of the reasons I have trouble with longer works.
The first draft is insane. You just write. It doesn't matter if it makes sense; what matters is that it is right. Censorship is not your friend.
Then, after a rest to ease my cramped wrist, I type it up as the second draft. My first draft of the vamp story was 30 pages written, a bit over the 5k word limit, so some things had to be cut. Some scenes had to be cut anyway, because they had nothing to do with the plot; or, at the very least, incorporated into other scenes that were relevant.
After that comes what is more of a draft number 2.5 than a third draft. Read through what you typed, fix typing errors, delete pointless sentences, clean up the prose a bit. Make it presentable. Because that's the next step. Presenting it.
You can look at my old posts to see how bad this is for me. It really is just pure cowardice on my part, though.
You see, if no one ever sees anything I have written, I can congratulate myself on being an unrecognized genius, and indulge in all sorts of fantasies of what being a famous genius author would be like. I disgust myself, sometimes, I really do.
If, on the other hand, I do show it to some select, trusted, friends, and they tell me "Yeah, it's good, but you need to elaborate on that plot point and add some description, I only know what one character looks like, and where are they anyway?" and I take their good suggestions and finish up the story, and send it off to the publisher...I get fifty bucks and a published work. I gain a foothold in the publishing world, so that all this writing I do might mean something someday (stories don't mean anything if you got no one to tell them to, and all that). At the very least, I get my first rejection note and attain my first milestone on the way to being a published author. That seems the more likely scenario, because you just know that some 14-year-old girl is going to submit a poem about wanting to kill herself, which trumps vampire junkies by a college student. With apologies to anyone who has ever written poetry about wanting to kill themself.
The point of the last paragraph was to say that a real rejection letter is better than dreams of grandeur. Right?
Then again, I suppose the point of having dreams is to follow them, and no one ever said that would be easy.
So anyway, there's this.
For those too lazy to click on the link, it's a gay writing contest. I could be published. Seriously.
And so, in a major counting chickens way, I am going to go pretentious writer on you and talk about my writing process.
It starts, naturally, with ideas. I looked at the contest guidelines, and all it gave me was a fictional (check) unpublished (check) short story about "being queer." That should be easy, I thought. Everything I touch turns to gay. Honestly. Even dragons (though really it's more like they're third-gendered...hey, they're my dragons, I can give them whatever biology I want!).
Then I dug up the short pieces I currently have in the works (a very generous way of saying a couple paragraphs saved in a word document), and realized that they somehow all featured heterosexual relationships. No cheating on this one; I would have to start from scratch.
It was obvious to me that there would have to be some sort of fantastical or supernatural element to the story. Because it's me. So in a sense this story would be a double subversion, both of a typical fantasy story and of the typical gay story. No gay angst or bully-story (I hate bully stories, with utmost apologies to anyone who has ever been bullied). And absolutely NO. LESBIAN. PARENTS. I will save my rants on the gay-lit genre for other posts; suffice to say that, as my last post hints at, a major part of my inspiration for writing comes from being annoyed at how stories are all written this way, when I would much rather someone tried writing it that way.
Essentially, that is how I decided on a recently-outed lesbian high-schooler with a vampire brother.
Sometimes, writing it easy. The story is just there, burning like an overly poetic flame, and you have to dash to capture it all on paper before it burns out. Yes, I really do mean paper. I feel like I think better with paper. This feeling rarely lasts for more than a week, which is one of the reasons I have trouble with longer works.
The first draft is insane. You just write. It doesn't matter if it makes sense; what matters is that it is right. Censorship is not your friend.
Then, after a rest to ease my cramped wrist, I type it up as the second draft. My first draft of the vamp story was 30 pages written, a bit over the 5k word limit, so some things had to be cut. Some scenes had to be cut anyway, because they had nothing to do with the plot; or, at the very least, incorporated into other scenes that were relevant.
After that comes what is more of a draft number 2.5 than a third draft. Read through what you typed, fix typing errors, delete pointless sentences, clean up the prose a bit. Make it presentable. Because that's the next step. Presenting it.
You can look at my old posts to see how bad this is for me. It really is just pure cowardice on my part, though.
You see, if no one ever sees anything I have written, I can congratulate myself on being an unrecognized genius, and indulge in all sorts of fantasies of what being a famous genius author would be like. I disgust myself, sometimes, I really do.
If, on the other hand, I do show it to some select, trusted, friends, and they tell me "Yeah, it's good, but you need to elaborate on that plot point and add some description, I only know what one character looks like, and where are they anyway?" and I take their good suggestions and finish up the story, and send it off to the publisher...I get fifty bucks and a published work. I gain a foothold in the publishing world, so that all this writing I do might mean something someday (stories don't mean anything if you got no one to tell them to, and all that). At the very least, I get my first rejection note and attain my first milestone on the way to being a published author. That seems the more likely scenario, because you just know that some 14-year-old girl is going to submit a poem about wanting to kill herself, which trumps vampire junkies by a college student. With apologies to anyone who has ever written poetry about wanting to kill themself.
The point of the last paragraph was to say that a real rejection letter is better than dreams of grandeur. Right?
Then again, I suppose the point of having dreams is to follow them, and no one ever said that would be easy.
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