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.

The Post in Which I Talk About Gay Marriage

So right now Minnesota's government is discussing a ban on gay marriage.

I, unfortunately, am not registered to vote in Minnesota, and so have confined my activities to getting entangled in a comment war on Facebook.  At least my friend who originally posted this is an ally.  A good ally. 

See, a recurring motif of the people who commented was "I have gay friends, but I don't think gay people should get married because the Bible says no."  I am not going to argue the religious aspect.  I do not care what you do in the privacy of your own home - and honestly, people with those opinions aren't going to change them unless they want to.  What bothers me is the hypocrisy. 

If you can look someone in the eye and tell them that you never want them to get married, are you truly their friend?  If you tell your friends that it's okay that they are gay, but you are trying to "change yourself for God," do you think they really believe that you are okay with the gay?  And if you say it's okay for people to be gay, as long as they don't get married, then are you really approving of the gay?

It also bugs me how people think they can just say anything, as long as they follow it with "But I have gay friends, so I'm not homophobic."  Do you think your gay friends approve of your favorite complaint being "That's so gay!"  Do you think a piece of their souls does not quietly wilt every time they hear that phrase? 

Back to marriage.

I think our society has progressed to the point where homophobia is for the most part frowned upon.  Most people will say they don't mind gay people in theory; what other people do in the privacy of their home is their own business.  But being gay is not confined to the privacy of one's own home.  You take it with you to school, to work, to parties, to the grocery store, to the dentist, to the voting booth.

Being married is not confined to the privacy of your own home.  You display the ring for the world to see.  Women go from Miss to Mrs.  In casual conversation, the second question after "How are you?" is "How is your significant other/family?"  You go together to neighborhood get-togethers and family obligations.  When you fill out forms and surveys, you check the box labelled "Married."

That is why gay marriage is frowned upon by apparent non-homophobes.  Gay is okay, as long as no one sees it.  Marriage is far too in your face.  Let's just go back to the subculture of the 1950's.

The problem with people who do not use logic to back up their arguments is that it is impossible to use logic to counter them.

And so now that I have a proverbial bruise from proverbially banging my head against the wall, I leave you with the reason more people should know German:

Lyrics and translation to follow in next post.

Writer's Angst (formerly Writer's Block)

Just because I haven't posted anything in a while, and it might help me get things in order.

I am very good at beginning stories.  Not so good at finishing them.  Usually I get about halfway through, then realize that a new plot development changes the way everything was from the beginning.  At this point, I can either a)  Keep writing and go back and fix it later, or b) start all over again. 

There is also what I term the Brick Wall, though the more conventional imagery is Writer's Block:  The story is going along just fine, until all of a sudden everything just stops.  The story is not over, and nothing is resolved, but you are just about to enter the third act, into the deeper machinations and eventual resolutions of things you haven't thought out clearly yet, but assumed you would cross that bridge when you came to it, and...wham.  No bridge, but a brick wall.

The sum of my major works to date, all ending in brick walls:

1)  (Untitled*) - probably my oldest story, which has existed in my head in some form or another since I was thirteenish.  Of course, what I have now hardly bears any resemblence to what I had then.  There are wizards, and one of the major character is an assassin, and that's about it.  This story is like a canvas that has been painted over and repainted so many times, it cannot help but be distorted by the colors and textures of what it once was.  I am considering peeling it all of, tossing it aside, and starting fresh.  Only I've tried that, and somehow, the story always comes back to me.  Maybe this time for real.  Until the next grand variation pops into my head, and I think, Maybe this time it will work.

2)  "Glass and Bone" - a sort of steampunky thing that may or may not also have magic in-universe.  That may or may not be in the same universe as story 1.  A man tries to bring his dead ex-lover back to life.  And succeeds, for the most part.  Only she never loved him as much as he loved her, and had honestly moved on before she died.  And then there's some sort of retribution for breaking the laws of nature, or magic, or both, but as soon as the woman appeared...wham.  Brick wall.

3) (Untitled) - A xenofic about griffins.  Who are in the Frankfurt Zoo.  And are sentient.  And of course, at some point someone realizes they are sentient, but then we hit the brick wall.  I haven't the faintest idea how to bring this about, or what to do about it afterwards, or if I should just leave it where it is and make it a tragedy.

4)  (Untitled) - I haven't even started a draft of this one, it's just a loosely connected set of ideas about psychic detectives, who do not solve supernatural mysteries but instead go to great length to conceal their powers and just use them to have an edge in solving normal mysteries.  Until something different happens, like a sudden slew of murders among espers, and probably some sort of conspiracy...because I haven't started writing it, there are still more doors than walls.

 
*Yes, most of these are untitled.  I'm worse with titles than I am with endings.