As a result of a fun little digital attic-browsing adventure, I found “The Dead Man's Burden”, the first full length short story I ever wrote (after I had first seriously started 'writing stuff.'), and have since been going back over it. There's really not much that's made me cringe so far, since being 17 wasn't really that long ago, and the more uber-adolescent, fantasy-fulfillment type stories I had already written had been expunged via writing fanfiction (Shh, dark secret). Not that I'm in awe of it either, it's still full of the same issues that plague my current fiction writing, but still, reading it has been great fun, and I think I might try to go for the task of giving it a long overdue revision. Wouldn't the 17 year old me - who left junior prom early to finish writing the first draft of it - be proud? No, probably just horny.
At the time of the story's writing, I was still pretty fanatical about my two earliest influences - China Mieville and George R.R. Martin – and I hadn't really read much outside of them. I was more or less balls-to-the-wall set on writing speculative fiction. I had written a few things outside of that story, early chapters of a novel set in the same universe, a few miscellaneous short stories, and an endless volume of notes on the world I wanted to create. Really, it was Mieville and Martin's skill in shaping their own universes that really got me into writing. They weren't worlds that I fantasized about or worlds that I wanted to escape into, they were worlds that were boundless in their imagination but still confined within a very real, comprehensive sort of internal logic. The fact that a person could do something that convincingly with language, and not be confined to making a halfassed Tolkein-ripoff, was what really melted my brain with amazement, and got me into the idea that I might actually want to create the same sort of thing.
Speculative fiction truly rules. It's my old flame, I guess. I'd still like to write that novel I first started someday, if I ever get a grip on world-creation, which is a hell of a skill.
Getting back to the story itself, what's interesting to me is that I've found the same problems in both it and my more recent work. The one universal issue I've been having is fleshing out the characters, making them actual relatable humans instead of bland mechanisms that are just an excuse for the plot to happen. I realize that my thinking process about new stories tends to be more plot oriented, I get more excited about what happens or how to describe what happens, instead of who it happens to.
I'll amend that problem eventually, by jebus.
Guess I'll get to working on it. It's a lot longer than anything I've written recently, around 4200 words or so. The long haul. Bring it.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Learning to learn
I logged about 6 hours of work today in the library, getting waist-deep into research for a paper about Robert Browning and the emergence of the dramatic monologue, which made for an interesting romp with analysis. While slogging through various academic tomes, a cool point that stuck out to me was this whole notion of personal internal division in monologues – the dramatic monologue is considered to be the first notable example of psychological, character-driven fiction. One scholar wrote about how authors of these monologues created them by taking elements from both lyrical poetry and stage plays. And how the synthesis of these two forms was well suited to expressing characters torn between multiple, contradicting states of mind.
So basically, different modes of creative expression harmonize well in a way that better communicates a sense of disharmony. Headfuck, huh?
When getting genuinely excited about stuff like this, I have a semi-joking fear that I'm somehow selling my soul to a geeky satan who's welcoming me into insular academic hell. When you're young and a veteran of compulsory education, there seems to be a sense of minor shame towards educational enthusiasm. But in wondering on this whole tangent, and about the teachers and professors I've had who've made or broken my educational experience in the past, I find myself thinking about what exactly makes a good teacher, especially when being taught is something that many people are involuntarily taught by routine to dislike.
A good teacher can make you genuinely enjoy something you're used to hating. Maybe the teacher knows how to navigate an assigned essay within the boundaries of your own interests, or put an interesting flare on lecture material, even when the ideas involved seem dull on their own. A good teacher more or less gets you enthused about learning, or tricks you into learning something even if you're resistant to it. Because a truly good teacher realizes that learning is not force-feeding freeze dried ideas for the singular purpose of a grade. Because part of learning is figuring out what kind of things you want to learn, the areas of knowledge that get you excited, and maybe, jokingly questioning whether it's a bad thing to be excited about.
So basically, different modes of creative expression harmonize well in a way that better communicates a sense of disharmony. Headfuck, huh?
When getting genuinely excited about stuff like this, I have a semi-joking fear that I'm somehow selling my soul to a geeky satan who's welcoming me into insular academic hell. When you're young and a veteran of compulsory education, there seems to be a sense of minor shame towards educational enthusiasm. But in wondering on this whole tangent, and about the teachers and professors I've had who've made or broken my educational experience in the past, I find myself thinking about what exactly makes a good teacher, especially when being taught is something that many people are involuntarily taught by routine to dislike.
A good teacher can make you genuinely enjoy something you're used to hating. Maybe the teacher knows how to navigate an assigned essay within the boundaries of your own interests, or put an interesting flare on lecture material, even when the ideas involved seem dull on their own. A good teacher more or less gets you enthused about learning, or tricks you into learning something even if you're resistant to it. Because a truly good teacher realizes that learning is not force-feeding freeze dried ideas for the singular purpose of a grade. Because part of learning is figuring out what kind of things you want to learn, the areas of knowledge that get you excited, and maybe, jokingly questioning whether it's a bad thing to be excited about.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Freshmaker
A guy screamed
“The whole world's gone chiah
all of it, it's too late
if you spill water on any surface it'll
sprout a green fro of foliage, but
there's no stone animal beneath it, or no
stone head beneath it, the hair thing
won't be implied or funny, it'll just be a plant, fuck.”
The newspaper man grunted while petting his dog
He said “I lived through worse.
When the whole world was Wooly Willy,
When everything was magnetized
and the iron filings stuck to it all
like evil fur. The beard image wasn't funny,
even the few surfaces
with the image of a face on it
lost their novelty.” And the newspaper man
looked down for a second,
his dog was drooling asleep,
with the drool making greens grow
from the sidewalk right there
The guy who yelled at first said,
“Well, there's a pet right there.
And you could technically shave the plant off the sidewalk
and put it on his head or something
and it'd look relevant.
An actual pet
for the chiah.
Hehe.”
Reply: “Don't gimme that shit.”
“The whole world's gone chiah
all of it, it's too late
if you spill water on any surface it'll
sprout a green fro of foliage, but
there's no stone animal beneath it, or no
stone head beneath it, the hair thing
won't be implied or funny, it'll just be a plant, fuck.”
The newspaper man grunted while petting his dog
He said “I lived through worse.
When the whole world was Wooly Willy,
When everything was magnetized
and the iron filings stuck to it all
like evil fur. The beard image wasn't funny,
even the few surfaces
with the image of a face on it
lost their novelty.” And the newspaper man
looked down for a second,
his dog was drooling asleep,
with the drool making greens grow
from the sidewalk right there
The guy who yelled at first said,
“Well, there's a pet right there.
And you could technically shave the plant off the sidewalk
and put it on his head or something
and it'd look relevant.
An actual pet
for the chiah.
Hehe.”
Reply: “Don't gimme that shit.”
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Some Place Went To
You can drive this old truck outside.
There are a lot of roads, but not all are paved
And not all are roads.
The door opens like it's exhausted of doing so.
It has a voice, like all the other parts in there.
You can sit in the seat that's the shredded victim of decades
High above what you're used to in your regular car.
You can see out the window past a single windshield wiper
Into a fence, but what more through?
This truck will drive through a field
A field that would normally cut or mist your bare legs
You would normally hear 1000 horny insects in that field
But the truck is old, and the engine is large, and loud
So you only hear the antique roar on the wind.
But those cicadas are still hollering.
And there are probably other things hollering there too.
And maybe someone else is at a distance, and they can hear all that
plus the muffled distance of your truck.
They might think that you're disrupting nature
Or they might think the sounds go nice together, layered.
Or they might think nothing about it at all
Because they're horny themselves, and maybe they're even doing the deed, right then and there, in the middle of a field.
And you may see this from the cab of your truck,
or you may not.
While gears shift inside the truck and make it work.
A person shifts inside the truck and moves with it.
Wind hits the truck, or does the truck hit the wind first?
The truck shifts inside the open air it tramples through smoothly
Not young, but not finished.
And it's days are numbered in miles.
There are a lot of roads, but not all are paved
And not all are roads.
The door opens like it's exhausted of doing so.
It has a voice, like all the other parts in there.
You can sit in the seat that's the shredded victim of decades
High above what you're used to in your regular car.
You can see out the window past a single windshield wiper
Into a fence, but what more through?
This truck will drive through a field
A field that would normally cut or mist your bare legs
You would normally hear 1000 horny insects in that field
But the truck is old, and the engine is large, and loud
So you only hear the antique roar on the wind.
But those cicadas are still hollering.
And there are probably other things hollering there too.
And maybe someone else is at a distance, and they can hear all that
plus the muffled distance of your truck.
They might think that you're disrupting nature
Or they might think the sounds go nice together, layered.
Or they might think nothing about it at all
Because they're horny themselves, and maybe they're even doing the deed, right then and there, in the middle of a field.
And you may see this from the cab of your truck,
or you may not.
While gears shift inside the truck and make it work.
A person shifts inside the truck and moves with it.
Wind hits the truck, or does the truck hit the wind first?
The truck shifts inside the open air it tramples through smoothly
Not young, but not finished.
And it's days are numbered in miles.
Beast
This cat's ear flinches with dream
He knows he can claw the quietude
And be mesmerized into a curl of rest
By no sound but the house buzz of air conditioning
Restrained warmth through fans and vents
And restrained light through screens
This cat is old.
When he walks to his food, he walks with a different time signature.
It once was the 4/4 of youth , now limping
punctuated with an extra beat
The same stumble for every destination
Food downstairs, drink upstairs, sleep anywhere.
But this cat can sleep in a picture window
Where some kind of light moves in different places at once
and can flicker with his thoughts
Whatever plunks on the surface from outside is at mind's reach
A hummingbird on the pane doesn't know he's in a phantom chase
with the beast behind glass.
And this cat is still old
But somewhere, he is moving.
He knows he can claw the quietude
And be mesmerized into a curl of rest
By no sound but the house buzz of air conditioning
Restrained warmth through fans and vents
And restrained light through screens
This cat is old.
When he walks to his food, he walks with a different time signature.
It once was the 4/4 of youth , now limping
punctuated with an extra beat
The same stumble for every destination
Food downstairs, drink upstairs, sleep anywhere.
But this cat can sleep in a picture window
Where some kind of light moves in different places at once
and can flicker with his thoughts
Whatever plunks on the surface from outside is at mind's reach
A hummingbird on the pane doesn't know he's in a phantom chase
with the beast behind glass.
And this cat is still old
But somewhere, he is moving.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Sandra's Magnetism
Sandra's magnetic orgasm made her piercings stretch in her skin, and
all the metal stuff in the room hurled towards us.
My watch stopped, although I didn't notice it at the time, and her
high school trophies fell off the bookshelf, the lights fluxed,
I think maybe even the iron in my blood
was caught up in it? (X-Men style) Now I know
why she doesn't keep her computer in her room.
After it was over, Sandra said, “That's nothing.
Last time I used a vibrator,
my grandfather with the titanium hip got stuck against the wall, and
my dad's car crashed into the house. It was a huge scene.”
“Well, in that case I'm glad I'm not the Terminator,” I joked.
It seemed pretty clever to me, until she sighed,
“Every guy makes that joke. Or something like it.
It's always,'hasta la vista baby,” or 'pity the guy with the prince albert' or 'magneto would be proud.' (I was actually thinking that one too, damn.) “It was cute the first few times,” she said. “Now it's just like small talk to me.” She sounded dissapointed.
Small talk. How weird it must be for something like that to become a boring old phrase, the proverbial “How was school today?”
“Is that the price you pay for sleeping around a lot?” I asked, immediately feeling bad, it came out a little too harsh.
“I mean, do you regret
that it's commonplace? That telling people
about the magnetism, and the crazy stuff,
is just another detail?” It's strange to me, at least
that it's not not personal for her. Maybe the first time
that she told someone it was personal. Unless it still is?
“It doesn't bother me,” she said, holding my hand and tracing
her fingers over it; the language of dainty friction. “I'm just
used to it.” She bent down. Way down. I fumbled to adjust angles.
She put an ear up against to me
“Your ass sounds like an airport”
Which part?
“The main one.”
Concourse A?
Funny.
Your ass sounds like a washing machine.
Thanks.
It's bigger than one, anyway.
What kind?
Any kind.
Some models are bigger. They're industrial sized, or made for handling particular types of fabric, or they may be a smaller kind suited for small house with one person, or have energy saver preferences.
Ok.
Noise would also factor in. Between the different kinds of machines. So which one does mine sound like?
The main one.
You need to be specific.
You weren't specific with me
You didn't ask me to be. You made the concourse joke and then changed the subject.
Well would you have elaborated?
On what?
On what “the main part” of the airport is so I could know what it sounds like.
Probably.
Cool.
Now what kind of washing machine is my ass?
It's a Whirlpool. 3200 series.
Fuck you.
That's the only model I know by heart.
Fuck you.
What's for breakfast?
Your translucent dick.
It's translucent now?
Yeah. I cut it off and replaced it with an x-ray fish while you were sleeping.
Wow.
Have fun with it.
I will. I was always kind of curious what that'd be like.
Glad I could help.
How do we have sex now, though?
We don't.
We don't?
That's kind of the point.
I can make money in a freakshow this way.
Yeah you can.
I'm going to.
Get on out there.
I am.
Good night.
.
all the metal stuff in the room hurled towards us.
My watch stopped, although I didn't notice it at the time, and her
high school trophies fell off the bookshelf, the lights fluxed,
I think maybe even the iron in my blood
was caught up in it? (X-Men style) Now I know
why she doesn't keep her computer in her room.
After it was over, Sandra said, “That's nothing.
Last time I used a vibrator,
my grandfather with the titanium hip got stuck against the wall, and
my dad's car crashed into the house. It was a huge scene.”
“Well, in that case I'm glad I'm not the Terminator,” I joked.
It seemed pretty clever to me, until she sighed,
“Every guy makes that joke. Or something like it.
It's always,'hasta la vista baby,” or 'pity the guy with the prince albert' or 'magneto would be proud.' (I was actually thinking that one too, damn.) “It was cute the first few times,” she said. “Now it's just like small talk to me.” She sounded dissapointed.
Small talk. How weird it must be for something like that to become a boring old phrase, the proverbial “How was school today?”
“Is that the price you pay for sleeping around a lot?” I asked, immediately feeling bad, it came out a little too harsh.
“I mean, do you regret
that it's commonplace? That telling people
about the magnetism, and the crazy stuff,
is just another detail?” It's strange to me, at least
that it's not not personal for her. Maybe the first time
that she told someone it was personal. Unless it still is?
“It doesn't bother me,” she said, holding my hand and tracing
her fingers over it; the language of dainty friction. “I'm just
used to it.” She bent down. Way down. I fumbled to adjust angles.
She put an ear up against to me
“Your ass sounds like an airport”
Which part?
“The main one.”
Concourse A?
Funny.
Your ass sounds like a washing machine.
Thanks.
It's bigger than one, anyway.
What kind?
Any kind.
Some models are bigger. They're industrial sized, or made for handling particular types of fabric, or they may be a smaller kind suited for small house with one person, or have energy saver preferences.
Ok.
Noise would also factor in. Between the different kinds of machines. So which one does mine sound like?
The main one.
You need to be specific.
You weren't specific with me
You didn't ask me to be. You made the concourse joke and then changed the subject.
Well would you have elaborated?
On what?
On what “the main part” of the airport is so I could know what it sounds like.
Probably.
Cool.
Now what kind of washing machine is my ass?
It's a Whirlpool. 3200 series.
Fuck you.
That's the only model I know by heart.
Fuck you.
What's for breakfast?
Your translucent dick.
It's translucent now?
Yeah. I cut it off and replaced it with an x-ray fish while you were sleeping.
Wow.
Have fun with it.
I will. I was always kind of curious what that'd be like.
Glad I could help.
How do we have sex now, though?
We don't.
We don't?
That's kind of the point.
I can make money in a freakshow this way.
Yeah you can.
I'm going to.
Get on out there.
I am.
Good night.
.
Monday, July 13, 2009
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