~~i hate winter. i do.
Nov. 2nd, 2002 06:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
reenkai've just realized the answer to -- well -- everything. bad moods. snow. headaches. boredom.
write/draw kissing. lots of kissing. lose yourself in the kissing.
*thinks* okay, that sounded a lot better in my head.
i smile, thinking i am One with the Kissing. i am most probably disturbed. it's really strange how much better one feels after some food and some anime and some human contact. that's why i don't do online chat, much. almost human contact, but no cigar. makes one miss the real stuff. like-- even being in the general vicinity of people is a warmer thing than throwing text around in a box.
for the record, hellsing isn't all it's cracked up to be. i am apparently no longer capable of appreciating non-romantic fare. *sigh* no, it must be something else. it must be. it must be. grr.
when you're alone and bored and just feeling uncomfortable, it seems like a good idea to start a novel. or not.
after all, then you'd still be sitting here, by the computer, feeling completely like a total useless lump of flesh, except your mind would be running in more interesting circles. you hope. when i came across the NaNoWriMo website like, 5 years back, i thought they were pathetic. i mean, a virtual 12-step program for struggling authors, to build that self-esteem or confidence or whatever it is that comes from knowing you can "do it".
'course, i was just bitter. i was 16, and i was pretty sure i could string enough words together to make a novel-- if a novel was merely a number game sort of deal. heck, if i wanted, i could just write the same crap i write every day anyway, and tie it together somehow (i'm good at tying things together-- with ribbons, even), and poof! novel. my "novel" was sort of like a wandering minstrel that got distracted by every little thing-- hey look, i can write about this! and this! and this! of course it didn't help that it actually -was- about a wandering minstel. at some point i decided-- this is ridiculous-- i could continue like this forever. i can type enough words to fill the ocean and it still wouldn't be any closer to being a novel. look, i'm typing right now. i could continue in this vein until i fall over from malnutrition-- and this is not an empty claim. i've come close a couple of times.
but it wouldn't be a novel. a novel isn't about sitting down and writing. i mean, -everything- is about sitting down and writing, but then, i do that all the time anyway. i can't seem to -stop- writing. i mean, doesn't mean i ever finish anything but who cares, it's long-winded isn't it. count my words! count 'em, dammit~! there's a lot of 'em. i'm a novelist, i know i am, now i just have to get a bee in my bonnet about something i want to be Saying, and off i go. changing the face of inane writing as we know it.
this quantity thing is amusing to me. this inability to write "more", or "enough". i laugh, i do. ok not very heartily-- it's more of a wimpy breathy sigh. length means frikkin' nothing. sure it's an aspect of what a novel is, but bleh. a novel is really a muchly expanded short story, with the same sort of set up-- build-up, conflict, climax, resolution, etc. except you're supposed to have more of a point, maybe, or be more detailed about it, maybe. damn if i can write a worthwhile short story to start with. and it's not that this NaNoWriMo thing is about people who've got the hang of short stories, because it isn't. it's about being "a writer", having that satisfaction of joining the club. sort of the mile-high club, except this is all about mile-high manuscripts.
my problem was always structure, pacing, dialogue, resolution. resolution especially-- i can never seem to really know where i'm going so it's hard to figure out what to do when i get there. all this can and should be practiced in miniature first. then you just add verbiage and characters (hopefully a novel means you get more characters), and poof.
it would be so cool if success hinged on forcing your fingers to keep moving. my mind boggles at just how bad most of these novels are going to be, but in a way it's amusing. the idea of novel-writing as some sort of speed and breed game makes me somewhat ill. the idea of it as something of a "badge" of being a writer. i used to think that, when i was 16, but that doesn't make it more tolerable. like, yes, you want to join the `cool writer people' club, it sounds fun. like a new hobby, maybe. so what do you do? you have to be writing a novel. then at dinner parties, you could say you've written a novel, because everyone always asks. when i tell people i write, they want to see the proof, it's true. if i handed them a hefty manuscript they'd ooh and ahh, i'm sure.
well that's the impression i got from the people organizing it, a bunch of years ago, i'm not saying that's why anyone in particular does it because obviously there are many people, and many reasons, and i have no clue, obviously. i want to be someplace warm. santa cruz. to hell with writing novels and reading slash. i want to be by the warm ocean, breathing in the salt and writing (short) poems about the clouds. maybe i'd have a blanket and a bicycle and some food. mm, salmon sandwiches and sparkly drinks.
it's so cute. i suppose i can feel good about myself. i can produce many a page of rambly description, pointless character study, and pondering upon the nature of existence and leaves and toes. this is all just me writing words for no good reason. but that's what i do. i write and write and write and it's all pointless pointless pointless, but it gives me something to do. i mean, i could be doing something else, but writing's easier. what do writers -do- if it's not write? what the hell kind of goal is it, to write more? write -better-, yes, but more? aren't we writers because the words are lodged in every cell, every molecule, every atom, until you're spitting them into your soup and coughing them into your hand and snorting them into your coke, and so on? well, i am. stupid words. there's just no end to them. it's not like i choose to do this. it's not like i think it'd be so cool if i could just write more. maybe i can be even -more- rambly and overly verbal today.
here i am, angstying about my pointless over-verbal rambly existence, when people are angstying equally hard about their pointless under-verbal existence. i mean, often i just don't know what to say-- it's like-- damn, i just have no clue what my characters are going to think or do. but if i let go of plot, reason, and sanity, i could write 20 pages before i remember to say, "erk, this sucks". easy shmeasy.
writing has always been about "too much", for me. i think too much, feel too much, am self-aware too much, am silent too much, am lonely too much, am annoyed too much, and so on. so i turn every stupid extraneous blip in my brain into a word. and another. and another. and look at them-- like this entry-- they just multiply. i could take all these feelings and give them to a character. and then give the character a history, and a home with, candles and throw-rugs and balconies, and a mother who's in france, and a penchant for crackers and poof! story. i've done this often. that's just all there is to it, for me, if i just wanted to write fiction instead of ramble pointlessly, at any given moment. fiction is merely taking what is and swaddling it in what could be. almost easier-- in fact, -definitely- easier than actually figuring out what "is" in the first place. i've always lived in a world half imagined. or maybe more than half. none of the real is all that real to me.
maybe my mother IS in france. maybe i do have a balcony. maybe i'm in love with a guy named jeff who's into quake IV and digimon and he's studying electrical engineering in rice university and he's got sandy hair and a really snorty sort of laugh. well, except that i don't know what i'd see in him. so maybe i'm not me, and am instead jenny, who likes to daydream about the fonz, and wear skirts with poodles on them. she's all about the poodles.
maybe i can write a novel about a poodle.
i too, am all about the poodles.
damn i'm bitter.
write/draw kissing. lots of kissing. lose yourself in the kissing.
*thinks* okay, that sounded a lot better in my head.
i smile, thinking i am One with the Kissing. i am most probably disturbed. it's really strange how much better one feels after some food and some anime and some human contact. that's why i don't do online chat, much. almost human contact, but no cigar. makes one miss the real stuff. like-- even being in the general vicinity of people is a warmer thing than throwing text around in a box.
for the record, hellsing isn't all it's cracked up to be. i am apparently no longer capable of appreciating non-romantic fare. *sigh* no, it must be something else. it must be. it must be. grr.
when you're alone and bored and just feeling uncomfortable, it seems like a good idea to start a novel. or not.
after all, then you'd still be sitting here, by the computer, feeling completely like a total useless lump of flesh, except your mind would be running in more interesting circles. you hope. when i came across the NaNoWriMo website like, 5 years back, i thought they were pathetic. i mean, a virtual 12-step program for struggling authors, to build that self-esteem or confidence or whatever it is that comes from knowing you can "do it".
'course, i was just bitter. i was 16, and i was pretty sure i could string enough words together to make a novel-- if a novel was merely a number game sort of deal. heck, if i wanted, i could just write the same crap i write every day anyway, and tie it together somehow (i'm good at tying things together-- with ribbons, even), and poof! novel. my "novel" was sort of like a wandering minstrel that got distracted by every little thing-- hey look, i can write about this! and this! and this! of course it didn't help that it actually -was- about a wandering minstel. at some point i decided-- this is ridiculous-- i could continue like this forever. i can type enough words to fill the ocean and it still wouldn't be any closer to being a novel. look, i'm typing right now. i could continue in this vein until i fall over from malnutrition-- and this is not an empty claim. i've come close a couple of times.
but it wouldn't be a novel. a novel isn't about sitting down and writing. i mean, -everything- is about sitting down and writing, but then, i do that all the time anyway. i can't seem to -stop- writing. i mean, doesn't mean i ever finish anything but who cares, it's long-winded isn't it. count my words! count 'em, dammit~! there's a lot of 'em. i'm a novelist, i know i am, now i just have to get a bee in my bonnet about something i want to be Saying, and off i go. changing the face of inane writing as we know it.
this quantity thing is amusing to me. this inability to write "more", or "enough". i laugh, i do. ok not very heartily-- it's more of a wimpy breathy sigh. length means frikkin' nothing. sure it's an aspect of what a novel is, but bleh. a novel is really a muchly expanded short story, with the same sort of set up-- build-up, conflict, climax, resolution, etc. except you're supposed to have more of a point, maybe, or be more detailed about it, maybe. damn if i can write a worthwhile short story to start with. and it's not that this NaNoWriMo thing is about people who've got the hang of short stories, because it isn't. it's about being "a writer", having that satisfaction of joining the club. sort of the mile-high club, except this is all about mile-high manuscripts.
my problem was always structure, pacing, dialogue, resolution. resolution especially-- i can never seem to really know where i'm going so it's hard to figure out what to do when i get there. all this can and should be practiced in miniature first. then you just add verbiage and characters (hopefully a novel means you get more characters), and poof.
it would be so cool if success hinged on forcing your fingers to keep moving. my mind boggles at just how bad most of these novels are going to be, but in a way it's amusing. the idea of novel-writing as some sort of speed and breed game makes me somewhat ill. the idea of it as something of a "badge" of being a writer. i used to think that, when i was 16, but that doesn't make it more tolerable. like, yes, you want to join the `cool writer people' club, it sounds fun. like a new hobby, maybe. so what do you do? you have to be writing a novel. then at dinner parties, you could say you've written a novel, because everyone always asks. when i tell people i write, they want to see the proof, it's true. if i handed them a hefty manuscript they'd ooh and ahh, i'm sure.
well that's the impression i got from the people organizing it, a bunch of years ago, i'm not saying that's why anyone in particular does it because obviously there are many people, and many reasons, and i have no clue, obviously. i want to be someplace warm. santa cruz. to hell with writing novels and reading slash. i want to be by the warm ocean, breathing in the salt and writing (short) poems about the clouds. maybe i'd have a blanket and a bicycle and some food. mm, salmon sandwiches and sparkly drinks.
it's so cute. i suppose i can feel good about myself. i can produce many a page of rambly description, pointless character study, and pondering upon the nature of existence and leaves and toes. this is all just me writing words for no good reason. but that's what i do. i write and write and write and it's all pointless pointless pointless, but it gives me something to do. i mean, i could be doing something else, but writing's easier. what do writers -do- if it's not write? what the hell kind of goal is it, to write more? write -better-, yes, but more? aren't we writers because the words are lodged in every cell, every molecule, every atom, until you're spitting them into your soup and coughing them into your hand and snorting them into your coke, and so on? well, i am. stupid words. there's just no end to them. it's not like i choose to do this. it's not like i think it'd be so cool if i could just write more. maybe i can be even -more- rambly and overly verbal today.
here i am, angstying about my pointless over-verbal rambly existence, when people are angstying equally hard about their pointless under-verbal existence. i mean, often i just don't know what to say-- it's like-- damn, i just have no clue what my characters are going to think or do. but if i let go of plot, reason, and sanity, i could write 20 pages before i remember to say, "erk, this sucks". easy shmeasy.
writing has always been about "too much", for me. i think too much, feel too much, am self-aware too much, am silent too much, am lonely too much, am annoyed too much, and so on. so i turn every stupid extraneous blip in my brain into a word. and another. and another. and look at them-- like this entry-- they just multiply. i could take all these feelings and give them to a character. and then give the character a history, and a home with, candles and throw-rugs and balconies, and a mother who's in france, and a penchant for crackers and poof! story. i've done this often. that's just all there is to it, for me, if i just wanted to write fiction instead of ramble pointlessly, at any given moment. fiction is merely taking what is and swaddling it in what could be. almost easier-- in fact, -definitely- easier than actually figuring out what "is" in the first place. i've always lived in a world half imagined. or maybe more than half. none of the real is all that real to me.
maybe my mother IS in france. maybe i do have a balcony. maybe i'm in love with a guy named jeff who's into quake IV and digimon and he's studying electrical engineering in rice university and he's got sandy hair and a really snorty sort of laugh. well, except that i don't know what i'd see in him. so maybe i'm not me, and am instead jenny, who likes to daydream about the fonz, and wear skirts with poodles on them. she's all about the poodles.
maybe i can write a novel about a poodle.
i too, am all about the poodles.
damn i'm bitter.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2002-11-02 06:43 pm (UTC)although, you know, you do write pretty original fanfic~:)
no subject
Date: 2002-11-02 07:19 pm (UTC)It's so interesting the way you like Cho but find Fleur hard to like. Most readers seem to be exactly the opposite.
I know it's so short. *facepalms* I am a terrible, terrible person. :( I wrote all this in about three days, and yet it's been about 4 weeks since VM06. gah.
repercussions on Draco and Hermione? HEHEHE is all I can say at this point. ooh, and Chair! hehe. Am bad girl, only in good way this time.
concerns... does it really seem that Fleur's only into Cho for her looks? Maybe I'm not getting it across at all, but I see Fleur as, above all, protective of Cho, and simultaneously wanting to keep her innocent and wanting her to share in her darkness. Something in Cho just speaks to her.
(I think, anyway.)
Thank you for the review! You're wonderful.
no subject
Date: 2002-11-02 10:10 pm (UTC)hm, i didn't so much think that it was shallow, but more of a contrast thing between harry & draco as opposed to fleur & cho...
of course, they have completely different conflicts and issues and so on, but i would say that fleur/cho's relationship is much more normal, thus throwing into relief how ...erm... strange h/d's "courtship" is-- which is to say, isn't.
i -would- say that fleur and cho have a (very deranged) courtship-- that is-- the moony eyes, the easy confessions, the late-night talks, the protectiveness, the ease of being together, that "certain something" that makes you feel so close to someone you just met-- all of this is textbook as far as romance.
i mean, yes, when you're falling for someone you start noticing how pretty they look when they've just woken up and how soft their voice is or whatever.
it's just weird, this normality, this-- totally charming, ordinary bond they seem to have-- not so much, ordinary as in the sense of commonplace, but you know what i mean, don't you?
fleur & cho are acting just as anyone would act under the circumstances, if they were having "feelings" and yet were trapped in this life.
whereas harry & draco, obviously, are-- well--
"different", hehehe :D
obviously they don't check each other out. or enjoy each other's company. or feel like confessing any secrets. or feel protective. or even feel -drawn- to one another in the traditional way. which isn't a bad thing-- makes it believeable of course.
but it's just strange, seeing these contrasting types of bonds.
i mean, you could say, easily, that what harry & draco have is merely ... er... a "thing". whereas it is with fleur & cho that it is obviously more than that.
it seems weird that they just clicked like that and it's so -easy- whereas it's so far from it for h&d, but that's life, people -do- "just click".
you know, it's impossible to write a fic where harry & draco "just click" and remain very canonical, you'd think, but i think maya's done just that, actually :D hehehe :D now, to merge -your- h/d with -her- h/d interaction...
mmmmm....i think i see......sex!! teehee :D
~reena