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reenkai think the goal of reading, much as i write about it and think about it and ponder its highways and byways, is really, to me, for it to leave me speechless. not even so much overcome emotionally, though that's in there too. just-- unable to talk for the sudden new space inside me, somehow painfully open and vulnerable and -alive-.
that is the source of reading as a semi-mystical experience, when it goes beyond words, when it is so real that it transcends its own medium and lives inside you, as primary and vivid as any emotion you might otherwise have. very few pieces of writing achieve this. it is a whole new level-- it is the -ultimate- level of reader involvement, of the full transmission of intent, of the -creation- of the story inside you, the birth of meaning.
all the stories i remember most readily, most immediately, have had this effect on me, one i cannot, in the end, completely ascribe to the grace of the style or the fittingness of the jokes. it's a magic. it's the magic of storytelling. it is what i worship and wish to practice for the rest of my life. the only magic i have at my disposal, in potential even.
so. i'm reading cassie claire's `a season in hell'. and it's almost laughable for me to review it. i can no more do so (right now, anyway), than i could've reviewed `a brief interval' or aja's 9-11 fic or penguin's `falling', at first reading.
EDIT - er. that is to say.
it's simply that good.
ahem :D i did write an actual semi-detailed review. yes, aren't i a smart cookie ><;;
anyway.
alright. let's try this again. *meeps*
obviously i suck at making any sense. but that's alright, other people make sense, i can just sort of-- sit here, and read. it's all good.
the goal, as i see it, is to be so sold by something, so -there-, that you can't-- separate very easily. you can't see it from the outside, because you are just lost in the story, and initially, at least, it just gets a purely emotional reaction. everything seems to sound -right- and to -fit- and to feel -real-.
nothing jangles, and nothing breaks the flow, and it just all comes together and breathes. so um.
yah. i'm a t00b.
i meant, it's laughable to dissect it and say, ok, well that sentence worked really well, and this particular one didn't, and i really like the imagery with this, or that, and this bit was funny-- ok, i can do that, it just seems to miss the point, somehow, to be grinch-like. i mean, those people who instead of just -enjoying- things, feel they need to -analyze- them, and i'm not really one of those people. when something is just-- really enjoyable and beautiful, i'd rather just-- let it hit me. let it wash over me. analysis and thinking and stuff create a -distance- between you and the work, that's what i meant.
and sometimes distance isn't really possible, at least initially. or desireable. *clings to fic*
right. so i guess i liked it, then. ><;;
it just creates that space in me-- hollow, slightly raw. i feel scraped, even though i was laughing out loud every half a minute.
i remember, suddenly, how i felt after reading chapter 10.
why my little ficlet for that is the thing that has the most emotional meaning to me, out of all my fanfic, still.
i wrote it from that raw, empty space. i wrote it because it tore itself from me. it wasn't an exercise, a meditation, an idea, a vision. it was pure emotion.
i used to write a lot of poetry from that space. i became very familiar with it, with the howling wind and the cold, and the heady sense of falling, flying, living.
i dunno. that's why i like IP, btw. it works for me, it communicates emotion. that is what it's about, to me-- capturing it, communicating it, suggesting it. people tell me that my better writing is especially saturated with it. i've even been told i write stories -about- emotion. and really, what other kind of story is there, to write?
that's what really brings me across. i may be desperate for fluff, because i want to feel good. but really, i just want to feel. and if what i read is strong enough, my defenses crumble-- and that's what they are, defenses, i don't let myself open up to pain easily-- and i am -there-. it is so intense. no filters, no blinkers no, no way to escape the imagery filling your mind. the story just gets told to you, and you live it. you just-- live it. it lives.
that is the source of reading as a semi-mystical experience, when it goes beyond words, when it is so real that it transcends its own medium and lives inside you, as primary and vivid as any emotion you might otherwise have. very few pieces of writing achieve this. it is a whole new level-- it is the -ultimate- level of reader involvement, of the full transmission of intent, of the -creation- of the story inside you, the birth of meaning.
all the stories i remember most readily, most immediately, have had this effect on me, one i cannot, in the end, completely ascribe to the grace of the style or the fittingness of the jokes. it's a magic. it's the magic of storytelling. it is what i worship and wish to practice for the rest of my life. the only magic i have at my disposal, in potential even.
so. i'm reading cassie claire's `a season in hell'. and it's almost laughable for me to review it. i can no more do so (right now, anyway), than i could've reviewed `a brief interval' or aja's 9-11 fic or penguin's `falling', at first reading.
EDIT - er. that is to say.
it's simply that good.
ahem :D i did write an actual semi-detailed review. yes, aren't i a smart cookie ><;;
anyway.
alright. let's try this again. *meeps*
obviously i suck at making any sense. but that's alright, other people make sense, i can just sort of-- sit here, and read. it's all good.
the goal, as i see it, is to be so sold by something, so -there-, that you can't-- separate very easily. you can't see it from the outside, because you are just lost in the story, and initially, at least, it just gets a purely emotional reaction. everything seems to sound -right- and to -fit- and to feel -real-.
nothing jangles, and nothing breaks the flow, and it just all comes together and breathes. so um.
yah. i'm a t00b.
i meant, it's laughable to dissect it and say, ok, well that sentence worked really well, and this particular one didn't, and i really like the imagery with this, or that, and this bit was funny-- ok, i can do that, it just seems to miss the point, somehow, to be grinch-like. i mean, those people who instead of just -enjoying- things, feel they need to -analyze- them, and i'm not really one of those people. when something is just-- really enjoyable and beautiful, i'd rather just-- let it hit me. let it wash over me. analysis and thinking and stuff create a -distance- between you and the work, that's what i meant.
and sometimes distance isn't really possible, at least initially. or desireable. *clings to fic*
right. so i guess i liked it, then. ><;;
it just creates that space in me-- hollow, slightly raw. i feel scraped, even though i was laughing out loud every half a minute.
i remember, suddenly, how i felt after reading chapter 10.
why my little ficlet for that is the thing that has the most emotional meaning to me, out of all my fanfic, still.
i wrote it from that raw, empty space. i wrote it because it tore itself from me. it wasn't an exercise, a meditation, an idea, a vision. it was pure emotion.
i used to write a lot of poetry from that space. i became very familiar with it, with the howling wind and the cold, and the heady sense of falling, flying, living.
i dunno. that's why i like IP, btw. it works for me, it communicates emotion. that is what it's about, to me-- capturing it, communicating it, suggesting it. people tell me that my better writing is especially saturated with it. i've even been told i write stories -about- emotion. and really, what other kind of story is there, to write?
that's what really brings me across. i may be desperate for fluff, because i want to feel good. but really, i just want to feel. and if what i read is strong enough, my defenses crumble-- and that's what they are, defenses, i don't let myself open up to pain easily-- and i am -there-. it is so intense. no filters, no blinkers no, no way to escape the imagery filling your mind. the story just gets told to you, and you live it. you just-- live it. it lives.
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no subject
Date: 2002-11-29 08:32 pm (UTC)so. i'm reading cassie claire's `a season in hell'. and it's almost laughable for me to review it.
No love for cassie.
woe.
no subject
Date: 2002-11-29 08:37 pm (UTC)i meant it's so good i'm speechless.
that's why i was waxing poetic about well--
the point of stories, and so on ^^;;
much loff for cassie~! wah.
was going to actually come up with something concrete, once it's settled~:)
*meeping*
~reena
no subject
Date: 2002-11-29 09:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-11-29 09:56 pm (UTC)*feels less insane now*~:)
no subject
Date: 2002-11-29 10:02 pm (UTC)...erm. Sorry to get so wordy on you.
no subject
Date: 2002-11-29 10:08 pm (UTC)yah, exactly~:)
though-- humor tends to bring out the contrast, and make it more subtle, more cutting... well, it can, anyway.
and yah, i know what you mean about rhoddlet. and penelope, also.
....maybe cassie was um... teasing me ><
*crosses fingers*
this whole `reena-doesn't-like-cassie's-work' is like this evil meme that keeps hanging around my head like some blood-thirsty bee... ><;;
hee~:)
no subject
Date: 2002-11-29 10:25 pm (UTC)You took the words right outta my mouth.
Date: 2002-11-30 02:23 pm (UTC)But yes.