- Have my Muse show up with characters and a plot
- Sew Ben’s pj pants shut (long story…)
- add feedback comments to a friend’s manuscript
- blog about watching Star Wars
- go for a walk
Is it giving up if I decide that this story that I’m telling isn’t the one I set out to write, and isn’t one that I want to write–at least not right now?
I started this story with the question: Why would a group of people (monsters, particularly) choose to remain enslaved? And then I thought of my monster-soldiers, and Fen in particular–and then I wanted someone for contrast, someone who was enslaved but trying to escape. Not literal slavery, but genetic slavery–I mean, she’s the daughter of the Lord of the Land, the Pater Familias*, absolute head of the household, who has the right to decide anything for anyone in the family (or in his land), up to and including ordering execution without justification. Absolute power, over his daughter Allie, his soldier-slaves, and everyone else. But in the society I created, this became all about arranged marriage, and how much it would suck for this one character. To remain true to that society, Allie couldn’t become badass, at least not immediately and without extraordinarily unlikely things happening, and I want her to be badass. I wanted her to be witty and capable, not angsty, choosing and acting. But I’m giving her an impossible decision: accept the arranged marriage to this horrible guy, or run away and leave her younger sister to the same fate. Or have her sister run away too, and have the whole land, their whole family, be overrun and brutally killed. This is a dark, hard situation. The time between the beginning of the story and the point at which she could become badass was too long, and I was getting too frustrated by her lack of action. She’s not in a situation to have actions to make. And the situation I started out putting her in was to be struggling against was her enslavement, not the future husband, not the attacking monster-army. Those were incidental and extra–yet they would have to be central to the story for it to make sense. So what story am I trying to tell? I still want to tell that original story.
And do I really want to write a story about a woman being raped? That was effectively where I was leading, and if she managed to escape it, it would be too pat.
So I got stuck at about 3000 words.**
And then I wrote a scene that was really dark, even darker than I’d been managing, which would’ve totally shortened the story, getting us straight into the dark and scary. And dude, I write funny. I’m most interesting when I’m funny. Can I maintain a dark and scary tone? Can I maintain a dark and scary tone while telling a story that isn’t the one I was trying to write?
I don’t think I’m just copping out… but I do feel like I’m copping out.
Last night I realized I could write a different part of the history of this world–unfortunately, also dark and dismal–this one in a place where I can just create badass women without feeling like I’m being untrue to historical accuracy or to the society I’ve established. I know the ending of this story–it leads directly into the world of Allie & Fen–but I don’t know the beginning or the middle, and I don’t know who is involved. I don’t know what happens, but I know where they end up. I don’t think I’ve ever begun a story already knowing the ending.
I don’t even have any characters yet, or societies, or settings, and I haven’t really decided if it’s sci fi or fantasy. Right now I’m leaning towards sci fi, because it feels more exciting with that tone, and anything that excites me is more likely to lead to an exciting story.
How I feel today: “A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people” -T. Mann — quoted by Laura Anne Gilman (http://twitter.com/LAGilman/status/9394628190)
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* This is a Latin phrase from Ancient Rome^. Wikipedia says this:
The pater familias (plural: patres familias) was the head of a Roman family. The term is Latin for “father of the family” or the “owner of the family estate”. The form is irregular and archaic in Latin, preserving the old genitive ending in -as (see Latin declension). The pater familias was always a Roman citizen.
Roman law and tradition (mos maiorum) established the power of the pater familias within the community of his own extended familia. He held legal privilege over the property of the familia, and varying levels of authority over his dependents: these included his wife and children, certain other relatives through blood or adoption, clients, freedmen and slaves. The same mos maiorum moderated his authority and determined his responsibilities to his own familia and to the broader community. He had a duty to father and raise healthy children as future citizens of Rome, to maintain the moral propriety and well-being of his household, to honour his clan and ancestral gods and to dutifully participate – and if possible, serve – in Rome’s political, religious and social life. In effect, the pater familias was expected to be a good citizen. In theory at least, he held powers of life and death over every member of his extended familia through ancient right but in practice, the extreme form of this right was seldom exercised. It was eventually limited by law.
My Pater Familias seldom uses his powers of death, either, but … he could. And marriage? Marriage is definitely controlled by him. Usually arranged for political reasons, which was true for powerful men throughout much of European history and many (most?) other cultures in this world, too.
^ Studying Latin and history extensively give me all kinds of useful concepts to draw on. Some more depressing than others…
** “So” implies causation, and I don’t know that this is actually the cause. Here is the root of my concern. Did I get stuck because I’m telling the wrong story, or did I get stuck because it’s hard and I don’t want to work this hard? Or worse, did I get stuck because I committed to finishing this story, and committing makes me not want to work on the story anymore?
aggravatedMy mom and I went to the ballet Friday night. We saw the Moscow Festival Ballet performing Coppelia. I haven’t seen many ballets (Nutcracker and Swan Lake, mostly, in various incarnations), and I don’t think I’ve attended any before.
It was great fun. The main female character got to dance and look pretty, of course, but she also got to be seriously annoyed at the male lead, and stomp around being angry. Because they don’t talk, everything has to be explained through body language, very exaggerated so that the people in the back can see it, too. I was impressed by the way that most of them kept smiling throughout the whole performance. Don’t their faces start hurting? Do you think they smile like that in their sleep, because their faces have frozen that way?
We were sitting in the third row, which meant that we could see them all very clearly, so it was easy to get lost in the details. Like, noticing the lines drawn under their eyes so they would be visible from far away. Or the braces on one woman’s teeth. And the earring in one guy’s ear. And dude, those men wear *tight* pants. So I spent quite a bit more time than was really necessary wondering about underwear. The women’s costumes were far less distracting. We were also close enough to readily identify each of the ballerinas and danseurs, and notice when they switched places or did different things. Like one of Swanhilde’s friends (that was her official description) also played the Doll, and we thought she was very good.
If we’d been sitting further back, it would’ve been easier to watch the ensemble instead of the individual dancers.
The music was canned, which probably shouldn’t be surprising. But, if the audience clapped for too long, sometimes the next piece of music would start while we were still clapping. And the ballerinas would have to start dancing, even though we were still clapping. And then there’s a thing where the lead ballerina spins around in circles on one leg without putting the other down and without stopping, called fouetté en tournant. It’s a show of skill, the more times you can spin the better you are. With an orchestra, the orchestra will just keep playing that bit until she is finishes, but with canned music she can only spin as many times as the music allows. (My mom counted: she spun 30 times. Apparently to snobs 60 is note-worthy, and some ballerinas have spun as many as 130 times [wow!], though Wikipedia doesn’t say anything about more than 32.)
The story was really thin. There was a two-page description of the story in the program which almost-kinda made sense, but the ballet itself only followed the description in the vaguest of ways. My mom liked the third act best, which was the wedding scene, which was all dancing without really trying to tell a story. I liked the second act, because some of the ballerinas and danseurs were meant to be automata, life-sized wind-up dolls that do a particular thing. One was a Spanish fan dancer, who was very pretty, another was a medieval soldier with a pike, and there were a few more. It was fun.
Seriously, only 300 new words? A whole new scene and it’s only 300 words? Bah.
I figured out what was wrong with my scene yesterday: no conflict. It’s simply, these are the things that happen. Nothing is at stake, no one argues with anyone else. And conflict is what makes things interesting. But I don’t know how to fix it yet.
Also, I really don’t know what Allie should be doing. Despite continued efforts, she’s still broody. (Not quite angsty… I haven’t had her cry once in this version.) I think she I may have to leave her alone for a while, because she’s really not where the conflict is right this moment.
Maybe I can figure out what Fen and Jonas are doing next. *And* spend a bit of time (off-screen) paying attention to Allie to figure out who she really is.
600 new words, typed in a mini-scene I’d scribbled in my notebook last week and a new one that comes next in the plot. This new scene is short and flat–almost like the author couldn’t see the scene in her own head. Oh, right, it’s cuz she couldn’t. I had no muse-hit from this one. In effect, it’s a placeholder for when I figure out the real energy of the scene and fix it. Meanwhile, I think I can continue from here to scenes I can visualize better. (I hope.)
I have this strong desire to get it *right*. Like, I can’t write the scene until I can see it, so I’m going to beat on it and beat on it (in my head) until I can see it–except the harder I beat, the further away the scene is, until I’m at the point where I KNOW what should be happening, but I can’t see it at all. The window into the world is shuttered, and I’m straining desperately to hear what’s going on through the glass. This is when I fear that writing is always going to be like pulling teeth.
So I said frell-it, I’m *not* going to get it right. I don’t have to get it right yet, because I still haven’t found the right voice or pacing of the story. So, even the scenes that are “right”–there are a couple, but they’re short–will probably be wrong once I find the right voice, and will have to be rewritten. Therefore, stop caring about “right” and just put something on the page!
Except (says the other voice in my head), if it’s this hard to see the scene, how do I know it isn’t just that the scene is completely wrong and I need to re-think what’s supposed to happen here? In which case, if I keep marching in this direction, I’ll be so ridiculously far from “right” that I’ll be writing a completely new story the next time. Wasted time and effort.
Yeah, I don’t know.
Meanwhile, Allie is stubbornly refusing to be funny. Not even a snide remark. Anne (her sister-in-law) is at least good at poking fun at her, and Allie appreciates the humor–but generates none of her own. Piffle.
I stopped writing when I wanted Allie to go talk to a teacher/priest/techie-guy whose title I couldn’t invent. “Maester” was the closest that came to mind, from GRRM’s A Game of Thrones. Obviously, that’s taken. And then I got distracted by the intarwebs.
Oh yeah, and I have a cold. And I’m going to a planetarium today to see a show!
sick