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Resisting the lure of the shiny
Dec. 4th, 2003 04:05 pmAnd doing it very badly. I want the Season 1 boxset. I do, I do. And my will power has proved a little lax today.
Talking writing with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
crankygrrl. Both of us sighing over rubberneck's talent. Dude, she made me cry at work again, though it's not entirely her fault as it's no hormone week so I'm a little overemotional, and severly over tired. Doesn't mean the new Moyafic installments weren't fantastic.
Perception of one's writing is a fascinating thing.whitelight1 just wrote a drabbley post-Different Destinations piece. So one of my favorite eps, and despite problems (and things that make me tear my hair), I'm quite fond of my own DD story (when ep. filler. It's not real plot heavy).
That beautifully strung out and just shockingly sad place the writers were able to take the characters too. And then they made things worse, and who knew that was possible. There are lines in At the End of the Day that I'm very proud of (which balances out some of my dumb-ass errors and a line or two that I think I must have switched around in formatting). But it's a learning process right. Every piece should be better on some level than the last, or should have shown growth, even if it's something only recognizeable to the author. I can see my own growth, but I still really love the vast open space at the end of DD, and all of the things that could fill it up. It's got perfect parameters, the characters can't change, resolution can't really be had, but there are so many potential moments there, between everyone, not simply John and Aeryn).
But writing, analyzing why some people just make your breath catch, why I can read someone's words and get a pure rush, no matter the content. There are books that make me feel that way. James Joyce, although not Ulysses, but Dubliner's, the purity of his words there, and a Neil Jordan story about Blackpool that makes me feel like I'm in a car driving along the shore, steady but floating, bobbing up and down on the chilly looking water, the words and pacing making me feel like I'd been to a fair and eaten to much cotton candy, happy and a little nauseus. Word choice, pacing, sentence length, the drawing of words, the drawing with words, the watery, washy watercolory painting of image and character, and god sometimes I just love it so much. That the words are there, in whatever form, novel and poem and fic and just painted across the fabric of everything. I love John Crichton writing symbols onto his skin because somedays it's all I want, to etch those things into my arms, my hands and face and chest and keep them present. Wrap them up like a present and hold them.
And here I was going to be pithy and pointed. Hmmm. Talking withsorlklewis about Othello made me miss school, miss thought for thoughts sake, and Peter Murray, my Shakespeare prof with his socks and sandals and bean farmer clothes and just genius interpretation of the work that meant everything to him after he blew up his chemistry lab and decided to become a professor of English and not return to Chemistry. Because Iago is a sociopath, but it's the flaws in the others that leads to tragedy. Iago just tips the scale, and he does it simply because he can.
Oh, and I'd asked for holiday disaster stories. We've got a slew, but my current favorite was the forgetting of someone's (mine) presents by my mother and aunt because of their hearty enjoyment of a bottle of Asti Spumante and some really loud Manheim Steamroller Christmas:) I was seriously pissed off, having little humor left during the holidays (and because I hadn't been asked to share the magnum of sugary Italian alcoholy goodness:)
Talking writing with
crankygrrl. Both of us sighing over rubberneck's talent. Dude, she made me cry at work again, though it's not entirely her fault as it's no hormone week so I'm a little overemotional, and severly over tired. Doesn't mean the new Moyafic installments weren't fantastic. Perception of one's writing is a fascinating thing.
whitelight1 just wrote a drabbley post-Different Destinations piece. So one of my favorite eps, and despite problems (and things that make me tear my hair), I'm quite fond of my own DD story (when ep. filler. It's not real plot heavy). That beautifully strung out and just shockingly sad place the writers were able to take the characters too. And then they made things worse, and who knew that was possible. There are lines in At the End of the Day that I'm very proud of (which balances out some of my dumb-ass errors and a line or two that I think I must have switched around in formatting). But it's a learning process right. Every piece should be better on some level than the last, or should have shown growth, even if it's something only recognizeable to the author. I can see my own growth, but I still really love the vast open space at the end of DD, and all of the things that could fill it up. It's got perfect parameters, the characters can't change, resolution can't really be had, but there are so many potential moments there, between everyone, not simply John and Aeryn).
But writing, analyzing why some people just make your breath catch, why I can read someone's words and get a pure rush, no matter the content. There are books that make me feel that way. James Joyce, although not Ulysses, but Dubliner's, the purity of his words there, and a Neil Jordan story about Blackpool that makes me feel like I'm in a car driving along the shore, steady but floating, bobbing up and down on the chilly looking water, the words and pacing making me feel like I'd been to a fair and eaten to much cotton candy, happy and a little nauseus. Word choice, pacing, sentence length, the drawing of words, the drawing with words, the watery, washy watercolory painting of image and character, and god sometimes I just love it so much. That the words are there, in whatever form, novel and poem and fic and just painted across the fabric of everything. I love John Crichton writing symbols onto his skin because somedays it's all I want, to etch those things into my arms, my hands and face and chest and keep them present. Wrap them up like a present and hold them.
And here I was going to be pithy and pointed. Hmmm. Talking with
sorlklewis about Othello made me miss school, miss thought for thoughts sake, and Peter Murray, my Shakespeare prof with his socks and sandals and bean farmer clothes and just genius interpretation of the work that meant everything to him after he blew up his chemistry lab and decided to become a professor of English and not return to Chemistry. Because Iago is a sociopath, but it's the flaws in the others that leads to tragedy. Iago just tips the scale, and he does it simply because he can.Oh, and I'd asked for holiday disaster stories. We've got a slew, but my current favorite was the forgetting of someone's (mine) presents by my mother and aunt because of their hearty enjoyment of a bottle of Asti Spumante and some really loud Manheim Steamroller Christmas:) I was seriously pissed off, having little humor left during the holidays (and because I hadn't been asked to share the magnum of sugary Italian alcoholy goodness:)
