Avoiding

[itsallovernow]

It's grey here, calm, and I made myself look in the paper, and wished I hadn't. The LA Times put the pictures from Fallujah in the inside of the A section, but it didn't make them better, didn't make things less awful. Working on a new Power Point pres for the same client, and she has pictures from Rwanda and Bosnia that she wants to include and I had to tell her point blank that they were disturbing. Effective, and necessary, but disturbing. She's been working in this field for a long time, is completely committed to it, but was surprised I think to hear that.

In a purely selfish vein, I'm tired of being the technomoron. I hate being the girl who can't do things right. Who doesn't know how to make icons, or code anything without some sort of mistake. It's irksome and discomfiting. I'm the girl who does things well, and I hate having to ask why things don't work. But why, now that I've downloaded the latest version of Windows Media Player, installed it, followed through, all that, do I get vid, but not sound on the vids. This is the opposite of the problem I was having, i.e. sound but no picture. I've no idea what to do. Sigh.

suelac wrote porn (it's not really porn per se, merely an encounter within her larger Casablanca crossover, but it's very, very well done, and well, I don't get to harrass her over very much:), and searose talked about the writing of porn, and it makes me wonder why, aside from some cheek flushing embarrasment over posting Undertones, and really more embarrasment over parts of A Circle Just which still seems to me to be the kinkiest thing I've written, but back on track, why I'm relatively content to be known for writing porn.

I'm not sure I have an answer except for the fact that sex is a form of communication, and the writing of it allows a lot more visceral detail than writing conversations. People tend to do conversation badly. Our spoken language is awkward, full of pauses and missed words and unintential irony and poetics and malapropisms and smoothing that over into written conversation is rewarding, but I like my conversations to be sheltering, holding meaning hostage, and I guess I like the freedom of expression that happens in writing sex. I like the detail and I like the nuance and I like my own flushed cheeks, and the care I have to take to get it right, to straddle the line between soft-core porn and something with more depth, and the pleasure in achieving that, when in fact, I manage to.

And, lets face it, I write better sex than I write plot. And that's something I'm working on. I want to write good plot. I want to be a Searose, or a Kernezelda, or a Cofax or Maayan or Feldman or anyone of the fabulous writers in this fandom and others who effortlessly string movement and momentum and story together so the finished product reads like a whole and not a moment. And again, I'm working on it, but it's hard. And I'm not traditionally good at doing what's hard. What I'm also not doing is my Remix fic, which I'm avoiding like an avoidy thing.

So, since I'm all about avoiding today, and maybe that's because I'm writing about teenages abusing their parents, and am filled with images that I want to shake out of my head like a mongrel dog, here's Part One of something that I think is going to be four parts. (And I'm sorry to anyone waiting for Citrine. I will get back to it, I just have to be in a little sunnier frame of mind). Post Bad Timing. It's also the enactment of me as sponge, reading shaye and reading some of her WW reccs for crack_van, and you can see the influence on the writing style:) Think imitation and flattery, however unconscious.



He came back angry and she came back quiet and neither one of them are a hell of a lot of fun to live with right now.

He rails at fate, pissed off at the universe, at enemies everywhere, wanting her to be side by side in this and instead she tucks herself into his back at night, fists balled against his vertebrae, cheek on his scapula.

Moya hums for her, for them, for their loss and for their return, and he sees Aeryn one morning standing in Pilot’s den, fingertips gentle on the console, other hand flat on her belly. Her hair is so short, dark thick curls not even brushing her shoulders, but the line of her neck, the weapon on her thigh write her name large. She’s still here, still his. But so frelling quiet, sharing her pain with other people. Not with him.

She takes him inside herself at night, closing tight around him, throat taut, whimpering, hands straining for him, breasts pressed flat against his chest, soft nails digging in hard enough to leave welts but she doesn’t scream, doesn’t laugh or tease him or cry, just hangs on.

They haven’t talked of marriage, or of love since they came back. But he wants his ring on her finger, and decides that he needs to give her something new, something large and meaningful and he goes to D’Argo for help.

The two of them spend arns planning, and purchasing until finally he has wood under his hands, rough and scratchy and a color that doesn’t resonate in his mind, but the texture is right, and they start to carve. The arns get eaten away as he falls into the rhythm of wood and creation.

She eventually notice his absence, circles through Moya searching for whatever secret occupies his time, and when he comes to bed that night, she has a piece of purplish wood in her fingers.

“What are you making?” she asks, rubbing the wood with her thumb.

“A bed,” he says. “Something big enough for us to share.”

“Oh.”

He doesn’t know what he expected, but this isn’t it. She stands up and moves towards him, puts her hands flat to his chest, and lays her cheek over his heart. He wraps his arms around her.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says into her hair.

She doesn’t respond verbally, presses her lips to his heart and then takes his hand, leads him to their narrow bunk, strips him down, frells him senseless, sleeps draped over his body like a blanket.

She’s gone in the morning and when he fumbles for a cup on the nightstand, he knocks over a random part. It rolls under the bed and he fishes for it absently, too blurry to actually get up and fetch the piece. His fingers close over something dry and paper and he pulls out a small cardboard box. It’s an old Christmas box from a department store, well-used, recycled for years in family gift exchanges.

He eases off the top and his eyes smear with water. A tiny white blanket is folded up in the box, soft like fleece, satin edging and Aeryn is not the least bit sentimental. He’s having a hard time putting the various sides of this equation together, but he feels a sob hard like a fist in the center of his chest, wonders if they’re ever gonna get a break.

That night she tells him she’s leaving. Or at least, that’s what he hears.

“I just need some time,” she says, that low voice wrapping around his spine, breaking it into pieces.

He hears his words, doesn’t know if he stands behind them, but isn’t willing to take them back. “If you leave, you’re leaving me.”

Her lips are white, and she holds her fingertips to the grip of her pistol. “I’m not leaving you,” she says, raw and desperate. “I’m not running away. I just need some time. Three or four weekens.”

He refuses to hear any more, caught in a white haze of anger and hurt and resentment.

It takes a weeken to make arrangements and he manages not to spend the night with her during that time. He also manages not to say goodbye, until finally some part of his brain smacks him firmly upside the head, and he turns, running full throttle for the hangar bay, but she’s long gone.

Chiana sits by the door, eyes dark, luminous and angry. She lashes out, hitting him in the knee and he stumbles, off-balance, as pain lances up through his leg and his knees slam to the ground, knocking him flat.

“She waited, and waited,” she says. “But you didn’t come. So she left.”

He rolls to sit up and reaches for her, but she bats his hand away.

“ I love you Crichton,” she says, sounding young and alone. “But right now, I don’t like you very much.” She edges away from him, sinuous and fragile, and drops a vid chip onto his lap. “She left you that.”

He clutches the vid until it cuts into his palm, watching Chiana sidle away. Then he goes on a three day bender as they meander carefully into another system.

He wakes up one morning cold, damp, shivering with the vaguest memory of D’Argo holding his head under water, of gulping for air, of choking on stagnant fluid, of a soft white blanket ripped to shreds. He feels like the ass end of a really bad day, head throbbing, stomach churning, the smell of bile and rage on his skin, in his hair and on his clothes.

He drags himself out of bed, showers, changes and straps on Winona. He goes through his duty shift, fixes this, fixes that, argues half-heartedly with Rygel and even fiddles with his module just for the hell of it. The vid chip was lying next to the bed when he woke up, and he has no memory of watching it, but he tucked it into his pants so that it presses against the skin of his waist throughout the day, takes up the space where her hands should linger. He doesn’t watch it, but at the end of the day, still hungover, still wretched he goes back to the small workroom he and D’Argo have created. He takes the plane in hand and slowly works it over the wood, evening the plank to a steady symmetry.

Chiana’s forgiveness is never voiced, but there are fresh berries on his plate one morning two weekens past and melat tea the next day, which she drinks along with him, then strokes his thigh with careful fingers.

“Did you watch it yet?” she asks. He shakes his head, sips spiced tea.

“Do you miss her?” Chiana asks, open curiosity tilting her voice into something new. It’s like falling in love, the butterflies in his belly, the too fast heart beat, the spots of stars in his vision.

“Yes,” he says. “Like breathing. I miss her like breathing.”

“Pilot,” Chiana starts. “She left the coordinates, left the time when she thought we could come back for her…”

This catches his attention.

“I’ll go see Pilot,” he reassures her.

It doesn’t sound like a plan when he says it, doesn’t even feel like a plan when he watches the vid, sees her looking straight at him, generous mouth and grey eyes and seriousness, words soft, words like I love you, words like silence, words like anger, understanding. “If you don’t come back,” she says, “I’ll understand. I’ll love you and I’ll understand.” It doesn’t sound like Aeryn. “But, come back.” It isn't a request, and there she is, contained and distilled, a little broken, but still his girl.

None of it even feels like a plan, but it gets shot to hell within a solar day, and so it must have been a John Crichton special.

Comments

[sorlklewis.livejournal.com]

I've no idea what to do.

Might be the codecs? It seems to be a widespread problem for my friends lately. If you want, I have a codec pack I could email you. Since installing it, I've had not one problem with watching/listening to anything.

Also, great things said on writing and great piece. Can't wait for the next bit.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Thank, and it's bound to be the codecs. I thought installing the new version of WMP would take care of it, but of course it didn't. I have a Mac though, don't know if the codecs are the same, but otherwise, I'd looooove it if you'd e-mail me the pack.

And thank you, thank you. Glad you enjoyed it:)

[sorlklewis.livejournal.com]

It miiiight work, and if it doesn't, then, well, it shouldn't do anything. Anyway, sending it to you. It's just under 3mb, as a heads up.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Thank you:) (However, I also discovered that if i clicked on the volume button when it was read, and made it black, I got music. Believe me that i'm blushing in embarrasment, as well as banging my head on the desk. But I'm guessing I probably still need the codexs for certain things so it's still much appreciated!)

[sorlklewis.livejournal.com]

Oops. *g*

Well, sadly, the file is too big. It got bounced. Seems that size matters.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Hee hee. Don't worry about it. I've at least upped the number of vids I can watch, and I didn't break the computer so that's two points in my techno favor this week:)

[ixchup.livejournal.com]

I challenge anyone who says you can't write plot--it is just wrapped in the emotions and amazing images you present--I can feel their grief and how they both deal in so very different ways. This is sad and realistic and lovely and I look forward to the next part. Saguaro is a neat cactus--it takes a long time to grow and when it does it grows up and out--prickly and tall..and yet has strong ribs on the inside that last. sorta like their love.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Hee. I know nothing about cacti - aside from the fact that I, notorious killer of plants, managed to keep one living for a very long time before it got plant ick and died, leaving me devastated.

I do have a reason for using the title, but it's neither as articulate or lovely as your explanation:) And thank you so much!

[simplystars.livejournal.com]

I've been known to kill plants indescriminately, especially cacti...which is why I'm amazed that I've kept three of them alive in my bathroom window for a year. They're blooming right now. *g* <---smug

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

The smug is well deserved. I take plants home and they laugh at me, right before expiring with a gargle and a gasp and some screeches of fear as cat 1 nibbles on their leaves.

[cretkid.livejournal.com]

I suppose that you don't really want to hear that I have a green thumb. Plants on their deathbeds are given to me to save...

shakes head

its a sad sad thing. :D

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Hee. Well, if you lived next door, you'd have a house full of screaming ficuses. They're particularly appealing to beady eyed felines.

[simplystars.livejournal.com]

Oh, god. You're writing post-BT fic (which I actually missed in your intro, and let out a gasp of glee and dread when I realized it)! My poor fingernails... *g*

Oh, and FIE! on you-don't-write-plot-as-well-as-sex. ::sticks tongue out at you::

I want to write good plot. I want to be a Searose, or a Kernezelda, or a Cofax or Maayan or Feldman or anyone of the fabulous writers in this fandom and others who effortlessly string movement and momentum and story together so the finished product reads like a whole and not a moment.

As do I. And it IS hard, so hard. I'm still taking baby steps. But whether or not you can see it in your own writing, you have the same ability to capture a reader immediately, to draw one into the story and make them feel what your characters feel.

Plus you're generous with help and your discerning beta's eye. For all of that, in my eyes you ARE one of those fabulous writers in the fandom, and deservedly so.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Oh you're such a dear. I'm pretty certain of my strengths as a writer, I just envy the ability of other writers to pull together words, lyrical and fierce and detailed, and still have a rich complex story to tell:)

(I have a sneaking suspicion that it's laziness that holds me back. The need to work on the plot and not just let it wend it's way willy nilly:)

[simplystars.livejournal.com]

I like wending. Wending is comfortable (lazy? probably, she admits with a *sigh*)...

When I try to plot things out in an organized fashion, I find myself just staring at a blank screen. How do I know what they should do? What should come next? And then others post snippets and it's clear they have a good idea of where their stories are heading, and I just bang my head.

I've actually succeeded (I think) in outlining a fairly ambitious fic that scares the pants off me because I think it will be so hard to try to pull off without complete suckage.

Just posting the rough outline intimidated me to the extent that I haven't worked on it since. And sometimes I think I shouldn't even be trying to write anything more than drabbles. I've had one composition class...all the rest is trial and error and shamelessly trying to emulate those around me.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

I very much liked the outline of your fic, but a little advice would be to start writing from it, use it as a guide, but follow where the writing goes unless you feel like it's really getting off any sort of track. Often, the story you intend to tell doesn't get told, but another one takes it's place and surprises you.

With my own seriously (and haphazardly) plotted fic, I had certain scenes in my head that were important and everything else developed around those scenes, and at the same time, unexpected things happened.

[cofax7]

Everyone writes differently. So what works for me doesn't for Thea, may not for Shaye, and so forth. But one thing that can help is to write the ending. If the story scares you, write *just* the ending. How much of the story can you tell in the finale?

I did that, with a story that frightened me (The Mill). Turned out better that way, or, well, at least easier to tell.

Outlining, by the way, can be dangerous. I know people who say that too much outline means they're no longer interested in the story, because they know where it's going. ::shrugs::

I don't usually write in order. I get an idea, a concept, I turn it over, make notes, maybe draft a few of the more important scenes, and then I write the ending, or at least sketch it out. Then I go back and write more of the middle, working on what interests me until it looks fully fleshed.

The Casablanca thing is going utterly differently than I usually write, because I'm writing in order. I know, generally, where it's going, but I'm surprised as anyone to find Aeryn swiping the pad from John, or John telling the story about Moya there. Or that Rygel has a disgusting apartment and an unhealthy fondness for green. ::shrugs::

For a long time I didn't think I could write a whole story, because I would start something, and just write and write and nothing would happen, and eventually I would just trail off. I know myself now well enough that if I'm not writing a short character study like On the Naming of Names, I have to be writing to the ending.

But, you know, ask Thea, and she'll tell you her process. Maayan sits and thinks and takes notes, and then writes the entire thing in a frenzy. One draft, some editing, done. ::shakes head in bemusement::

Try a bunch of different exercises, challenge yourself, find what works for you. As Sab says, it's all good.

[kernezelda]

That's a good analysis of communication, the failures of people speaking what they think is the same language, but saying very different things.

You write beautifully. Everything is lush and emotion-laden, so that each action takes on meaning beyond function.
That, up there, had a plot.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Hee, it does have a plot, well, at least by plot I mean things happen:)

Communication is an odd thing, the ways it's effective, the ways it breaks down even when you think you're on track, how little missteps change everything and unexpected gestures speak volumes.

[cofax7]

Anyone who couldn't write plot would have given up on Blue Eyes at the 100K mark, you silly. You can so write plot, but you're wrapping it in the emotional lives of the characters. That's not wrong, it's just a different way of telling the story.

Besides, as JET says, "character is plot." And I believe her. A story driven by the emotions of the characters, by the demands of sex and obsession and hate and desire, is as much a plotted story as one involving renegade Peacekeepers, a feral Leviathan, and a Luxan girl-child who thinks she's a reincarnated Delvian prophet. It's still story.

By the way, did you get the envelope yet? I mailed it on Monday.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Thank you, for all of the support, and the beta and the boost to my confidence and awareness.

I got the envelope last night. It made my day (and on a very strange note, your handwriting is so much like my father's that it through me for a moment. So much of the writing in my life has been covered in his notes that seeing that made me nostalgic and wistful and then just pleased:) Thank you so much for all of your work!

[veritykindle.livejournal.com]

It's interesting -- I know you keep talking of yourself as "someone who writes porn", but I've never really thought of you that way. I think of you as someone who writes beautiful character pieces, which just happen sometimes to have porn in them.

Which is not to say that the porn isn't hot, of course, but it is really not the important part -- it's the characters who matter; it's the way you tap into the characters' mind and paint them so vividly that I, as your reader, can almost *see* the scene take place, can feel the characters, can hurt with them. Each character coming into his own, under your skillful hands.

And yes, in a way, that does make the plot flow differently than in other stories by other writers -- not because, as you seem to imply, there is no plot, but because the plot is so subjugated to the characters. In almost all your stories, I always get the impression that what matters is not the plot itself, fascinating though it might be, but how it affects the characters -- how each character changes, how the dynamics between the characters is altered with each thing that happens, like ripples from a stone hitting the water.

Does that make the stories worse, in some way? Of course not. That just makes them uniquely yours. There are many Farscape writers whose stories I love. All of the ones on your list, of course, and several others besides. But very few of them can make me *feel* the characters like you can. Very, very few can make me feel almost a part of the story, as if I am *inside* the characters somehow, or they are inside of me, and I'm not just an outsider looking in.

I'd say that's something to be proud of. :)

(Oh, and I loved this new part, as well. I can't wait to see what happens next. :) )

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Thank you dear, in addition to making me a little embarrased:), and a little weepy, I feel very pleased and proud now:)

Which is not to say that the porn isn't hot, of course, but it is really not the important part -- it's the characters who matter; it's the way you tap into the characters' mind and paint them so vividly that I, as your reader, can almost *see* the scene take place, can feel the characters, can hurt with them. Each character coming into his own, under your skillful hands.

This makes me incredibly happy to hear, especially from you:)

[veritykindle.livejournal.com]

Sorry to have embarrassed you. :) I'm not sorry if I made you feel proud, though. You *should* be proud.

especially from you:)

Heh. Well, I fully admit that I probably don't appreciate the porn as much as other people do. I still blush like crazy and try to avert my eyes whenever I come to it. (And believe me, it's *hard* to avert one's eyes when one is actually reading something. ;) ) But hey, I still know hot when I see it. And somehow, the emphasis on the characters makes it work better for me than a lot of other porn I've read (or, um... blushed and averted my eyes from. ;) ).

I still don't think of you as just a "porn writer", though. *g* I always feel surprized when you describe one of your stories as "just porn", because it's always so much more than that. :)

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Hee. I feel like I'm corrupting you:) But it makes me very happy to think of you reading, blushing, averting your eyes, and still reading:)

[sevathediva.livejournal.com]

This is beautiful and forlorn, and promises to break my heart.

seva

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Don't worry, not so much heartbreak as you think:)

[pdxscaper.livejournal.com]

Oh Thea...this promises to be one hell of a tear-jerker evidenced by the fact that you already made me cry. So angsty. Which I love...so it's all good. I love the thought of John wanting to build Aeryn something. And God help him: “I don’t know what to do."

And as far as you not being able to write plot. I think you can. And I think you do it extremely well. I recognize that we all have things we think we need to work on and there definitely is room for improvement in everyone's writing.

But I do have to say...I have more of your stories saved on my computer than anyone else's I've read. There is something in the way you write that resonates within me and touches quite deep.

And as far as your porn goes...it's all good. *g* And good because there is a depth to it. It's not simply filler or fluff, but something substantial.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Ah honey, thanks so much. And I don't think this is gonna end up as weepy as it starts. It's a figuring things out story, I think, so no worries:)

I'm just in a mood where I'm looking at my flaws, and it's easier to pick apart my writing flaws than the things wrong with the rest of my life:)

[rubberneck.livejournal.com]

Plot is an illusion.

The self-perception that someone who can so successfully tell a story (yes, you) is still somehow plot-handicapped is a function of the Great Plot Illusion, fed by the pompous spoutings of Those Who Know and the handwringing of Those Who Think They'll Never Figure It Out.

Plot is zen, babe. Or something. It's the readers going on an interesting journey with the characters.

Plot=the things that happen in a story. That's it.

Sometimes the things, events, journeys are physical--but in a good story they're never just physical. They're also emotional and mental and maturational.

If anything you're coming at it from a different direction, and learning how to balance the hard emotional part of storytelling with the "things the characters do while the story unfolds". How to work in more traditional action/adventure events with your existing deep character/emotion plots.

You are hereby forbidden from dissing yourself plotwise o_O

I think there's also some confusion about writing method vs. story content. It's not cheating if the "plot" evolves during re-writes, it's simply how that story comes out of your brain.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

Plot is zen, babe. Or something. It's the readers going on an interesting journey with the characters.
Plot=the things that happen in a story. That's it.</>

I love that. I'm putting it up somewhere.

And I promise, no more whining on my end about plot (I think what I'm whining about is something else and I've decided to wrap it around the concept of plot, now if I could just figure out what that was:)

It's not cheating if the "plot" evolves during re-writes, it's simply how that story comes out of your brain.

And that I firmly believe, and it's sort of what I said to Stars. You can make an outline, get this story down on paper any which way, but when you start to write, it often goes in an entirely different direction. Sometimes, that's a good thing, sometimes it's even better:)

Geez, doesn't she shut up? Apparently not.

[rubberneck.livejournal.com]

who effortlessly string movement and momentum and story together so the finished product reads like a whole and not a moment.

Speaking for myself, the end product may seem effortless, but it takes a lot of brainpower to produce it. Concentration, effort, willpower to keep plugging away, focus on the direction you need to go in. Hard self-appraisal when it isn't working and you need to back up and try again.

And again, I'm working on it, but it's hard. And I'm not traditionally good at doing what's hard. What I'm also not doing is my Remix fic, which I'm avoiding like an avoidy thing.

Bingo. And as for the Remix fic--ditto. But anything you find yourself working on, this or Citrine (or this) or Blue Eyes (or this), I'm just always excited to see where you're going to take me 8 )

Re: Geez, doesn't she shut up? Apparently not.

[thassalia.livejournal.com]

I think I've hit on the problem - the amount of effort I'm willing/able to put in. It's that sort of clench in your gut when you realize, yep, I'm gonna have to be careful, trace the path, lay a foundation, do the work and not just hum along on the writerly buzz:)

So, I definitely realize the problem, and articulating it is giving me a new perspective on the work.

Speaking for myself, the end product may seem effortless, but it takes a lot of brainpower to produce it. Concentration, effort, willpower to keep plugging away, focus on the direction you need to go in. Hard self-appraisal when it isn't working and you need to back up and try again.

You do realize this is one of the many reasons I admire you, and all the other writers I listed, and so many that I didn't? The care, the concentration, the willingness to hang in there and do the hard stuff. I feel like I'm faking it so often:) That the other people are the real writers, and I'm just along for the ride:) (And thank you, not only for supporting me and listening to me whine and bitch, but for being an example - and I don't mean that in a negative way. I really do look to you, and to Cofax and Searose, and on and on, as examples of the dedication and the craft and the talent of writing and it makes me work harder and not rest on my laurels:)