Tales From Further Off

August 2nd, 2012:

I have had quite a bit of time in the last few days to work on my creative projects without the distraction of the internet, or the need to deal with dishes, trash, or bored little sisters.  It has led to some writing, some drawing, some reading, and admittedly some playing of Game Boy games and copious napping.  Nevertheless, I have had time once again chisel away at the ending to Talas Ke, my first great work of fiction, ten years in the making and filled with the changes a boy makes as he grows into a man.

I have time to make casual observations, especially about my writing style.  For a very long time I could only write from an individual character’s perspective, either because of pride or because I could not stand the tone of my writing when it was not written from the limited third person.  This has shifted since I did much writing of Talas Ke—shifted to the point where I am finding it difficult to write with the same hard-line limited third person perspective that in some ways defines the narrative that is Talas Ke.  I find myself backing away to offer a clearer perspective than one character can offer to the reader, especially now that so much is happening.  To be frank, I feel stymied by that old style, having learned the merits to an omniscient narrator and picked up a stronger love for the old fantasies that used it than ever before.  I have grown as a writer, and it’s a hard line to walk when you have to make choices about how to finish your story.

I could end as Kvothe threatened to begin his tale.  I could say, “They lose one for the sake of the whole, and though peace is claimed, it is a brief and bitter peace.”  Not so succinct as “I loved, lost, trusted, and was betrayed,” but you get the picture.  Neither of these really suits a story spanning hundreds of thousands of words, except as a sort of parody.

I could be stiff and brittle, playing judge to the complex emotions the characters are struggling through.

I could be florid, letting it all flood through the cracks in their masks.

What makes it more difficult is that I fear much will change about the tale when I rewrite it, and I’m conflicted as to whether I should finish the story before I start such major revisions or if I should rework it all from the beginning, and save myself the loss?

Who am I kidding?  There will be a loss, whether I finish this story now or never finish it at all.  It is that kind of story, I am sad to say.  I’m not sure whether I know how to tell a story that isn’t about loss.  Not one I would consider good, anyway.  To lose, to have broken, is to be human.

To hope is also to be human, but a certain sort of human.  A stubborn one, one who breaks and fades but simply will not end.  It is this character that engages me, the broken-but-not-gone, whether the breaking was their own doing or not.  Perhaps especially the ones who broke themselves.

As I have said before, I find that I am my own antagonist.

Aside from that knot of life-threads that is Talas Ke, I’ve also done some work on my Hearthstead comic, which is depressing in its own right.  The subject matter was my choice, if that reveals a particular bent I may have.

I may have said I don’t like stories that end without hope, but I never said my own writing isn’t filled with hardship.

The emotional atmosphere of my drawing is a little more relaxed than all that, when I’m not trying to tell an explicit story through it.  When I’m working on my drawing—techniques, representation, all that—the intensity is a quieter one.  I am silently pressuring myself to improve, to become something better than a scribbling amateur so that I can take more joy in that art than I do now.  

I would say that music brings me the most joy, but even then my drive to improve (both composition and performance) makes me critical and obsessive.

Maybe all these things I’m admitting to reveal that I am an artist, or more likely they reveal that I am a perfectionist who suffers because my passion lies in places that cannot easily be perfected.  Don’t expect every creative person you meet to sound such dark notes about their artistic lives:  I have always believed myself a bit of a freak, and you are perfectly entitled to be an artist who feels vastly more joy in your work than consternation.

Perhaps I should stop listening to this cello quartet play a song called “Oblivion.”  It couldn’t be affecting my mood in the slightest, though.

You may have noticed in all that ranting that I made a reference to The Name of the Wind.  Well, I’m re-reading that book this week while at campmeeting.  On a related note, I probably ought to have brought The Wise Man’s Fear with me as well, since I seem to be plowing through the first Day rather quickly.

If you haven’t read the first two thirds of Patrick Rothfuss’s Kingkiller Chronicle, do so.  Unless you despise fantasy (I ask again, why are you still reading my blog?), or have that same sort of qualms that keep you from reading Homestuck, since their content is roughly similar in maturity level (that is, Homestuck has oodles more swearing, and the Kingkiller Chronicle has lots more sex, and both have lots of violent deathiness).  The best part of the storytelling is that much of it is done by the protagonist, in a framed narrative sort of way that makes the story that much more delicious.

And emotive.

Now, I have taken this long break to present you these words, which you are nearly finished reading.  It is time I returned to the task at hand, involving a certain character trying to redeem his entire race before they can [spoiler].

God bless.

White Knights and Writer's Block

I may have mentioned this before, but I don't particularly believe in writer's block.  Despite this, though, there are times I set aside to write where nothing comes.  I deeply suspect that during these times I just don't feel like writing.  If I let this rule me, though, I'll never amount to anything as a writer, because I'll never write anything.

It's hard when I don't like anything that comes out of my head when I'm writing.  There are some interesting ideas, but nothing cohesive, nothing that I think matters.  If I'm not engaging with what I'm writing, how are my readers supposed to?  Now, I've had readers most interested in the things about my writing I find the most dull, and I can kind of take that in stride.  People have different preferences from each other.  I still stubbornly seek objective goodness in my writing.  It's just a frustrating battle to fight.

One thing that's quite popular lately in all kinds of stories is the anti-hero.  This is the guy who doesn't even really want to do the right thing.  There's also the edgy hero, like the concept of Breaking Bad (brewing/selling illicit drugs to keep a family afloat).  I know that people are interested in this because it explores the space between black and white, and in our culture people tend to think the gray is more honest about life.  I'm not like that.  Yes, I'm admitting that I look at things in a more black and white way than most.  But you might be surprised by what I call black and what I call white.

One of my main questions is "where's your heart at?"  Not that I actually ask it aloud, or even think about it in as many words.  I like to see when characters weigh their decisions based on the nexus of their motivations, emotions, and logic.

I get frustrated when things don't come out right in the end, or if people making horribly flawed decisions are the ones rising as the victors.  I don't care for stories where no one comes to the rescue.  It's not necessarily because I believe that that's what happens in real life, but because when I'm a very protective person.  Because my first thought when I see someone in distress is how I can end that distress, it's hard for me to imagine that there won't be someone in the story who behaves as I would.

I know it's cliché to like the white knight, but I do.  I don't think they're nearly as boring as they're made out to be.  Because, again, that's my personality.  It's not easy to be the good guy.  If you're human, you're chock full of flaws you have to strive against, at the same time you're battling the injustices you see around you.  But that's the way I see myself interacting with the outside world.  Fixing things that are wrong.

That might be why I'm an introvert.  Some things don't need fixing, or can't be fixed.  At least not by me.  It kinda gets you down, man.

That's also probably why fantasy appeals to me.  Stack the deck in the favor setting things right.  Because things are never going to settle right in this world, and seeing the real world in chaos is what I do every day.  I don't want to keep seeing it in my fiction.

I want to see the chaos undone.  Raveled.

Okay, this kinda got side-tracked.  Anyway, sometimes I lose interest in writing in the confines of my current project.  Like Talas Ke.  I'm having some issues sorting out the ending.  It's hard to finish something that's been around in my head for a decade.  I need it to be perfect.  And it isn't going to be.  But I don't want to give up.  Then there's writing poetry for songs.  I had a couple good ideas, but now I don't know where to go without getting either repetitive or trite.

Thankfully, I can write about whatever on this blog, even about the issues I'm having with writing at the moment.  And know that I'd rather bury myself in a writing project than go out and find a job.  That's frustrating, too.  Because I need a job like a good analogy needs to relate to the audience.

Part of the problem with temporarily living at home with the parents is the lack of space.  It's also one of the few setbacks in marriage.  At least on the surface, it seems like I'd be doing a lot better as a writer if I was single and living alone in a quiet apartment.

Balancing the great two great passions of my life is just going to get harder, isn't it?

Grenth's gory beard, life sucks.

:/