SAVE AND EXIT

I haven't been doing a lot of writing recently. My brain has really decided to go and throw a temper tantrum, and even though writing can be extremely therapeutic for me, I haven't been able to concentrate on it. It's getting to be late afternoon here and I haven't done any writing whatsoever, but I have managed to tidy my room and that...felt like a massive clear-out. I've had a lot of things on my mind, and doing this seems to have helped. We'll see, I guess?

One of my main procrastination tools the last couple of weeks has been watching walkthroughs of Amnesia: The Dark Descent; even though I swore I never would, I also ended up downloading it yesterday on Steam. I've officially played forty-five minutes and am so terrified I can't go on. Ha. Why is this relevant to my writing? I keep thinking, as I've said before, that I should write something Lovecraftian. But wandering around Brennenburg actually led to my brain inventing a history for the house that Anja and Ryennkar are raising their children in, and I think it is going to play a large role in the forevergirl. Actually, I am becoming more and more surprised by how big a part both Arosek and Ryenn are going to play in the entire novel. Huh.

Aside from that, I've been working on the editing of The Neverboy while working out on my stationary bike; I'm almost through the last two thirds of the book. Then I have to go back to the first ten chapters and fix that. I'm planning on printing it out and taking it with me on the plane rides to and from Wellington Monday next, if the volcanic ash doesn't ruin it first. I have to go up there to have biometrics done, which is going to take all of TEN MINUTES WTF. Ordinary I would have this done in Christchurch, but...Christchurch's CBD isn't really there anymore. Speaking of which, I live in a country of the most adorkable and charmingly insane people EVER. But yeah, I am thinking that the plane ride will give a good opportunity to just edit, and despite the fact I've had to go back to a very restricted diet because I am an idiot, I think I will have a nice lunch somewhere in the Wellington CBD and work on it then, too. We'll see. Quite what I am going to do with it when I am finished, we may never know. Perhaps I'll try to flog it to an agent when I get to London, I don't know.

I also got very close to the Finishing Frenzy of The Juniper Bones a week or so back. I ended up falling out of the Zone before I really hit my stride, but I still got abour twenty or thirty thousand words and a partially-constructed End Game out of it. I'm hoping that once I finish this edit and a couple short stories and this trade that things will flow again. Speaking of which -- the trade. This is going to be interesting! I've never done anything like it before, and I am hoping that once I've had dinner tonight and finished this little bit of mostly-constructed fluff I can begin to sketch it out. More on that later, I suppose. Right now, I am freezing cold so I want to close all my curtains, leave the lights off, and scare myself stupid. Dammit, Daniel...

"Excuse me, I believe you have my locker."

Upon entering the fandom of Doctor Who, you are sooner or going to encounter the "My Doctor" classification. The definition varies a little bit, depending on the circumstances, but often Your Doctor is the first one you saw. This doesn't necessary hold true for everyone, but it's a decent rule of thumb -- because Your Doctor is the one who enticed you into a small blue box and took you gallavanting across the stars and sky, displacing your mind and winding your heart tighter than the mainspring of any pocket-watch.

Now, I'm one of the odder folk in that respect, as I am fairly certain that my first Doctor was the Third, AKA Jon Pertwee; I have vague six-year-old memories of Daleks and opera capes and Brigadiers, you see. But the Doctor who first reminded me of those half-forgotten childhood evenings behind the couch was Eight, but he only had the one outing before disappearing from television screens. And then, my current fascination with the series was brought about one rainy Edinburgh night while I was kicking my heels in an Edwardian boarding-house until it was dark enough to go traipsing around an old Covenanter's prison in a cemetery so reputed to be haunted by a poltergeist that the City Council locked it to most access. The Doctor that night? Ten. But I didn't really fall in love until I met Nine. So...the Eccles, he is My Doctor? I would suppose so. I miss him and his ridiculous ears even now.

Still, this all seems a lot of blather for a writing-blog, yes? It has a point. I've been giving myself a headache the last week or so thanks to the character above, one Wills Penrose (courtesy of the very talented RaraHoWa). He plays a pivotal role in the ending of a novel I am desperately trying to figure out, and...yeah. I keep thinking back to Who, although that isn't what really got me onto the charming topic of stable timeloops, causality and temporal paradox. I actually blame the Disney animated series Gargoyles for that little blessing. Goddamn that David Xanatos anyway! But yes, working out how these things work...it's amazingly easy to tangle yourself up in the logic of it. Wills and Jon had an argument about casuality in my head, and it will go on paper, once I untangle it enough to translate. Because I mean, when one voice in your head says something to another who then blinks and responds with: "...you know, that makes me want to punch myself in the face," you just know that not even the Doctor is going to be able to save you this time.

But yes, it's been a long weekend here and even though I had fully intended to do SO MUCH WRITING, I got very little achieved. In fact, I made a terrible discovery via the Steam network and ended up playing ported versions of three of my favourite computer games from the very early Nineties. [headdesk] The interesting thing, mind you, was that one of these games was The Secret of Monkey Island, which was highly appropriate because I fight like a cow. (...don't ask.) Monkey Island was, in theory, one of the inspirations for the movie The Curse of the Black Pearl; I remember seeing the latter and walking out with a memory full of Guybrush Threepwood. But this reminded me of three of my favourite fictional characters -- James Norrington, Hector Barbossa and Jack Sparrow -- and so today I finally got around to going to the theatre to see the latest installment in the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise.

...and wow. I said I was having trouble with the ending of this novel, and this movie? Reminded me of all the things I can do to not fall into the same trap. Because really, all these movies had going for them? Was the characters, and then the set piece battles. There is no goddamned story tying them all together. Even the first movie, by far the most superior of all the productions, manages to stuff this up completely. I mean, I actually didn't like the first movie the first time I saw it. I was absolutely enchanted by the Commodore, I will admit, and by Jack Sparrow; Jack, because he was so completely unexpected, and Norrington because was also played against type. He seemed to at first be set up as the Jealous Apex of the classic love triangle, existing to just prove that being an asshole means you don't get to snag the girl. Yet he played his part with considerable honour and nobility, and I was crazily in love with the writers for that (even if they cut out his best scene; considering the length of the movie they really did have to, but come on!). Still, I walked out of the theatre -- and let us pause a moment to remember this theatre; I did love the Reading at the Palms, and the last I heard it's still largely off-limits after the Christchurch earthquake of February -- and pretty much promptly forgot all about it.

I have no idea what reawakened my interest. I'm sure it was something to do with Sparrington, as that's the only thing I really think about when I consider the movies these days, but I ended up totally in love with the damn film after seeing it several more times. It's just...the first time around, I didn't have a bloody clue what Jack Sparrow was doing. I totally didn't follow the ending sequence at all. And while one must admit that Jack Sparrow doesn't exactly plan ahead, when you walk out of the movie theatre thinking: "What in god's name was he doing?!" it doesn't bode well at all for your opinion of the flick. It's a bit like Fridge Logic gone wrong, I suppose? Not that Fridge Logic can ever be said to be entirely correct, I suppose, but you get the point. Because I didn't get what he was doing even when he was doing it, although I followed along happily enough for the ride. Which is probably somewhat ironic, considering the entire franchise is based off a theme-park ride in the first place.

But yes, the novel I am attempting to finish began with short stories that played entirely on the strength of the characters and their penchant for getting into ridiculous situations. Building a story around this has proven time and again to be almost beyond my abilities. I mean, at first, the muse is the commanding force. But then the inner editor really puts the knife in, and...yeah. Oops. I'm slowing making my way towards a conclusion, though. It's a big ball of timey-wimey bullshit, perhaps, but there you go. It'll still be my ball of timey-wimey bullshit, and I guess that's what really counts?

But aside from the games (Loom! Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis!) I also amused myself with re-watching a little of Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon, a live-action reimagining of Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon; although it looks like it ought to be a technicolour low-budget nightmare of a Saturday morning tokusatsu sentai series, but it actually has a far more coherent storyline that any Pirates movie. And it's strikingly visceral on an emotional level, too. Not to mention Rei is a BAMF. But the point of mentioning this here...? It reminds me of how much I love characters, and how much I love stories, and why I ought to stop doubting myself and just write. I mean, honestly...I was intending to watch Doctor Who last night, but before I got distracted by Penn and Teller on The Simpsons (seriously, I adore Teller so damn hard) I ended up watching about five minutes of the climatic battlescene of Twilight: Eclipse and just about died of boredom. Both the books and the movies need serious editing, but the fact that they exist at all ought to give a girl hope, I suppose...?

And then I ended up re-watching Resident Evil. Yes, I have a weakness for movies based on video games. But much like Pirates, when it comes to Resident Evil and Mortal Kombat, as far as I am concerned there was only ever one movie. THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE.

But in the meantime, I suppose its off to writing I go...? Just remind me not to answer the phone if my Inner Editor calls. Because dammit, I'M THE BOSS HERE.

Hate This And I'll Love You

I haven't really been able to write much of anything the last week or so, as my brain had gone on indefinate hiatus. But with that said...I often have trouble with the mechanical aspect of writing, i.e. actually writing things down. But the stories are always writing themselves whether I am doing anything about it or not, so...yes. It's both frustrating and wonderful, that little knack of mine.

I don't dream very much -- or at least, not that I remember. I've always been quite jealous of people who dream of their characters, because I almost never do. Yet you can tell my brain is doing odd things right now, because the other day I was half-dreaming, which is what happens when I am not asleep but not awake, and it is the time my characters are most likely to come wandering in to mess with my mind while it is partially out of my control. I was saying the other day that I had been picturing some of my characters trying to give me comfort; well, the other morning, I had quite an odd experience in which Arosek was the one who basically just gathered me up in his arms and hugged me until I gave up and just let him.

It probably says something for my sanity, that I take comfort in half-dreams of the voices in my head offering me tactile support, but it was an odd experience in that at the time I knew him -- his scent, his strength, the rumble of his voice in his chest when he laughed, the wryness of his brightest grin when he told me I had to stop being so silly all the time, of course you're not wrong, but then no-one has to be right all the time! I do know my characters well, you see, in terms of what they look and think and behave like, but this was on a whole 'nother level. Damn you, Arosek. ...it also made me feel guilty anyway, because Arosek is basically the nicest damn character I write (although people like Geenie come close; I'm fairly convinced that Aleksandr became involved with Geenie because she reminded him so much of everything he'd ever read about Arosek). But even though Arosek is lovely, I constantly write horrible angsty things about him. Poor sod. So, this evening I've been working on a bit of fluff; it was supposed to be maybe a thousand words long, but right now I have the structure and it's thirteen hundred already. Crap.

Still, it's odd to see how my mood really affects my writing. I've always known that it does, but...well. Like I said, I haven't been able to write properly until tonight, but I've spent the last couple of days scribbling furiously in one of my notebooks in an attempt to work out the ending of The Juniper Bones, and it's...proving interesting. But then the ending involves Eliot having to confront himself and his deepest desire, which is to simply stop. It's not so much a need to die, although being properly dead will achieve that for him. He just doesn't want to be anything anymore. That had personal resonance for me, because when I am this low I am just so tired. I don't want to actively harm myself, but I wouldn't turn away from it, if that makes any sense? Eliot is the same, though he can't actually kill himself anyway. But towards the end of the story he is given a way to achieving this goal, and not only does it distress the hell out of poor Tess, it also means having to lie to someone he cares for. And to someone he owes a lot to. So...yeah. When I consider it, it's all a way of exploring how truly selfish and screwed up and sad this entire process is. Which is why I only tend to write this sort of thing when my brain has already wandered off onto paths best not walked alone.

Thankfully Arosek seems to be following me around.

Trying to write something fluffy seems to be helping, at least a little. I actually feel quite ill tonight -- I ate too much dinner, and then I slept really oddly last night anyway because I nodded off twice over my laptop, and then woke up at five in the morning to discover I still hadn't put it away and had in fact gone to sleep with it sitting beside my head. Er. Maybe I need to take a step back, but then...fluff. Fluff is good for the soul. And my soul could certainly use a whole lot of goodness right now. I have to admit that it is a little bit scary to have Arosek offering me comfort, though. Because Ryenn just sits in the back of my mind while Arosek does it and...well, he doesn't glower, exactly. He's not the glowering sort. Rather, he just sits there and stares.

So there you have it. Not only is one voice in my head trying to make me feel better about myself, one of the other ones is silently plotting ways to have me beaten senseless for daring to accept it. In the end, it's probably no wonder at all that I am this messed up...