Ah, this reminds me of some details I left out!
Not all of my writing adventures were so flattering. In eleventh grade my arch-rival (not really) created and published a literary magazine at school. It was his senior year, so with his departure I resolved to take over the magazine and bend it to my will. But when we had officer elections, I was opposed for the presidency by a friend of mine who dared to think that she would become the next leader. The funny thing is that we were the only ones who cared, and we both brought friends to stack the election in our favor...and, despite all that, there were still only six votes total, including our own. We tied. So we became co-presidents. But that wasn't the embarrassing part.
Over the course of the year, we used our presidency to fill the magazine mostly with our own work, those of our friends, and maybe a few people amongst the general student body who had submitted sufficiently non-atrocious work. I think I got four or five of my own pieces in. That was embarrassing, but it wasn't the
most embarrassing part.
No, the
most embarrassing part came at the end of twelfth grade, when it was time to publish the magazine. We had an on-site printing press at school, so I went one day to arrange to have the magazine published. It turns out that it doesn't work like that! The teacher in charge of the press said that orders have to be placed months in advance, and that with the school year being practically over there was no way he could print hundreds of copies of our magazine. So that was it: We didn't publish the magazine.
That was pretty embarrassing.
I think I have a custom copy from the designer's computer, which, if it lives, is probably the only surviving copy today.
You want to change your life? Put down the controller and change it.
Interestingly, some of the most positive changes in my life came when I actually
picked up the proverbial controller.
Banking, huh? Good luck with that screenplay. You know: It continually amazes me that most people are okay with stifling, non-expressive jobs that rot their spirits. I could never do that. I'd flame out. I guess others deal with it by having a wild social life that distracts and to a lesser extent diminishes their working life's stresses.
I write whatever, most times. Though I find myself in fantasy novels/novellas.
Yeah, I forgot to mention that I too write in most genres but tend to favor science fiction and fantasy. Curiously, while I used to read immense volumes of literature from those genres, these days I read very little of it. They've become tired and derivative, having lost their usefulness and their quality. Most of it, honestly, is garbage. I'm hoping to revitalize the fantasy genre, by giving Western society the next great fantasy tale. It's probably unrealistic to be aiming to succeed Tolkien, but, from my point of view, that's exactly what I have to offer: an honest succession. We'll see if The People agree, or if I end up printing copies on demand from my basement.
(I don't have a basement...)
When I'm exposed to something for a long time or at a young age, it seems to... somehow find its way in to a story.
Yeah. That's universal to the human condition, I think. It's certainly what I experienced. Also: I'm amused you wrote that in the present tense.
I obsess over things, and through the obsession the stories mutate into the master story, which is like a tree. A tree with countless branches, continuing to grow over time, mostly when I'm trying to sleep or bored.
I'm like that too, tending to see many creative ideas in terms of a small number of existing stories-in-progress; “master stories,” if you will. Unlike you, however, I have more than one—I've got about five or six elemental stories in my head. It's a good bet that most of what might cross my mind will fit into at least one of those slots. Also unlike you, being bored or trying to get to sleep are not the primary times that I engage in that sort of woolgathering.
I become a divine entity, creating a world in which people live and interact with each other. A world where what I say goes, and if you have a problem with it, too bad. A world where I have the final say on an idea. Writing fiction gives me control. Absolute control. And if I can't take over the real world, why not make my own world to take over? Or two or three or...
I write for many reasons, but this one—which you described so clearly and well—is the highest of them, the most significant and the worthiest. The kind of power that one enjoys as an author does not exist elsewhere. It's a very healthy counterbalance to the real world, in which we are much humbler creatures.
Sounds kind of far fetched/cheesy/unfinished, but I don't like giving out too many secrets to my stories.
I've become adept at saying a lot about my stories without giving away any of their essential secrets. I think that in large part the protective impulse people feel toward the fruit of their passions is an immaturity waiting to be transcended. For the most part, we can reveal a great deal of our personal lives with minimal risk, and from personal experience I would say that to do so is quite healthy.
All I used to do is read, really.
That's where it all starts!
My first attempt at fanfiction and writing in general was in High School. Well... to be quite honest... I still wish I could wash my hands of it to this day. It was that bad. For added embarrassment, I was also reading through Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth series, which inspired a couple of NSFW moments in said fic. Thankfully, I have solace in knowing that the damn thing has been in a landfill for some time.
I couldn't disagree with you more. I said earlier that many people are poor writers and have no business writing. I meant that, but I didn't explain it clearly enough. Looking back at my topic post in this thread, I didn't properly explain the distinction between seeing stories and telling them. When a person writes, they can do so for either of two reasons, or both at once: They can write for themselves, or they can write for others. That's the difference between seeing a story and telling it.
Writing for oneself is something that I think
everybody should do. And that's going to result in a lot of bad writing...but that doesn't matter, because when you write for yourself the meaningfulness is in the actual process of doing the writing, telling the story. If it's good afterwards, and worth rereading in future times, that's gravy. But that's not what it's about. Legacies be damned, appearances be damned, and other people—including our own future selves—can take their opinions and go to hell. Writing for oneself is an expression of passion and expression of intelligence and should never be stifled, as surely as humming. Maybe if we recorded all of the sounds that ever come out of our mouths, we'd look back on some of them and say “That was terrible!” But who gives a flying frak? We don't hum to gain approval from our peers or our future selves. We hum because it enriches us right here in the moment.
So I'm disappointed that you threw away your old material and think so poorly of yourself for having ever written it. Even though you will inevitably change over time, and thus change in your opinions, it is a loss to lose track of your earlier perspective.
On an unrelated note: Unless there's porn on the cover of a book, one of the great things about books is that there's no such thing as “NSFW.” I think literature would be more interesting if people would not get so hung-up on sex. Almost everyone has a sex drive; there's no point in pretending otherwise. A good writer strives to understand the human condition...not ignore it. We should all be forced in school to write an extremely sexually explicit essay (fictional of course), and then we would all be able to get on with our lives.
Sadly, at the time I wrote these parodies, I had no way of saving them onto any backup devices, or had my own computer. So when the Shrine's Message Boards crashed a month ago, everything I had was lost.
Ouch. I sympathize. If you have a computer now, make sure that never happens again. Personally, the most frustrating thing in the world for me is involuntarily losing something that I've written.
Fanfic writing is a good way to start. You can develop plots and not have to deal with the tediousness that is character creation. Though the first ones always suck.
This brings up an interesting topic. Contemporarily in the United States, character-driven stories are all the rage. Plot is almost frowned upon as “trying too hard”; the emphasis is entirely on human emotion and interaction. That's not a “wrong” mentality, per se, because the stories that result from it can still be perfectly legitimate, but it's definitely not the regime to which I subscribe. To me, plot is paramount—plot drives the characters.
However, at the same time, for me the character creation process is one of the most significant aspects of a story. I think you're insightfully correct that “the first characters always suck,” although I would disagree with you that this is because the process of creating them is tedious. Rather, I think it is because the process of creating them is
difficult. Plotlines are forgiving; they don't require a lot of input to function, and they don't require a lot of complexity to shine. Characters, by comparison, are not so forgiving at all. They take a lot of energy to bring to life. Consequently, good characterization is probably the most important part of good writing, even if the plot is—in my view—more essential to the <i>story</i>. Just my two cents.
I've always wanted to write at least one novel, and that may or may not happen depending on whether I am more inspired to write a novel or make a game. I'm leaning towards game, Cave Story style.
The good thing is that you will probably have the chance to do both, if you want them. One of my favorite personal traditions—now unfortunately fallow—was to work on my novel writing during the nine months of the year, and then put all of that aside and spend the three summer months writing video games. My thinking was that this changing of the seasons would preserve and grow my creative energies while allowing me to pursue two major projects at a time.
Ah, video games! That's another area of my writing history that I've left out. In twelfth grade, I wrote my first computer game...in math class, on my TI-85 calculator. I got a C in calculus both semesters that year. But!
Admiral Josh's Swords Asunder would go on to live in legend. Later on, in college, I got ahold of RPG Maker 2000 and wrote a series of test games. Today I own—yeah, I properly own, as in I paid money for the license—RPG Maker XP. Presently I am designing a proof-of-concept game, working with the Ruby-based scripting engine to (very slowly) cobble together my own systems.
Video games are a great format for writing, because they allow the writer to create a visual
and interactive environment—very unique and very functional!
I am writing: That Samus and Magus fanfic which may end up being the best thing I've ever written if ends up being anything like I think it will end up being.
When I first read that, I read it as the name “Seamus” (without an E) and I asked myself, “Who the fuck is 'Samus'?” Then I realized you were talking about our favorite bounty hunter, and I asked myself, “Samus and Magus? What the fuck?”
That's an interesting combination! You'll have to tell us more, if you're willing.
I am not writing: (I take this to mean things that I've dreamed up or wanted to explore but haven't gotten around to yet.) I really want to write my version of Adam Malkovich's influence on Samus and the Metroid universe. Every time I start I end up deleting it, though. I just can't figure this one out. I know the gist of what it will be, but I can't figure out how to start it.
Thanks for being the first person to answer that question. There are many things that I am not writing right now, either “at the moment” or “not yet,” including some of the work I mentioned in my topic post. I've got a lot of energy going into my major project and a few side works, and, consequently, I am very wary of spreading my energies too thinly by taking on extra creative writing at this time. But, eventually, I'd like to give a thorough treatment to almost everything I've discussed so far, and some things I haven't. I'd like to write an opera, for instance—the whole thing. The music and the libretto. I'd also like to write my philosophy down in its entirety, so that I don't need to repeat myself as often as I presently do. And so on.
On the subject of fanfiction, my favorite by far is
Final Fantasy VI. It is a testament to the richness of that environment that I can so easily see what I would want to do with it. Essentially there are two fanfictions I might make out of it: One would be an alternate reality, where my story coincides with the period that covered the actual game, except more realistic and with a different second half. The other would be a sequel to the game as it actually happened—and, rather than another lame “Kefka is back” boondoggle, mine would be a character drama focusing on the big-picture cultural aftershocks from all that shit Kefka pulled.
Mostly, though, I avoid fanfiction because I like full legal control and commercial authority over my work.
Hey, I've got one for you—a true question for the ages: Is Samus right-handed or left-handed? She might be right-handed because that's where the gun is. But she might be left-handed because everything else would require her to use that hand. It's like the Tootsie Pop conundrum: The world may never know.
I'm, at my heart, a BSer. I can usually create stories about stuff off the cuff fairly easily. When I say "stories about stuff" I mean; someone calls my wife's phone, I'll answer and pretend to be someone totally different. So what I call "stories about stuff" my wife lovingly referse to as "crap" (as in I'm full of crap, hence Bser).
Oh, I love bullshitting. (Sorry; “BSing.”) I'm six years older than my sister, and I've got this running gag with her that's been going on for about fifteen years now about “Old Country,” where our family came from before she was born, but which I am old enough to remember. Old Country is the perfect hybrid between Wanker County, the Dark Ages, and northern Siberia in the wintertime. In recent news: Old Country just got its first grain silo! (Which burned down the village when it caught fire shortly thereafter, before finally toppling onto its side, breaking Old Country's first and only mechanized tractor.)
I am the consummate bullshitter. Half of what I do is purely for the lark of having a great time coming up with ludicrous nonsense. I've had my friends (or myself) in stitches before, as I talked about my oversized racing car on fire through the Holland Tunnel, or the Imperial Joshalonian Flag being so large that its manufacture bankrupted the economy and blotted out the sun. It's so much fun; one of my chief releases is to tell bullshit stories. These rarely get written down, but they are some of the most rewarding in the short-term.
Also, if one defines "storytelling" as an inherently narrativistic approach, I am not a storyteller first and foremost. Rather, I have a love of simulationism. It is the world that I imagine first, not the story, and the world enchants me until I have to find a story to write in it in order to share it.
You put that well.
Unfortunately, all my early works suffered greatly from Gary Stu syndrome (I still have problems with that today, but instead of ruining the story, it tends to ruin my passion for the character before it infects much else, dooming the entire work).
I leave it to your judgment, but for the general audience I would point out that author surrogacy in literature is a perfectly healthy and frequently worthwhile quality for the writer. We frequently know ourselves better than we know anything and anyone else, and we must draw upon ourselves to be the best writers we can be. “Gary Stu” is what happens when the author surrogacy becomes extreme enough or imbalanced enough to begin spoiling the other elements of a story.
My best characters were always author surrogates. My favorite character ever, my greatest creation to date and possibly for all time, is a surrogate—even an alter ego. That's not so surprising: One of the first things a person does with their imagination is conceive of how things
might be rather than how they are. Author surrogacy gives me the opportunity to explore my own existence by creating different worlds and environments, and situations. It's a very rousing and personal endeavor, and one that I am thankful to have never abandoned out of false modesty. Someone like me can't help but do it this way, and I suspect you're similar, so if you're having Gary Stu problems then I'd think the solution would be
more exposure to those kinds of characterizations, rather than less, so that you can mature and refine your authorial control.
It wasn’t until around the end of High School that I wrote something I am still relatively proud of (but it has been lost, now, so if I could still read it maybe I wouldn’t be so proud). It was entitled “The Man and the Rain.” Looking back, it was impressively divergent from my earlier works. There was no Gary Stu, there was no craptacular, ham-handed attempts as romance (every story up to that point had romance, undoubtedly reflecting my own inner need for it), and curiously, the “action” of the story was, on the surface, utterly boring.
Off-topic and perhaps unfair, so feel free to decline to answer. But: If I remember correctly, you're married, right? And you're roughly my age. (I'm 26.) So, out of your proposed “inner need for romance,” would you say you have that to your satisfaction now? Or does it still dominate your writing? (Presumably “both” is also an answer, under special conditions...)
It was, however, heavy on poetic phrasing and internal action. Indeed, it was very postmodern, written at a time when I had no idea that “post” and “modern” could be put together as a single word/concept.
I've been there so many times...independently creating a concept or device, only to learn later that some schmoe beat me to it—often by thousands of years. Actually, though, I like it when that happens...makes me think the world will manage to get by okay, even when there isn't a Josh around anymore to keep it spinning (or to stop it from spinning, in the case of those damn cowardly Amorites).
Actually, that is the only story I wrote during that time period that I wish I still had.
I am fortunate to have saved most of my work. I was published in the Young Authors books three times in grade school; I still have copies of each book. I have almost all of my electronic work, all the way back to our first family computer in the 1990s when I wrote in WordPerfect on a blue screen with white text. I keep double copies in case of hard drive failure or theft. I also have a number of my major paper works, such as my Bar Mitzvah speech, my aforementioned seventh grade children's book, numerous high school scribblings that I did in lieu of paying attention to the lesson, the aforementioned sole copy of the literary magazine (probably), and various other things.
I lost my “first, great essay” from circa first or second grade, which was so mighty that I actually put myself at risk of detention for not finishing it on time. I also think I have lost my “Me Book” from seventh grade, which was my other major work that year—and this loss I do regret. But, for the most part, everything I've ever written is within 25 feet of me.
Actually, the keyboard is too slow as well...
I know what you mean. I type extremely fast (although not
ZeaLitY Fast™), but it still isn't enough to match pace with my speed of thought—especially since I am an extraordinarily visual thinker and have a great predilection for heavily descriptive, Tolkienesque prose. It's one of the larger frustrations I face as an author.
In fact, my typing skills came entirely as a side gift from my writing. In middle school, I had almost no skills whatsoever. I used my index fingers on the keyboard. I thought I would never be able to type like those people who could just stare at the screen and type like cheetahs and never even look down at their hands. But that's exactly what I became...because I wrote so much. My fingers fell into the patterns. To this day I still don't type “correctly” (my left hand takes more keys than it's supposed to), but I can type faster and more accurately than almost everyone. (Which is what makes ZeaLitY and court stenographers so scary.)
After that I made a horrible mistake: I took creative writing classes at my university. By the time I was done with that, my writing style was so convoluted that I am still trying to dig out of it. My style easily becomes too intentional, too obtuse, and it hampers the story itself. Admittedly, though, this was more my fault than the instructor. He gave us basic concepts and I arrogantly thought I was an amazing writer at that point. As such, I took these concepts, messed with them, and developed poison. But this was also a good thing; developing a hindering style helped give my ego in the matter a much needed deflation.
This reminds me of something else I neglected to mention in my original post. I've had two writer's voices in my life so far. The first one was an untrained, literal attempt to convey the story
as I see it. At the time, I thought my writing was very good, but in retrospect it was unclear and largely unsuccessful. (Fortunately, when combined with my memory, I can usually make out from these older texts at least some of whatever it is that I had intended to say.) In twelfth grade, when my writing output was soaring to hundreds of pages on multiple works, I gradually recognized the importance of structure and technique. My writing evolved into my second voice, very different from the first. This is not an optimal place. It's clearer than my first voice, but, to describe it, I could practically quote you: “too intentional, too obtuse.” I have a problem with verbosity. I have a problem with telling rather than showing. I have a hard time with relevance. I tend to be preachy. Frankly, my writing can be pretty boring. I fully expect to eventually develop a third voice, but I'm not there yet, and so I remain restless and imperfect.
...the second was about coping with death (curiously, death from cancer, which was written about 2 or 4 months before I was diagnosed with cancer)...
Oh, that's harsh. This makes it easier to understand why you're as well put-together as you are. Most people our age are not, and, among the few who are, many have some traumatic event in their past which helped them to focus their lives. (Not me, though, if you're wondering...)
...though if anyone had suggested that these were themes of the stories then, I would have been terribly upset and angry; as I said, I had an ego problem then.
I can relate to that, from both angles. I'm very particular and deliberate about my work, and it does sting when people fail to comprehend it in exactly the way I intend. However, I have come to appreciate over time that it is not so horrible if people interpret my work differently than I do, or focus on other aspects of it than I do. The only thing that remains unacceptable is apathy. That's why my stories are so big: If someone doesn't want to read 'em, a big story is much better for smacking that person upside the head.
However, the past month in general has been very good to my sensibilities and now, after this thread, I feel (or perhaps just hope) that the cold determination I used to have might be within my grasp again if I but reach for it.
It is my hope that the next time I post in this thread, I might claim to be a writer once more.
That is enjoyable to read.
Well, since other people have given an itinerary of their past in writing, I suppose I'll do the same. And, unlike some, I have no qualms about sharing what I write. Indeed, I have no worries about people knowing what I’m writing, and heck, even borrowing it. A friend of mine borrowed the one story I’m writing for the express purpose of taking from it whatever ideas he found compelling, an endeavour that I wholeheartedly agreed with. It should be an interesting result, as invariably we’ll end up with similar things, characters and what not, yet entirely different stories. Should be a riot if we bother ever end up publishing and people trying to figure out which came first. Anyway, the way I see it, if someone can borrow and make it better, all’s well. That is art. If Vergil could do it, why not we? I don't feel particularly guarded about my work.
Interestingly, I feel that way about my music, but, as you know, I definitely do not feel that way about my writing. Perhaps it is because my writing is so specific, whereas in my world music has always been much more open to interpretation.
What I have decided for myself with regard to my writing is that my work belongs absolutely and totally to me for the duration I am writing it. During this time, it is mine and mine alone, and if I want to keep it that way then the price is that I mustn't publish it. After publication, my work no longer belongs exclusively to me, except for a reasonable financial interest. Otherwise, it belongs to the world. This wouldn't prevent me from anything, except being needlessly stingy. I draw much stirring enthusiasm for my altruistic position (and this is genuinely altruistic of me, if we speak of motives) by noting the richness of that which lies in the public domain. How easily I could write a beautiful story about the Little Mermaid...and how quickly I would get my pants sued off if I copied so much as a single flipper from the Disney version. Realizing that overprotective intellectual property laws stifles storytelling, I have decided that it is worth the expense of surrendering exclusive control, so as to benefit humanity.
I prefer to write of the downfall of kings than the doings of the common folk.
I think you're not alone, there. Quite the contrary; I think yours is the more common perspective. Do not be fooled by the down-to-earthedness of contemporary literature. They may not be writing literally about kings over commoners, but the issues and ideas they tackle are, comparatively, identical in their disposition. Of those who are not like you, I think it simply a matter of many of these people having a poor grasp of what is important to them, and thus being unable to focus in such a way.
Who, other than those wanting to make a point for purely artistic purposes, would want to write about mooks, mooks, and mooks?
And having thought back on whatever stories I might have created for that figure gave me pause a while back. See, I was considering, listening to some music I have listened to since childhood (specifically, ‘Blanzeflor et Helena’ from Orff’s Carmina Burana), and hearing it, I recalled the imagery that always came to mind on hearing it, and that was of the death and burial of this make-belief hero of my childhood. More, the very funeral procession, his friends and allies burying him, even as his fortress is destroyed all about by the assault of his enemies. I’m not sure where such a thought, one I might consider rather tragic in mood, came from, but it’s telling. I still hold tragedy in high regard, and that is exactly what that thought is. A heroic end, and I think that that set the tone for much of my later writing. My heroes always seem to die; love is always denied in the end.
I would
love to know for sure what makes you tick. I have a few ideas, but no certainty. =)
...Aeschylus and Euripides...
Off-topic, to your inevitable consternation, but you may smirk in your sophistication knowing that I, whenever I see that name, think of the son of the (fictitious) editor of
The Onion. In homage, I now use “Aeschylus” as a gag name to invoke inappropriately long time intervals. (For instance, in one of my stories, a Mr. Aeschylus Sinclair ran a profitable “proteinaceous goo factory” in the industry that would go on to become the modern biotechnology industry.) It wasn't until much later that I learned about the real Aeschylus.
Ditto with Euripides. There's an old sitcom,
Welcome Back, Kotter, where Gabe Kaplan would open the show with a ridiculously bad joke about his improbably far-flung family. One of my favorites was an Italian joke about this Kotter family ancestor named Euripides who tears his trousers and takes them to the tailor for mending. The tailor turns out to be his long lost friend, who, upon seeing his old buddy enter his shop, cries out in happiness “Euripides!” Euripides then replies, “Yeah. Eumendides?” (Get it? “Mending”? Works great with the offensive Italian accent.) Once again, it wasn't until much later that I learned about Euripides. (And only just now did I learn about the “Eumenides.”)
“See now, I put my helmet on my head, crowned with triple images of the two-formed Sphinx, my old foe and old glory, with whom I matched my wit. But now I am in the third portion of life, the winter, and am weak to stand. Still, if I must lean upon a stick, let it be ashen, a spear’s shaft! Here, give the spear into my hand.”
“Friend, will you not exercise restraint, now that you have found shelter in a friendly land?”
“No: small actions have never guided me. And now the gods tell me my vindication stands present. Theseus! You were ally to the great man; to Herakles in his need you proved a secure friend, and assured your reputation in all Hellas. Do so now again and your city will be doubly blessed, the shining citadel beloved of the immortal gods who have their homes on Olympus.”
“To which will you go? With whom stand? Thebes?”
“None but you. When Athene’s city rallies for war - and do not protest, this will happen soon - I will be with you.”
“You’ve become a prophet, Oedipus, to speak these things. A prophet and a fighter, where before was only wreck. What is this new spirit?”
It's very refreshing to see a person invoke their passions so openly and with such quality. You and I have our many significant disagreements, but on this point there are few others who wish for your success more than I. Your success, and the success of everyone else in this thread who has the dream to write.
