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What follows has the unfortunate advantage of being true.
In the words of Neil Gaiman, life isn’t ‘story-shaped’. This is all well and good when all you are doing is living it, but becomes a problem when recounting life in a medium such as this. Life just seems to happen and a storyteller finds themselves desperately trying to shoehorn in some kind of rhyme or reason, any kind of conclusion that would give the tale a point for existing. Like some old lady who, upon finishing her puzzle, finds that she is left with two pieces that are blank, so gets her three-year-old granddaughter to colour the space in with crayon.
But life doesn’t have a point, no matter how much you try and hide that fact with childish pictures. Please allow me to leave the story as is, sans meaning, and just accept it as something that happened. If you feel like colouring in the white pieces yourself, go ahead.
It starts at night, at my desk, during a period of writer’s block. I was writing a script for a lesson later that week, possibly the early stages of what would become ‘Tale of Teeth’. Every word I typed was wrong, every line of dialogue clichéd and every action clumsily written. I hated everything I wrote.
This wasn’t a new feeling. It happens every now and then, essentially forcing me to stop writing. I really want to be a perfectionist when I write, so if I don’t feel that it is working, I won’t write. The actual quality of what I’ve written doesn’t matter. In fact, it has often been the case that the stuff I don’t think works ends up being praised the most later down the line.
Anyway.
There are two ways that I use to deal with this problem. The first is to let it air. Leave the room, go for a walk, write something else. Pretty much anything to distract me enough and get me away from the world of the story. The optimum time is a couple of days, but my deadline meant I couldn’t do this.
The second option is to show it to someone, but not to get their opinion on it. I just need someone to say ‘Hey, that’s quite a cool idea’ or ‘I like this bit’. Basically just some hot air to fill my big ego balloon. Petty, maybe. But it works.
However, it was close to one in the morning and I don’t have many friends who would be willing to sit and read something in those early hours just for the purpose of a writer’s block-ending ego boost.
So I saved it, close my computer down and retired to bed. I’ll get up early and do it, I thought, rather earnestly because it’s often the case that I NEVER get up early and do stuff.
I laid my head down on my pillow and closed my eyes. This is when things got odd.
A girl was standing there, in my mind. Everything else was white, like that scene in ‘The Matrix’ just before he asks for “Guns. Lots of guns.” Part of me wishes I had the dream sense to make that request, but hindsight sucks.
She was gorgeous, this girl. Jet black hair that fell down past her shoulders, dark and soulful eyes, and a whisper of a smile on her lips. She wore a thin black dress, simple but elegant.
Here’s the thing though: she was just there. Dreams form in your mind, the people and the location taking shape as if your brain is painting in the details. This girl wasn’t like that. It was as if she was there all along, just waiting for me to close my eyes.
It felt like I knew her, and I began to walk closer. It felt like the natural thing to do and I was caught in her eyes. When we were close enough, I kissed her. It felt incredible, as it should since it was in my mind. My body, although incorporeal, buzzed with energy as she moved her body close to mine.
Then I woke up.
I had only been ‘asleep’ for less than an hour, but the energy from the dream filled my waking life as well. Ideas and words and snippets of dialogue filled my head, fighting and bustling for attention. I couldn’t keep up.
The computer went back on. The file was loaded. I wrote. For hours.
Remember that it was already two in the morning, but I kept writing all night, until a sunrise told me that it was time to shower and enter the outside world.
Like I’ve already said, there is no ending to the story, no satisfying point to make. I’ve never seen the muse girl again. I forget the script, so I can’t even say if that ended up being my ticket to fame and fortune or just sits incomplete on my hard drive.
Life isn’t ‘story shaped’.
Sorry.
:D
In the words of Neil Gaiman, life isn’t ‘story-shaped’. This is all well and good when all you are doing is living it, but becomes a problem when recounting life in a medium such as this. Life just seems to happen and a storyteller finds themselves desperately trying to shoehorn in some kind of rhyme or reason, any kind of conclusion that would give the tale a point for existing. Like some old lady who, upon finishing her puzzle, finds that she is left with two pieces that are blank, so gets her three-year-old granddaughter to colour the space in with crayon.
But life doesn’t have a point, no matter how much you try and hide that fact with childish pictures. Please allow me to leave the story as is, sans meaning, and just accept it as something that happened. If you feel like colouring in the white pieces yourself, go ahead.
It starts at night, at my desk, during a period of writer’s block. I was writing a script for a lesson later that week, possibly the early stages of what would become ‘Tale of Teeth’. Every word I typed was wrong, every line of dialogue clichéd and every action clumsily written. I hated everything I wrote.
This wasn’t a new feeling. It happens every now and then, essentially forcing me to stop writing. I really want to be a perfectionist when I write, so if I don’t feel that it is working, I won’t write. The actual quality of what I’ve written doesn’t matter. In fact, it has often been the case that the stuff I don’t think works ends up being praised the most later down the line.
Anyway.
There are two ways that I use to deal with this problem. The first is to let it air. Leave the room, go for a walk, write something else. Pretty much anything to distract me enough and get me away from the world of the story. The optimum time is a couple of days, but my deadline meant I couldn’t do this.
The second option is to show it to someone, but not to get their opinion on it. I just need someone to say ‘Hey, that’s quite a cool idea’ or ‘I like this bit’. Basically just some hot air to fill my big ego balloon. Petty, maybe. But it works.
However, it was close to one in the morning and I don’t have many friends who would be willing to sit and read something in those early hours just for the purpose of a writer’s block-ending ego boost.
So I saved it, close my computer down and retired to bed. I’ll get up early and do it, I thought, rather earnestly because it’s often the case that I NEVER get up early and do stuff.
I laid my head down on my pillow and closed my eyes. This is when things got odd.
A girl was standing there, in my mind. Everything else was white, like that scene in ‘The Matrix’ just before he asks for “Guns. Lots of guns.” Part of me wishes I had the dream sense to make that request, but hindsight sucks.
She was gorgeous, this girl. Jet black hair that fell down past her shoulders, dark and soulful eyes, and a whisper of a smile on her lips. She wore a thin black dress, simple but elegant.
Here’s the thing though: she was just there. Dreams form in your mind, the people and the location taking shape as if your brain is painting in the details. This girl wasn’t like that. It was as if she was there all along, just waiting for me to close my eyes.
It felt like I knew her, and I began to walk closer. It felt like the natural thing to do and I was caught in her eyes. When we were close enough, I kissed her. It felt incredible, as it should since it was in my mind. My body, although incorporeal, buzzed with energy as she moved her body close to mine.
Then I woke up.
I had only been ‘asleep’ for less than an hour, but the energy from the dream filled my waking life as well. Ideas and words and snippets of dialogue filled my head, fighting and bustling for attention. I couldn’t keep up.
The computer went back on. The file was loaded. I wrote. For hours.
Remember that it was already two in the morning, but I kept writing all night, until a sunrise told me that it was time to shower and enter the outside world.
Like I’ve already said, there is no ending to the story, no satisfying point to make. I’ve never seen the muse girl again. I forget the script, so I can’t even say if that ended up being my ticket to fame and fortune or just sits incomplete on my hard drive.
Life isn’t ‘story shaped’.
Sorry.
:D
1 comment:
I just had to praise your use of the word incorporeal, so well done! Also, clearly kisses (even when imaginary) are good for you. I think this story is proof of that.
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