Memoirs Of A Storyteller

30K Reached!

2009-11-16T13:06:00.000-08:00

30,000 words, folks.

In publishable format, that's about 100 pages -- about a third of the size of a decent, small novel. It's certainly not going to be an epic, but it's getting to its finished size so fast that I'm startled. I start worrying about how to write a scene, and then once I get started, it just flows. It just shines. It's certainly not the best thing I've ever read (and, admittedly, I haven't really let myself read any of it yet) but it's the best thing I've ever written, and that counts for something.

In the story timeline, Gunnar is about to spend Christmas with the Devil and the Girl, so I'm getting ready for the shit to hit the fan. In a good way. Peach/Felix has stepped in as a narrative life saver and I am grateful for it. So is Gunnar, of course.

On to other things, because I have been quiet here, aside from NaNoWriMo.

READING:

Drawing Down The Moon by Margot Alder. Very, very slowly. I was astonished by how little I remember of it, having blazed through half the book on the train up-island, early in the year.
City Of Saints And Madmen by Jeff Vandermeer, which I bought on the understanding that it was very China-Mieville-esque (I mean, the guy endorses the fact that he and Vandermeer are similar writers), not to mention that it sounded amazing... but so far I'm a little underwhelmed. Maybe I'm just too much of a Mieville fan.
Forbidden Knowledge by Roger Shattuck, which, to be fair, I have not quite started. It basically examines taboos, why we make them, and how we break them, if I understand correctly. Of course, this is all unutterably fascinating, so I expect to enjoy it if Shattuck has done his job right.

I'm not really reading right now, seeing as writing has been more pressing. I did get through Iron Council and The Scar from China Mieville again, however, as well as Firebringer by David Clement-Davies (which, unfortunately, I remember with a lot more fondness than it deserves).

WRITING:

NaNoFreakingWriMo.
I'm trying not to think about it too much, but I got completely sidetracked for about a day by this really, really vivid dream about interstellar space travel and a queer star pilot. I woke up with a very what the fuck expression on my face, but Mitch Calder and his weird story about faster-than-light travel, the Lovecraftian zones of space, and a mission that sends him further than anyone has dared to dream about, is oddly compelling. I completely intended for the story to be very traditional-genre, very hard-sci-fi, very heterosexual, but Calder wouldn't have anything to do with it. "You write what you damn well know," he said, "And you know about people like me. You can bitch all you want about 'another gay science-fucking-fiction story' -- and you know how I ain't much for sticking things into slots like that -- but if you want my story, you'll suck it up." And, of course, with an addendum about finishing the story I'm working now, I said, "You got it, Captain."

ART:
Three guesses about how much art I've done this month. And the first two don't count.

SCHOOL:
I've been about a steady few days behind for most of October and November, which I figure is fine because my teacher -- who seems to have a great about of trouble spelling -- still hasn't marked some of my stuff from September. I may have to complain to SIDES soon if she doesn't get her act together, because as far as I can figure out, I am the only student in this freaking course. Not only that, since I am apparently the only student, the only way I can get extra credit (i.e., full marks) on the discussion assignments is to respond to her comments -- and, seeing as her comments are usually so conductive to discussion ("Excellent work! You have a great grasp of the topic!") that's unlikely to happen. When she even marks my discussion assignments at all, that is. Eesh.

BRAIN:
All in all, except for the night I had a meltdown and ended up crying on Zeppelinphan in the park, I've been doing okay.

WORK:
Same old. Acquiring a lot of strange or broken pieces that the Boss doesn't think he can sell. The weird pieces are joy, the strangest being a perfect replica of the First Pentacle of Jupiter from The Key of Solomon (an old and freaky grimoire) -- except that it's got the card suits smacked on top of the runic compass. As for the broken pieces, my dad's friends fix them for me in exchange for quick pin-up paintings, which is hilarious. It's like I've got a freaking carny business here -- drawing boobs in exchange for repaired antiques.

EXCITING THINGS:
The tattoo is no longer itching like I dipped my arm into a red ant nest regularly. It's still shedding, but not as effusively as before. Of course, I get to go through all that again when Emily touches it up on December 13th, but, you know, suffering for the sake of art and all.

And now, I'm off -- to pick up my cheque at Galleon, to buy a pair of lamps so I can actually see when I'm at my desk in the evening, and to do that essay I utterly do not understand. Huzzah.

Thank you, Zepp, for livening up my novel.

2009-11-13T23:20:00.000-08:00

WARNING: Bad language, bad grammar, and sexual content follows. Read at your own risk.

I made the mistake of leaving my NaNoWriMo novel open tonight.

I made the second mistake of leaving Zeppelinphan alone in my room.

I made the third mistake of reminding her that the novel was basically summed up as "gay erotica."

This is what I found, ten minutes later.

“penis

what?

I like your penis

What

Can I have your penis

WHAT!!!!!!

Can…I ..have …your ..penis

Oh. I misunderstood. Yes you can

Yay!!!

But I have to ask you a question

Sure

What do you want it for?

I want it for my anus.

Okay. Then take off your pants and bend over

Yay..anus sex is the bomb

Awesome im so happy that you want my penis

They then frolict into the bed room like the happy little gay men they were and had massive wonderful powerful sex. And uploaded everything they did to youporn.com

Meanwhile. In a far away galaxy there were two women having coffee field. It was a sunny happy day. One of them was named george and the other was named sam

George put down her coffee cup and looked at sam.

You know there is something I have been meaning to tell you.

Sam paused and looked at george. Oh really and what is that?

Well said george..I LIKE GIRLS.

Sam pused. And put down her coffee cup as well. Well george I have something to tell you also.

Really sam what is that

Well george…I HAVE A PENIS

Then simatinusly the both looked at each other and screamed

I WANNA FUCK YOU LIKE AN ANIMAL.

Then george jumped ontop of sam. And they also had happy little gay people sex. You know the kind that only people of the same sex can have. Where there is no worry of reproduction. But there is still lots of orgasims. And finger licking goodness. Get it? Because they are lesbos? And then because of the massivly powerful and orgasimny goodness that was happening between all the gay people in this story the world exploded. And they all died and went to heaven. Then as the four of them were waiting to get into heaven god came up and looked at them and was like:

What the fuck guys, seriously, I mean I don’t have a problem with gay people I created you and all. In my image. And I gave you the power to have massivly wonderful hot passionet sex but I did not think that you would be bonning each other so hard that you would blow up the fucking planet.

Gunnar looked at the ground not sure what to say

But sam looked. back up at god and said. Well all mighty one, if you did not want us to do this you would not have given me a dick, or made george a lesbo. Although I must say its kind of predictable that she would be into chicks given the name and all. So technicly the whole planet blowing up thing is your fault.

Gunnar then looked up at god and said. So you said you love us. And we are hear in heaven. So that means that you don’t send gay people to hell you love us.

Then nick looked at god. So does that mean that all of the christains are the ones that got it wrong?

God looked down at them all Yes, nick that is right the christains are the ones who are wrong what I really ment in all my teachings and through out the bible was that I wanted you all to have awesomely amazing gay sex. And if you’re a hetero and you have not even experimented then your all going to die in a massive black hole of hell. Because to love your brother you must penetrate him.

Then every one screamed in glee

The end

Honey, I don't know what you smoke, but I am expecting you to share.

Tattoo Mythos

2009-11-10T10:52:00.000-08:00

As some of you now know, the secret I've been keeping under my "Exciting Things" updates finally came to fruition on Sunday. I'm impressed with myself for keeping it a secret for so long -- the original idea came to me about a year ago, and definite plans have been in the works since late spring.

At least twice a year, I have experiences that make me realize that I'm a lot stronger than I thought I was -- or, perhaps, those experiences themselves make me stronger. One of these experiences always involves the need for complete and utter psychological readiness, and a great deal of pain tolerance. The other one is NaNoWriMo.

If you haven't already guessed it, I'm talking about tattoos.

This was the longest session I've ever been in the chair -- two and a half hours -- and my largest tattoo by at least 50%. I knew it was going to be hard, but just how hard, I had no idea. I can safely say that for the time I was in the chair, I experienced some of the worst pain I've ever felt. There were a few times where I just wanted it to be over, but there was never a moment where I thought I couldn't tough it out to the end. Zeppelinphan boosted me along with soda and jokes, and Emily continued to be the best tattoo artist ever.

Tattoos are strange creatures. I had layers upon layers of meaning for this tattoo, but suddenly, as soon as it was under my skin, even more layers I never thought of before were abruptly hitting me upside the head. The morning I took the bandage off, I had a long, intricate discussion with my mother about what the tattoo symbolized, after which she said, "You know, I think I know you a lot better now than before I asked what it meant to you." Although my mother and I don't get along at the best of times and I usually don't care what she thinks of me, it was still an important moment.

This piece of ink represents a paradigm-philosophy that has never changed -- it's like I was born with it. It's something that I simply, well, grokked, to use a Heinleinian turn of phrase, since I could read or talk. Something that, no matter how hard I questioned it, remained personally true to its roots.

Every culture in the world has had, at multiple points in its history, a concept for the world-between-worlds, or a concept of another reality that lies just behind ours. Most of these concepts come from a spiritual background, taking on a different cloak for each culture. In our modern North American culture, this cloak can take the guise of the multiple universes theory, or even quantum science in general. (I am most certainly not a scientist, so I'm making a very broad sweep here. Your mileage may vary on the similarities between, for instance, Greek daemonic reality and quantum research.) In most of these cultures, you had a few options when you came in contact with paranormal phenomena and other realities: you could live or die. The death part is pretty non-negotiable, but if you lived, you had a few more options. You could come out mad, you could come out a poet or a shaman, or, in rare cases you could be both: a mad poet-shaman with wonderful secrets.

I went through a lot of shit when I was younger, if you'll pardon the phrase. This is common knowledge. Insanity, and being institutionalized, for me, was another way to slip between realities, even if the world-between-worlds being shown was due to nothing more than misfiring chemicals in my brain. I saw and heard strange things; things that, to a child with a fragile psyche, were both beautiful and terrible. I had a moment back then when I decided, almost without having a choice in the matter, that I wanted to get better and be a viable member of society -- so Ibegan to see those hallucinations and voices as wonderful, fascinating things. The creatures I sketch and paint and write about stem from those chemical imbalances. I turned psychological breakdowns and mental disorders into something useful and beautiful. I turned it into art. I became a mad poet. As my skills grew, as I became a more intelligent and mature person, the madness became less and less of an issue, while still present enough to continue inspiring and funding my creative processes. I am incredibly lucky -- many people with life-altering mental disorders don't get the second chance that I did, and if they do, they don't often get the chance to turn it into something productive. As hard as that period of my life was, I wouldn't give it up for anything. It shaped me into steel with jagged edges -- not perfect, but cold-forged and strong.

I was always willing to accept strange concepts and outlandish sights, even before seventh grade, when the more debilitating mental disorders took hold. I have always believed in aliens, not in the sense of watchful UFO's containing flesh-and-blood creatures -- although the psychological effects of UFO's is equally fascinating -- but rather the possibility of even basic organic life spread throughout the universe. Life isn't necessarily life-as-we-know-it, and the reality we take for granted is often shaken by largely unexplainable events -- anything from Bigfoot to the placebo effect. Stare long into the abyss, said Nietzsche, and the abyss will stare back -- so too will fraternizing with monsters make a monster out of you. The world is full of monsters, but it is also full of beautiful things, and so balance remains. Nothing is ever wholly evil, just as nothing is ever wholly good.

The subject of the tattoo, while it may seem converse, stems from the fiction of H.P. Lovecraft. Lovecraft's characters, although a strange and often monstrous reality has been forced upon them (usually by lieu of their insatiable curiosity) and they profess to have gone insane, they retain the ability to tell their stories with grace, candor, and inexplicable beauty even in the face of unmentionable horrors -- they have become, in the end, mad poets. Lovecraft's monsters are not, despite their ability to turn men mad by looking upon them, entirely evil creations without a moral thread. Dagon is horrifying, and yet surrounded by death and chaos, it tenderly worships the stone altar in the crater. The Outsider drives anyone who sees it into flight, and yet it speaks with the voice of an eloquent child and is redeemed by its environment. We are told that even vile Shub-Niggurath, the manevolent twins Nug and Yeb, and the snake-god Yig would side with the humans should a greater evil emerge on the scene.

And, of course, there is Cthulhu. On the scale of Lovecraft's more deified creations, such as the Great Old Ones, Cthulhu is not especially frightening. Cthulhu rewards his (its?) worshipers with lives like Old Ones, making them "free and wild and beyond good and evil." Those who do not worship him, but simply please him, he is said to devour mercifully before the earth becomes mad and non-Euclidean like Ry'leh. It is implied that the survivors will be mad, or -- and here we are again -- mad poets.

Thus, I could not imagine a more appropriate symbol to place on my skin to represent this long-held paradigm-philosophy. The design I chose is stark and otherworldly, but not evil. There is potential for people to see anything they want in it -- a variety of creatures in a variety of shades: intimidating, beatific, alien, and wise. On its brow, a series of diamonds drop with their comet-tails behind them, representing the journey that the Old Ones, as well as humans, made of dead astronomical matter as we are, took from the stars.

An antique is not literally worth more if it has a provenance, but in the business, stories and records and meaning make a piece's value grow exponentially. The same is true with tattoos. All of the pieces I have are more than ink injected into my skin -- they're stories, snapshots of what I believe in, who I am, and what is important to me. I wouldn't have it any other way.

AHHH

2009-11-06T20:18:00.000-08:00

Devil: Check
Victim: Check
Jailbait: Check
Porn: Check
20,000 words reached: Check, check, and triple check!

I thought that the scenes with Anne Marie wouldn't be that difficult, since I've written frankly about pedophilia before, and I make it obvious that Gunnar is disturbed -- but I'm finding them strangely challenging to write.

Also, OH MY GOD I JUST HIT 20,000 WORDS.

Allow me my freak-outs; this is totally new and unexpected and exciting ground here. It's day freaking SIX and I have 20,000 words. Twice as much as I need to have. And I did it while clearly not sober, AND it's even good writing.

Can I get a woot woot?

More NaNoWriMo Insanity

2009-11-05T23:21:00.001-08:00

4500 words today. Holy shit, guys. Got over that hurdle I was worrying about, namely introducing enough tension for Gunnar to snap.

Oh, and that sex scene. Let's not forget that, because I'm sure not going to any time soon. Like I told a friend one time, every erotic thing I write really surprises me, especially the really dirty stuff -- mostly just because I don't think I have it in me to write something like that.

(Then again, considering how much more dirty that threesome scene I wrote as a warm-up before NaNoWriMo is, maybe I should just stop being surprised already and just accept it.)

16,500 words! Almost twice as many as today's goal was supposed to be (8300)! I think I'm subconsciously making up for all the suck and fail of last year's WriMo, or something. Because holy shit.

Bonfire Night

2009-11-05T09:56:00.000-08:00

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,

The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,

I know of no reason

Why the Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent

To blow up the King and Parli'ment.

Three-score barrels of powder below

To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'd

With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

And what should we do with him? Burn him!

On a completely different note, I am up to 12,000 words, and only the second sex scene. I'm writing so much, but it's making the plot go so slowly that this might end up being a much longer project than I anticipated...!

NaNoWriMo OH GOD Moments

2009-11-03T23:35:00.000-08:00

I just hit 9200 words.

4200 of those words were written in the last twelve hours.

I seriously do not understand how this story just makes me barf writing -- and good writing at that -- all over the place. It's coming so quickly and so easily that I'm more worried about running out of plot than running out of energy.

Can I get a very appreciative WHAT THE HELL chorus, please?

And now, to try to calm myself down so I can go to bed. Half of those words were written while on inadvisable levels of sugar high, and I'm only hoping I can sleep tonight so I can throw out the same kind of word output tomorrow.

I realize dimly that it is my birthday, and that I am nineteen years old, and that I celebrated this fact by buying booze while out with Zeppelinphan (which, plus homework, I managed to do with time to spare around the writing). But brain will not recognize birthday. Brain will only recognize writing. Oh god.

I'm going to hit 10,000 three days early, and then I will go quietly, happily insane.

ETA: And you know my theory that the smut was what was making it go so quickly? 90% of those words were not smut related. Not in the slightest. Aaaahhh--!

Can I get an OMG?

2009-11-02T22:13:00.000-08:00

I just broke the 5000-word mark for NaNoWriMo. A day ahead of schedule.

The novel is just...seriously writing itself.

(My theory is that, since in my first WriMo I used smut to push the plot along when I couldn't figure out what else to do, and this project is basically based on smut, it's going to fly along like nobody's business.)

Educational Week

2009-10-30T22:49:00.000-07:00

Things Bryi Has Learned While Sick:

Gargling salt water is high on the list of Unpleasant Actions Bryi Has Performed In The Name Of Getting Well.
Playing Song A on loop in order to get Song B out of head-radio will only result in Song A becoming stuck in head-radio. This comes out to approximately the same level of annoyance, especially if Song A is "Closer."
Discovering your continuing sore throat is due to the Biggest Coldsore Ever is only slightly less exasperating than the possibility of strep. (It would be way less exasperating if the reason wasn't most likely to due the whole immune-system-run-down-from-insomnia thing.)
I have two words for you, Sidekicks Fettuccine: NEVER AGAIN.
Setting up a culturally accurate set of Dia de los Muertos altars is just about the most fun thing I've done without friends around me. I made pan de muerto (Bread of the Dead) by hand! Bought flowers that smell like black pepper, and seriously intrigued the florist when she asked what they were for! Set up toys for dead kids!

Things Bryi Needs To Do Before Sunday At Noon:

FertheloveofChrist, clean bedroom.
Carve auxiliary pumpkin.
Set up dining room.
Finish altars (this is mostly food prep and various cat-proofing tasks).
Put away sheepskin (as much as I love you guys, 14 teenagers in various states of make-up and hyper does not go well with Dryclean Only).
Finish pre-NaNoWriMo freak-outs and [hopefully] write first 1667 words (I say hopefully because if I don't get it done before, it'll have to be AFTER I kick you lot out at like 10pm, so I am fervently praying that my boss will not call me in for the morning).
Decide whether it's worth the public weirdness to stuff a sock down the front of my underwear for the sake of costume accuracy.
Finish that last essay for the Drama unit. Damn you, Streetcar Named Desire. At least I'm allowed to argue either extreme -- I'm going to tear Stella a new asshole and it's going to be great.

Intermezzo; Or, Things The Biped Wishes The Cat Would Not Do

2009-10-27T12:03:00.000-07:00

DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
· The Cat
· The Bryi

THE SCENE:
Bryi's bedroom. Note loft bed, pile of clothes, a barely-legal amount of books on every conceivable surface, and boxes on floor.

CURTAIN RISES

[Bryi is making at attempt to remove mess created via excessive apathy during worst moments of illness.]

Bryi: [moves box from under desk] Wow, that is a cobweb of truly epic prop--

[Bug of Lovecraftian proportions scuttles out from behind bookshelf.]

Bryi: Fffff--

[Bryi grabs for nearest blunt object.]

[Nearest blunt object happens to be The Call of Cthulhu and Other Weird Stories.]

[Bryi does not realize irony of this until much later.]

Bryi: [slays Epic Bug] I'm very sorry, but you looked like you had some sort of poisonous chompers, and I have been given toxic wounds by creatures such as yourself one too many times. Don't take it personally.

[Bryi removes book from Epic Bug. Bug is thoroughly dead.]

ENTER AUXILIARY CHARACTER

Cat: Ooh! What are you DOING? It looks VERY INTERESTING!

[Cat suddenly makes barely restrained squeak of utter glee and dives in front of Bryi before she can flinch.]

Cat: Oh em gee! A BUG!

Cat: OM NOM NOM

Bryi: YOU ARE SO GROSS.

[Cat sits back, licking lips contentedly. Cat, however, is not done.]

Cat: Oh em gee! Dessert!

[Cat proceeds to chow down on pile of cobwebs in corner.]

Bryi: FFFFFFF--!

[Bryi forcibly evicts Cat from corner. Cat makes series of offended noises directed at one Perfidious Hairless Ape.]

Cat: But I wasn't DONE!

Bryi: God help me, YES YOU WERE.

[Cat stalks off angrily.]

Cat: Oh em gee! Dessert, Part Two!

[Cat starts licking something on floor in the hallway.]

[Bryi weeps into her Lovecraft.]

CURTAIN CLOSES

I Has An Ick

2009-10-27T09:51:00.000-07:00

This is mostly just me repeating things other people have said that summarize things well, or repeating things I've said to others that I don't want to bother paraphrasing. How creative.

Zeppelinphan was understandably sympathetic yesterday when she received a text message from me saying, "Well, there's conclusive evidence that I won't be keeping much food down today. Ugh. What a way to wake up." There's nothing quite like getting up, realizing you have some sort of virus, drinking a glass and a half of water because you're really thirsty and your throat hurts like nuts, only to promptly throw up twice as much water as you drank. (Which, in case you're wondering, does not help the whole sore throat issue.)

Hence, I have been a pile of ick and blek for the last 24 hours. There's nothing quite like having a cold, a stomach flu, and insomnia at the same time. Herein I will quote Monette and state that "I am Queen of the Insomnia People. Again. I suspect my subjects are absent-minded and blink a lot." Most of the insomnia, weirdly enough (note sarcasm) seems to be NaNoWriMo related -- as in, the "oh my god this story is taking over my head why isn't it November yet so I can start writing" sort of related.

Anyway. Enough bitching. Let's have one of those stupid news posts that don't require much brain power!

READING:
Melusine, again, because I am hopelessly addicted to Monette. Also, The Onion Girl, which, like all of de Lint's writing, is a serious love/hate relationship for me. Mostly love. I mean, that's why I own how many of his books? But still. I'm sort of blithering my way through Cryptonomicon again too, but I really don't have enough brain for Stephenson's complex style at the moment. I have a bookmark in Chindi as well, but that's been put on hold for whatever reason. I don't know why. I love McDevitt to pieces.

WRITING:
FIIIIIIIVE DAAAAAAAYS

ART:
Nothing to speak of. In all honesty, I don't even know where my sketchbook is.

WORK:
Bleh, inventory.

SCHOOL:
A little behind, but that's understandable, given the extra hours I pulled at the shop during the previous week, and then being sick. It's certainly not a grievous fall in productivity.

EXCITING THINGS (possibly filed under ELDRITCH HORROR as well):
I am being a birthday creature in exactly a week. I...don't know how I feel about this. Obviously, growing old is inevitable but growing up is optional. It's not like I had much of a glorious, freewheeling childhood to be nostalgic about, and it's certainly not like I have to be this uncompromisingly mature person now. (Dear god no.) Lately, in fact, I've been doing remarkable immature things -- like planning what kind of prank gift I'm going to get my boss for his birthday, or, y'know, stealing a pumpkin with my lovely, unnamed accomplices. (Three guesses, and the first two don't count.) So, I don't know what's bugging me about it. It isn't even really bugging me, per se, as much as it's on my mind. Maybe I'm scared that I'll make a total dick of myself if I start drinking in public, or whatever. Maybe I'm secretly scared of the implied responsibility and looming independence that eventually come with adulthood.

And then, when all that seems to become overwhelming, I just remind myself that I'm a Discordian, dammit, and turning nineteen means that I've been opened up to a whole new world of mindfucking possibilities and crazy Erisian shit. And then I feel better.

MORE EXCITING THINGS:
It is seriously killing me not being able to tell people about the Sekret Projekt in the making right now. My father knows all the details, my mother knows a little, Zeppelinphan knows a little, and everyone else is pretty much in the dark. I'm probably going to end up telling Zepp all the details next time she begs for them, mainly because of the whole this-is-torture-to-keep-quiet-about thing, and because I feel bad that she's involved in it as a helper and I've really been keeping her in the dark. Sorry, darling!

And now, I go. I shall attempt to brave the kitchen and keep down some honey toast or something so I can try to write another damn essay. I will be glad to be quit of you, Hedda Gabler. Glaaaaaad.

About Writing, Vaguely

2009-10-21T23:13:00.000-07:00

Thomas C. Wolfe coined the concept perfectly: "Just put a sheet of paper in the typewriter and start bleeding."

I have, in a metaphorical (and on one memorable occasion, literal) sense bled over every good story that I've worked on. The ones that didn't involve some grand amount of tears, sweat, or blood were the stories that weren't worth continuing, or, for that matter, starting in the first place. In life, as well as in writing -- especially in writing -- my adage has always been to do what you love and fuck everything else. Doing what you love, though, still gets your blood all over everything that means something. Doing what you love isn't about sitting back, contented, in an armchair. Doing what you love is about getting your hands dirty, watering the plants with the sweat of your brow, and leaving red footprints on the garden path.

People often say to me, "You complain so much about the writing process, and the editing process, and how ornery your characters are -- I mean, as if they're real people -- all the time. Why do you do it then, if you hate it so much?"

I never really know what to reply. I love to write. I love to put myself to sleep every night telling myself a new story, acting out a scene in my head. I love to talk to my characters as if, yes, they were real people. I love that moment when you realize that the sketch you've just drawn is so perfectly a portrait of a certain character that you never want to touch the page again for fear of ruining it. I love the feeling of creating something in a tangible form that was previously only a thought, an emotion, something you can't even measure, running around in my head. That is why I love it. Bitching about the process is one of the most enjoyable parts of it. Kvetching is one of the oldest human instincts, after the fight-or-flight reflex, in my opinion. We complain about what we love, and we love to complain.

My metaphorical blood comes through in many ways. Aching shoulders from being hunched over a sketchbook. Nausea, from staring too long at font on a computer screen. Exhaustion, from being up until 4am typing when you have to work the next day. Every ounce of pain is worth it in the end. (Actually, I could probably relate all of this to getting tattoos, another one of my "doing what you love" scenarios, which would have made that whole blood reference a lot more concrete.)

Doing what you love is different for everyone, and in every case, there's always pain to make the sweet times taste better. For some it's motherhood, for some it's autopsy work, for some it's collecting bits of junk that no one has heard of... and for some, like myself, the creation of art and writing. Regardless of the differences, these things are united in that they subsume one's entire life. Being removed from them would fall under the same sort of contemplation in which one thinks about cutting out one's heart -- they are, in the final analysis, the things that you wouldn't be the same person without.

This, That, and a Thousand of That Other Thing

2009-10-20T10:36:00.000-07:00

I keep having these moments where I go, "OMG, NaNoWriMo is in __ days!" and thereafter my brain tries to crawl out my ears. Last night, it was, "OMG, NaNoWriMo is in 12 days!" And I figure, so, I guess I should start preparing a little.

Kiddies, here's a tip. If your story is so full of debauchery, blasphemy, and outright buggery that your first idea for exploring character development is to write four pages of the filthiest smut you can produce, you are going to be in for a wild ride. Especially if you write these four pages at two in the morning, pass out, and then commence having interrelated dreams all night. Dear god. Because of that, I have a fuzzy idea of what I actually wrote, but I'm too scared to actually go, y'know, look up the file. I got as far as what I apparently titled it -- "nsfw, obviously.doc" -- and wussed out then and there.

Oh, NaNoWriMo. How is our relationship like Stockholm Syndrome? Let me count the ways.

(As a side tangent, I'm impressed that by reading the smut I've written, I can pretty much tell when Zeppelinphan and I started being closer friends. It doesn't get dirtier, per se, but you can tell when I stopped being a chicken and actually using one word to label something (cock, for instance) rather than using 5+ words to hedge around the body part I was trying to illustrate without actually using a descriptive. Someday, I may post the well written but hilarious excuses for sex scenes that made up the bulk of my first NaNoWriMo, back in 2006. I was embarrassed just writing that Mordecai and Aidan were grinding their hips together. Yeesh.)

In other news!

READING:
Would you believe nothing? *garrotes self with book binding thread*

ART:
I did a couple of quick tempura paintings last night, one as practice and one as a thank-you card for a co-worker of my father who fixed an antique pewter box for me -- it was missing a leg, so he sculpted one. I still haven't sketched anything since those late-night fan arts of Frank N Furter and a couple of the Repo! A Genetic Opera cast, but I'm getting back into it. Slowly.

WRITING:
See above reference to 2000 words of ludicrous smut.

SCHOOL:
I'm a little behind, but I'm catching up. All I have to say is that Hedda Gabler is... very strange.

WORK:
I get called in for the weirdest things. Yesterday I was in the grocery store with my mother, going through Charlie Wilcox's till, when my phone rings. A female voice says "hello?" three times, then my boss comes on the line and says, "She's not listening to us!" I say, "Oh, hi, Rod." He commences to ask me to work from 3-7 today so we can close early and do an inventory count of the entire store. With pizza.

HEALTH:
I had a migraine from 10am to 6pm yesterday, which was mind-numbing and aggravating in itself, but it also made me worry that I was having a bad reaction to the medication I started the night before. Luckily, aside from some minor grogginess (which is most likely due to having fucked up dreams all night than anything else) I feel okay today.

MISC:
I definitely acquired a sheepskin rug made out of soft and fuzzy and yum. (Is it TMI to say that I fell asleep on it naked the other night, then woke up and had to drag myself to bed at like 3am? Yeah, probably.)

EXCITING THINGS:
NaNoWriMo is coming up! And Zeppelinphan's tattoo appointment! And Halloween / Samhain / Dia de los Muertos! And my birthday! And that surprise that only three people know about! Ahhhh--!

STUPID THINGS:
I haven't been sleeping at all well lately. Probably for a number of reasons. Blek.

MORE STUPID THINGS:
Outside of the meta conversations, I always had this image of two guys in a theater arguing with each other about my subconscious and my various writing projects. (Why I never posted these conversations is beyond me, because they were hilarious.) As background, I have never watched the Muppets or done more than skimmed Hamlet. Yet, somehow, my brain was informing me for years that the two guys in a theater were a case of "Rozencrantz and Guildenstern heckle you from the balcony." It basically puts these guys in, uh, this position. Which is an incredibly awkward mental car crash. I'm sure I've just appalled anyone who is actually passably familiar with the Muppets and Shakespeare. *covers face with hands*

It's similarly discouraging that Lune, Lucifer and Eden have recently been acting more like a horrible parody of Oggie, Dimo, and Maxim than anything else. Hence why there have been no meta conversation posts in a very long time. The people in my head are crazy! *criez*

TMI Tuesday! [Very much NOT work safe, guys.]

2009-10-12T21:55:00.000-07:00

(WARNING! Because I know there are some under aged people reading this blog who probably don't want to know the petty details of my sex life, this is my only word of caution! Read if ye dare, and I hold no responsibility for mental scarring if you ignore it! >:/ )

I haven't done TMI Tuesday in the longest time, nor have any of my followers/followees -- mostly because the questions have been six kinds of lame. So, I scrounged up a general sex meme to float around our respective blogs until TMIT picks up the pace.

This post is also to celebrate the fact that I am no longer asexual! *confetti!*

For the record, and for the purposes of this meme, "sex" can be defined as solo, oral, or full intercourse. I tag everyone who reads this sentence! Muahaha!

********

1. Is there any one of your friends that you would ever consider having sex with?

Oh, sure. More than one of them.

2. Sex in the morning, afternoon or night?

Afternoon doesn't do anything for me. It just tires me out. Night is best at the moment because I can just go to sleep right afterward (I imagine it would be equally nice to drift off with a partner). I have not in fact experimented in the morning, but I've heard it's nice to wake up early, do the horizontal tango, then sleep in lazily.

3. What side of the bed do you sleep on?

My bed is just barely big enough for two people to spoon in, so there really isn't another "side" of the bed besides the middle. When someone sleeps in my bed, I'm usually on the right side, however. I don't know why it generally ends up that way, seeing as I'm most comfortable with my back to a wall with a big cave of blankets around me and something I can wrap my arms around in front of me, even if it's just a fold in the sheets.

4. Have you ever taken your clothes off for money?

I almost flashed an acquaintance for money, once. I didn't only because he was far too immature to appreciate the gesture, and a little too free with the things he said about things. I.e., the fact that I flashed someone for cash would have spread through the Serious Crew faster than a case of syphilis in a polygamous commune. (Besides, I take my clothes off around the SC for free often enough that it's sort of a...non-issue.)

5. Have you ever had sex in the shower or the bath?

Shower, yes, plenty of times. Bath, no, but I just plain don't like baths. I can swim just fine in any number of oceans or pools, but submersing myself in a large amount of hot water gives me the screaming mimi's, for some bizarre reason. Ergo, I'm not a huge fan of hot tubs. At least not fully immersing myself in them.

6. Do you watch/read pornography?

I am on pornography like Zeppelinphan on root beer. Which is to say, I love it to absolute pieces, but is has to be good, and it has to be the right thing. If I, at any point during reading/watching, think "AWWW," "LOL," or "DO WANT" then the director or writer has done his or her job. If at any point I think "ALT F4," then the creator has, self evidently, failed.

7. Do you want someone aggressive or passive in bed?

A bit of both, for spice, but generally passive. I like being aggressive and dominant and rawr. But passive doesn't necessarily mean 'lie there and take it' -- passive for me means actively passive. Give me cues; do you like what I'm doing? You want more of this or less of that? Suggest something radical. Tell me what you want me to do to you, or what you want to do to me. (Make sense?)

8. Do you love someone on your blogroll?

Love is an interesting thing. I love my father, but I wouldn't want to shag him. I love my friends, and tell them this often. I've loved my significant others, over the years. When I say "I love you," I mean it, but a lot of people have told me that my definition of love is very different from theirs. My last girlfriend had told a lot of friends that she loved them, in a "love ya" sort of way, but she'd never said "I love you" to a significant other -- like the two kinds of love were radically different. I don't see them as different. Maybe it's because I'm pansexual, but I just find it easy to love people without remorse, without pain, even if the feeling isn't mutual. I think that's why friends and I misunderstand each other some times -- when I say I have a crush on someone, it usually means I'm sexually attracted to them. When I say I love someone, it usually means I'm romantically attracted to someone. But, because I say "love you hon!" as my catch-all farewell phrase, it's hard to tell whether I'm implying that I'm attracted in any way to the person being addressed.

9. Would you choose love or money?

If my choice was between never feeling truly affectionate for anyone but having mounds upon mounds of money, or being able to love anyone I chose with no regrets but having few funds? I can't honestly answer this question, even after giving it a longer period of thought than any of the others. I just don't know! My logical side says "money," because I could still enjoy sexuality without feeling love, but I think it would be a hollow victory.

10. Your top three favorite kinks in bed?

Ooo. Tough one. I'd have to narrow it down to...

Gender play -- cross dressing, role reversal, pegging, etc.
Sensation, or flyphephilia, or whatever you want to call it. It's basically the feeling you get when someone runs their nails along your skin, or when someone combs your hair, or when you feel something like, for instance, really soft faux fur (especially on a skin area that isn't normally used to map sensations, so other than your hands).
Light BDSM, I guess. I'm into biting, and leather and whips and consensual-tying-up-of-partner, and a bit of roleplay, but I'm not into the reaaaally hardcore end of the bondage, D/s, or S&M spectrum.

11. Has anyone ever gone beyond your personal line of respect sexually?

Mmm, no. Unless you count Zeppelinphan trying to molest me with a Halloween prop, or, y'know, shoving shoehorns down my pants. But that's friendly molestation, so it doesn't count. :P

12. What is the most romantic thing that happened to you while having sex?

I don't think you can be romantic when it's just you and your fantasies, however realistic or probable those fantasies may be. I have a very strange definition of what I consider "romance," too, so this question is not particularly applicable.

13. What is the weirdest thing that's happened to you while having sex?

Uhh, having the Time Warp stuck in my head was one of the weirder instances.

14. Have you ever been caught having sex?

Praise be to all the saints of C.O.F.: I have not.

15. Ever been to a bar just to get sex?

Not applicable. I haven't, and won't be able to if I wanted to for another 21 days. (Addendum: I don't want to and don't need to. I know a few very attractive, very sweet, very safe people who would probably[?] gladly volunteer.)

16. What is your favorite movie with a sexual theme?

*snrk* The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Zeppelinphan is a horrible, horrible influence on my psyche and sexuality. By the end of that movie, not only did she have me agreeing that I would sex the good Doctor if he walked into the room right then, but she influenced what my current Halloween costume looks like. Augh. (Love you, dear.)

17. Have you ever kissed or had sex with someone of the same sex?

Have I? You bet your ass. I mean, the former. But that's not to say I'm not interested in and/or have almost succeeded in pulling off the latter. Pansexuality has its perks.

18. Had sex in a movie theater?

No, and I don't really have any inclination to have sex in a really public place like that. It's not me, it's the fact that I don't want to subject unwilling innocents to the awkwardness that comes with realizing that there is boogie woogie going on two aisles behind you.

20. Had sex in a bathroom?

Technically yes, since showers are in bathrooms.

21. Have you ever had sex at work?

God no. I can't see any circumstance of that actually working, no pun intended.

22. Bought something from an adult store?

Yessir! I think the most recent was last Sunday, or the Sunday before. Whatever day I was out with Zepp and a couple of the boys. (We tactfully made the boys go lurk in the comic book store while we had the intricacies of glass dildos explained to us in loving detail. And no, for the record, that is not what I bought.)

23. Do you own any sex toys?

A crop, a collar, a pair of fuzzy handcuffs, and one of those lovely unmentionables Zeppelinphan loves singing about in coffee shops. Mine happens to have a tattoo design on it. (Of course.)

24. Does anyone have naughty pics of you or are you on film?

Uhh, there are some pictures of me drunk in a schoolgirl uniform with my shirt falling off. I don't know where they are now. Some one may remember those or still have a copy?

25. Have you ever had sex with someone and called them the wrong name?

Not yet.

26. Do you think oral sex constitutes as a form of intercourse?

Your mouth is on another person's naughty bits. Seriously. Need I elucidate?

27. What's your favorite sexual position?

Oo, this is tough, mainly because the only sexual positions I can use during solo are pretty bland. When I do start having intercourse with another human being... the Cowgirl is pretty basic, and pretty sexy, because the one in the 'being penetrated' position is mainly in control. The Second Posture of the Perfumed Garden (no kidding, blame the Karma Sutra) is also good, although basic, because it allows for more body contact, and kissing or neck biting or whatever floats your boat. However, the SPotPG also means that if the penetrator is, er, generously endowed (be that via strap-on or naturally), the penetrated party is probably going to be having the "oh fuck I didn't think it could go that far" reaction.

28. What's your favorite sex act?

I'll let you know when I've tried a few things on for size. (Pun wholly intended.)

29. Have you ever had sex with more than one person at a time?

No, but the operative term you want to use here is "not yet." (I am assuming this question is implying threesomes or orgies, not infidelity. I'm not interested in cheating. It could also refer to polyamory, which I am also an advocate of, in safe and healthy and consensual circumstances. It's more difficult than it sounds, and it sounds hard.)

30. When is the last time you had sex?

Today. Or yesterday, considering when this post will likely show up in the intarspheres. (I could just do it again for consistency's sake, but I want to be able to walk tomorrow, thank you.)

31. Do you get turned on by a particular genre of music, or a particular band/singer?

Terrence Zdunich's voice. I am not repentant. (Graaaaaverobber.) Zeppelinphan asserts that Frank N' Furter's voice produces the same effect on me, sort of. It's a different sort of "dooo waaaant" -- less visceral. I don't know what it is about male voices when they dip to a range that sounds too low and deep to be believed, but this mostly-lesbian cannot deny it. Opera has also been known to turn my crank, especially that one aria from Faust. Especially when sung by David Staller and Elizabeth Walsh in the Kopit version of Phantom of the Opera. It's like honey turned into sound.

32. Forget the actors themselves. Which film characters would you have sex with, given the chance?

Uh, again, Graverobber. Frank N' Furter. Erik. Dirk Pitt. Oh fux they're all men. I actually can't think of a single female film character that I would have sex with. The film industry either makes them whores, or pairs them with men so dramatically that I can't wedge them apart in my mind. Maybe the girl from The Princess Bride, Buttercup. She was lovely in the best way I like women to be (that is, handsome and somehow masculine without being butch) and was implied in the book to have had brief experience with women.
If we're talking novels, then... Mildmay of Sarah Monette's brilliant series. Again, Erik (the Phantom). Emilio Sandoz.

[I... just realized that I've never had a fantasy (I mean, sexual fantasy, i.e. sexual daydream) where I was doing something with a woman. I fantasized about Zepp, which she knows about, but there was never a time that I actually visualized us doing anything. Ack! I've fantasized about the males I know but never the females! Something is terribly wrong with this situation! I am a horrible mostly-lesbian! *cries*]

33. Be honest, this is for posterity. Have you ever achieved orgasm?

No. Not quite. But this level of "not quite" is a far, far, far cry from the "you're supposed to have feeling down there?" level I was at mere months ago.

34. Have you ever had a one night stand?

No, and while I probably will at some point in my life, I'll probably prefer a friends-with-benefits situation to bedding down with a stranger or acquaintance for one night and one night only. Excepted circumstances may include strange experiments that I wouldn't want to inflict on FWB's. Or something.

And, as we end on a marvelously 4chan-y note (note the last number!), I shall bid my followers adieu... as well as remind the C.O.F followers that if they don't complete this survey, I will plant unpleasant things in their sock drawers. (I'd threaten to molest them in dark alleyways, but with the group I know, that would be more like a reward.)

In Which the Storyteller's Own Story Gains Plot Conflict

2009-10-11T09:55:00.001-07:00

I've been feeling strangely depressed lately.

I thought it was due to the insomnia I was having a week ago, but when the insomnia went away, the depression stayed with a vengeance. It came with apathy -- a lack of desire to do any of the things that normally made me happy, which means I've basically wiggled my way into an emotional dead end.

I thought, Maybe it's the household. Certainly Sister isn't causing any problems; rather, we're back to the same-old-same-old with my parents. If I show affection to my father, my mother gets jealous, vindictive, and childish. If I try to show affection to my mother, even isolated from her tantrums, she slaps me in the face by using it as an opportunity to remind me of something that 'needs' doing -- usually something inane regarding her cat. I've taken to leaving the house more than usual, which has put a huge strain on my schoolwork, since I have to be sitting down with quiet and an internet connection to do it.

Then I thought, Maybe it's because I'm not eating well. Going out with the Serious Crew usually means that bad or fatty foods are my first or easiest or cheapest option, which has, if nothing else, resulted in just enough weight gain to annoy me. The second I get a better sports bra, I'm going to be out there on the roads -- I'm tired of being tired, of being a sedentary geek child who can't run a mile without stopping. My current level of fitness, if I went into the Navy now, would result in failing the medical tests. Ergo, get back out there, Storyteller.

(Today, right now, my father is running another marathon. My 61 year old father, my hero and my heart, is trying to qualify for Boston, which means he has to run over forty kilometers in four hours. I honestly believe he can do it.)

I thought, Maybe I'm just nervous about NaNoWriMo coming up.

I thought, Maybe it's because three people have been killed in the area over the last week.

I thought, Maybe...

And then I stopped myself. I thought, "Well, maybe you're just depressed. Do you need a reason? Do you need something to blame it on? Maybe you're just not happy with yourself. In that case, what are you going to do about it?"

I don't know. I have no idea. I used to think that at a certain point, I would be forevermore happy with the person I was, and that I would talk about depression as a thing that happened to me a long time ago, instead of something that leaped out on me unexpectedly from dark alleyways. The people around me seem to be happy with the person I am -- I haven't heard otherwise, at least, and most of them I trust to tell me if there was something grating in my personality.

I've always thought in a "they're more important than me" model, at least in accordance with people I like to have around me. I'm a hypocrite, I know -- close friends know that I view humans in general, especially the rampant trend of young, inexperienced mothers having lots of babies for no reason, as a cancer that is eventually going to destroy the only livable world we know of. I know how my thought process started: when I was young, and my family or peers would happily suggest something fun to do, inevitably I didn't want to do it, and their excitement would give way to moodiness because I couldn't elucidate my reasoning. I learned to say yes to the things they suggested, because I wanted to make them happy. Now, I understand people a lot better, and that situation happens rarely because I'm able to express myself adequately, but the conditioning still remains. I feel like my friends' opinions matter more than mine -- that I can't suggest something to do or raise my opinion, because no one will think it's valid. I know it isn't true, but I can't help always having that fear in the back of my mind, reminding me that the people I see as friends don't see me as a friend... that they patronize me and pity me behind my back. I know it isn't true, but I can't help that mindless paranoia. This is the reason that I don't speak up when I'm angry, or when I want to spend time alone with someone away from the group -- my mind tells me that they don't want to hear my concerns, or that they'd rather spend time with the group or their significant other, and that I'm worth less than the rest. It isn't self hatred -- I don't see myself as less worthy. I don't hate who I am, or what I look like, because I know I'm a work in progress. The problem lies in my perception of other people.

I uncovered this realization while thinking about why I was depressed, and I noticed that this was a part of it. I've been feeling lonely despite being surrounded by wonderful people, because of this skewed perception of how my friends think. I used to be able to work with 'lonely' -- I thrived in it. But now, after being a member of an elite group like the Serious Crew, after being one of only a few members of a private, self-sustaining religion, I can't go back to that solitary lifestyle that I used to thrive under. Yet, I still hold the same paranoia that sustained my anxiety and depression, at least in part, since I was a small child. Back then, it was obvious that my perception was correct -- some parents forced their children to invite me to parties and to invite me to their houses, some children 'befriended' me so that they could build my trust then break it (a phenomenon that is apparently hilarious to young children), and some honestly thought they were my friends while condemning me to eternal suffering because I wasn't holy enough. I was never good enough for people until high school, but by that time, when I had changed my self perception to include self-hatred, when I started wearing contacts to be 'pretty' so that I would, in my skewed view, collect this strange phenomena known as "friends", it was too late. I already 'knew' that the way to get friends and social acceptance was to put everyone I met on a pedestal, refuse no request, and if all else failed, beat a tactical retreat and resign myself to hermitage.

Being a part of the Serious Crew has helped heal a lot of these self imposed chains. People go out of their way to cheer me up, bring me Playboy when I'm bedridden, and remind me frequently that I'm a valued individual. This is why it perplexes me that this neurosis still upsets my thought patterns and has the ability to send me into a paranoid next-door universe, where friends are in fact philanthropic individuals who see it as their duty to take me under their wing, pityingly, and let me have a few good moments in their presence before flying off.

When I was young, I went through a phase where I wanted pity. I would have done anything to get it. This was the point where I was still confusing friendly affection for romantic desire, and still had no idea how to conduct myself socially. I don't want pity anymore, or the affection that comes from the need to help something weaker. I don't really talk about my mental hospital days anymore, and I'm cagey about mentioning any stories about the days where I cut myself for attention. I'm not that person anymore. I inked that promise indelibly into my shoulders. But a part of the person I was still remains, even in the tiniest oil skim on the surface of my mind, and it surfaces occasionally in larger bubbles that disrupt the normal flow of my life.

On Fiction: Some Thoughts

2009-10-04T23:13:00.000-07:00

Zeppelinphan wrote a very interesting post about fiction and happy endings, which, of course, got me thinking.

My opinion on this is complicated. Well written fiction, for me (I'm not saying this is or should be the standard for anyone) is judged thusly:

At the least, it should make me think, and at the most, it should completely rearrange my personal paradigm and way of looking at the world -- in a nutshell, it has to change me in some form.
It should make me feel good. And I don't mean in the everything-has-a-happy-ending-and-all-the-loose-ends-are-tied-up sort of way; if, after finishing the book, I feel depressed about the state of the world, or if I feel hatred towards myself or the people in the story, for instance, then I believe the author has done a bad job. It's easy to write discouraging material (it seems to be instinctual) but it is very, very difficult to write uplifting material that touches many people irregardless of their social status, gender, religion, etc. Fiction shouldn't make you think, "Wow, the world really sucks and there's nothing I can do about it." Fiction should make you think, "Wow, this place sucks sometimes, but despite its 'sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it's still a beautiful world'."
I have to like it. And again, this isn't just in a warm-and-fuzzy-book-enjoyment sort of way, this involves me being actively enthralled by the characters, the setting, and the plot, enough to make me feel a range of empathy for the fictional creations. If I'm constantly angry at the characters, or irritated by the setting, again, I consider the author to have failed in some light.

Zeppelinphan's post made me think about one of my all-time favorite novels by one of my all-time favorite authors: In The City of Shy Hunters by Tom Spanbauer. This is one of the more discouraging books I own, detailing a bisexual man's journey through New York during the big AIDS scare of the 80's. People die -- they die of AIDS, slowly, or they die of drug overdoses, or they kill themselves, or they kill each other. Two of the most heart-wrenching scenes are also the most beautiful. In one, the drag queen Rose ties up a priest and implies that he's either going to shoot him or set him on fire. In the other, as a riot engulfs the city, the main character steals a horse, snatches up his barely-alive and completely crazy friend, and gallops into the sunset. The reason these scenes are so beautiful in the most horrible way, is the absolute conviction and power in the writing style. So while Will is dying of god knows what, and Fiona is dying of ten different things, and Rose and Rudy and everyone else is dead, the white stallion is carrying them out of the carnage, and they are triumphant. It's wonderful. It's a happy ending, although it barely meets the criteria... and where it doesn't meet the criteria, it completely warps it.

So why is it a happy ending? Despite all the brutality and the scenes that just make you want to weep, why is it still a good book, by my standards?

Because it makes you feel good.

Will goes through the entire book looking for one thing, and what he finds is the most awful result possible -- and yet his is a story of triumph and beauty. The thing is, though, that fiction is an escape. Millions of people can spend thousands of years studying literature, but fiction is a medium that is designed to enthrall and entertain. It should remind you of the real world, in some small way, but it shouldn't rely on real world standards and physical laws and means of growth. So Will's personality, with the gravest fool's dignity and ability to retain sanity while strung out and naked in a sewer with his friend's corpse, is a vehicle by which the escapism of fiction runs its course. The unreal atmosphere -- performing a Hippodrome Stand on a galloping white stallion in the middle of a New York city riot composed of dying gays and lesbians, for instance -- is the very stuff fiction needs to be good. If, that is, it is written by a competent author. The best authors can make LSD hallucinations feel real, tangible, believable. Words on a page, in the hands of a skilled wielder, can be the most powerful impetus for change, both on a personal and a group level. Bestsellers, book club reads, stories that are popular not because the author's name is on them but because they're actually spectacular, are so beloved because they manage to touch many people of astonishingly different backgrounds using the same scene, the same characters, and the same words, for the same reasons. Sharing a literary obsession is one of the most powerful bonding experiences I've ever witnessed, and is equally one of the most powerful bonding experiences I've ever felt.

I believe humanity has been hard-wired for stories since we came down from the trees, so to speak, and that really, any story will do. But the good stories, the very best stories, are the ones that capture us completely in their webs, and leave us smiling, however sadly, at the end.

Some Things Of Note

2009-09-30T12:29:00.000-07:00

It's Banned Books Week! Go buy a controversial book, or read a banned favorite again. I'm doing my part by reading Lolita again (oh yes how surprising) and am also planning on buying a frequently banned book today -- most likely Chbosky's The Perks of Being a Wallflower, which has been challenged for years because of homosexuality, teenage sexuality, drugs, suicide, and for being "inappropriate for the age group."

Books I own that have been banned or challenged at some point in history:

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
Ulysses by James Joyce
Chaucer's Canterbury Tales
Leaves Of Grass by Walt Whitman
Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe
Gone With The Wind by Margaret Mitchell
The Well of Loneliness by Radcliffe Hall
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
Alice In Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
Catch 22 by Joseph Heller
Flowers For Algernon by Daniel Keyes
Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston
Hamlet by William Shakespeare
Dubliners by James Joyce
King Lear by William Shakespeare
Macbeth by William Shakespeare
The Satanic Bible by Anton LaVey
The Necronomicon by H.P. Lovecraft
All of Tom Spanbauer's novels
Maurice by E.M. Forster
Orlando by Virginia Woolf
The Sleeping Beauty series by Anne Rice
The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde
Juliette by the Marquis de Sade
Dante's Divine Comedy
The Gates of Janus by Ian Brady

Other things I wanted to address!

NANOWRIMO:
Sign-ups open tomorrow... who's with me? I hope to get a couple members of the Serious Crew on board with me, but since most of them either have full time jobs or full time school, the prospect is unlikely. I'm betting if I koosh Xethavosh enough, though, he might give it a shot. Maybe Pupperr, because she's a pretty prolific writer anyway -- and CharlieWilcox, who has never done NaNoWriMo officially but writes novels in a month for fun. Sister, would you be interested? It's made of sheer insanity and awesome, which should pique your omg-radar.

For those who aren't participating, I expect you to egg on those who are. :P

SURPRISES:
Anyone going to Serious Coffee on Saturday is going to get a bit of a shock -- except for Zeppelinphan and Sister, who have already seen the crazy things I do to myself and take them completely in stride.

ART PART ONE:
Everyone needs to get on my case about posting that huge backlog of sketches when I have some free time. Holy shit.

ART PART TWO:
The Christmas Artisans Exhibit is coming up fast! I won't have any paintings in it this year, but I MAY have some super awesome knitted things. I'll post updates on when and where all this will be going on -- as far as I know so far, the show will be open from October 24th to December 23rd. The big "if" basically depends on me being able to pay the registration fee, and actually getting into the show... it looks as though they're limiting it to thirty participants this year, so I'm going to have to act fast.

Profit!

2009-09-24T23:28:00.001-07:00

I seriously find the weirdest things when I'm cleaning my desk. (Cleaning is a relative term, seeing that it ends up being about as messy as before, but at least I know where everything is afterward.) This snippet was written on a piece of blue paper. I vaguely remember writing it while very drunk, at something like 2am.

1. Ignore the hangover.
Fuck the hangover.
Be the hangover.
Wait, not such a good idea.

2. What Would Eris Do?

3a. Shower.

3b. Shave.

4. Breakfast.

5. Essay of Win

6. Irn Bru

7. ???

8. Profit!

Anyway, I wasn't able to retrieve the post that Blogger ate, so I'm going to try to rewrite it from my rather faulty memory. Either that, or I'll just save the ideas for future blog posts. My next post is likely to be about that most crazy of crazy ideas... NANOWRIMO! Aw yeah, baby, it's almost November!

I Think Eris Is Controlling The Intarspheres

2009-09-21T23:05:00.000-07:00

Blogger definitely just ate one of the best posts I've ever written.

I think I'm going to go cuddle Superthulhu and cry myself to sleep.

Why do you hate me, internet? Why?

Come Soon, Winter!

2009-09-13T20:56:00.001-07:00

It was disgustingly hot today. Seriously, September. Let's make with the autumn winds and freezing rain already.

Between being sick, dealing with more-of-the-same from AP Lit, and general crazy shit, I haven't had time to think about making blog posts. I'm still trying to decide whether having a blog is even worth it, because anything worth posting is invariably something I don't feel comfortable sharing, so this journal has become a series of useless news posts that don't really have any relevance. At least the training AP Lit is giving me means that I may be able to start writing professional sounding reviews on here soon.

Until then, let us continue.

READING:

Anathem by Neal Stephenson. I don't usually buy books sight unseen, but the few chapters of his other work Cryptonomicon were so succinct, brilliant, and hilarious that I'm going to trust him. So far, so good. It's about a guy in a semi-fantasy setting who lives in a cloistered sanctuary for mathematicians, scientists, and philosophers. Sounds like my dream locale!
The Book of Eris by (I think) Reverend Verethaine the Goth. More Discordian loveliness -- how surprising.
The Fabric of the Cosmos by Brain Greene, which is, of course, about space and science.

BOOKS I ENJOYED RECENTLY:

Variable Star, by Robert Heinlein and Spider Robinson. So good, so funny, so full of awesome. I expected to hate the hell out of this one -- I mean, Robert Heinlein starts it and anyone finishes it, and it's going to be crap, right? Wrong. Because Spider Robinson wins at life. (For the record, his book Very Bad Deaths was also very good.)
The Principia Discordia. No explanation needed.

WRITING:
I guess it's just something about the multiple ways I can play with a dreadlock-bedecked intellectual and the Prince of Darkness, but this project still hasn't made me bored. There's so many aspects to their relationship, both in and out of bed, that makes it completely irresistible -- control play, Stockholm Syndrome, psychosis, daimonic non-logic parallels, the ethics of having a barely pubescent girl running around with the Devil and his Boy...!

ART:
I got nothin'. Nothing after that, ahem, much less than PG-13 sketch most of you have already seen, that is!

HEALTH:
I really hate being sick. Blek. Thank all things unholy, I am back on my feet with a vengeance.

BRAIN:
I'm making my mind up about various things -- some of which are relatively new, and some of which have been tossed around for the better part of a year. One of those things will be resolved soon, likely before the new year is upon us, and as for the rest of it... well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

SCHOOL:
Yadda yadda blah blah I am a student and I am complaining, one point assignments can suck my dick, yadda yadda.

EXCITING THINGS:
...are staying secret for the time being. I know, I bet you're all just dying of curiosity. *sarcasm*

NOT SO EXCITING THINGS:
I don't know, maybe I'm just naturally hard to shock, or maybe I'm jaded -- several years on the deepest slum-pits of the internet can do that to you -- but I just don't find that I can enjoy a lot of books or material that is supposed to turn people on or shock them. I watched a staggeringly graphic documentary on snuff the other day while eating a meal, and it didn't effect me. Which, while it sets me up for a great career as an autopsy technician, still doesn't seem particularly psychologically healthy. I guess I've built up a seriously intense resistance to the lewdest pornography and the most disgusting crime photos through brain-breaking eye reps, or something. Whatever it is, my old shrinks would probably have some choice words for it.

Then again, I have the same problem with throwing novels at the wall if they don't meet my excruciating standards for good plot and excellent use of the English language, so maybe it just boils down to me being excessively picky. (For the record, I see Joyce's irreverent mis-use of the language as being just as relevant as Tolkien's pedanic exactitude. It's a matter of whether they could switch places. It's one thing to abuse language for literary purposes, and quite another to abuse language because you don't know any better.)

MISCELLANEOUS:
I love my job. Finished everything the boss told you to do? Can't clean the store any further because it's spotless? Bored out of your mind? Read that $400 book on an early 1900's study of the canals of Mars, or polish silver worth more than your left kidney. Never a dull moment.

TOMORROW:
Going in to write a test and possibly pick up my Math 11 course. Oh god. Hold me. Also, due to my severe loathing of modern technology, the fact that I may be getting a new phone is not making me ecstatic (since I'll have to learn to use the damn thing all over again) -- but at least it'll save me about $10 a month. Which is a lot when you have one weekend job.

Adventures in Win and Fail

2009-09-03T09:41:00.000-07:00

Zeppelinphan and CharlieWilcox, if you see this, go away. :P

I thought I'd make a post while slowly getting ready to surprise said crazies at the airport. Today at 11:15 (I think -- I hope!) they return safely from San Francisco, and I will be there to greet them with an epic WELCOME HOME sign!

So, a few quick things.

READING:
A book of lesbian short stories from all eras of history. Judging from the introduction, it's going to be good stuff that isn't 100% erotica for once. Erotica is nice (when done right, which is rarely), but sometimes you just get tired of it, y'know?

WRITING:
The story about the Devil and the Boy -- which, incidentally, needs a title -- has utterly taken over my brain. Half of my dreams are about it, for goodness sake! It's taken a remarkably disturbing turn, which is awesome, because I didn't even have to do any mental calisthenics to provide a creepy plot twist. Barely sanctioned pedophilia, my arch-nemesis... we meet again.

ART:
I drew something that could probably be constituted as "smut", especially if you compare it to what I considered to be pornographic drawings when I was younger. (I.e., two half naked girls making bedroom eyes at each other. Not. Exactly. Porn.) Of course, it's about the recent story, but the great part is that it not only looks good, I managed to draw dreadlocks that don't look like radioactive caterpillars. Huzzah!

You guys will have to speak up if you want to see this one, in person or scanned or whatever, because it's currently in a hiding place and will stay in a hiding place lest innocent eyes should stumble across it. I mean, there isn't anything you wouldn't see in the average "movie theater sex scene" (which is very little), but it's obvious what they're doing.

HANDICRAFTS ON THE GO:

A triangle shawl, for the show.
A hat, maybe for the show.
A lacy (!) stole made out of variegated sock wool (!!) that has the most beautiful colours I've ever seen, but goes against everything I ever learned about knitting -- probably for the show.
A simple cotton cloth, for this charity that sends knitted dishcloths to African midwives. I know, it's a weird niche... don't ask me, I'm just making them.

Also, I've joined the local knitting group that meets every Wednesday night at Beacon Yarns, which comprises a lovely group of talented women.

EXCITING THINGS:
I turn nineteen in exactly two months. Holy shit, guys. Holy shit.

STUPID THINGS:
SIDES is giving me six different excuses for why my due dates aren't posted for my Advanced Placement course, and when the course actually ends. First I heard June, then July, and now fucking January. If everything is due in January, I am fucked. Most literally. I thought I quit one job so that I could work a little faster, but now it looks like I preternaturally foresaw that I would quit my job so that I could freak the hell out and get an entire University level course finished (not to mention the fact that I'm probably insanely behind already) in four or so months. AUGH!

Ticklish Anatomy

2009-08-29T23:52:00.000-07:00

I really need to have a more consistent update schedule -- especially now that I'm down to one job instead of two. I keep thinking, "Nah, I won't blog about that, it's not interesting enough" or "Nah, all the people who read my blog already know about that" or "Nah, that's too private, I can't share that."

In the interests of my quest to be more interesting and share-y, I will begin with a story.

So, I was watching questionable videos the other day. (Not a word.) But, as often happens, I got bored. Zeppelinphan and I found a great way of dispelling boredom a few weeks ago: go onto your average You-Tube variety porn site, type something random into the search bar, and voila, instant lulz. For the life of me, I can't remember what I typed, but what I ended up watching was the blooper reel from a porno that wasn't on the website. The premise was, the director went up to one of his gay actors and said, "We're making a movie where you have sex with a guy," to which the gay actor replied something to the effect of 'same shit different day sounds fun let's film'. Next, the director went to one of his famous (and, it must be noted, straight) actors and said, "We're making a movie where a guy has sex with you. Double your rate." The straight guy was like, "Uhhh wait what?" and eventually agreed for sheer shits and giggles.

Anyway, to make a long story short, the bloopers were several kinds of hilarious, but mainly because of one scene. The two guys are doing their thing, and all of a sudden Straight Man starts chuckling... then chortling... then laughing hysterically. Gay Man is like, "Dude, what's so funny? Seriously, what? Is it something I'm doing?" Straight Man, at this, starts laughing even harder -- which, given the reason, makes it even worse. All of a sudden Gay Man realizes the problem and is ultimately awarded Best Line Of The Week:

"Man, talk about the worst possible time to find out you have a ticklish prostate."

Somebody else had to yell "CUT!" because the director was laughing too hard to say it.

****************

READING:

Lesbian Erotica, a Mammoth Books collection. More about this later.
The Principia Discordia, still. So full of awesome.
The Earth Path by Starhawk. I know, I know. It's actually one of her better works by far.

WRITING:
I'm pretty sure that I've decided on my NaNoWriMo project for this year. That story about the Devil and the Boy (both of whom have names now, shocking) is growing more appealing on a vast number of levels, and not the least because I get to write really psychologically brain-breaking coitus. I mean, come on. Where else am I going to get to write about insanity, metaphysical politics, supernatural mindfucks, and and the Devil getting topped by a young, dreadlocked ex-Catholic? Nowhere, that's where.

ART:
My paintings are back from the show! Two are going to a new home in October, and one to zeppelinphan whenever she wishes to purchase it. No terrible rush, dear. I know San Fran has diminished your bank account. So, I have one painting left that I'm not willing to sell -- i.e., my best piece to date -- and one other piece I think is rather good but not something I want to keep especially. If anyone is interested in buying one of my paintings at a greatly discounted price, now is the time to speak up.

TEXTILES:
I have learned how to make quick, easy, fun, $2-cost-to-me-with-$8-profit hats, through knitting. Also, shawls are suddenly everyone's favorite thing. If they don't sell in the next show (which in all honestly will not make me a terribly great amount of money, after show fees), I'll still have a couple of gorgeous shawls to switch around. Or give as Christmas gifts. Or whatever. God, I love Homespun yarn.

BLOGGING SCHEDULE:
I'm planning out a few posts, but none have really come to literary fruition. So, dear readers, would anyone be more or less interested in...

A review of the various erotic novels and short story collections I own?
Discussion about queer sexuality, mostly where it applies to me?
Discussion about my bizarre, internet-warped form of spirituality?
An art post, including photos of the paintings from the show?
Something I haven't mentioned that would make a quick and dirty blog post? (Emphasis on the dirty. Or, y'know, just something fun.)

SCHOOL:
The course is still up in the air. I have no due dates! Half the reason I signed up for the course was because of the due dates, and now I have no idea whether I'm going too fast or too slow or what. It needs to be paced correctly, or else I'll finish too early and screw myself over for the final exam, or I'll finish late and be even more screwed. AUGH, LIT.

On the upside, I basically get to make my own textbooks, so there is a 15-volume stack of the 1939 Cambridge History of English Literature sitting on my floor, awaiting perusal and drool.

WORK:
I have discovered few stranger feelings than the my-boss-called-and-said-I-didn't-need-to-work-today feeling. On one hand, you're like, "Yay! No work! I can relax or study or go shopping or whatever!" And then on the other you're like, "Fuck, now I'm out a hypothetical $45."

Also, I have learned that I am not built for two jobs, schoolwork, and epic crafting preparation. Whew. Am... SO tired. I've had a record number of nights without insomnia simply because of sheer exhaustion, which is both good and bad. (Obviously, it wasn't terribly healthy on my part, even if I got a lot of sleep and a lot of stuff done.) I can blame this on the fact that I never learned a work ethic as a kid, or the fact that I was constantly ill for something like twelve years, or how it's so easy for me to be constantly mentally exhausted but not realize it until my body catches up with it, or whatever. Point is, I'm probably going to be one of those students who separates work and school months -- which, in the long run, is probably not the best thing, but I'm not sure how much of a choice I'll have in the matter unless my physiology does an about-face.

EXCITING THINGS:
I've been hanging out with Muse and Xethavosh a lot more often lately! Yay for geeky video gaming friends. I love the Serious Crew to death, but sometimes I can only take so much gossip and stories about work before I snap and start muttering about hit points and Bethesda physics engines.

Speaking of which, Team Fortress 2 calls. Good night, my loves!

Hello, Intarwebs

2009-08-16T11:20:00.000-07:00

I don't know why my blog has been so empty lately. I'm not completely strapped for time -- if I have the wherewithal to play "I've Never" with friends (and fruit cocktail instead of booze) for three hours, I have time to make blog posts. On the same note, it's not like I have a lack of things to talk about.

I think part of it boils down to simple laziness -- I could substitute the word "tiredness" here, but it wouldn't ring quite as true -- and part of it to a strange form of personal greed, of not wanting to share pieces of myself with others. I've been treating secrets like currency, lately. I don't know how I feel about it.

Anyway, let's get down to business.

READING:

Just finished Daimonic Reality for the third time, and started The Philosophers' Secret Fire last night -- the sequel to the former. Daimonic Reality is one of my favorite books, a treatise on the paranormal and Jungian philosophy. Finding out that the author had another, similar work was like finding out that someone just made a sugar-free ice cream product without aspartame.
The Illuminatus! trilogy by Robert Anton Wilson and Robert Shea. It continues to be, on the third reading, just as brain-damaging and fucked up as the last two times. And, speaking of Discordian literature...
The Principia Discordia; Or How I Found The Goddess And What I Did To Her When I Found Her. It's pretty much required reading for anyone who thinks the Discordians should win several awards for awesome. I've never met another Discordian in the flesh, but those that I've "met" online have been a group of the funniest, most eccentric individuals I have ever laid eyes on. (Relatedly, something I forgot to mention, is that I had a few of my 'mindfuck' suggestions published in a Discordian newsletter sort of deal. Exciting stuff!)

WRITING:
Not a word. The new short story idea bombed, and the others are waffling frantically between "useful plots" and "insipid daydreams."

ART:
I have retroactively sold my first two paintings! One to the sweet Wiccan clerk at the Arts Center, and one to zeppelinphan. Once the paintings are out of the show, I'll be selling all but one at greatly reduced prices, if anyone was interested in one but couldn't afford the art show rates...!

SCHOOLWORK:
I dropped one of my two jobs so that I can go crazy on this. I will have substantially less money for a while, but I hope to finish two of the courses in the meantime, which will make things a lot easier in the long run. Additionally, my manager at the job I'm leaving said unequivocally that I was welcome back in the future should I need work -- especially around Christmas when they need to hire a lot of help. In the foreseeable future, I'll be (hopefully) working at least one day a week at the antique store, finishing the Comparative Civilizations course (finally), and starting the (shudder) Math 11 course along with my APELit -- that's short for Advanced Placement English Literature, or Ape-Shit Crazy Lit, whichever strikes your fancy.

JOB:
For the record, it was very difficult for me to turn in my two weeks notice at Job #1. I've made friends there, and I couldn't ask for a better pair of managers. I've been treated with excessive kindness and respect, and learned more than I ever imagined about the working world. When the opportunity emerges for me to return, I most likely will make every attempt to go back.

EXCITING THINGS:
It was H.P. Lovecraft's birthday on August 20th! (Depending on when this post is finished, that's either today or yesterday.) Thanks for reminding me, Muse! I shall reread my short story collections and hug Superthulhu in commemoration. Note to self: acquire more Lovecraft plush dolls when funds allow.

NOT-SO-EXCITING THINGS:
My sleep schedule has gone from a reasonable 1am-to-10am sleep cycle (barring some work days, where it ended up being a 1am-to-8:30am sleep cycle) to a potentially disastrous 3am-to-noon-except-when-it's-3am-to-8:30am barely-there sort of cycle. I hate missing half the day. It doesn't matter if I get ten hours of sleep -- if I wake up after 11am, my brain is toast.

COLLECTING:
My skull family is now not so much a nuclear group as an extended reunion with all the cousins in attendance. Nineteen! Ahh! I'm turning into the COF version of a crazy cat lady!

THOUGHT OF THE DAY:
We have been raised, trained almost, to expect poverty and disgrace from our world -- and yet there are places so beautiful that to see them, even in real life, even with both feet touching the ground, we wouldn't believe our eyes. Places created by nature and men alike, and some places only made beautiful by some strange combination of the two. I believe that if our existence is due to some deity's introduction, it is a vain deity -- if it exists, perhaps we are here only to marvel at the things it created. What better audience could an artist want than an audience created by one's own hands?

There is one thing we forget more often than the presence beauty. Yes, the world is full of sadness and horror -- but sadness, in itself, can sometimes be just as beautiful.

Damn You CakeWrecks

2009-08-09T22:31:00.001-07:00

Guys.

Guys.

If I ever, under some strange and unnatural series of circumstances, end up with a fetus of some variety that contains my DNA...

I want THIS cake for the baby shower.

Not even kidding.

Hair Of The Dog

2009-08-09T11:36:00.001-07:00

Bryi staggers out into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes.

Bryi: "Morning."
Mother: "Did you sleep well?"
Bryi: "Actually, yeah. And despite working ten and a half hours then drinking like a pirate -- which probably amounted to a good quart of rum -- I've only got a small headache."

Bryi takes one ibuprofen to clear the cobwebs.

Bryi: "Now, I heard this thing once, that eating salty food is supposed to help both drunkenness and hangovers. Which didn't make sense to me at the time, because I also heard that hangovers are caused by dehydration of some kind, but apparently the salt absorbs the alcohol or something."
Mother: "I haven't heard that one. Of course, everyone knows of the 'hair of the dog' one."
Bryi: "Yeah, the Russians have a word for that."
Mother: ???
Bryi: "No, really!"

Bryi goes to room, pulls out handwritten sheaf of papers, flips a couple of pages.

Bryi: "Pohmelyatsya; the act of sobering up by drinking more, or drinking to ease the pain of hangover."
Mother: "Only the Russians."
Bryi: "I wouldn't expect the inventors of vodka to be any less."

Father walks in, takes a sip of tea with a perplexed look.

Mother: "If they made a word for it, it has to work."

Mother opens cupboard, turns around, proffers a bottle.

Mother: "Here, have some Captain Morgan!"
Bryi: "THIS IS NOT A RUSSIAN HOUSEHOLD!"

Father chokes on tea and walks out again, muttering something about the virulence of Galician bloodlines.