June 10th, 2011

[stock] when in doubt wear red

the byword for this post is either STOP EDITING or START. i cannae tell.

As I said, I've been in rather a fit of pique when it comes to current writing projects. So, shameless vanity feeding would be a bit nice now, actually:


Meantime, I am trying to ameliorate them with the fact that I now have Malory, and am spurring myself on with the I can do better than this! feelings that Malory gives me. That's not much competition in terms of prose style, you say, given that Malory was writing in the fifteenth century? My point, I say, and hush.

Actually, you know what's really funny? This project—or the mess of prose that I have starting it now, the thing I'm trying to push into formation so that the story can get going, that I'm trying to plow into without the instinctual feel I have for periods I've long immersed myself in, without a map of medieval Britain in my head, scrabbling for details in the texts I have but also for intimacy in the texts I have, trying to make sense of a world that they wrote of rather thoughtlessly and which I have to give account to to myself sentence by sentence, yet also trying to make myself breathe and be okay with my imperfect brain as I negotiate a 'verse that in truth gives me a far wider error margin than my historical interests proper, because it's not history, it's legend, and deliciously, maddeningly mutable—

This project, which I thought of as my possible Real Thing for the summer, as opposed to the Indulgent Thing that seemed to push words into being against my will and the story's own inclination, the prose for this project is miles more indulgent than the other. It's making me miss the realism, the effortlessness of modernism; I am ashamed of my own inclinations for floridness here. I tell myself that it's a choice (certainly for the prologue, it's meant to be, to have a cant of myth that I can actively strip away), but it feels like obfuscation. Peculiarly, it's making me proud of the other.

So, well.

Here, have a bit of the other.

(You know, the cryptic demonology sexy magic boarding school project that I keep wittering on about, which I keep not writing about the boarding school. I would write up a post about this nonsense but I don't know how to talk about it except by throwing nouns out on a sort of descriptive fishing line, and also I pretend that if I don't give it credence then my id will barnacle properly to something with a better-thought-out plot.)

(Ugh everyone puts up with too much from my brain. So: DODGY PROSE REWARD~~)

Collapse )

What if—

Oh, god knows. Right now it's, what if I stopped marathoning shows or tearing through bouts of comics, what if I sat down properly and made myself write at length until I hit the end of something?, regardless of what. I miss the way this story grabbed me by the wrist and manhandled me into productive submission, even if there wasn't, and thus far isn't, enough plot-arc construction in what I've written to spread thin across a single piece of toast. Maybe I have too high hopes of what I'm doing now. Or maybe, as is characteristic, I'm simply bogged down in beginning, the uncomfortable fact of the beginning, the way a new-crafted story never feels quite comfortable until you've pushed yourself well into it and end up where you've meant to be without realizing that you've left the beginning behind. I'm a master of shite beginnings. Got to remember that more often.