Thursday, November 13, 2008

There's me, and then there's the other me...

I certainly don't have multiple personalities, but I have multiple writing personalities.

My more well-known personality is the driving force behind a humor site, a sports blog, and a bunch of sports-related articles. She's funny and snarky, and lots of people read her stuff. She's fun, funny, and upbeat.

I can't be that person when I'm writing this story.

That world is too normal. I can't be there while writing this.

I've taken time off from work to write the story; instead, I keep getting assignments for sports-related pieces. Which I love writing. I have a fan base there.

I need to be writing this story.

I'm trying to induce some inspiration. Sasha and Riley have been too quiet lately. I slathered on some scented lotion that reminds me of someone. White musk. Reminds me of twilight in the park, holding hands after sharing the first of several kisses. The sky was purple and the city was aglow. There was magic there on that spring night.

That magic, gained and then lost, is part of what inspired this story. But it's more than that--so much more.

I'm terrified of losing that. I need to write about it.

I need to be Bellamy Cole again.

Sunday, November 2, 2008


It's been an awful weekend for me, personally. There's this boy, and there's a character in my story who's loosely based on said boy. Boy is missing and I seem to be the only one worried. I went to his place in the ghetto to find him. To my knowledge, nobody has seen him since yesterday morning. I have not heard from him since 2 AM yesterday morning, and the last message I received from him was disturbing and gave me cause to worry. That, and the fact that we had plans last night, was the reason I went into his ghetto-ass neighborhood, by myself, to find him. I couldn't find him. Neither could anyone else who lived there. His room is dark; his door is locked. It's unclear whether he's simply not there or if he is in there. He would not answer his phone for anyone. He has still not returned my frantic calls and messages. I'm scared. I'm terrified for him, and to some degree I'm scared for me. What if something bad has happened? What if he's hurt? How will I go on? How will this story ever get finished? Normal people...would not understand what he and I have, but I know. (I keep putting things in the past tense, and then going back and present tensing them. I have no proof that anything is past tense. I just have a bad gut feeling.) If I ever find out that he was in there, and hurt, when I was downstairs, outside...I will never forgive myself. I wanted to tell his friend to bust into his room, just see if he's there, or get the building's super, but those are not rational things to say. Then again, I'd rather be looked upon as irrational then as someone who didn't do enough. I did all I felt I could handle at the moment, though. And I'm hoping that wherever he is, he's OK, and that I hear from him soon.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Coloring outside of the lines.

I keep training myself to look at writing characters like how a small child would color.

Too often, if there's someone who partially inspires a character, I find myself unconsciously trying to paint that character within the solid black lines of what that real person is like. Then I become frustrated. Doing something creative, like writing a character, needs to be an action unfettered by limits. I want to take my pastels or charcoals and scribble wild circles of color and dust. But every time I start doing that, I start getting these niggling little thoughts at the back of my head ("He wouldn't say that!" "She hasn't done that!" "He'd never say it that way!") that make me stop scribbling for a moment...and consequently lose the moment.

It's difficult, but necessary, to distinguish personal inspiration from the actual fictional character that it inspires. It's vital to constantly remind yourself that yes, this is what the real person is like, but that doesn't mean your character must be like that, too. Your character can be whoever you want him to be, whoever you paint him as--and you sure as hell don't want a carbon copy of an actual living, breathing person, do you? The point of creating a character is to breathe life into him, to see his cheeks flush up with blood with every sentence he speaks, to see his eyes widen and narrow when he engages in action with another character, to hear his heart pounding during those critical moments. That person--whomever you've based this character on--already has his own life. You need to work on animating the character you're giving life to. And you must remember that because this character is a work of fiction, he must be written as such. Yes, fiction always incorporates some degree of reality to it, but if you're doing it right, it incorporates more imagination than reality.

One thing to always remember that if part of your character inspiration is a living, breathing human being, that person's not going to do what your character's supposed to do. You have to avoid falling into the trap of making your character do what the person has actually done. And god forbid, if that person's in any way involved in your personal life, it's even harder, because you're so emotionally tied to him... He'll do something that you don't want him to do, and you actually start hating your character because you're angry at the person inspiring that character. You can't control him, but you can control your character, and you should take care to control him so that he is his own person, this fusion of your wild imagination and the inspiration behind it all. But the key is imagination. And if you're angry at the person inspiring your character, just know that you can write him so much better...and then do that.

With this one character...I'm going to scribble brilliant colors on top of his solid black lines. I want some of the scribbles to fill in the curved space between the lines, and I want some of the colors to zigzag out of the lines, like lightning bolts, electrifying my little monster a la Victor Frankenstein--only my electricity is words, and my words are colors: the pink and blue of Sea Change, the green of new meadows, the juice of a blood orange, a sanguinal crimson... I will not--will not!--lose these moments.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

My book will contain words, not pictures, thankyouverymuch...

Last night I was asleep in my bed, having the strangest dream. All I can remember is being in a space--not a room, but a space--made up of dark, dark black and yellow, and there was this voice. A male voice. And he suggested, rather cruelly, that instead of actually writing my story, that I should do a book filled with black-and-white pictures of what the story would look like. Images flashed through my head of what those pictures would contain, and I heard him laughing, laughing, laughing...

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Found 'em!

They've been talking in my head all day. The characters, I mean. Not any type of actual voices in my head (promise!). :) Sasha and Riley have been talking. Sasha's been writing. I've been paying attention to these things, to what they're saying.

I've finally figured out where they are. I know what town they're in. I say "town" because it's a suburb of a city. And it is beautiful there.

In this area, it's particularly cold in January. I wonder if, for instance, one of my characters was laying in bed, looking out a slightly opened window, gazing up at the darkness of the sky above this town--would she see any stars there?

I bet she would...