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razeDoes it say something that anything remotely (and I do mean REMOTELY, to be clear, before anyone worries too much) autobiographical that I write probably needs a trigger warning?
"Are you... drinking?" His forehead bunches with surprise and concern.
"Nah, man," I reply, taking a swig. "I'm getting into character. There's a difference; one's classy, the other's just sad."
If I was writing this third person it'd be damned confusing to follow, because I'd use "he" to describe myself; the fairer sex's pronouns fit like too-small shoes worn on the wrong feet these days - but I digress.
He doesn't like my answer, frowns at my swollen bare feet working through the dog's thick fur idly as I punch at the keyboard, the letters so chipped by my claws that the only ones left are the ones who don't get any attention: q, z, x, and probably the + sign because shit - I'm anything but positive.
"Something happen today?"
I shrug as if to say the usual, so - yes.
"Some days I can slap together a smile convincing enough that it passes. Other days... well, today's an "other" day. Don't worry, love, if I was going to kill myself I'd have done it on the drive home - I was going eighty and there's a lot of things to crash yourself apart on out there." I wink, then groan, "Oh, don't look at me like that, I know I'm a son of a bitch so I don't need a reminder. Now quit worrying - I think I just need to clear my mind - by which I mean drown it," I crack a grin and his frown only deepens. "And maybe escape into some fiction for a while."
Meanwhile, I have a touch of writer's block, so I'm reading! Reading what, you ask?
So after several times of saying, "I have time for a novella, I can read this," I'm finally ACTUALLY reading Shambling Towards Hiroshima. Like everything James Morrow writes, I find it fantastic and silly and clever and probably really, really lacking in the target audience department - which gives me hope that I could get published.
Things the man does well: his wordcraft is, as a general rule, pretty delightful. His banter is witty. He has lines of text that make me go !!!! and grin ear to ear. And he did a bang-up job of researching 1920-1950 Hollywood, particularly of the B-movie/monster flick flavor. The narrator is a very convincing representation of an actor as well as a man obsessed with two passions: film, and weapons of mass destruction.
Things he does poorly in this and has done poorly in the past: his dialogue, though fun, is utterly unconvincing. If you can't read his books accepting this stylistic quirk without raging over "but people don't talk this way!" I don't recommend reading it at all. And so far, at least, I'm a little disappointed at how similarly everyone speaks. If he could manage to swing having his characters half as distinct in their voices as they are in their wonderfully but concisely described appearances - I swear, he says so much with so few words - he'd be a really damned solid author.
Regardless: I enjoy his style and can forgive the dialog if I remind myself that everyone using elaborate vocabulary isn't half as unrealistic as gigantic fire-breathing iguana-monsters engineered by the US government and just enjoy the ride.
And tonight:
My objective is to write. Probably not anything canon. I'm in a ridiculously bad mood if you couldn't tell from the first bit - seriously, so bad, guys - so while I am probably in a good headspace to finish that Trent/Andor scene or some of the grim parts of Vol 1, I'm going to try and lighten my mood by blasting music and writing Clare-perspective of her forcing Trent to have some fun - some fun that isn't science or nature related, compliments ofsmws prompt. It'll be to this sort of tone:
Trent frowned, eyes flitting to his computer.
"Sounds like a good time, but I have some data to compile."
Folding my arms over my chest, I narrowed my eyes and asked,
"Are you sure that's it? Are you sure you aren't sick?"
"Sick?" He cocked his head. "Ill-rested, maybe."
"No, that's not it." I leaned closer, pressed the back of my hand to his forehead. "Oh, this is very serious indeed. Let me see..." Hands on his hips, I glanced around his side as he stood stupefied. "Ah-hah!" I circled around, crouched behind him and planted both palms on his buttocks. He jumped, looking over his shoulder wide-eyed.
"What in the hell are you doing?"
"Trent?" I gave him a dire look. "I have some bad news. You have a near-fatal case of stick-up-the-ass."
He scowled for a moment, then snorted, and finally broke out laughing.
"That sounds very serious."
I sprung to my feet, hooking my arm through his.
"It is, but thankfully, there is a very simple cure. Come to the fair with me."
"Are you... drinking?" His forehead bunches with surprise and concern.
"Nah, man," I reply, taking a swig. "I'm getting into character. There's a difference; one's classy, the other's just sad."
If I was writing this third person it'd be damned confusing to follow, because I'd use "he" to describe myself; the fairer sex's pronouns fit like too-small shoes worn on the wrong feet these days - but I digress.
He doesn't like my answer, frowns at my swollen bare feet working through the dog's thick fur idly as I punch at the keyboard, the letters so chipped by my claws that the only ones left are the ones who don't get any attention: q, z, x, and probably the + sign because shit - I'm anything but positive.
"Something happen today?"
I shrug as if to say the usual, so - yes.
"Some days I can slap together a smile convincing enough that it passes. Other days... well, today's an "other" day. Don't worry, love, if I was going to kill myself I'd have done it on the drive home - I was going eighty and there's a lot of things to crash yourself apart on out there." I wink, then groan, "Oh, don't look at me like that, I know I'm a son of a bitch so I don't need a reminder. Now quit worrying - I think I just need to clear my mind - by which I mean drown it," I crack a grin and his frown only deepens. "And maybe escape into some fiction for a while."
Meanwhile, I have a touch of writer's block, so I'm reading! Reading what, you ask?
So after several times of saying, "I have time for a novella, I can read this," I'm finally ACTUALLY reading Shambling Towards Hiroshima. Like everything James Morrow writes, I find it fantastic and silly and clever and probably really, really lacking in the target audience department - which gives me hope that I could get published.
Things the man does well: his wordcraft is, as a general rule, pretty delightful. His banter is witty. He has lines of text that make me go !!!! and grin ear to ear. And he did a bang-up job of researching 1920-1950 Hollywood, particularly of the B-movie/monster flick flavor. The narrator is a very convincing representation of an actor as well as a man obsessed with two passions: film, and weapons of mass destruction.
Things he does poorly in this and has done poorly in the past: his dialogue, though fun, is utterly unconvincing. If you can't read his books accepting this stylistic quirk without raging over "but people don't talk this way!" I don't recommend reading it at all. And so far, at least, I'm a little disappointed at how similarly everyone speaks. If he could manage to swing having his characters half as distinct in their voices as they are in their wonderfully but concisely described appearances - I swear, he says so much with so few words - he'd be a really damned solid author.
Regardless: I enjoy his style and can forgive the dialog if I remind myself that everyone using elaborate vocabulary isn't half as unrealistic as gigantic fire-breathing iguana-monsters engineered by the US government and just enjoy the ride.
And tonight:
My objective is to write. Probably not anything canon. I'm in a ridiculously bad mood if you couldn't tell from the first bit - seriously, so bad, guys - so while I am probably in a good headspace to finish that Trent/Andor scene or some of the grim parts of Vol 1, I'm going to try and lighten my mood by blasting music and writing Clare-perspective of her forcing Trent to have some fun - some fun that isn't science or nature related, compliments of
smws prompt. It'll be to this sort of tone:Trent frowned, eyes flitting to his computer.
"Sounds like a good time, but I have some data to compile."
Folding my arms over my chest, I narrowed my eyes and asked,
"Are you sure that's it? Are you sure you aren't sick?"
"Sick?" He cocked his head. "Ill-rested, maybe."
"No, that's not it." I leaned closer, pressed the back of my hand to his forehead. "Oh, this is very serious indeed. Let me see..." Hands on his hips, I glanced around his side as he stood stupefied. "Ah-hah!" I circled around, crouched behind him and planted both palms on his buttocks. He jumped, looking over his shoulder wide-eyed.
"What in the hell are you doing?"
"Trent?" I gave him a dire look. "I have some bad news. You have a near-fatal case of stick-up-the-ass."
He scowled for a moment, then snorted, and finally broke out laughing.
"That sounds very serious."
I sprung to my feet, hooking my arm through his.
"It is, but thankfully, there is a very simple cure. Come to the fair with me."
