Of Recapitulation

"The best parts of a poet's work, [T.S. Eliot] says, are not those which are the most original, but those in which the voice of his predecessors can be most clearly heard speaking through him" - Peter Barry

This above is a quote from the book I'm reading - Beginning Theory, although I could've done without "beginning" with a little pride (truth isn't always what I'm after; indeed, it appears I am seldom in need for it). It is attributed to T.S. Eliot (although most certainly not a direct quote), and describes his niche of the liberal humanist movement. 

The chapter has by and large introduced various ideas shaping and forming literary theory as it stands today, and perhaps English studies as a whole, many of them based on literature being used not solely as a device for entertainment but also as a spiritual and educational guide. Understandably, of course, considering the time period most of the ideas of that fashion were created, and the concept of literature as entertainment appears to have grown truly first after the heavier waves of the Industrial Revolution. It makes perfect sense, of course; in a time when even the most basic education - being able to read and so on - is a precious privilege, what little written fiction you might have couldn't be spared for such a mundane and superfluous matter as entertainment. And as religion faded and common literacy grew, this emphasis started to move towards a purely spiritual basis, and the idea of literature as nothing but entertainment grew.

Keep in mind, of course, that these are just theories and ideas of single people; they have not attained some kind of global credulity, and they likely never will due to the fact that most of them were laid down by people in the 19th century.

What we thus are led to believe is that writers need to act somewhat of a historian - someone not only wizened by the flow and ebb through the ages, but who is in the very act of preserving it for future generations. Indeed, as literature is often the sole remnant of entire civilizations, their importance in determining the core stanza of lost communities is immenduous. Such as the works of Aristotle, Plato, Socrates et al - and how important they are in basing our own contemporary system of beliefs.

So what Eliot is saying - and what some of his predecessors said before him, suitably - is a vital pointer to what the ancient Greek philosophers must have thought themselves. Remind yourselves of Plato, the eager student, recording many of the conversations that Socrates held with the inhabitants of Athens, and later made immortal through his Socratic dialogues. Whether or not this was indeed Plato's greatest work, as the principle quoted above would hold, we cannot say, but it is surely most of how we understand Socrates, and perhaps more importantly how we understand Plato.

Of course, literature as such held a vividly different place in society before the rise of the printing press, and much later (and far more importantly) common literacy. But it might be worthwhile to remind ourselves once or twice about what our predecessors said, and reflect upon it in what we write.

Of Resplendence

In yesterday's post, I mentioned an "other book". This other book is highly enjoyable and, even though I snatched it from my unread book shelf last night, I have already read through nearly a third. I think you are familiar with it, seeing as it's a rather popular book. It's written by Keith Lowe and goes by the name "Tunnel Vision". On top of that, it's absolutely brilliant.

I expect the book is rather familiar to a lot of people; I had, at least, heard of it prior to getting the book. The essential outline of the plot is this: a man, somewhat of a modern train spotter, undertakes a bet to visit all stops of the London Underground within a day, or 19 hours as it is. The stake is high, and should he fail, he finds himself without money, without a home, and without a wife.

The plot sounds rather shallow, or at least it did to me when I first opened the book. However, it serves perfectly as the stage of a much deeper set of ideas, presented duly throughout the book in heavy metaphors, and the book that could by its synopsis easily be branded a thriller uses that backdrop very sparsely. In fact, when Lowe does, it usually has a rather poor outcome.

Lowe appears to me to have had the ultimate goal of building this world of quite mundane and everyday things, with an underlying net of metaphors and similes. (Usually, when writing reviews, I never go into too many specifics, seeing as by the time it's published none has seen the film, but I'll skip the broad angles now and try to explain just why I like it)

Take, for instance, the main protagonist's relationship to his girlfriend. If going by the adjectives alone, they would appear to be the very worst couple. In the early stages of the book, Rachel, as she is called, is described only in those segments where the protagonist reminisces her critique, her constant insults. So much so that she insists on writing "Idiot" on his forehead the day before their wedding. She's portrayed as a rather mean woman who fails to understand her boyfriend at all.

Equally so when the book starts working the other way around. Andy, the protagonist, is portrayed a complete nerd, never taking eyes off his overrated interest, apparently loving the Underground more than his girlfriend. The frustration is obvious and, despite the protagonist's insistence on not doing so (as the book is written in first person), it's hard to understand why they would ever want to get married in the first place.

But it ends up being a brilliant metaphor. As the books starts gaining momentum and traction, the young couple, despite their differences, travel upon the very same route. The entire journey is, again, a metaphor for the journey of life, which I at first thought of as a long shot, but which throughout the book became all the more evident. And these two opposites travel exactly the same route, one below the ground, and the other on the road. It becomes the most prominent when the two are not only being faced with the embodiment of their own visions of decay, and realize that they're well on the road to being there. A split-second reflection shows Andy to be a nigh copy of the homeless drunkard, and a 

I haven't finished the book, but just how it ends seems obvious. The two, realizing their decay, sees that their wedding towards the end of the book is the sole way to flee this onslaught. Andy, with his hobo companion Brian, notices his own affection for this at first disgusting sight, and how similar he truly is to him. And Rachel, feeling her own aging becoming prominent, finds the wedding day to be the sole way out of this spiral. 

And all of this encased in a scenario that not only reflects modern life, but cities as a whole. Apart from a few obvious bad translations in my Swedish copy of the book, and one or two sections that ought to have been edited out in my eyes (such as climaxing with the over-obvious, as in the first chapter revolving Rachel), the writing's quite good and really does the job of encasing this kind-of-drama in a golden shell.

Thus what appears to be a overrated thriller ends up being a truly well-done book that deserves every ounce of praise it's been given.

Of Perfunctory

It's funny how you get stuck in a certain thought pattern sometimes. Just habits, but not habits as you'd think. Personally, a habit to me is something that you do by semi-conscious choice. Like how I'd always take 13 minutes to shower a couple of years ago, or how I drink excessive amounts of Coke Zero in between lectures. 

However, I noticed a while ago that I could never watch a film without going into some odd kind of analytical mode. I'd always read too much from a film, and I could never watch anything without considering various deeper meanings than the shallow front. Sometimes I'd miss the plot entirely because I was pondering a detail from earlier on. Equally so regarding anything, which became an exercise in endurance whenever a cheap Hollywood flick was the only thing on television.

I expect this habit was largely created during those years of my secondary education where the thing required was an analytical capacity in any occasion. Be it civics, science, even maths - when it came down to it, the important thing to truly succeed was the ability to read between the lines.

I further most expect that everyone does it from time to time - and I would be curious to hear of it. 

The latest such occurence came to me while I was reading, again, my Christmas book on literary theory. Suddenly, my eyes started skipping lines, and I found myself, against my will, skimming the text entirely. I'd noticed it earlier, but then I chalked it up to tiredness, seeing as I had always read it while in bed. This time, however, it was in the bright of day, and I was by no means tired.

Now, as I picked up the other book I had at hand - thinking some light rest from the heavier text would help - I still read as quickly, but the message did, at least, get through. I realized that the manner in which I had been reading was not at all suited to the book I was reading. Subsequently, I dropped the other book, and picked up the literary theory once again. This time, I read every word, every sentence, every paragraph over and over again until I got the hang of it.

It proved easier after a while, provided I concentrate on the text. I guess as I'm writing this that I've simply read far too much in a light way - on the metro, or otherwise fleetingly. In addition, much of what I've read so far has mostly been light, popular literature. I realize with some embarrasment that most of what the occasional academic essay had to tell me has probably passed straight through. As such, I've gotten into a habit of skimming books rather than actually reading them - which becomes quite the obstruction when you're trying to learn something out of anything other than the extremely shallow stuff they hand out in lectures.

This is obviously something I'll have to watch a little. I'll probably re-read much of the last chapter, just to make sure I actually understood what was said. All the same, I start worrying of other habits I might have, that would obstruct daily life without me even noticing it. 

Of Reconditeness

I read a rather fascinating piece from a Swedish author today.

It was an excerpt from a recently published book of poetry, a sort of proletarian view on social criticism - or so the review that was read beforehand wanted to say. The book, in any case, was a rather gruesome view on what was defined as "society's weakest" - retarded, aged, or otherwise handicapped people. The author himself had spent some time working at various retirement homes, and his poetry was a gritty reflection upon those years.

That, however, was not the message at hand.

What struck me as something other than the depressive, horrible collection (horrible in the sense of the content, not the format) of supposedly verisimilitudar pieces (a-hah (you really can't say that, can you...)) was the few texts of self-insight that served as a rather welcome break. While I only quickly looked through some pages, the formatting appeared to change rather drastically between; some were tables, others were pure dialogue, and a select few appeared to be pure prose. Well, prose is a bad word; rather, a self-reflective paragraph, by far more dense than the rest.

And these were the worst. I expect there is no worse social criticism than the one that doesn't speak at all. The writer maxim "show, don't tell" came to its climax right there - he never spoke out, he merely said how it was. And it was so grueling that I could not keep my mind off it for the rest of that week, let alone the single day.

I was reading my book on literary theory the other day, and early on, the author felt compelled to recount the basics of his contemporary English education. They were divided into a set of nine rules, each building on the basis of its predecessor. One of the earlier ones stated that literature had a purpose to share a timeless ideal, an independent narrative enshrouded in the story itself. The underlying message was not to be easily revealed, as is the point of "show, don't tell". And what the Swedish author had written, in his vision of society's weakest, wasn't even based on the underlying message - there, the narrative served as the foundation for it's moral.

It was extremely powerful when I read it. And I'll be on the lookout for clever examples of the same. I expect it's hard to find in mainstream literature, but if there would be just another one of those occasions, I'm game. (And obviously, if you happen to know a piece that fits in this description, I'll be much disappointed if you do not leave me a comment)

It strikes me thus that often when I clarify the idea that drives my characters forward, I do it in the wrong direction. Instead of making it clearer, as in describing the thoughts, the reflections, and the ideas of my protagonist, it appears one should make it more obscure, so as to reveal the message through it's own mundane shroud.

Of Legendary Nativity

Christmas has come to wash over me in various celebrations, most of them with the ultimate aim to produce excuses for exacerbated indulgement, and it is with a tinge of joy that I look over this year's harvest of gifts and, ah, tributes, and realize that there is a lot of literature among it. It is, however, with a contrasting tinge of sadness that I see that my life has led to a neglect of this interest. No, I suppose that is not true; it is merely the blog that has suffered the most. I cannot reminisce whence the initial dismotivation rose, be it my own dissatisfaction with what I wrote, or through the worsened situation in the rest of life.

Yet, however, as I stride through the holidays, my desk littered with everything from "The World in Figures 2009", of The Economist, to Saturated Fats, of McCoy's, I ravage through my bookmarks in an uncharacteristically glum Christmas Day evening and find multitudes of information that have not been even viewed lately. That includes blogs that I have not read, forums that I have not lurked, sites not visited and alternate lives not lived.

I doubt the new year is here to present me with a new, lighter life; to the contrary, what little of it I have been shown seems to indicate that life will only be further burden and inconveniences. If anything, my promise for this year ought to quite simply promise laziness and inactivity; for if anything, my life will in any short run not be embettered by things I find exhausting. Exhaustion is already at the top of my list of symptoms, and I fear that shall I contract any more, I'll be eligible for a job as a study example at the Royal Academy of Medicine.

I do have as a slight aim to produce at least a rough draft of something short during the short period that I'm actually free just over winter. Yet inspiration has failed to arise, and the few moments that I do feel motivated to do it seem not in conjunction with the times that I do actually have an idea. I was pondering whether to simply build a method, just a route of ways to settle down the loose thoughts and pierce through that wall of abstracts, the nigh impenetrable barrier that stands between me and concrete concepts. I have no idea what shape such a method would take, however, and I suppose it is just a matter of experience. 

It strikes me that much of what I have written is of little sense, that much of it lacks that underlying tone of quality. I'll probably write some new stuff that goes along other lines. Yet I ask myself, where is it sane to go? Having not established an ambition and a target as to where to go with the project anyway, it's awfully hard to decide and define the types of content that will be found on it. So, in that sense, I think I'll just plain go on, write as I wish, wherever that takes me.

And I expect it's for times like these that I sketched, in a page of my notebook, the maxim, "Hour by hour, resolve firmly, to do what comes at hand, day to day, with correct and natural dignity." Yet the inappropriateness of young men to utter maxims is what I will cover next.

Or perhaps I shall not. I am yet unsure.

Of Exotericity

Another thing I find important for my own pleasure in books is that there needs to be a very cohesive plot. I don't read books in a marathon, I read a few pages every night, or I read it on the bus, or so on. Some books don't really dig this structure, and I find myself getting lost in it's story line. I'm not sure if this is so for anyone who reads in another way, but especially as I'm reading Neil Gaiman's American Gods - long overdue - I find that I lose myself all too often in the plot, especially since he has a tendency to jump between more or less unconnected dots. One town, one gang of people, one life. I forget completely about the last one and read about this bit instead. Then a little later, his work there is seemingly done, and it doesn't appear to contribute very much to the story at all.

I know that this may well be caused by the way I read the book, but I also think it doesn't exactly help that Gaiman's plot feels a bit all over the place. His side characters become quite empty, as well, as he doesn't use them for more than a few dozen pages. I'd rather read books where the characters and the location is fairly constant, but the actual story becomes centre piece.

Shouldn't judge too soon, though, I have half a book left.

I'm sorry it's so short, but... You know how it is sometimes. Or maybe you don't? You should try it sometime. To know how it is, I mean. It's kinda neat.

Of Quintessence

I have, as I said, been watching quite a few films recently, and I couldn't but reflect upon their usage of storylines and the classical, dramaturgical basis. Everyone knows this one; there's the outset, the conflict, the climax, and so on, and so on. However, it appears that there's a new trend in town - to completely, outright ignore any mention of dramaturgical technique and instead go for some kind of quasi-story, that works more to depict than to tell.

There's been several films with this in mind, and I can't personally say it's for the better. Instead, what you get is some kind of limbo, some half-story where a couple of - usually bland - characters battle it out on a personal plane. It can still be a good movie, with nice artistic works and directing. However, lacking a proper storyline makes the entire thing somehow less interesting, and it becomes instantly harder to follow. At the same time, making good characters is an art in itself, and I've seen few films so far that has had really believable, true characters.

This applies to literary theory, as well. It's not so much of an issue in literature as it is in films, it seems, but there must still be that kind of balance. I've read books where the characters really don't do much, but the story upholds it all. And vice versa, where the characters fulfil the criteria for a good book, but the red thread is all over the place.

Take, for instance, Isaac Asimov's robot-based books. A robot isn't exactly what you're expecting when you're looking for good characters, but it's a formula that works surprisingly well. The robots are operating off of a rigid set of rules, Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics. I won't cite them here, but go onto Wikipedia to see them in their entirety.

And this is no beating around the bush. In either case, many of the worst characters in history will have operated from similar frames. Because the Laws of Robotics makes for very predictable characters - and they work. However, this requires the same basis and centricity around the robotics that the Asimov novels do work off'f. 

Yet his other characters are curiously worked out. I mean, he's not the best when it comes to characters, but they're certainly not bad. They don't distract the story, yet they don't just lie there as empty bits of stilleben either. The use of robots is quintessential for that central contrast, between man and machine and the derivate scenarios.

But it's that contrast that will serve me for the basis of my argumentation here. I realize I've rambled on a bit and I am bad at staying on course, but bear with me. Sooner or later there will be a conclusion.

Look at real-life people. They all have their quirks, their little behaviours, and they don't, they really don't do anything to an extreme. This is where I think some characters excel, and some fall to their deaths. I've seen all to many characters supported by their mere defining feature, this driven to it's very length. Have a witty character? Then each and every sentence will be spiked with sarcasm. But people just aren't that witty. It seems good, because it provides reasonably believable comic relief, and the characters serve a contrast to other characters. And I'm not saying it's a guaranteed failure to make a very witty character. But it really doesn't simulate all the mannerisms that a normal person would have.

Take me, for instance. I'll base it off'f me because I'm the only person I know well enough. I use sarcasm and irony as part of my humour, but I'm just not witty enough to do it all the time. I drink a lot of Coke, but I don't make it a central part of my personality. It's just one of those things, that I could at any suitable moment be carrying a Coke. I play quite a few computer games, but again, it's not central to who I am. My persona is a delicate mix of all of the above.

Yet use those little things to build a complete character. Even if you'd use me as a side character to the true story, it just wouldn't do to constantly place me in the background either drinking Coke, or saying something witty or whatever. These defining things can still be defining without actually using it very much at all. 

No, sorry. I didn't make a very good conclusion. Ah, to hell with it. I've written the follow-up post already. And I'm sorry, but I can't be bothered with changing this one around. Sorry.

Of Inertness

I just got confused by some of my titles, so I thought I'd write them down here real quick, at least the ones that are actually somewhat off the mark.

crustacean invincibility: referring to "the immortality of the crab", i.e. daydreaming.

exotericity: exoteric: suitable to be imparted to the public; capable of being fully or readily comprehended.

polyester: plastic material. referring to things that are artificial, fake.

quintessence: something that is typical, a perfect example.

sesquipedality: the use of long words, latin for "five foot long".

verisimilitude: apperance of being real (alright, that one was actually explained in the post).

legendary nativity: a reference to the birth of the Christ, which Christmas commemorates.

Is this an excuse for not being able to write a real post? Yes. Normal activity will resume tomorrow.

Of Bruges

It's funny how things can really stick to your mind sometimes.

I was sitting around in history the other day, and we were tasked to do a horribly juvenile assignment. I suppose that in the end, it's quite logical and pedagogic, and I did manage to do it with a bit of humour.

However, what really, really stuck to me was this one concept. I was meant to be writing a short text on the towns of the High Middle Ages. As international trade started to really rush on, urbanisation slowly crawled along the busy roads and the traders usually bunked up there during the winters, when the roads became harder to travel. And along with that, various artisans and craftsmen flocked around these towns, usually no larger than ten thousand inhabitants, to trade and to entertain the traders.

One of these towns was the city of Bruges, in Flanders, today part of Belgium. It lies just north of Brussels, and is a predominantly Dutch town. I know, partly because I'm such a raving academic, and partly because I spent part of my visit to Brussels there. The town is famous for it's medieval setting, and most of it is preserved in the way it was in the 1300s. It's extremely picturesque, with little exclusive chocolate shops that charge admission and so on.

Imagine being one of those wealthy traders, sitting there with all your money in a snowy medieval town like that. While it certainly was a rather dirty, boring, rough and deadly time, as those things usually go, it's still a lovely image somehow. And this idea of just sitting around in winter, in Flanders, in a place like Bruges... It really makes me want to commit some gruesome act of suicide because my life didn't turn out at all like it.

And no matter what I do, I can't get this image to bugger off. And I wonder if I should do something. If I sit down with the old software and start building computer games based on the scenario, I'll probably waste a whole lot of time and forget about it sooner or later, or find my incapability to complete it so depressing I'll end up blowing my brains out anyway. I think what I truly need to do, is I truly need to go to Bruges in mid winter and just chill out.

(Oh, and another thing. "In Bruges" is an awesome film. Go see it)

Of Revelation

I was walking down the block to the local grocery shop the other night. Darkness falls quickly in the winter and despite the fact that the evening news hadn't aired yet - as well as the fact that I was going to the grocery shop to get dinner - the moon sat clearly, it's white face shrouded by the heavy clouds of urban centre.

I looked deeply into it and mused to myself, smiling, "Looks just like a scene out of your average film or book."

Or vice versa, as I came to think while paying for the food. 

Obviously, these things happen. The moon does shine with an eerie white glow, any November evening. The rain does fall heavily as I stand, shivering, watching an exclusive sports car turn slowly into the alley. I do see my reflection in the fleeing glass of the metro, seeing nothing but a tired youngster with a disorganized haircut.

I find that I have believed, for a long time, that "that just doesn't happen in the real world". I thought films and books were escaping reality, not depicting it. Yet what would they be if they didn't depict reality itself?

And it gives me a brand new perspective on books, somehow. Of course, so far I've written nothing with the intent to distract and escape the tribulations of everyday life. Rest assured, however, that the next time I do write something longer, I'll write it with my memories, my experiences and the things I've seen.

It makes me wonder. They always tell me that writers should write what they know. Yet did Poe indeed speak of a dream in his study chamber as the raven cawed it's ominous message?

Somehow, it feels to me like perhaps it's worthwhile to pay a lot more attention to what's actually going on in real life. It struck me equally as well as I watched this film, where every character appeared so true, so lifelike. As I realized, the only reason the film was so striking was because the characters were so incredibly thought out, so immensely real. The extent to which I could recognize some of my friends in part of the characters was little other than frightening.

It was kind of an Eureka moment, only not so much a discovery as it was a revelation. Like much of the things that I've written of previously, it isn't really something that's completely new, or a concept that wasn't there before. It's like a sheet of paper, with words scribbled all over it. And as I walked to the grocery store, just this one was underlined.

Of Continuance

Continuing from the topic I wrote about yesterday, I sat down this afternoon with Mind at Rest (which I by the way think I'll give a new name, again), and started crossing out and removing things from my sixth draft. As I said earlier, I had previously italicized everything that I thought a candidate for removal, and when I sat down with it this afternoon, most of it had to go. I italicized even more, but this time I didn't bother waiting with most of it and just removed it directly. And even though I told myself not to, I couldn't help but pressing the Word Count button.

 

1984.

One thousand, nine hundred, and eighty-four words.

How embarassing. (Not to mention the eerie connection to Mr Orwell)

And that's with a couple of sentences still italicized, and I don't think I've gotten round to rewriting the unnecessarily long introduction.

Then again, as I myself wrote in an English assignment, "the better the cook, the less you get", applies to most written text as well. But at some point, you must get that perception that maybe you're writing too little after all. Perhaps you're not dwelling on certain subjects and ideas as long as you should. Perhaps your sentences are short, cut off, or not descriptive enough. I mean, I don't think one should go on too much in any type of text, but I, personally, like lavish descriptions and detailed ideas. And I always had the background intention of writing something somewhat longer than last time.

Now, I used to be a notorious rambler. When someone told me to write a short story, I'd go on for forty pages. This was to me perfectly reasonable as at the time, I believed a short story was really anything under 100 pages. I'm not sure whence it came, but there was some point when I realized that a short story really should be short. It's not flash fiction, obviously, but there's a certain art form in keeping to a certain length.

But what is a short story, really? To me, it's really maybe two to four thousand words, -ish, not too concrete, and with some sort of subtext. But I realize that just as flash fiction has a tendency to be rather... concrete, down-to-earth, so is there a large movement that holds that short stories are really just novels in a mini format. To me, it's a completely different form of writing, as different as, say, a novel to an article. Shorter, sure, but there's a lot more to it.

I mean, sure, there's the sci-fi and fantasy short stories, I suppose. Isaac Asimov, whose books I have in the thousands, wrote a whole lot of short stories. Most of his short stories expanded upon the concept that he worked with in his novels - i.e., this kind of technological philosophical theory. Robots, their laws, and the loop holes. Every short story he wrote, more or less, examined some aspect of his technological scenario, with a philosophical underline. The philosophy was obviously built on a fictional basis, which would be the case in most scifi/fantasy books , but there was still a tinge of background thought, and when I closed the book I did feel intellectually satiated.

Now, granted, I'm not an avid reader of short fiction outside of anthologies and the occasional website. I've not much to do with short stories at large. Yet through the education that I've gotten, through the work that I've done on the subject, that has always been my final conclusion. Perhaps it's just a genre thing. After all, a crime novel, the whodunnit kinda thing, for instance, will have a completely different setup than another kind of novel. 

Of course, perhaps short fiction is just that, short fiction. Flash fiction has a tendency to be, at least to the degree that I've read it. Just a snippet, a very short tale of everyday life, usually. Interesting in a sense, but I prefer the slightly longer pieces.

I think I should look into some novellas. See what they're like.

(my god, "intellectually satiated"? see the kind of stuff i need to remove from my drafts all the time? left it there just as an example.)

Of Thy Inner Editor

So I started to look this short story over, right. I'm done with the bulk writing, and I'm just polishing it up. Within that, I've put a whole lot of text in italics, denoting the fact that it has to go. It's a good feeling, really, because in a sense you know that at least you recognize some of your mistakes. Then again, I'm unsure whether they really are mistakes, or if it's just a freaky writer's syndrome telling me that everything I write is shit - that's been around before.

Either way, I think it goes a long way to improve the quality of my writing. Stuff like I mentioned in "Of Polyestre", that comes in the spur of the moment, but just has to go in the end. But my problem is that I can really only do as much as to put them in italics - having the guts to actually press delete is another story entirely, it seems. I wouldn't be surprised if those sentences in italics are still there if I ever send this to any of my internet peers for a look-over, and maybe even when I hand it in to some professor or whatever. Yet I'm making progress if I can find the errors altogether.

The short story is coming along nicely, though. Feels again like a lot of what I'm writing is turning up half-way through the story, but what the hell. I intended it first and foremost as a reflection and a discussion with myself, and I framed it much so in the story as well.

I had a long and winding discussion with a guy on an internet forum just recently. It was about the whole concept of "kill your darlings", and how I thought it, per his definition, was blatantly retarded, and even along my own perception of the idea, it was still a very silly thing to be going about. He held the opposite notion; removing everything that a writer himself thought highly of would somehow give the final work some quality (this being his thesis of the idea of "kill your darlings"). Don't quote me on the last bit however, it's just a rough essence of the debate at large.

I personally thought that a writer that held such distrust in his own ability to write, that certain things would be removed on such a condition regardless, shouldn't be writing in the first place. All the same, there is a certain logic to the idea, as one shouldn't always trust one's own rough writing, and almost certainly, some definitions and sentences will make more sense to the author and his mum than anyone else. And sometimes, it's really only those extreme ones, the ones that not even mum gets, that get's edited out.

But if you so doubt that you can get your point across, then yes, you have a problem. I personally do not think that the red thread is everything. Sure, it has to be readable, but a text is nothing else than plain when it consists of nothing but things adhering to the central point at hand. It's called poetic licence, my friends (No, it's not actually, poetic license is another thing entirely, but I've no idea what to call it). If the only thing that you can write sensibly are the things adhering to your topic at hand, then you're not a poet. Then you're not an author. Then you're a reporter. 

If I'm writing a news article, on the other hand, we work in a different format. Then I want the essential questions answered first - when, who, where, what, why. Whatever adornishment you've got is second hand. If I need to know, right now, what exactly happened in Dubai two days ago, then you tell me just like that. But if I'm reading my bedside book, hell, mate, give it some space. 

Yet, I cannot help but wonder of other people's attitude. Obviously, when it comes to my blog posts, I'm not your man for adhering to a red thread - I'm all over the place, most often. But how does it stand for someone who works making carpets out of red threads? How does the land lie, if you've had the opportunity to do some serious beta reading, some serious peer editing? This is obviously where I lack, by pure experience. And obviously where I want to redeem myself.

And I realize another funny thing - entirely coincidental, however. It's the old man, his son, and the holy Ghost. No, sorry, that wasn't particularly funny. But if you'd ever have to write an analysis of this thing - no idea why you would, but just if - then there you go, it's all a metaphor for god's troubles as Jesus is hanging on the cross.

Of Respite

I decided in the end not to write anything on the subjects I mentioned last week. In fact, those days that I originally intended to use for working on this minor thing turned out to be instead a respite, and a well-needed such.

Or would that really be the word? It's like saying you'll take a respite from relaxing. While it is true that writing does stand out to spark thought, and it does take a little time off other things in life, I don't find it to be much of a strain, or to be particularly hard or annoying. However, I had run out of posts last week, and in order to beat my quota of once per day, I'd have to work pretty hard at it, write something every day or so. And in the end, I just felt that I've made my excuse to myself, and that was it. I took a few days off.

And I do feel slightly refreshed. I decided to spend the afternoon writing down everything that I had on my mind right now, and I think I can probably fill out this fifth week quite easily. I've looked over that short story a little, and while it will need a lot of editing, I'm quite satisfied nonetheless.

What to do with it, however, is another question entirely. In the end, I think I'll just let it gather some dust. Publish it through Google Docs, get it onto the net, dump links here and there. I doubt I'll try to submit it to real criticism, and even if I did want to, I've no idea where I'd get it. It's also perfectly timed to be done before my new short story assignment begins, and I think I'll write something half-decent for that. I don't think I'll submit Mind at Rest to my English teacher anyway.

I also took time during the week to go to a press showing of Rachel Getting Married, and reviewing it as appropriate. I suppose it's old news to most of the Englishmen/Americans, but as things have a tendency to turn up at least a month later in Sweden, it has yet to be released. At the same time, the Stockholm Film Festival is in full steam, and I've had movies nearly every night this week. It's been a welcome change, and it's led me to think a little more about films as a medium. It's also been a rather interesting experience as a whole to watch films in that sense, as I before have been largely limited to your average Hollywood flick with a few friends, and the occasional European thing with my family.