Of Termination

Having greatly ignored all manners of achievement as of late, I only return to review my writings to remind me of what I was doing a mere two months ago.

The new year has not been all too kind to me; well, at least, it's not been more benevolent than its predecessor. Without going into details, suffice it to say that it is my own demeanour, more than anything else, that contributes to the rather bleak existence I've lead as of late.

Even so, however, I'm not seeking another cause at the moment. Despite vowing to myself to properly write in a decent pace, that promise has not been fulfilled. Save a few scraps of text that I have been polishing, and a collection of minor articles published on Wikipedia, there has been little in that manner lately. Likewise, my studies suffer.

Throughout January, I left this channel open, without deciding either to keep up with it or to put it to rest. I had come to the realization that I had pitifully little to say, and what I did speak of was things that I had not properly considered myself, and were little more than the elaborate ramblings of a child. However, I did not wish to truly let it go, as it had given me some temporary freedom of mind. In the end, I realized that little has been gained from the furtive activity, and decided to finally close this chapter.

It is as such with this post that I will no longer, most likely, write in this manner for some time. To write of writing, with neither experience or attention to the writing itself, is a puny exercise in repetition and emptiness. Not only that, there are many more blogs of a similar purpose that far outweigh, in both success and content, my attempt. 

Yet I am a far too vague person to ever remove what has been written. The entire project will remain here and the links will probably continue to exist in conjunction with other contexts. It is, however, closed, and there will be no further posts.

Of Analogy

I've often come to consider the "truth" of my statements. I rarely write short fiction that is empty, or shallow, and I attempt to give it further dimension by embedding some kind of more abstract story behind it. Whether or not I succeed is of little circumstance right now, as that kind of discourse applies to all that I do at the moment. It is rather the very intention of doing so that might be questionable.

Personally, I find that a book gets more interesting if it allows me to think a little beyond the basic plot and characters. If an author works to a subject in an abstract way, and as such implements parts of the plot that tie together with this continuous metaphor, I find myself more intrigued by the plot at large. Such was the case with Tunnel Vision, which I rather loudly praised last week, that I could actively consider the elements that were being presented to me in a descriptive way, and apply them with sense to what had been going on before. I also enjoy that in short fiction, when there's an underlying moral to it, that you can consider while reading the actual fiction.

And I expect there's no better rule to being creative, than creating that which oneself could enjoy. So I've used influences from various authors that I find enjoyable without going into absurd repetition. Again, you can append "or that's what I like to think" to everything I say, because, well, I'm brought up a Swede and we don't like to brag.

But I have to question my own usage of this principle. At first, I wrote kind of "universal teachings". Some kind of over-estimated old philosophical stock stuff that I used to base my stuff off'f. Well, it wasn't quite that bad, but I didn't put too much thought to what I was actually saying; rather how I put it into words. Now, in the later iterations of my writing, this has become slightly better, and while the metaphor doesn't quite do the "moral" thing that, for instance, Raison d'Être, did, it still is very prevalent.

And I ask myself, is this really truth? Can I say that? And again, is it a viable and interesting point? It's really just a supplement to the plot, to give it a bit of depth, but it requires just as much thought as do any of the characters and any part of the plot. And this forethought becomes even more imperative in short fiction, where the characters are further minimized and what truly matters is the plot and related elements.

In addition, it becomes kind of preposterous when you write of grand philosophical concepts and it is really just a bag of garbage. This more than anything else is my worry when it comes to my projects, and the thematic troubles dominate. What actions I should take to minimize my worry is still largely a blank for me, and I think I will continue to pursue this matter a little bit for everything I write.

Hell, maybe I'll write about that some time.

Of Exordium

I mentioned my little dilemma yesterday. Well, here it is.

I've been a little doubtful regarding posting my stuff here at all, seeing as I hardly post what I write anywhere, but I might as well.

I gazed quietly at the house across the frozen bay. It was a lonesome sight. Yet as my breath finally had condensed upon the sheet of glass before me, I could look no further and diverted my eyes.

The temporary respite that the gazing had given me was gone. I once again had to come to terms with my see-through imprisonment. Not more than half an hour ago, I found myself the prisoner of a square of glass, no taller than myself, no wider then a few feet across, and absolutely perfect. The glass was fully invisible, but for my breath, and the feel as I drew my hand across it. It was standing atop a plateau of some form, in the midst of an urban centre, with a stunning view of forests, lakes, and the urban landscape that sprawled about my feet.

So that's the deal. That's the entire first section, as it is in my very first draft. Now, as I see it, the principial hook lies right about in the sentence "Not more than half an hour ago ..." As you can see, it's quite a bit into the section, especially for a short story which needs to pack a punch, quickly.

I like the essential hook though. It's concise, accurate, and, well, hook-ish to my eyes. I also do enjoy the latter parts. But it is the very introduction that annoys me.

I gazed quietly at the house across the frozen bay. It was a lonesome sight. Yet as my breath finally had condensed upon the sheet of glass before me, I could look no further and diverted my eyes.

The temporary respite that the gazing had given me was gone. I once again had to come to terms with my see-through imprisonment. Not more than half an hour ago, I found myself the prisoner of a square of glass, no taller than myself, no wider then a few feet across, and absolutely perfect. The glass was fully invisible, but for my breath, and the feel as I drew my hand across it. It was standing atop a plateau of some form, in the midst of an urban centre, with a stunning view of forests, lakes, and the urban landscape that sprawled about my feet.

Sentences in red will probably be cut. At least in my own mind. Orange kind of edited, yellow definitely edited. 

So how is it to your mind? Obviously, if you read through the post and nothing came to you at all, it's wrong. I'm not going to edit anything before my rough draft is through, and this is probably one of the more critical bits I think. But if you've graciously taken the time to read it through, there is actually the Comments button. It does look rather enticing, doesn't it? I think it's begging to be clicked, but that might just be me.

For some reason the hook reminds me of Kafka's Metamorphosis. Hrngh.

Of Status Quo

I'm having a Day of Uninspiration.

I feel so uninspired that I even feel that it's the only thing I can write about.

I could hardly even bring myself to sit and read for a while. I flipped through the pages of some or other dull magazine, tried to focus a little on my reading but gave up.

So today has been extremely fruitless. It's a bit of a bad omen, in a sense, that the first day of a new year should be so frustrating and pointless. Today's biggest achievement was probably that I spent 45 minutes in the shower, losing all concept of time along the way.

I'm not sure if you've ever felt like it. I wouldn't know. But I decided, in the end, to take it into account. To take a day off. I mean, it's not like I go to huge lengths every day to perform anything - quite the opposite, if anything - but even so, just today, I decided to stop trying. So I did, and it's been probably the most boring day ever.

Anyhow, I have made some progress, quite generally. Having more or less finished the last thing - well, finished is probably the wrong word, more of having run out of imagination and paths to explore - I've started to make headway with the new thing. It's taking shape, but I'm still largely at a loss for the mid/end bit. I know what I'm writing, I'm just unsure of how to do so.

At the moment, I'm just exploring possibilities. Moving some sentences around, writing some new sections, etcetera. Filling out this and that.

And the opening hook. Big problems with the hook. There's a way I want to write it, and there's a way I know it technically is better. It's a bit of a no-no to put a paragraph in front of the hook, but it won't be halfway as powerful if I don't. At the moment, I'm leaving it there, but I might well change it later on, and I think I probably will. If not strip it out outright, I will at least compromise and make some kind of half-mash.

I'm not too proud of this post, but I can't have as a rule to write decent stuff unless I write some exceptions to it as well.

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.