Creating original characters is, at least for me, fundamentally very easy: I've read too much, known such a large number of different people from such disparate walks of life (including different countries, 'social classes', what-have-you), to say nothing of all the garbage rattling around my dark and dusty mind that I've always got ample material to create fictional characters, no problem.
Creating original, INTERESTING characters is another story entirely: I am capable of doing so, and have done so (and will likely continue doing so, at least until my mind gives out entirely), though I don't see it as easy or difficult (it's both); and for a writer of fiction -- aka 'a storyteller' or less euphemistically a 'liar' -- it's a bit of a must, as writing about boring characters is, well...Boring. And who'd ever want to read it?
I suppose one of the benefits/hazards of having led an interesting life is (at least for a fiction writer) that it renders most of the characters one could think of sometimes rather tame, in comparison; of course, this, in turn, forces one to populate one's mind (and writing) with characters who are 'over the top', as it were; riddled with flaws which even I would check myself into a psychiatric facility over, people who have strange beginnings and (sometimes) horrifying ends...
And, well, to be entirely honest, I don't know how some of the characters I've created truly came about, so, like Poe's explanation for how he wrote The Raven (which no one, to the best of my knowledge, actually *believes* is how he wrote it, being merely a dissertation using logic to serve as a footpath for his true creative genius which he couldn't name), this particular essay of mine is bound to be just as disappointing (more so, given it wasn't penned by Poe :D).
I can say my favorite (and, I think, most interesting) characters come to me either entirely or mostly fully-formed, leaving very little for my conscious mind to do; therefore, I cannot give anyone much advice as to the creation of characters.
Of those which are not 100% formed, I've found that writing a few pages as that character quickly fleshes them out; one time I dashed off at least 10-12 thousand words which was merely a conversation between two characters, the writing of which revealed to *me* more about them than would ever appear in any story.
I suppose one thing I can say is when creating a character, know *everything* about them. I can think of one character I created who (partially) survived the Great Famine in Ireland in the 1840s by resorting to cannibalism; I can also tell you about his relationship with his parents, when he first kissed a girl, and who he had a crush on, though (almost) none of those things are even remotely pertinent to the story he is in, and therefore won't ever appear in writing.
I have another character I could easily write a book solely about (actually, I have a number), including his innate acrophilia, which led him to fly an Albatross for the Luftstreitkräfte in WWI, and (while never an Überkanonen, given his avoidance of combat wherever possible) his eventual ditching of that particular make (either a BII or CII -- my mind dims with age, obviously) only to fake his own death and pop up flying a Sopwith Camel for the opposing side -- and not because he had any desire to shoot anyone down, really gave a shit about who won or which side was 'right', nor was he eager to engage in aerial combat -- merely because he wished so very badly to be able to *fly*, and went to what would be, to any sane person, incredible and dangerous lengths to do so (particularly given that period of time). That little to none of the above information appears in writing connected with him is...What it is.
My point -- were I to have one, which I'm certain anyone reading this drivel would argue vehemently against -- is that, to make *real* characters, they must be real to the *writer*, first and foremost.
'If you're writing in the first person, you must be that person' and all that jazz. Obviously, if one is writing a story and one has two-dimensional characters, the reader will sense this *immediately* -- I know I have -- and when one has created compelling, interesting characters, that can make for an enjoyable read, even if the plot isn't as good as it should be (even if only from a purely Aristotelian perspective), while the reverse is not true: even the best plot will put most people to sleep if the characters are trite knockoffs/boring/garbage.
Perhaps the 'secret' to creating compelling characters, fully clothed, born in one's mind as complete and whole as Athena was when she sprang from the forehead of Zeus, is to have an overly full mind ;)
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Purpose of Fiction...Or Fictional Purpose...?
While my own opinion of my writing is I write very well (and, when it comes to things such as technical documentation, articles, and the like, the consensus has always seemed to agree with me), when it comes to the fiction I've written I confess to being entirely incapable of making a sound judgment as to its value or worth.
Of course, when discussing the 'value' or 'worth' of fiction, I know that's a broad enough area that each person could think of and probably has their own definition(s), and I'm not one to argue that, as I've little desire to get lost in the endless terrain of general semantics.
When I refer to fiction as having value, what I mean is how well it serves the purpose of entertaining. Period. Conveying lessons, espousing philosophies, etcetera etcetera -- sure, one can stick some of that into fiction, if so desired, though if it's not organic to the work itself, the reader will spit it out in annoyance much as a cat will a pill which is hidden so ‘dexterously (if ineffectively) in their favorite food’, which brings me back to my main point, that being the primary purpose of fiction is to entertain, with the pinnacle of achievement being to write something so enjoyable the reader cannot put it down, and which they find themselves blissfully immersed in, so much so, ideally, that they are likely to bother reading it more than once.
As a reader of some years, when I think of my favorite fiction books, regardless of genre, those are the qualities which define the truly great books from all the rest: the ones I can read and re-read, and never tire of despite knowing how they end; the ones I happen to glance at and, within minutes, am utterly swept back into; the kind I’d love to simply step into and never leave.
Kindly note my visual memory is exceptionally acute, to the point where I can generally quote lines of text verbatim (or nearly so, though no, I do not have an ‘eidetic’ memory) directly from books I've read, even many years later; that, combined with my disdain for any story regardless of medium which I can figure out where it’s going/how it ends within the first few minutes of reading it, and that should illustrate what I mean when I say for me, to read a book I’ve already read before is one of the surest signs I enjoyed it above all others.
I remain unconvinced I've yet to write anything which meets the above standards, which is to say, I'll just have to keep trying.
~J
Of course, when discussing the 'value' or 'worth' of fiction, I know that's a broad enough area that each person could think of and probably has their own definition(s), and I'm not one to argue that, as I've little desire to get lost in the endless terrain of general semantics.
When I refer to fiction as having value, what I mean is how well it serves the purpose of entertaining. Period. Conveying lessons, espousing philosophies, etcetera etcetera -- sure, one can stick some of that into fiction, if so desired, though if it's not organic to the work itself, the reader will spit it out in annoyance much as a cat will a pill which is hidden so ‘dexterously (if ineffectively) in their favorite food’, which brings me back to my main point, that being the primary purpose of fiction is to entertain, with the pinnacle of achievement being to write something so enjoyable the reader cannot put it down, and which they find themselves blissfully immersed in, so much so, ideally, that they are likely to bother reading it more than once.
As a reader of some years, when I think of my favorite fiction books, regardless of genre, those are the qualities which define the truly great books from all the rest: the ones I can read and re-read, and never tire of despite knowing how they end; the ones I happen to glance at and, within minutes, am utterly swept back into; the kind I’d love to simply step into and never leave.
Kindly note my visual memory is exceptionally acute, to the point where I can generally quote lines of text verbatim (or nearly so, though no, I do not have an ‘eidetic’ memory) directly from books I've read, even many years later; that, combined with my disdain for any story regardless of medium which I can figure out where it’s going/how it ends within the first few minutes of reading it, and that should illustrate what I mean when I say for me, to read a book I’ve already read before is one of the surest signs I enjoyed it above all others.
I remain unconvinced I've yet to write anything which meets the above standards, which is to say, I'll just have to keep trying.
~J
I do so wish I had even the faintest vestige of graphical talent; if I could draw merely a fraction of the things in my head, Holy Fucking Mother of bat-piss!
If a picture is a worth a kiloword, then I’ve a head crammed full of photos jammed every-which-way which makes a trillion-petabyte drive seem little more than an over-exposed Polaroid - you know, one half-ruined along the diagonal because it was left out in the sun by a couple of under-aged retards after they were done sucking fuzz-encrusted day-old gummi-bears off the bottom of it.
There’s just so much I don’t even know where to begin; I mean, really - pick a Galactic branch, an arm, a cluster, a system, some planets, and we’ll go from there.
But I don’t think that’s where it’s at, at ALL; nosirrebob. Not when I’ve got a whole mess of characters ready to go, so let’s line up ‘em up, and I’ll go from another direction entirely.
More Later...Of that, I feel most certain.
~JMB
If a picture is a worth a kiloword, then I’ve a head crammed full of photos jammed every-which-way which makes a trillion-petabyte drive seem little more than an over-exposed Polaroid - you know, one half-ruined along the diagonal because it was left out in the sun by a couple of under-aged retards after they were done sucking fuzz-encrusted day-old gummi-bears off the bottom of it.
There’s just so much I don’t even know where to begin; I mean, really - pick a Galactic branch, an arm, a cluster, a system, some planets, and we’ll go from there.
But I don’t think that’s where it’s at, at ALL; nosirrebob. Not when I’ve got a whole mess of characters ready to go, so let’s line up ‘em up, and I’ll go from another direction entirely.
More Later...Of that, I feel most certain.
~JMB
Thursday, November 6, 2014
"Accordingly, the [author] should prefer probable impossibilities to improbable possibilities. The tragic plot must not be composed of irrational parts. Everything irrational should, if possible, be excluded; or, at all events, it should lie outside the action of the play […].
“The plea that otherwise the plot would have been ruined, is ridiculous; such a plot should not in the first instance be constructed. But once the irrational has been introduced and an air of likelihood imparted to it, we must accept it in spite of the absurdity.”
--Aristotle (Poetics)
I was considering documenting some of the strange thoughts which go through my head, yet I find many almost too strange to be properly documented; just in the sense that a picture says a thousand words, a single constructed universe, complete with characters, peoples, places, even a visual reference which remains in my head -- it would take me untold thousands of words to begin even describing it (which is precisely what one should NOT do when writing fiction); to set it down here, or even elsewhere, in print, would be a phenomenal waste of time...Wouldn't it...?
I suppose that's the point of my writing, here, in this poorly light, dusty little corner of the Internet; perhaps some of what I may come to say may serve someone else, or find purpose which others are yet to discover.
Still: it remains that, as I am doing writing elsewhere, less will be done here, and the reverse. Given I have a finite amount of time, that cannot be helped.
While it is tempting to comment further, I still await to hear more, so I shall attempt to exercise the virtue of silence, preferring neither to damn myself with excessive criticism nor false praise, both of which are equally pernicious if opposite sides of the same filthy coin.
There is something to be said for writing in silence; that is, creating in silence, free from critics, whether one's own internal one or critiques of others, and writing into a file (or into an otherwise quiet, audience-free blog) satisfies that well enough. Once creation is done, however, one must have criticism. That, or -- I suppose -- supreme confidence that everything one has created is perfect in every way. I am positive countless number of people have had such confidence; I am equally certain the larger share of them were wrong. For every William Blake, there are millions of us with nothing particularly useful to say.
~JMB
“The plea that otherwise the plot would have been ruined, is ridiculous; such a plot should not in the first instance be constructed. But once the irrational has been introduced and an air of likelihood imparted to it, we must accept it in spite of the absurdity.”
--Aristotle (Poetics)
I was considering documenting some of the strange thoughts which go through my head, yet I find many almost too strange to be properly documented; just in the sense that a picture says a thousand words, a single constructed universe, complete with characters, peoples, places, even a visual reference which remains in my head -- it would take me untold thousands of words to begin even describing it (which is precisely what one should NOT do when writing fiction); to set it down here, or even elsewhere, in print, would be a phenomenal waste of time...Wouldn't it...?
I suppose that's the point of my writing, here, in this poorly light, dusty little corner of the Internet; perhaps some of what I may come to say may serve someone else, or find purpose which others are yet to discover.
Still: it remains that, as I am doing writing elsewhere, less will be done here, and the reverse. Given I have a finite amount of time, that cannot be helped.
While it is tempting to comment further, I still await to hear more, so I shall attempt to exercise the virtue of silence, preferring neither to damn myself with excessive criticism nor false praise, both of which are equally pernicious if opposite sides of the same filthy coin.
There is something to be said for writing in silence; that is, creating in silence, free from critics, whether one's own internal one or critiques of others, and writing into a file (or into an otherwise quiet, audience-free blog) satisfies that well enough. Once creation is done, however, one must have criticism. That, or -- I suppose -- supreme confidence that everything one has created is perfect in every way. I am positive countless number of people have had such confidence; I am equally certain the larger share of them were wrong. For every William Blake, there are millions of us with nothing particularly useful to say.
~JMB
Friday, October 31, 2014
I was just experimenting with Google Plus (hereinafter known as "Gargle Pus" -- at least to me), and saw there was a way to link one's blog postings to it (presumably to help jam them further down people's throats, as every time one made a posting, it'd show up in X-tuplicate all over the place on one's friends/acquaintances/whatever timelines).
I considered doing so until I saw the warning about it not being "adult" material, and having to comply with their TOS (https://www.google.com/intl/en/+/policy/content.html).
Now, don't get me wrong: I neither have nor had any intentions of posting anything pornographic, links to warez, KP or the like; my point was merely to have a stream-of-consciousness type of writing which was recorded and available for others to view, and by that very definition, it's unfiltered, uncensored, and could possibly contain something which, I am positive, can and will be deemed offensive by someone, somewhere, at some point time.
Given the thoughts which the mind of Your Humble Narrator is able to produce sans stimuli of any sort...Well, to call them 'evil', wouldn't necessarily be too far off-track (not saying I believe in 'evil' in any moral fashion, absolutist or otherwise, but I digress). Suffice to say, I've got all manner of things, both fair and foul, in my mind, and I'm certain by the time I've finished shaving in the morning, chances are I've already entertained a half-dozen thoughts which would horrify most ordinary people into an ischemic attack.
Given some of the unbelievably terrible shit I've seen, endured, been witness to, and (perhaps) even engaged in throughout my life, add that level of horror to this particularly original squirming brain, and an entirely new dimension of mental disturbance is born. The only reason I've refrained from sharing that manner of things here is I'd prefer to reserve it for a larger stage (i.e., books and the like, which are just large enough and therefore just the right environment for the foul spawn of my disordered brain to spread their wings to their full span and, given room to maneuver, take flight) rather than here.
Even reserving the best (or worst, given one's opinion) of that manner of thing for a more appropriate place, I am reasonably certain the lesser offspring of my mind are the sort of things guaranteed to not merely leave a stain on your soul, but likely unto that of the generation beyond the next, which is just a fancy way of saying I've got things rattling around in my gulliver so heinous they'll ensure your grandchildren's grandchildren are born deformed.
Given that this is to be uncensored, off the top of my head stuff, having to invoke the internal critic while writing stuff down seems, at least to me, to defeat the purpose, so I suppose I'll be taking a pass on that.
TL;DR Summary:
If I have to choose between self-censorship and a narrower audience, I'll take the latter.
~JMB
--
Post scriptum: Lest it needs be said...for the record, No, I do NOT have thoughts of child molestation in my head (having seen the bit in their content restrictions about KP and the thought of people reading this and immediately deciding I'm to be kept far away from their children, I wanted to make it clear that I am, strangely enough, child-safe. Some have even said I generally have a decent rapport with children, though honestly there's nothing to getting along with kids...And again, I digress). Honestly, while I could be accused of many things, being into KP is not one of them: I personally find it repellant on a number of levels.
You know what, though? If it were my thing, then by gh0d, you can be sure I'd damned well be talking about it! Now THAT'S committing oneself to some real liberty-limiting honesty right there, eh...? :D
I considered doing so until I saw the warning about it not being "adult" material, and having to comply with their TOS (https://www.google.com/intl/en/+/policy/content.html).
Now, don't get me wrong: I neither have nor had any intentions of posting anything pornographic, links to warez, KP or the like; my point was merely to have a stream-of-consciousness type of writing which was recorded and available for others to view, and by that very definition, it's unfiltered, uncensored, and could possibly contain something which, I am positive, can and will be deemed offensive by someone, somewhere, at some point time.
Given the thoughts which the mind of Your Humble Narrator is able to produce sans stimuli of any sort...Well, to call them 'evil', wouldn't necessarily be too far off-track (not saying I believe in 'evil' in any moral fashion, absolutist or otherwise, but I digress). Suffice to say, I've got all manner of things, both fair and foul, in my mind, and I'm certain by the time I've finished shaving in the morning, chances are I've already entertained a half-dozen thoughts which would horrify most ordinary people into an ischemic attack.
Given some of the unbelievably terrible shit I've seen, endured, been witness to, and (perhaps) even engaged in throughout my life, add that level of horror to this particularly original squirming brain, and an entirely new dimension of mental disturbance is born. The only reason I've refrained from sharing that manner of things here is I'd prefer to reserve it for a larger stage (i.e., books and the like, which are just large enough and therefore just the right environment for the foul spawn of my disordered brain to spread their wings to their full span and, given room to maneuver, take flight) rather than here.
Even reserving the best (or worst, given one's opinion) of that manner of thing for a more appropriate place, I am reasonably certain the lesser offspring of my mind are the sort of things guaranteed to not merely leave a stain on your soul, but likely unto that of the generation beyond the next, which is just a fancy way of saying I've got things rattling around in my gulliver so heinous they'll ensure your grandchildren's grandchildren are born deformed.
Given that this is to be uncensored, off the top of my head stuff, having to invoke the internal critic while writing stuff down seems, at least to me, to defeat the purpose, so I suppose I'll be taking a pass on that.
TL;DR Summary:
If I have to choose between self-censorship and a narrower audience, I'll take the latter.
~JMB
--
Post scriptum: Lest it needs be said...for the record, No, I do NOT have thoughts of child molestation in my head (having seen the bit in their content restrictions about KP and the thought of people reading this and immediately deciding I'm to be kept far away from their children, I wanted to make it clear that I am, strangely enough, child-safe. Some have even said I generally have a decent rapport with children, though honestly there's nothing to getting along with kids...And again, I digress). Honestly, while I could be accused of many things, being into KP is not one of them: I personally find it repellant on a number of levels.
You know what, though? If it were my thing, then by gh0d, you can be sure I'd damned well be talking about it! Now THAT'S committing oneself to some real liberty-limiting honesty right there, eh...? :D
Thursday, October 30, 2014
-=SPOILER ALERT=-
In the spirit of full-disclosure, I tend to overwrite...horrendously so. Writing a volume is easy; pruning it down into something worth putting before others is that which I find more time-consuming (if no less enjoyable, in its own way).
Being too lazy to Google the exact quote, I'll simply cite off the top of my head what Pascal (if memory serves...) once said in correspondence to someone else:
"I would have written less, but I lacked the time."
Such it is with me. And such it is with what I'm putting up here. None of it is edited, proof-read, or the like, and any typos/inaccuracies (which I'm sure the quote above falls squarely into the category of) and the like are entirely due to my lack of revision, as I wished this to be a more stream-of-consciousness sort of thing.
My assumption, of course, is that characteristic alone will be adequate to render everything written here unreadable and likely too boring for the general public, as it will all invariably fall into the "Too Long; Didn't Read" category :)
~J
Being too lazy to Google the exact quote, I'll simply cite off the top of my head what Pascal (if memory serves...) once said in correspondence to someone else:
"I would have written less, but I lacked the time."
Such it is with me. And such it is with what I'm putting up here. None of it is edited, proof-read, or the like, and any typos/inaccuracies (which I'm sure the quote above falls squarely into the category of) and the like are entirely due to my lack of revision, as I wished this to be a more stream-of-consciousness sort of thing.
My assumption, of course, is that characteristic alone will be adequate to render everything written here unreadable and likely too boring for the general public, as it will all invariably fall into the "Too Long; Didn't Read" category :)
~J
Some thoughts about my motivations regarding my new-found willingness to deal with writing
Finally decided to actually to engage in some blogging. I am of mixed feelings about doing it, admittedly, having been one who has, for the majority of their life, stuck to the shadows; however, if I am truly going to move forward with actually letting other people into the worlds I've created, the inescapable truth is I'm going to have to engage in self-promotion...To say nothing about taking my first steps out into the light at all.
I'm a writer. I have been my entire life. Not professionally, unless one counts technical documentation done for systems I've designed (which I don't), and while there was even a time I bothered submitting things to publishers, and even had some things published, for the most part, I've written entirely without much thought to sharing the majority of it with anyone else.
Kindly note that when I say I have written literally thousands of pages in my life, this is no exaggeration; nor am I including technical documentation, non-fiction articles, or even my overly verbose email correspondences with friends. That the majority of what I've written never saw the light of day was not because it was explicitly rejected (id est, not because I submitted it to others who rejected it, or that I was rejected so often it made me not care to write -- I assure you this is not the case) but because I simply didn't care to share it...with anybody.
Harlan Ellison once said that "writing for the trunk is masturbation" -- implying that 'real' writers have to be egotistical exhibitionists. I both agree and disagree with him there, on a number of points, though this is hardly the place to cover that topic in detail.
What I am taking away from that idea (which implies stripping everything he said on the matter down to the merest shreds) is that, given I've written a lot of stuff, provided it doesn't damage my lifestyle by sharing it, there's no reason not to do so. While I don't feel very strongly about much of what I've written, there are a few bits and pieces which I suspect others might find of use, or at the very least, as a pleasant distraction from the horrors of unabridged consciousness (that's certainly one of the reasons I read).
Having reached a point in my life where the amount of harm which can come to me by sharing some of the wonders, horrors, the beauty, tragedy, ugliness, pain, and far too many other things to condense into a single blog post with other people is, I'd wager, increasingly limited, so here I am: finally ready to share. Having created entire worlds within my head and on paper, some as fantastic and uniquely beautiful as some others are mundane, I've decided to purge the last of them from my aging and tired brain. My mind is so terribly overfull, like a desk with papers heaped precariously atop it, each stack seeming closer to reaching the ceiling than the last...And, like the periodic cleanings one must undertake to clear off one's workspace to free it of clutter, so, too, is my mind in such a state: long over-due to be emptied. (Yes, I know the Zen tea-cup reference is hackneyed...which is why I wasn't originally going to make it, but hey, this is purely stream-of-thought writing for me).
As quantity is by no means a measure of quality, the question then becomes, "Is what I've written worth reading?"
I am aware I am an excellent writer; at times, I've even been an exceptionally good writer. Whether or not any of what I've written is actually any good from the standpoint of other people is something which I am, regrettably, utterly incapable of accurately judging.
As with any flaw which I am unable to remedy, I acknowledge it openly, not being one for pretense. I therefore leave judgments of 'quality', and whether any given thing I've created is 'good' or 'bad' entirely within the hands of you, the others, the not-I who might happen to read my words.
~JMB
I'm a writer. I have been my entire life. Not professionally, unless one counts technical documentation done for systems I've designed (which I don't), and while there was even a time I bothered submitting things to publishers, and even had some things published, for the most part, I've written entirely without much thought to sharing the majority of it with anyone else.
Kindly note that when I say I have written literally thousands of pages in my life, this is no exaggeration; nor am I including technical documentation, non-fiction articles, or even my overly verbose email correspondences with friends. That the majority of what I've written never saw the light of day was not because it was explicitly rejected (id est, not because I submitted it to others who rejected it, or that I was rejected so often it made me not care to write -- I assure you this is not the case) but because I simply didn't care to share it...with anybody.
Harlan Ellison once said that "writing for the trunk is masturbation" -- implying that 'real' writers have to be egotistical exhibitionists. I both agree and disagree with him there, on a number of points, though this is hardly the place to cover that topic in detail.
What I am taking away from that idea (which implies stripping everything he said on the matter down to the merest shreds) is that, given I've written a lot of stuff, provided it doesn't damage my lifestyle by sharing it, there's no reason not to do so. While I don't feel very strongly about much of what I've written, there are a few bits and pieces which I suspect others might find of use, or at the very least, as a pleasant distraction from the horrors of unabridged consciousness (that's certainly one of the reasons I read).
Having reached a point in my life where the amount of harm which can come to me by sharing some of the wonders, horrors, the beauty, tragedy, ugliness, pain, and far too many other things to condense into a single blog post with other people is, I'd wager, increasingly limited, so here I am: finally ready to share. Having created entire worlds within my head and on paper, some as fantastic and uniquely beautiful as some others are mundane, I've decided to purge the last of them from my aging and tired brain. My mind is so terribly overfull, like a desk with papers heaped precariously atop it, each stack seeming closer to reaching the ceiling than the last...And, like the periodic cleanings one must undertake to clear off one's workspace to free it of clutter, so, too, is my mind in such a state: long over-due to be emptied. (Yes, I know the Zen tea-cup reference is hackneyed...which is why I wasn't originally going to make it, but hey, this is purely stream-of-thought writing for me).
As quantity is by no means a measure of quality, the question then becomes, "Is what I've written worth reading?"
I am aware I am an excellent writer; at times, I've even been an exceptionally good writer. Whether or not any of what I've written is actually any good from the standpoint of other people is something which I am, regrettably, utterly incapable of accurately judging.
As with any flaw which I am unable to remedy, I acknowledge it openly, not being one for pretense. I therefore leave judgments of 'quality', and whether any given thing I've created is 'good' or 'bad' entirely within the hands of you, the others, the not-I who might happen to read my words.
~JMB
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