The Guys in the Basement - Writing against the inner Control Freak
To tell the truth, I already got my acceptance letter from T.FN a couple of weeks ago. However, I thought the surprise would be nicer if I could not only confirm Lost Saint has finally been accepted into the archive, but also provide a link to the story *g*
So, Ladies and Gentlemen, I hereby present the TF.N version of Lost Saint.
This short vignette about Obi-Wan in the desert is easily the most controlled, most polished piece of fiction I have ever written. I can't really explain why, but as an author I usually have a rather strong tendency towards planning. And more often than not, the struggle to get my ideas on paper *exactly* as I imagined them ends in frustration, the soft noise of a pushed delete button or another abandoned opening paragraph slumbering in a near fatal coma in the darkest corner of my hard drive.
In interviews with professional as well as amateur writers the creative act often gets explained along the terms of "opening the doors to the unconscious". If I remember correctly, Stephen King once described it as "sitting down in front of the word processor and letting the guys in the basement do their job.
Even though I have begun to suspect that this particular approach might actually (at least to a certain degree) work a lot better than mine, I'm still a bit hesitant to open the door to the basement to ask the guys down there if they could kindly assist me.
However, I did an awful lot of experimenting over the last couple of months, mostly fragments and opening scenes, trying to establish a balance between what is spontaneous and what is controlled. Here is a short example of what happens when I set off without knowing where the journey will take me.
Penny streckte die Beine. Lang waren sie. Die kräftigen, wohlgeformten Waden einer erwachsenen Frau. Verhüllt von cremefarbenen, halbtransparenten Seidenstrüpfen. Was für ein erfreulicher Gegensatz zu diesen entsetzlich dürren Storchenstelzen, die in den letzten Jahren so sehr in Mode gekommen waren. Obwohl ihm eigentlich nichts ferner lag, ließ Sebastian im Geiste die Schenkel seiner früheren Freundinnen passieren. Frannie, seine große Flamme von der neunten Klasse bis zum Abitur war immer ein wenig pummelig gewesen, aber lebhaft, ein wahrer Wirbelsturm, Ausbund an Lebensfreude und Temperament. Kathrin, nett aber schließlich entgegen aller guten Vorsätze doch dem allgemeinen Diätwahn zum Opfer gefallen. Die Beziehung zu ihr erstarb, bevor sie richtig begonnen hatte. Was wohl aus dem Mädchen geworden war, fragte er sich im Stillen.
Seine Hand griff nach der silbernen Chocolatière, aus der Penny sich bereits ausgiebig bedient hatte. Von den Pralinen, die sich noch in der schwanförmigen, auf Hochglanz polierten Schale befanden, waren zwei aus Marzipan, die dritte machte den Anschein, als verberge sich hinter der hellen, zuckerbestreuten Glasur bloß eine schnöde Likör-Füllung.
Zumindest was Pralinées betraf, ging die Lady wohl gerne aufs Ganze. Nougat, Champagner, süßherbe Trüffel. Sebastian spürte, wie sein Herz vor Freude einen Luftsprung tat. Keine halben Sachen mehr. Nicht hier und niemals wieder.
Penny stretched her legs, long legs. The strong and well shaped calves of a grown woman. Silk stockings, the colour of rich cream, more revealing than covering: what a beautiful contrast compared to the vision of fashion designers, who, in recent years, have made ideal women look like a stork.
Although not welcomed, images crossed his mind: As in a slide show, Sebastian saw the thighs of his former girlfriends. There was Fanny, his first great love from 9th grade till his graduation from high school; so full of life that that some pound more on her seemed downright necessary to host all the energy she possessed. Then Kathryn, a really nice girl who thought herself too plump though and had finally given in to the slimming madness of the age: A relationship that had died before it even began. “I wonder what she’s doing right now” he asked himself silently.
His hand reached for the chocolatière, a swan shaped bowl made of smoothly polished silver. While he had been watching, Penny had already finished most of the chocolates carefully arranged in it. Of those that were left two pieces obviously contained marzipan. The third one had a glittering sweet, light brown curst but he suspected it would be rather boringly filled with some unidentifiable sort of alcohol.
Judging from her choice of sweets, this lady seemed to know what she wanted: Belgian chocolates filled with champagne, French truffles with fine grinded and German bitter sweet bars.
Sebastian felt his heart leaping for joy: Never again he would do things by halves. Not here, nor at any other occasion.
So, Ladies and Gentlemen, I hereby present the TF.N version of Lost Saint.
This short vignette about Obi-Wan in the desert is easily the most controlled, most polished piece of fiction I have ever written. I can't really explain why, but as an author I usually have a rather strong tendency towards planning. And more often than not, the struggle to get my ideas on paper *exactly* as I imagined them ends in frustration, the soft noise of a pushed delete button or another abandoned opening paragraph slumbering in a near fatal coma in the darkest corner of my hard drive.
In interviews with professional as well as amateur writers the creative act often gets explained along the terms of "opening the doors to the unconscious". If I remember correctly, Stephen King once described it as "sitting down in front of the word processor and letting the guys in the basement do their job.
Even though I have begun to suspect that this particular approach might actually (at least to a certain degree) work a lot better than mine, I'm still a bit hesitant to open the door to the basement to ask the guys down there if they could kindly assist me.
However, I did an awful lot of experimenting over the last couple of months, mostly fragments and opening scenes, trying to establish a balance between what is spontaneous and what is controlled. Here is a short example of what happens when I set off without knowing where the journey will take me.
Penny streckte die Beine. Lang waren sie. Die kräftigen, wohlgeformten Waden einer erwachsenen Frau. Verhüllt von cremefarbenen, halbtransparenten Seidenstrüpfen. Was für ein erfreulicher Gegensatz zu diesen entsetzlich dürren Storchenstelzen, die in den letzten Jahren so sehr in Mode gekommen waren. Obwohl ihm eigentlich nichts ferner lag, ließ Sebastian im Geiste die Schenkel seiner früheren Freundinnen passieren. Frannie, seine große Flamme von der neunten Klasse bis zum Abitur war immer ein wenig pummelig gewesen, aber lebhaft, ein wahrer Wirbelsturm, Ausbund an Lebensfreude und Temperament. Kathrin, nett aber schließlich entgegen aller guten Vorsätze doch dem allgemeinen Diätwahn zum Opfer gefallen. Die Beziehung zu ihr erstarb, bevor sie richtig begonnen hatte. Was wohl aus dem Mädchen geworden war, fragte er sich im Stillen.
Seine Hand griff nach der silbernen Chocolatière, aus der Penny sich bereits ausgiebig bedient hatte. Von den Pralinen, die sich noch in der schwanförmigen, auf Hochglanz polierten Schale befanden, waren zwei aus Marzipan, die dritte machte den Anschein, als verberge sich hinter der hellen, zuckerbestreuten Glasur bloß eine schnöde Likör-Füllung.
Zumindest was Pralinées betraf, ging die Lady wohl gerne aufs Ganze. Nougat, Champagner, süßherbe Trüffel. Sebastian spürte, wie sein Herz vor Freude einen Luftsprung tat. Keine halben Sachen mehr. Nicht hier und niemals wieder.
Penny stretched her legs, long legs. The strong and well shaped calves of a grown woman. Silk stockings, the colour of rich cream, more revealing than covering: what a beautiful contrast compared to the vision of fashion designers, who, in recent years, have made ideal women look like a stork.
Although not welcomed, images crossed his mind: As in a slide show, Sebastian saw the thighs of his former girlfriends. There was Fanny, his first great love from 9th grade till his graduation from high school; so full of life that that some pound more on her seemed downright necessary to host all the energy she possessed. Then Kathryn, a really nice girl who thought herself too plump though and had finally given in to the slimming madness of the age: A relationship that had died before it even began. “I wonder what she’s doing right now” he asked himself silently.
His hand reached for the chocolatière, a swan shaped bowl made of smoothly polished silver. While he had been watching, Penny had already finished most of the chocolates carefully arranged in it. Of those that were left two pieces obviously contained marzipan. The third one had a glittering sweet, light brown curst but he suspected it would be rather boringly filled with some unidentifiable sort of alcohol.
Judging from her choice of sweets, this lady seemed to know what she wanted: Belgian chocolates filled with champagne, French truffles with fine grinded and German bitter sweet bars.
Sebastian felt his heart leaping for joy: Never again he would do things by halves. Not here, nor at any other occasion.