Mun-day (1/31/11)
People say 'write what you know,' so maybe that is why there's such a plethora of stories out there about writers? (And gay vampires)
What areas of personal expertise do you incorporate into your chars? Or do you take the opposite point of view, and deliberately try to write about chars who are unlike you, and have radically different experiences from your own?
Opposite, for the most part, though, admittedly it's not quite intentional.
If you're writing chars who have personal experiences that are drastically different from your own, how do you get into their heads? Do you exhaustively research their backgrounds and professions, or write in a fantasy realm so you get to create the world from scratch?
Farley's a scientist/troubleshooter, Dr. Poole's a linguist, and both live in the 1930s. Definitely some research involved.
And finally, the core experience that we here all share is that we are in some form, writers. Are any of your chars writers, or does the thought of putting pen to paper bore them stiff?
Farley does once in a blue moon, but purely for the hell of it. The last major effort was a novelization of sorts of Blade Runner.
Monday metafiction bonus: Post a drabble, ficlet, speech, school paper or letter to the editor as written by your character.
Something was wrong.
This was supposed to be a routine stakeout - aren't they all? - but it was clear we'd stumbled onto something big. Maybe it was my instinctive way of knowing that the shit just hit the fan, or maybe it was my newfound sixth sense for all things eldritch-
Or maybe it was the dust kicked up by nothing on a breezeless night and the report of said nothing firing guns.
I'd thrown a quick invisibility glamour over myself, and now quietly made my way towards the graveyard, avoiding the bushes when I could and moving slowly when I couldn't. Unfortunately, getting closer didn't help - all I saw now were two men - One, short, fat, and screaming about "goddamn angels" as the battle seemed to chase him around, the other tall, bald, typically badass-looking, and just standing around like it was just another day at the park.
I sighed to myself, and pulled the sunglasses off my head.
"Tiny glasses tinted green;
Show me all that can't be seen."
I slid them into place, and several figures immediately popped out at me. The most obvious were the white creatures flocking to the graveyard. With their birdlike faces, white and gold wings, and clawed arms and feet, there was no mistaking them for human, but they wore different colored tunics over their bodies and held some kind of multi-bladed spear.
Were these angels?
Then came their target - a woman, human maybe, wearing a black catsuit that covered almost everything but left nothing to the imagination, and firing a pair of enormous hand cannons that would give Lamont's .45s a serious case of gun envy. As one of the creatures rushed her, she leaped up, wrapping her long legs around its neck and sending it tumbling end over end while she fired at its companions.
I stared at her for a second, wondering what her outfit was made of - it looked too smooth and moved a little too easily with her to be leather, but didn't quite look like any kind of rubber or latex. The arms made it more confusing - at the elbow, they opened up into billowing thread that looked suspiciously like her own hair, especially with how the back of her suit seemed to flow up into her 'do.
She landed on one of the gravestones, presenting a clear profile, delicious curves and all. She leapt back into the fray, dodging spears with a dancer's grace, but I crouched there, id keeping me firmly in place-
"You're joking, right?"
"Problem?" Farley glanced up at Lamont, eyebrows hidden under the slouch hat, though his incredulous smile wasn't.
"Other than you getting hot and bothered over a woman who could kill you five times over?"
"...Again - problem?
What areas of personal expertise do you incorporate into your chars? Or do you take the opposite point of view, and deliberately try to write about chars who are unlike you, and have radically different experiences from your own?
Opposite, for the most part, though, admittedly it's not quite intentional.
If you're writing chars who have personal experiences that are drastically different from your own, how do you get into their heads? Do you exhaustively research their backgrounds and professions, or write in a fantasy realm so you get to create the world from scratch?
Farley's a scientist/troubleshooter, Dr. Poole's a linguist, and both live in the 1930s. Definitely some research involved.
And finally, the core experience that we here all share is that we are in some form, writers. Are any of your chars writers, or does the thought of putting pen to paper bore them stiff?
Farley does once in a blue moon, but purely for the hell of it. The last major effort was a novelization of sorts of Blade Runner.
Monday metafiction bonus: Post a drabble, ficlet, speech, school paper or letter to the editor as written by your character.
Something was wrong.
This was supposed to be a routine stakeout - aren't they all? - but it was clear we'd stumbled onto something big. Maybe it was my instinctive way of knowing that the shit just hit the fan, or maybe it was my newfound sixth sense for all things eldritch-
Or maybe it was the dust kicked up by nothing on a breezeless night and the report of said nothing firing guns.
I'd thrown a quick invisibility glamour over myself, and now quietly made my way towards the graveyard, avoiding the bushes when I could and moving slowly when I couldn't. Unfortunately, getting closer didn't help - all I saw now were two men - One, short, fat, and screaming about "goddamn angels" as the battle seemed to chase him around, the other tall, bald, typically badass-looking, and just standing around like it was just another day at the park.
I sighed to myself, and pulled the sunglasses off my head.
"Tiny glasses tinted green;
Show me all that can't be seen."
I slid them into place, and several figures immediately popped out at me. The most obvious were the white creatures flocking to the graveyard. With their birdlike faces, white and gold wings, and clawed arms and feet, there was no mistaking them for human, but they wore different colored tunics over their bodies and held some kind of multi-bladed spear.
Were these angels?
Then came their target - a woman, human maybe, wearing a black catsuit that covered almost everything but left nothing to the imagination, and firing a pair of enormous hand cannons that would give Lamont's .45s a serious case of gun envy. As one of the creatures rushed her, she leaped up, wrapping her long legs around its neck and sending it tumbling end over end while she fired at its companions.
I stared at her for a second, wondering what her outfit was made of - it looked too smooth and moved a little too easily with her to be leather, but didn't quite look like any kind of rubber or latex. The arms made it more confusing - at the elbow, they opened up into billowing thread that looked suspiciously like her own hair, especially with how the back of her suit seemed to flow up into her 'do.
She landed on one of the gravestones, presenting a clear profile, delicious curves and all. She leapt back into the fray, dodging spears with a dancer's grace, but I crouched there, id keeping me firmly in place-
"You're joking, right?"
"Problem?" Farley glanced up at Lamont, eyebrows hidden under the slouch hat, though his incredulous smile wasn't.
"Other than you getting hot and bothered over a woman who could kill you five times over?"
"...Again - problem?