really fucked-up subconscious
I talked a bit about story ideas here, a little while back.
Lately, I've had a few really, honestly messed-up ideas for short stories.
They've had their genesis in events and circumstances in our own world, as these ideas do, and then go on with, "what if?"
Friggin' dangerous words, "what if?"
Because now I have these stories burbling in the back of my head, still sorting themselves out, waiting to mature enough for me to start playing with them and figure out what I'm trying to say about the prices we must pay--and what happens to us when that coin is blood, and not just our own.
On the one hand, I'm amazed to have these ideas that just might--if I'm lucky and skilled enough--turn into real stories. I mean, dude. Right?
On the other hand, I'm kind of pissing myself, because the odds are that I'm going to fuck it up. Not only will telling these stories require dexterity and skill (which I'm only so-so on being able to muster), but their subject matters, the flesh in which the questions and answers will dance, are fucking minefields.
Oh, and one's science fiction, so I have to deal with that kind of plausibility, too.
Sure, the other's fantasy, but if I do it wrong, I've insulted the memory of millions of murdered, martyred dead, and look like I'm exploiting my adopted people.
And I just realized that for that SF story, I have to not look like I'm regurgitating Atwood, because I won't be, but--see, this is what happens when you first read The Handmaid's Tale when you're sixteen!
Christ.
Yo! Artists! Writers! Storytellers!--
The only way out is through, right?
Write with respect. Respect the story, respect the characters, respect the ideas, respect the context...
*deep breath*
Well, I'll try, damn it.
Here's hoping I don't write myself into a corner. And if I do, that I can write my way out.
Lately, I've had a few really, honestly messed-up ideas for short stories.
They've had their genesis in events and circumstances in our own world, as these ideas do, and then go on with, "what if?"
Friggin' dangerous words, "what if?"
Because now I have these stories burbling in the back of my head, still sorting themselves out, waiting to mature enough for me to start playing with them and figure out what I'm trying to say about the prices we must pay--and what happens to us when that coin is blood, and not just our own.
On the one hand, I'm amazed to have these ideas that just might--if I'm lucky and skilled enough--turn into real stories. I mean, dude. Right?
On the other hand, I'm kind of pissing myself, because the odds are that I'm going to fuck it up. Not only will telling these stories require dexterity and skill (which I'm only so-so on being able to muster), but their subject matters, the flesh in which the questions and answers will dance, are fucking minefields.
Oh, and one's science fiction, so I have to deal with that kind of plausibility, too.
Sure, the other's fantasy, but if I do it wrong, I've insulted the memory of millions of murdered, martyred dead, and look like I'm exploiting my adopted people.
And I just realized that for that SF story, I have to not look like I'm regurgitating Atwood, because I won't be, but--see, this is what happens when you first read The Handmaid's Tale when you're sixteen!
Christ.
Yo! Artists! Writers! Storytellers!--
The only way out is through, right?
Write with respect. Respect the story, respect the characters, respect the ideas, respect the context...
*deep breath*
Well, I'll try, damn it.
Here's hoping I don't write myself into a corner. And if I do, that I can write my way out.