meepful things of a writing nature
I am, for the first time in many years, writing a love story. Or rather, I am writing a love story in which both of the participants are relatively whole and hale in body, mind, and spirit, and are not constantly cutting themselves and each other on razor edges of things left unspoken.
This is a very odd feeling; it's rather akin to putting on a dress that's been hanging in the back of the closet for years. Did it always make my hips look that wide? Has the tag always been rubbing against my shoulder in that particular way, and I forgot? Do I actually have range of motion in this dress, or will I tear the shoulder seam if I try to reach above my head for something?
Last night while i was trying to fall asleep, I was turning over in my head the oddity of the words I rapid-generated, and pondering the oddities of the love story. I came to some conclusions that I had been peripherally aware of for a while, but had not yet chased out of the mental closet and beaten violently about the head and neck with a broom. Now I have chased them out, and battered them, and after some mutual snarling I at least know what I'm dealing with, if not how to handle it.
And with THAT bizarre metaphor, let's talk about writing.
My GYWO spreadsheet tells me I have written 48,198 words so far this year. That's almost a NaNo Novel (although I'm still behind; I should be at 61,971.) Sometimes it has gone really easily, like last Friday when I was nudging at
trialia's Balthier/Ashe/Garnet (but Balthier and Ashe really really like to talk, so that didn't surprise me.) However, I'm having a lot of trouble getting myself to sit down and actually write things. I am sure that large parts of this are due to my tendency to procrastinate, to need a serious deadline that is kicking my butt so I have to fly through it without second-guessing anything I put on the screen.
And therein is the root of the problem.
I am sure that I am colouring these memories rather rosily, as one does when one looks back, but I seem to recall that writing was never this hard in college, or high school, or grade school. Open the program, hit some keys, end up with words and paragraphs and even chapters. And what I wrote was awful -
renay has seen some of the abysmal crud that was generated then - but hey, I wrote it. I wrote a 132-page novel start to finish when I was 13. At the time, I was supremely proud of it.
Of course one grows up, and at some point quality control kicks in (one hopes.) And I have made friends with a lot of terrifyingly awesome people who are amazing writers, who have read and commented positively on my work (which is cause for immense squee!)
But here's the problem: I feel like I can't live up to my own press, such as it is.
I've been having more problems than usual with Every Light Casts A Shadow lately, more than the standard wrangling and shrieking that happens whenever Kain and I start chatting. I think it's because I know that I'm seriously approaching the point where the vast majority of that piece is going to see the light of the Internets (by which I mean the oncoming train) and, in my self-flattering way, I think that people are going to read it.
I am absolutely terrified of disappointing them.
In all honesty I think I have written some kickass awesome pieces, and given my general opinion of myself and everything I do, that statement is fairly significant. I've created an expectation for myself, that I will always be at that level or better, and every time I look at the tangled first-draft mess that is Every Light, or the sketches and outlines that are going to be my 0tp fics, I cringe. Some of my 0tp bunnies are straight-up PWP, which works great for the few that are established-relationship things, but not so awesome for the ones that are crossover crack. I'm really excited for the vision of Kain/Ashe that's in my head, but also terrified that I'm going to do it wrong and the Internets will hate me.
Apparently, I am still a thirteen-year-old fanbrat whining for feedback. Except that I wasn't posting my god-awful crap on the Internets when I was thirteen. But whatever.
It's not that I don't want to write, because I do. I like telling stories and wrangling characters and poking Kain with pointy sticks. And to be honest I don't really care whether people who don't know me like my stories or not; that's not the problem.
The problem is that I am horribly afraid that people I love will not like my fic, and I don't know what to do about that. =/
Sigh.
This is a very odd feeling; it's rather akin to putting on a dress that's been hanging in the back of the closet for years. Did it always make my hips look that wide? Has the tag always been rubbing against my shoulder in that particular way, and I forgot? Do I actually have range of motion in this dress, or will I tear the shoulder seam if I try to reach above my head for something?
Last night while i was trying to fall asleep, I was turning over in my head the oddity of the words I rapid-generated, and pondering the oddities of the love story. I came to some conclusions that I had been peripherally aware of for a while, but had not yet chased out of the mental closet and beaten violently about the head and neck with a broom. Now I have chased them out, and battered them, and after some mutual snarling I at least know what I'm dealing with, if not how to handle it.
And with THAT bizarre metaphor, let's talk about writing.
My GYWO spreadsheet tells me I have written 48,198 words so far this year. That's almost a NaNo Novel (although I'm still behind; I should be at 61,971.) Sometimes it has gone really easily, like last Friday when I was nudging at
trialia's Balthier/Ashe/Garnet (but Balthier and Ashe really really like to talk, so that didn't surprise me.) However, I'm having a lot of trouble getting myself to sit down and actually write things. I am sure that large parts of this are due to my tendency to procrastinate, to need a serious deadline that is kicking my butt so I have to fly through it without second-guessing anything I put on the screen.
And therein is the root of the problem.
I am sure that I am colouring these memories rather rosily, as one does when one looks back, but I seem to recall that writing was never this hard in college, or high school, or grade school. Open the program, hit some keys, end up with words and paragraphs and even chapters. And what I wrote was awful -
renay has seen some of the abysmal crud that was generated then - but hey, I wrote it. I wrote a 132-page novel start to finish when I was 13. At the time, I was supremely proud of it.
Of course one grows up, and at some point quality control kicks in (one hopes.) And I have made friends with a lot of terrifyingly awesome people who are amazing writers, who have read and commented positively on my work (which is cause for immense squee!)
But here's the problem: I feel like I can't live up to my own press, such as it is.
I've been having more problems than usual with Every Light Casts A Shadow lately, more than the standard wrangling and shrieking that happens whenever Kain and I start chatting. I think it's because I know that I'm seriously approaching the point where the vast majority of that piece is going to see the light of the Internets (by which I mean the oncoming train) and, in my self-flattering way, I think that people are going to read it.
I am absolutely terrified of disappointing them.
In all honesty I think I have written some kickass awesome pieces, and given my general opinion of myself and everything I do, that statement is fairly significant. I've created an expectation for myself, that I will always be at that level or better, and every time I look at the tangled first-draft mess that is Every Light, or the sketches and outlines that are going to be my 0tp fics, I cringe. Some of my 0tp bunnies are straight-up PWP, which works great for the few that are established-relationship things, but not so awesome for the ones that are crossover crack. I'm really excited for the vision of Kain/Ashe that's in my head, but also terrified that I'm going to do it wrong and the Internets will hate me.
Apparently, I am still a thirteen-year-old fanbrat whining for feedback. Except that I wasn't posting my god-awful crap on the Internets when I was thirteen. But whatever.
It's not that I don't want to write, because I do. I like telling stories and wrangling characters and poking Kain with pointy sticks. And to be honest I don't really care whether people who don't know me like my stories or not; that's not the problem.
The problem is that I am horribly afraid that people I love will not like my fic, and I don't know what to do about that. =/
Sigh.