from the soul of a young man
I left the house without a wallet today. Seems about right.
A bunch of things have been percolating in my brain lately. I've been writing more. Not that I have any evidence of that in the outside world. Regardless of my total creative output, generally less than 5% of what I produce ever gets shared with anyone, or sees the light of day. I've been writing, for lack of a better descriptor, scripts. Scripts for a collaborative project devringalbrath suggested to me, that appears to have momentarily run out of steam.
Maybe it has something to do with NaNoWriMo, and my disappointment in my inability to write anything long form. Or the fact that the Rent movie premieres this week, and I’ve been listening to the soundtrack. I'm not certain.
I think it has something to do with Platform Occupation. Yes, that's another old Wednesday White essay. This whole Because Its Wednesday thing all ties together thematically, although I would be lying if I said that was anything other than a happy accident.
I've got myself thinking about what I do for a living, and what I do in my spare time. My hobbies. Thoughts on my current Exalted chronicle are all mixed up in this. Its a mediocre game at best, but for the first time in a long time I don't hold myself primarily responsible for the game's failings. Its boastful to say it, but by trial and error and emulation I've become a significantly better gamemaster in the past six or seven years.
And I think on that, on how happy I am with what I've done. I think about the stories I’ve told and the ones I want to tell. I like to think of myself as a Storyteller. I’m not an actor anymore, and I’ll probably never be a rockstar. I could still be a writer, though, or so I like to think. That’s another one of those things I feel like I’ve always wanted to be, always striven to become. But like Marty McFly and his father before him, I’m afraid to put my money where my mouth is. What if they don’t like it? What if they tell me “kid, you’ve got no future.” And the words of Wednesday’s essay (admittedly paraphrased) come echoing through my head.
"Shut the fuck up and write something. Shut the fuck up and write something. Shut. The fuck up. And write. Something."
I think about what demiurgent has done. What he's accomplished. He's modest to a fault, so he probably doesn't see it this way, but he's really molded himself into something amazing. A series of blogs garned him a fandom, and a fandom gave him the ability to do something. To, in a truly fundamental way, make art. So now we've got Gossamer Commons. Its Rob Gordon in the High Fidelity movie: the professional critic, or professional appreciator, turning around and putting something new into the world.
And what's more, he didn't stop there. He wasn't satisfied with just writing a webcomic, so now he's working on a novel, too. One that he intends to polish up to the point where he can publish it. Who knows if he will find success? I hope that he will, but that's entirely beside the point. The point is that he's doing something.
Shut the fuck up and write something.
Scott Kurtz has written about this too, for the record. Its not a unique thought process to Eric & Wednesday. Kurtz brings my problem into sharper focus; he talks about the tipping point, the point at which one truly becomes an artist. For him it was breaking a pencil through overuse. He sat down and he drew his strip every day, and eventually a rather sturdy mechanical pencil just wore down and cracked.
Shut the fuck up and write something.
Robert Heinlein is jumbled into my thought process as well. I read Stranger In A Strange Land at a fairly formative age, and loved it. And like most Heinlein fans I loved Jubal Harshaw. Harshaw is an archetypal character for Heinlein. He’s the old crank that everyone loves despite the fact that he’s irritable and sometimes irascible. And he’s surrounded by pretty girls. What sets Harshaw apart from Lazarus Long or Johann Smith is that he’s also a writer. Its what he does. And as a result of that he’s probably the character that’s closest to the crazy old man Heinlein became.
And in Harshaw’s voice Heinlein talks a bit about writing. About how it was something he couldn’t help doing, like an addiction, a monkey on his back. Once he started doing it he had an absolute need to sit down at the typewriter every damn day and squeeze something out, no matter how terrible.
Shut. The fuck up. And write. Something.
... I want to be a writer. I don’t know what, or when, or where. But I’m lying to myself when I say I don’t know how.
A bunch of things have been percolating in my brain lately. I've been writing more. Not that I have any evidence of that in the outside world. Regardless of my total creative output, generally less than 5% of what I produce ever gets shared with anyone, or sees the light of day. I've been writing, for lack of a better descriptor, scripts. Scripts for a collaborative project devringalbrath suggested to me, that appears to have momentarily run out of steam.
Maybe it has something to do with NaNoWriMo, and my disappointment in my inability to write anything long form. Or the fact that the Rent movie premieres this week, and I’ve been listening to the soundtrack. I'm not certain.
I think it has something to do with Platform Occupation. Yes, that's another old Wednesday White essay. This whole Because Its Wednesday thing all ties together thematically, although I would be lying if I said that was anything other than a happy accident.
I've got myself thinking about what I do for a living, and what I do in my spare time. My hobbies. Thoughts on my current Exalted chronicle are all mixed up in this. Its a mediocre game at best, but for the first time in a long time I don't hold myself primarily responsible for the game's failings. Its boastful to say it, but by trial and error and emulation I've become a significantly better gamemaster in the past six or seven years.
And I think on that, on how happy I am with what I've done. I think about the stories I’ve told and the ones I want to tell. I like to think of myself as a Storyteller. I’m not an actor anymore, and I’ll probably never be a rockstar. I could still be a writer, though, or so I like to think. That’s another one of those things I feel like I’ve always wanted to be, always striven to become. But like Marty McFly and his father before him, I’m afraid to put my money where my mouth is. What if they don’t like it? What if they tell me “kid, you’ve got no future.” And the words of Wednesday’s essay (admittedly paraphrased) come echoing through my head.
"Shut the fuck up and write something. Shut the fuck up and write something. Shut. The fuck up. And write. Something."
I think about what demiurgent has done. What he's accomplished. He's modest to a fault, so he probably doesn't see it this way, but he's really molded himself into something amazing. A series of blogs garned him a fandom, and a fandom gave him the ability to do something. To, in a truly fundamental way, make art. So now we've got Gossamer Commons. Its Rob Gordon in the High Fidelity movie: the professional critic, or professional appreciator, turning around and putting something new into the world.
And what's more, he didn't stop there. He wasn't satisfied with just writing a webcomic, so now he's working on a novel, too. One that he intends to polish up to the point where he can publish it. Who knows if he will find success? I hope that he will, but that's entirely beside the point. The point is that he's doing something.
Shut the fuck up and write something.
Scott Kurtz has written about this too, for the record. Its not a unique thought process to Eric & Wednesday. Kurtz brings my problem into sharper focus; he talks about the tipping point, the point at which one truly becomes an artist. For him it was breaking a pencil through overuse. He sat down and he drew his strip every day, and eventually a rather sturdy mechanical pencil just wore down and cracked.
Shut the fuck up and write something.
Robert Heinlein is jumbled into my thought process as well. I read Stranger In A Strange Land at a fairly formative age, and loved it. And like most Heinlein fans I loved Jubal Harshaw. Harshaw is an archetypal character for Heinlein. He’s the old crank that everyone loves despite the fact that he’s irritable and sometimes irascible. And he’s surrounded by pretty girls. What sets Harshaw apart from Lazarus Long or Johann Smith is that he’s also a writer. Its what he does. And as a result of that he’s probably the character that’s closest to the crazy old man Heinlein became.
And in Harshaw’s voice Heinlein talks a bit about writing. About how it was something he couldn’t help doing, like an addiction, a monkey on his back. Once he started doing it he had an absolute need to sit down at the typewriter every damn day and squeeze something out, no matter how terrible.
Shut. The fuck up. And write. Something.
... I want to be a writer. I don’t know what, or when, or where. But I’m lying to myself when I say I don’t know how.