write, regardless
Everything I wrote last night, I trashed. Today at work I broke out a new outline, some realizations that the back story was shitty, and began anew tonight, starting loosely with the scam. Then I ended up approaching it like the pilot of a TV series (unintentionally), which is to stage the scenes we see concretely but leave copious unanswered questions for later. My strict no-exposition policy on this guy makes it easy to leave things a little mysterious... we're along for the ride so far.
And then I painstakingly crafted a seven-page opening set piece involving extreme acts of self-violence and quite a graphic amount of blood. I hope I didn't just start the thing off ratcheted to eleven -- especially in a story where the gradual descent into amorality and ugliness is part of the story and primary to the protagonist's eventual realization. I tried to leave him a neutral party to the gruesome first scene but even an accomplice to this sets a certain tone. Working to my benefit, though, is the peeling-away-layers approach I'm taking to both characterization and character development. I'm 11 pages in now and we're only just about to meet our players with the shades drawn for the first time. I think that's going to work for the story. I think I've built up some suspense.
But man, I've never written genre before. Not really. Nothing like this. It's both harder and easier, terrifying (everything I'm writing has been written before!) and relieving (everything I'm writing has been written before!). I don't know yet if I love it or hate it. Ask me again when I've finished a draft of this.
Well, at least I bumped Frestón up to the shitty desk, pushing Antarctica (the desktop machine) further into the corner to make room for it. Now I'm sitting in a real bona fide chair as I struggle all night to get 11 pages down. If tomorrow night I can get through their first conversation and decision to set out together -- essentially ending Act One -- and if I can decide how I want to deal with the authorities/ramifications of their heist, then I will feel pretty closely on track to finishing ahead of my deadline. So, that's tomorrow's goal.
God, one thing's for sure. Having this hard-deadline goal to meet and having just a little momentum on a story, even if it's one I loathe as often as not, is so much more satisfying than drifting pointlessly and wondering what I ought to be doing. I may get out less, but having a thing to care about that's as easy to focus energy on is so much more satisfying. (Now if only I could couple that sensation by making it back to the motherfucking gym once in a goddamned while.)
And now Gus van Sant's Psycho will put me to sleep.
And then I painstakingly crafted a seven-page opening set piece involving extreme acts of self-violence and quite a graphic amount of blood. I hope I didn't just start the thing off ratcheted to eleven -- especially in a story where the gradual descent into amorality and ugliness is part of the story and primary to the protagonist's eventual realization. I tried to leave him a neutral party to the gruesome first scene but even an accomplice to this sets a certain tone. Working to my benefit, though, is the peeling-away-layers approach I'm taking to both characterization and character development. I'm 11 pages in now and we're only just about to meet our players with the shades drawn for the first time. I think that's going to work for the story. I think I've built up some suspense.
But man, I've never written genre before. Not really. Nothing like this. It's both harder and easier, terrifying (everything I'm writing has been written before!) and relieving (everything I'm writing has been written before!). I don't know yet if I love it or hate it. Ask me again when I've finished a draft of this.
Well, at least I bumped Frestón up to the shitty desk, pushing Antarctica (the desktop machine) further into the corner to make room for it. Now I'm sitting in a real bona fide chair as I struggle all night to get 11 pages down. If tomorrow night I can get through their first conversation and decision to set out together -- essentially ending Act One -- and if I can decide how I want to deal with the authorities/ramifications of their heist, then I will feel pretty closely on track to finishing ahead of my deadline. So, that's tomorrow's goal.
God, one thing's for sure. Having this hard-deadline goal to meet and having just a little momentum on a story, even if it's one I loathe as often as not, is so much more satisfying than drifting pointlessly and wondering what I ought to be doing. I may get out less, but having a thing to care about that's as easy to focus energy on is so much more satisfying. (Now if only I could couple that sensation by making it back to the motherfucking gym once in a goddamned while.)
And now Gus van Sant's Psycho will put me to sleep.