...except I can't.
The way I've taught myself to edit is a pretty strict as-I-go. The first draft is always hand-written, and the second one is typed directly from the hand-written copy with obvious minor-and-major edits to the structure.
After that, it's chaos.
I generally yell at myself as I'm writing, placing those comment's and misunderstandings in bold that look something like;
Stop being such a tosser. There is no connectivity from the reader to blah, blah, blah
The thing is that I delete these things because the moment I write one I am stuck on that segment until I get it right enough for me to continue on. Of course I go back later and edit, edit, edit, edit, edit, except all those other edits are performed in minor, very distant spaces of time.
You said in class to just print out frequently if we are Go-Editers, except I am having trouble doing that because for one, I don't want you/anyone to see the little comments I make to myself and Two, by printing out the little comments I am making to myself I feel this little audience-demon floating beside me that is essentially fabricating, and ruining, my potentially positive edits.
I am actually very stuck on this. I have no older edits of stories past to offer and, although it may seem easy for me to just write a new story and provide the edits, it isn't, solely because of the last paragraph.
So... if you see this, could you please let me know if there is anyway to go around this little assignment? It's severely stunting every creative thing for me at the moment.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Stageplays = Sad: My history with the form.
I finished the assignment (late), and I am both relieved and kind-of inspired. Also, I'm pretty sad and sort of mopey.
I always wanted to be a stageplay writer, or perhaps I wanted to be a director whom also wrote the play. Whatever title's, I always liked the idea of having my stories performed (Not filmed!) and, when I was much younger, I would always try and bamboozle my brother into putting on a play for my mum for X holiday or Y birthday. I can only remember one time that we did (A four-act play that lasted 1 minute, maybe less), but I did write it and, for a long time afterwards, I always wanted to write stage-plays.
I didn't write anymore stageplays after that, or maybe I did but I just didn't understand that there was a specific form to write them in and, thus, I am now confused by what was my earliest fiction and perhaps screenplays. Assuming I didn't write them, though, and that I continued to write fiction, the idea of putting on a play never did leave my mind. Up until 14, where I was slowly shrugging off my little tints of writing to pursue skateboarding, I had concocted an experimental "poem" which, in my head, I viewed as a play, called "The Machine Wars." It was an epic poem, one page a segment, each segment varying from the last though all in one massive, slowly-rolling story-telling structure.
It wasn't good, but I know damn well that that notebook was not just a series of connected poems. I had intended, always, for that to be performed.
(I'm reading over it now; I don't understand how I intended this to be performed, but I know I thought that it could be.)
So from 14 into 16&1/2, I didn't write at all. Then, when skateboarding lost it's edge and the ideals of corporate sponsorship dwindled, I re-took the art and started writing.
At this point in life, and even now, I chose to neglect stageplays in that I understand nothing of their marketing, how much opportunity awaits a stageplay writer, and, of course, how much money a stageplay may earn. So I focused on fiction.
At 19, I started to write a stageplay again. I don't understand what it was that made me do so, but I suddenly thought that perhaps I could say "F it" and write this epic and become this successful person. For one, I can't write at all, and two, I had never written a stage play in form.
Needless to say, I abandoned it as I do all of my projects, and ever since then I have wholly pushed stageplays off of my mind.
But of course writing one would be a substantially large grade assignment...
The one I just wrote is eight pages long and, though it is also trash like my other writings, I now am absolutely distraught at the idea that never, ever will I see my play performed. There are a couple of reasons I could list, but I'll focus on one here.
When I write fiction, I am generally growing more and more drunk as I write. As I push towards beautiful innebriation, I find myself much less concerned on my actions and find myself standing up and talking out loud and attempting, wholly, to immerse myself into the character. It's an odd habit, and an embarrasing one if ever one were to see, but nessecary.
With this play, I also wrote this with drunken-clarity, except the methodology for understanding the character was seperate in the means by which I entered their head. They say that with fiction the author is God, though I've never agreed to that and find that I am simply a weaver whom dictates, not God. With stageplays, though, the God-complex is unique in that it is not aquired, but required. I chose the format by which all action would be displayed, I chose how blood would sit upon the wall, how my character would fall and cry and exactly how his memory would be revealed, how the sombre atmosphere would not simply be but would intensify as that of a growing wind.
Everything that happens, every character action, every entrance, every exit, I chose and adjusted to my vision. Unlike fiction, where there is an understanding of plot and connecting the dots to climax's and downtimes and the eventual ending, I wholly wrote the life (Well, death really) and reasoning for everything.
And with this God Complex, I am now absolutely horrified that my play will never be seen. Though I know, again, that it's quality is entirely lacking, I do not believe that I put any less effort into it then any other "great" artist of the past. And, of course, it being a stageplay, it is is designed to be performed. Despite how many times i placed a toy-gun to my head to understand how my character would shoot himself, or how many times I skipped back and forth in the living room attempting to see a segment of dialouge, it will never amount to what could actually be revealed should my play ever be adequately performed.
Because of that, and I think perhaps that that may have been the reason all along, I'll stick with fiction.
I always wanted to be a stageplay writer, or perhaps I wanted to be a director whom also wrote the play. Whatever title's, I always liked the idea of having my stories performed (Not filmed!) and, when I was much younger, I would always try and bamboozle my brother into putting on a play for my mum for X holiday or Y birthday. I can only remember one time that we did (A four-act play that lasted 1 minute, maybe less), but I did write it and, for a long time afterwards, I always wanted to write stage-plays.
I didn't write anymore stageplays after that, or maybe I did but I just didn't understand that there was a specific form to write them in and, thus, I am now confused by what was my earliest fiction and perhaps screenplays. Assuming I didn't write them, though, and that I continued to write fiction, the idea of putting on a play never did leave my mind. Up until 14, where I was slowly shrugging off my little tints of writing to pursue skateboarding, I had concocted an experimental "poem" which, in my head, I viewed as a play, called "The Machine Wars." It was an epic poem, one page a segment, each segment varying from the last though all in one massive, slowly-rolling story-telling structure.
It wasn't good, but I know damn well that that notebook was not just a series of connected poems. I had intended, always, for that to be performed.
(I'm reading over it now; I don't understand how I intended this to be performed, but I know I thought that it could be.)
So from 14 into 16&1/2, I didn't write at all. Then, when skateboarding lost it's edge and the ideals of corporate sponsorship dwindled, I re-took the art and started writing.
At this point in life, and even now, I chose to neglect stageplays in that I understand nothing of their marketing, how much opportunity awaits a stageplay writer, and, of course, how much money a stageplay may earn. So I focused on fiction.
At 19, I started to write a stageplay again. I don't understand what it was that made me do so, but I suddenly thought that perhaps I could say "F it" and write this epic and become this successful person. For one, I can't write at all, and two, I had never written a stage play in form.
Needless to say, I abandoned it as I do all of my projects, and ever since then I have wholly pushed stageplays off of my mind.
But of course writing one would be a substantially large grade assignment...
The one I just wrote is eight pages long and, though it is also trash like my other writings, I now am absolutely distraught at the idea that never, ever will I see my play performed. There are a couple of reasons I could list, but I'll focus on one here.
When I write fiction, I am generally growing more and more drunk as I write. As I push towards beautiful innebriation, I find myself much less concerned on my actions and find myself standing up and talking out loud and attempting, wholly, to immerse myself into the character. It's an odd habit, and an embarrasing one if ever one were to see, but nessecary.
With this play, I also wrote this with drunken-clarity, except the methodology for understanding the character was seperate in the means by which I entered their head. They say that with fiction the author is God, though I've never agreed to that and find that I am simply a weaver whom dictates, not God. With stageplays, though, the God-complex is unique in that it is not aquired, but required. I chose the format by which all action would be displayed, I chose how blood would sit upon the wall, how my character would fall and cry and exactly how his memory would be revealed, how the sombre atmosphere would not simply be but would intensify as that of a growing wind.
Everything that happens, every character action, every entrance, every exit, I chose and adjusted to my vision. Unlike fiction, where there is an understanding of plot and connecting the dots to climax's and downtimes and the eventual ending, I wholly wrote the life (Well, death really) and reasoning for everything.
And with this God Complex, I am now absolutely horrified that my play will never be seen. Though I know, again, that it's quality is entirely lacking, I do not believe that I put any less effort into it then any other "great" artist of the past. And, of course, it being a stageplay, it is is designed to be performed. Despite how many times i placed a toy-gun to my head to understand how my character would shoot himself, or how many times I skipped back and forth in the living room attempting to see a segment of dialouge, it will never amount to what could actually be revealed should my play ever be adequately performed.
Because of that, and I think perhaps that that may have been the reason all along, I'll stick with fiction.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
'Sup December?
Women, women, women.
With any art, be it painting, mathematics, woodwork, etc:, there exists a very obvious connection of self-to-work. With writing, it's a bit more obvious; if I am miserable, chances are that, should it be written impulsively, than the tone/theme of the work is going to be rather somber.
Instead of a solid emotion, though, like happy/sad, angry/glad, ecstatic/suicidal, I find the most authentic, and well-rounded feeling, to be shame.
Shame is like a wobbly bridge. You can be ascending, with a full sun above glostening over your car/helmet, basking you in light-blanket, or descending, with the rain slicking the pavement, your hands clenched in pure terror about the wheel, feeling each and every mild hydro-plane, and shame will totally null whatever it is that you are experiencing.
With the former, it should be obvious in the manner by which shame affects it. You feel it, and suddenly you just stop, get out and walk to the banister, and stand there like a weirdo. But with the latter, shame brings to it awkward things, things that don't add/subtract, but fully, and wholly, distort. One can be suicidal, placing the noose about their neck, and suddenly remember a time of shame. They will not fling themselves into oblivion, but they will wait, and remember, potentially forget suicide and go do something miserable like hire a hooker.
Shame does not kill anybody; it fractures them.
With how this blog started, I believe that my entire connection, and basic means of livelihood alongside shame, are connected entirely to women. Strange that women, whom are brought up with the full understanding that they are indeed valuable and damn-near prizes in regards to how men view them, are the very thing that make me want to put cigarettes out in my eye and inhale aerosol. It is not lack-of, nor too many, but apathy towards those whom care for me that causes this shame.
No confessions are in this. Wrote this solely to fill in requirements.
Still am writing horribly.
With any art, be it painting, mathematics, woodwork, etc:, there exists a very obvious connection of self-to-work. With writing, it's a bit more obvious; if I am miserable, chances are that, should it be written impulsively, than the tone/theme of the work is going to be rather somber.
Instead of a solid emotion, though, like happy/sad, angry/glad, ecstatic/suicidal, I find the most authentic, and well-rounded feeling, to be shame.
Shame is like a wobbly bridge. You can be ascending, with a full sun above glostening over your car/helmet, basking you in light-blanket, or descending, with the rain slicking the pavement, your hands clenched in pure terror about the wheel, feeling each and every mild hydro-plane, and shame will totally null whatever it is that you are experiencing.
With the former, it should be obvious in the manner by which shame affects it. You feel it, and suddenly you just stop, get out and walk to the banister, and stand there like a weirdo. But with the latter, shame brings to it awkward things, things that don't add/subtract, but fully, and wholly, distort. One can be suicidal, placing the noose about their neck, and suddenly remember a time of shame. They will not fling themselves into oblivion, but they will wait, and remember, potentially forget suicide and go do something miserable like hire a hooker.
Shame does not kill anybody; it fractures them.
With how this blog started, I believe that my entire connection, and basic means of livelihood alongside shame, are connected entirely to women. Strange that women, whom are brought up with the full understanding that they are indeed valuable and damn-near prizes in regards to how men view them, are the very thing that make me want to put cigarettes out in my eye and inhale aerosol. It is not lack-of, nor too many, but apathy towards those whom care for me that causes this shame.
No confessions are in this. Wrote this solely to fill in requirements.
Still am writing horribly.
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