Spillt Ink

I've been reading a dated, main-stream book upon writing character.  I'm reading it more for the authorial tone than for any help it has been giving me upon writing character the way I want to write character.  Because I want to write character where the writing of character is invisible.  This is tricky business.  Although the opposite is true too.  I mean if you can write invisible character development, well, when you're doing all mighty and bold, that says something.  (I'm laughing at this, you can do, if you want.)

I've also been thinking about poetry discussion.  (Because of that post I made and the comment that came back.)  Half of the time, I'm saying to myself that the person had what I said all wrong.  Half of the time, I'm saying to myself that the subject matter is too singular.  I'm a boulder.  I think that too.

There is also steampunk, which I love but seem to not to be able to write at all.  I want a world of chunky robotic creatures, maybe their own world.  They should be woodland animals.  A sort of animal world, maybe with children.  And the Green Man.   

A series upon shoes:

Ruby slippers
Farm boots
Mary Anne's
Clumpy heels
Bedroom slippers
Chucks

Phrases:

"Your courage comes from a bottle."  (Idea behind.)

"Passionate, pathetic, filled with apathy."

"Ineffable and undefinable."

"There was a mantra in there something.  Wait a moment and I'll find it."

So, I was daydreaming today (Josie had a conversation with me about daydreaming and the psychological tidbits of such) and I've had a wee story in mind for a little while, so I was thinking about this woman who leaves the magical city for the magical countryside.  I know that leaves her in the middle of nowhere, but passive character, yeah, and it came to me, drop the age.  So, the words of advice to myself today, and others, if you're stuck on a story, it becomes much more interesting if you drop the age of the protagonist. 

This week, upon one of my friend's journal, I once again heard the lament that the writer of the journal was verily tired of reading stories where the protagonist does nothing.  

I have heard this complaint from genre people who dislike literary stories, either in or without the genre.  Well, particularly within the genre.

It always makes me feel less.

Because, I am one of the people writing these stories.  My protagonists are princesses wandering the castle.  They travel from room to room usually running their fingertips against tapestried walls, cold stonework, carvings made upon dark, heavy wood.   They are the quiet ones working upon their embroidery as the others gossip about each other and tell fine, tall tales about fine, dark men.  They wander the gardens, or sit prettily upon garden benches, appreciating the green leaves and the delicate flowers, but never looking for the secret door that would lead to a secret tunnel that would lead to adventures and misadventures and perhaps, despair and woe.    They are about as passive as passive can be.  

There has to be a place for them in the world of stories, don't you think?  Not everyone takes up the sword, swings the axe, pursues the monster.  Not everyone is a hero or a herorine in real life.  Why shouldn't passive people share the world of fantasy, or horror, or even science fiction?  Why shouldn't they have their own stories?

 Ever write a piece and go, wow, I'm writing and then, you're like, wait, is that right, maybe that's not right, wait, it isn't right, but it's got something going for it, but you don't know how to make that something better, greater, stunning or, at least, less confusing?  Yeah, it's been like that this morning.

• Paper dragons (and shadow puppets)

• "My best friend is a brick wall.  Sometimes, at night, I sit beside him and read him stories in French.  The stories are always fairy tales and they always end sadly for the children."

• The carnival story with the fortune teller should hold detail in the tent canvas and the seer isn't the psychic.  The visions are of a man with substance abuse problems.  (See its twofold again!)

• Jungle foliage.  The name of plants, the amount of sun and shade, poisonous, and the creatures within.

...You know how strong-minded she is, although you don't know how smart. She can be determined. She divorced years ago. She divorced and didn't remarry. She had affairs with younger men. She was adept about setting them at ease. She said the right thing to get them to talk. About themselves, about what they enjoyed. She picks up on clues easily and loves to go out, to dinner, movies, maybe shopping for erotic items for herself, perfume, lingerie, the perfect sweater to wear with her favorite bluejeans.

Marion was a very spiritual person, but in an unconventional way. He believed in messages and visions, ghosts and saints, varying waves of heightened existence that overlapped and bled into one other, especially in dreams. He believed in destiny, but only as a choice. He believed in ideals, idols and icons. He believed in drinking black coffee in small coffee shops, traveling by footpaths and bicycle routes, in visiting museums and mausoleums and deserted, crumbling sanatoriums. He believed in greatness, glory, and a grand unified theory. He believed in soul mates. I did not.

One day, I will write a story, and, there, somewhere in the narrative, towards the end of a paragraph, within a fairly lengthy, complex, sentence will be lalalala. It will be in front a noun, maybe not an important noun, but more important than anyone will think. Or it will be in front a proper noun, maybe a noun that is both a description and a name. Lalalala Queen. Lalalala Princess. Lalalala Wicked Witch hiding in the forest in her one room cottage with her lalalala black cat.

I will have to be careful not to overdo it.