Last night I sat down at the computer and wrote for 5 hours straight, only taking little breaks for water and such. It felt good, but it also put me a little on edge: all that creativity can be very draining; and in the case of fiction, when one is really in the zone the fictional world becomes very real to the writer, and the boundary between reality and fantasy can become just a little bit blurred. And that's not just me who says that, alot of writers have commented on that. It just so happens that the story I was working on last night has alot of rather dramatic scenes with strong emotions associated with them. Whether or not I effectively communicated the intensity of the scenes through my words, I was definitely feeling them at the time of writing. This made the long walk home from the computer lab a little bit more interesting than I would have liked it to be. Nothing happened, but that nothing was very intense.
Well, it's a second draft, what I was working on last night, but I changed so much of the plot and the characters that this rewrite was more like a first draft. I was pretty pleased with it, and in a moment of post-conception ecstasty I accosted the long haired, thin faced, glasses wearing guy who was working at the lab, asking him if he wanted to read my story. He agreeably, and somewhat fearfully, said yes, and so I e-mailed a copy to him. He's a painter, I found out, and a glass blower too. He's sold one piece of glasswork to the John Glenn Institute for 75 dollars, but no one seems to be interested in the paintings. "They're really just for me" he said. "The glasswork, people look at it and think 'glass--pretty' so it's easy to sell it."
Is it the same for fiction, that people are attracted to written works that are pretty, agreeable, and not too demanding? I don't think so. Visual works tend to be on display all the time, so one wants to have something that is easy to digest, and not likely to cause strong emotions that might jar one out of one's happy medium. Fiction, on the other hand, is a personal, momentary experience. People are looking to enter into a new world, where things are more intense, more extreme than their everyday life. Then, when the fantasy becomes too much, it's easy to close the book and place it on the shelf, leaving it for a time when one has the luxury of feeling something that will disrupt their everyday existance.
Anyway, I printed out a copy of my story, and sat down in an abandoned staircase to read it. It kind of sucked, of course. It didn't have anywhere near the same impact that the images in my head did, and I immediately regretted passing it on to a stranger. And the typos! Oy!
Well, if anyone else wants to have a look at it, and let me know what they think is missing, then get me your e-mail address and I'll send one off to you.
Well, it's a second draft, what I was working on last night, but I changed so much of the plot and the characters that this rewrite was more like a first draft. I was pretty pleased with it, and in a moment of post-conception ecstasty I accosted the long haired, thin faced, glasses wearing guy who was working at the lab, asking him if he wanted to read my story. He agreeably, and somewhat fearfully, said yes, and so I e-mailed a copy to him. He's a painter, I found out, and a glass blower too. He's sold one piece of glasswork to the John Glenn Institute for 75 dollars, but no one seems to be interested in the paintings. "They're really just for me" he said. "The glasswork, people look at it and think 'glass--pretty' so it's easy to sell it."
Is it the same for fiction, that people are attracted to written works that are pretty, agreeable, and not too demanding? I don't think so. Visual works tend to be on display all the time, so one wants to have something that is easy to digest, and not likely to cause strong emotions that might jar one out of one's happy medium. Fiction, on the other hand, is a personal, momentary experience. People are looking to enter into a new world, where things are more intense, more extreme than their everyday life. Then, when the fantasy becomes too much, it's easy to close the book and place it on the shelf, leaving it for a time when one has the luxury of feeling something that will disrupt their everyday existance.
Anyway, I printed out a copy of my story, and sat down in an abandoned staircase to read it. It kind of sucked, of course. It didn't have anywhere near the same impact that the images in my head did, and I immediately regretted passing it on to a stranger. And the typos! Oy!
Well, if anyone else wants to have a look at it, and let me know what they think is missing, then get me your e-mail address and I'll send one off to you.
posted by nearfalse | 8:39 PM
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