Fantasy Rock and Roll?

Of late, many of the science fiction ideas, characters, worlds, groups, whole stories, etc, that I've been making up have been characterized and defined, at least in part, by rock and roll. T. Volker and the Rough and Ready Corps, of Eve and Shenectady notoriety, for instance, are children of AC/DC, specifically "TNT" for Volker and "Dirty Deeds" for the Corps.

Right now I'm foraying into fantasy though. And I don't know what kind of music to listen to. Rock and roll speaks to my soul, somehow, and I believe there's rock and roll in my fantasies. I can't think at the moment, however, of any groups, songs, or eras that seem fitting to characters like Twig and situations like Finger searching for luck.

As I write this an ironic thought occurs to me. For a long time recently all of the rock and roll I've been listening to has been old, classic. Some of it has been dated, and all of it has been era defining or defined by its era, and all the eras have been markedly ancient, in a sense.

Right now I'm listening to "Girl's Not Grey" by AFI. It came out in 2003. And although it isn't really perfectly vibrating with ideas I have of fantastical ilk, it's closer to the right mood, better idea.

We think of science fiction, and at first blush we imagine the new, the shiny, the chrome, the cutting edge. First blush fantasy tends to evoke feelings of age and agelessness and the ancient. I'm finding it interesting, fascinating, and pretty peculiar that I'm identifying newness with fantasy and oldness with science fiction.

Another thought has just occurred to me, and that's the revolutionary qualities of a lot of the music that I listen to. The Beatles were almost the first people to do what they did; The Ramones invented an attitude; Hendrix revolutionized guitar; Thin Lizzy inspired practically everything; the Stones just went kablooie all over the place. The old rock and rollers were the inventors, the cutting edge musicians. They were the explorers, reaching for newness, not sure where they were headed and forced to create shiny exploration at every turn. But what have we got now? New kids inventing NOTHING. You read articles about the brand new shooting stars on the rock and roll scene and the article is just a list of names that these new kids remind us of--oh, yeah, Endeverafter is like Led Zeppelin with Thin Lizzy sprinkled all over the top. The revolution is over, and we are living in a time when rock and roll is old. Still magical, but not being discovered anymore: it's come, and it's old, and it has stuck and will not leave. This is where we live, in rock and roll world. The magicians of old have brought us to this point when young heroes are discovering dragons to battle and corporate mogul warlords to overthrow...

The Strange Case of Dr Me-writer and Mr Me-logician

So I have this peculiar problem. I spend an afternoon typing up fiction, and it's all good, I move the plot along, increase the page and word count appreciably, yadda yadda yadda, fun and games, etc. Good news.

Comes five o'clock--generally it's five o'clock--and I'm not written out, but I choose to quit. Usually I choose to quit due to the encroachment of this living colors thing. The parts of my life with realistic commitments attached, like eating, peeing, and socializing. The stride that I feel like I've hit in the afternoon doesn't feel strode out yet, but I decide that "quit while you're ahead" is a good strategy. Take a break is a good strategy. Come back to it later is a good strategy.

Around then the logician begins to push in on my creativity. After these encroaching, living color commitments are all took care of and all, I think to myself, "Hey, I've got some stride left. Why not go back to fiction land and play for a while? I haven't messed up the lives of these imaginary characters yet. It'd be fun, and further my whole 'want to be a novelist' outlook on life. Make me feel professional, and justified."

But I remember those times when the writer in me ran dry. The logician in me remembers those times the writer got confused and the goat in me pushed through the muzzy eyes and produced unpleasing prose, which the critic in me got bored of, and the cynic in me used as justification to stop writing altogether for quite some time. Telling the lamb in me that I obviously had written myself into a corner, that I no longer had inspiration, and I should wait for the artist in me to rejuvenate and reassert itself.

Such multiplicity. I'm so confused.

Recently, the craftsman in me is stronger than the artist. Artistry, to me, has come to be so much unimaginative, feel-good morallity, important because it provides the gut reaction to the living colors trying to screw with my opus, but useless as a driving force or a forming ideal or any kind of well of invention. The craft of the thing is of greater, more interesting, and more potent reality....

And the logician says, "That is so much over-impassioned hash."

Thus most of my evenings are spent quietly waiting for the dawn, when the circumstances will again be right for the writer in me to assert itself once again over the mathematician, and rise to create those things which will be my legacy.

In the meantime, I'll be writing blogs as if they were monologs by various characters from Andromeda. Go me. Woot.

Anansi the Movie

Mark Knopfler gets to write the sound track for Anansi's movie.

I'm thinking about three things in the context of the Anansi story--aside from the actual writing parts, three things. I'm thinking of what I'm going to change Anansi's name to. I think mentore made a good point when she pointed out that people, even if they didn't make a point to, would powerpointpresent/make connections between my Anansi and other Anansi depictions. The reason I chose that name originally was because I was introduced to stories of Anansi wherein he was most emphatically described as a storyteller, and I wanted to write a story about a storyteller. Thus far being a storyteller is a big part of Anansi's character, as I see him, and it plays on his decisions a great deal through the story as far as I've written it. However there hasn't been a lot of depiction of the storyteller aspect of his character.

I'm going to change his name. Until the end of this first draft, however, it'll stay the same. But I've started thinking about it. I'm thinking Diego at the moment.

I'm also thinking about the title of the story. Originally, the title of the story was Anansi the Fringe King, which, again, is a big part of Anansi's character in my head. But, again, not heavily depicted. Which was something, I don't know, but I must have thought of that early on since I changed the title to what it is now. But I keep saying the title and tripping over it. There's insufficient flowage. I think flowage has something to be said toward catchiness. I like catchy titles. But, again, I'm keeping the title how it is until I finish with the draft I'm on. I want something, eventually, that evokes claustrophobia, wanting to break out, and dampness, and darkness, and sadness, and hope, and glimmeringnessousness, and Graffiti's character at the same time.

The other thing that I'm thinking about is Anansi. I haven't put much of any physical description of him in the story so far. I have a pretty clear image of him in my mind, and because there haven't been, really, any complaints about me leaving out physical descriptions of him from any you pirates I suppose you folks must have an idea what he might look like as well. And I'm sort of curious how you do see him, because even if it doesn't really play into the plot, if you're totally going in the wrong direction with him then the next go-round I'll have to make something to see.

I'm hungry...

Voice Indescrepency

So I'm trying to write the next bit of "Don't Get Wet in the Shade" and I've got Eddie Izzards voice running about in my head talking about jam!

My life as a writer has officially become stressful.

Favorite Kind of Squash?

I have three favorite books. The Hobbit is one. Has been for nigh on a decade and I ain't hardly ever wavered in m'loyalty. Starship Troopers a second, and of my favorite books this is the only one I've only read once. In itself peculiar, because the last time I picked it up I didn't get very far into it, yet I still consider it one of my favorites. Then Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrel is the third.

All these books have one thing in common, and that's the feeling I got as I read them. Not after, but in the process of actually beginning and middling and ending them. The feeling of "this is really something special. I'll never forget this."

The first time I read The Hobbit.... I must have been nine. Maybe ten or eleven. I almost have not a single memory of it. I was given a nice--and terribly durable--copy of it for some special occasion, and it's lasted me all that time without a single change. I don't remember exactly what I was thinking about at the time, but I remember what I was in to. Power Rangers. Martial arts, kicking people, punching people. So I'm compelled to wonder: what mystical energy made this story about a scared, short, furry footed, unwilling burglar so wonderful? I can't say. I just know it's on the faves list.

I read Starship Troopers maybe five, four or five, years after that. Once again, I was given a copy for a gift, I think. At the time, I'd been reading a lot of YAs. Animorphs was a great series, folks. And I read YAs about Jedi. Books on a monthly release schedule. Not a lot of depth, just a lot of fast, blatant, excitement.

Starship Troopers, the book anyway, isn't a lot of fast, isn't a lot of blatant, isn't a lot of shallow. It's a lot of gradual, it's a lot of subtle, it's a lot of deep. It's almost only deep-subtle. How did THIS book possibly engage me? The answer's some where, I'm sure. Go find Freud dude.

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrel wormed a funny course. I thought it was, anyway. I was bored. I wanted something to read. I took to going to the library, starting at the top left, opening the books and reading the first paragraph, and slamming the book shut. If I liked that first paragraph, I slammed it shut after the second paragraph, which I generally didn't like.

JS&MN took up a lot of space on that shelf. Nice shade of brown. I didn't really like that first paragraph. It seemed to me not to have all the things a first paragraph needs to be engaging. I kept thinking that for a few days, then went back to check if I was right. I thought I was, but I figured, to make a thorough study, I should take it home with me and check again later.

I read almost half of it. But it proved bulky, and I got it on CD and started again at the beginning, then got to the end. Then got it again a couple months later and started over.

This was a few months ago. These days, I like quick. I like direct. I like TV.... While I think JS&MN would make a good BBC Masterpiece Theater, I don't think it's very TV, or quick, or direct.

So I guess I'm concluding that the word "favorite" means that which changes your mind.... Or maybe that what we think we like is our way of lying to ourselves about reality. Or maybe I'm just concluding that nothing makes sense.

There you go: life is perfect, because nothing makes sense.

Theme Songs: Drift Away

"Day after day I'm more confused,/but I look for the light through the pouring rain./You know that's a game I hate to lose./I'm feeling the strain./Now ain't that a shame."--Mentor Williams, Steppenwolf

I identify with music. And I identify with words.

Making any leaps of judgment here? Okay, good; I'll assume we're all on the same page.

I have begun compiling a list--playlist--of theme songs. Songs that are already floating around in the void. So far they mostly fall into the "no duh it's that one" column. However a couple have really surprised me. A phenomenon in itself quite shocking since I'm talking about me choosing something to be associated with something that I made up.... Not a strangity that I think I can explain.

Steppenwolf is an old band, and they have an old song most everyone has heard. The "Give me the beat boys to free my soul, I want to get lost in the rock and roll" song. It's called "Drift Away". It's a pretty feel good, ephemeral song. Almost sad, really. Not high tempo, blood and guts rock and roll. More classicky, more artistic.

I was just listening to it and reading Jenny's blog about revision, and thinking about the revision that I've been putting off on "Taking Bluegrass". And I associated "Drift Away" with "Taking Bluegrass". It felt right. It didn't think right; my intellect said "NO! NOT HARD CORE ENOUGH! TOO MUCH OF A SOFTY SONG! GAH! BRIGHT AND SUNNY FEEL GOOD! BAD BAD! CROSS FINGERS! BACK! HISS!"

But then I listened to the lyrics, real close. And the intellect started to agree with the instinct.

So all the other songs on my playlist are the theme songs of characters. But this one is for a short story. Or, more specifically, for my protagonist's mindset. Not for the character, because this is a transitional point in her life and she was never this way before and won't be again later on. So it's all very cool.

It occurs to me now, though, that the revision which "Drift Away" associates with is one most of my readers won't be familiar with.... So...yeah, make like a door and be open [minded].

Gateway

My dad, when he was my age, decided he would go to the library, look at the sci-fi section, start at the upper left hand corner and work his way right and down. So he did.

Now, every now and then, randomly and out of the azure emptiness, he'll stick me with a book and say, "Hey, read this." I'll take it and say, "Yeah, okay, sure." And he'll go on to sort of say why he's chosen it, if not what wending mind-work and/or external triggers led him to this choosing. Hefty napkins-full of time I've spent wondering if this book was brought to his mind by a movie he'd seen recently, or if that one was inspired by his Russian boss who cusses like a couple sailors. But I haven't been able to figure it out.

Anyway, one day he gave me Gateway, an most ancient classic by Frederick Pohl. He said, "There is surprise at the end, m'lad. Read on."

He said the same thing about The Dispossessed. When I finished that one, I went and asked him what he thought the surprise was, because I missed it. He couldn't remember. After talking on it for a while, we still couldn't really figure it out.

So I had some skepticism about this Gateway surprise. It took me something like seven months, off and on, but I've just finished it. Hurrahz! And there was a surprise at the end. And it really surprised me. But it was in the last effing paragraph, which was, additionally, terribly short, which also annoys me. Up to that paragraph, the book had no meaning to me. Or very little. Almost none. Close to zero. Maybe a level four meaning.

And I could almost feel frustrated. Except that having finished, I really liked the ending. That last paragraph and its meaning-inducing brevity.

And so, though I was bored in reading it, and though the ending seemed to have next to no indication that it was coming, there seemed no probability that the plot was what the ending said that it was...even after all that, I'm glad I read this book. It felt like time wasted, and now it does not.

The book had a moral: life is fucking complicated.