I have a problem. Well, I have many problems, each varying in their levels of concern. My most problematic problem probably reaches about 2 gigaconcerns, or 2GC. I digress.
I like to think of myself as a writer. I have written stories, (most of which being better thought out than the previous post which was dashed out in about an hour, all whilst I was taking calls from cunts who wanted to go places) and I have attempted to write books. Most of these are still in the process of being written, but I have been assured that what I have written has been polished to a mirror shine. My aforementioned problem (Probably only a kiloconcern sorry I'll stop that now) is that I also like to read.
"Christ, James," I hear you saying. "How is that a problem? Reading is meant to make your writing better. It is more or less essential to the writing process" to which I reply "This is indeed true you smug prick, but if you'd just wait one smug prick minute to leet me finish I will tell you why I decided to devote an entire post to the concept". Then I would have hurt your feelings and feel bad.
The problem lies in the fact that I like good books (Who's the smug prick now?). Books that make you think. Books that integrate quantum mechanics, theoretical physics and genius storytelling into the same thing. Ok, I've only read one book like the last one and I haven't even finished it yet, but shut up. I like books that require at least few minutes of cooldown time before you pick up the next one, while you consider what you just read, digesting words and concepts like mental toast. The downside is that while reading I tend to compare and contrast my own work against what it is I'm reading.
If I may, I'm going to draw your attention back to the paperback masterpiece I referred to earlier. Said book is Anathema, by Neal Stephenson. You may have loosely grasped my current adoration of this book. This book made me sit back up and remind me I wanted to write, if only to attempt to write something half as good. And that right there is the problem. This book is a colossus. It is a titanic superbook filled with amazing ideas, questions that really get you thinking, and a narrative that literally stuns. No, I mean literally. I was reading a scene in which someone died (it's not exactly a spoiler. Death scenes aren't exactly rare in literature). I was dragged willingly through the most teasing display of a character's death that I have ever read, and when the chapter closed, I sat, in silence, book closed in front of me. I mourned. I mourned a fictional character because that's how fucking good the writing was.
I long to write something like that, but this book has overwhelmed me. My confidence has been shaken, like a rubber dingy being pushed aside by an aircraft carrier. I refuse to write something inane, something without merit. I refuse to write self indulgent wankery unless I am sure that it can be justified by being interesting to a reader. I refuse to write Twilight. And therein lies my problem. It is my staunch refusal to write anything but the best that paralyses me when I try to write anything. "Has this been done before? Have I created a Sue? That bit is shit but if I delete it that bit doesn't make sense? Am I being too secretive? How much should the reader know?" These are but a few or the perfectly reasonable questions writers ask that my mind takes to petrifying extremes. This is where I take the wrong path. See, obviously, not everything I write will be good. In fact a good deal of it will be awful. Though I understand it, I am yet to fully embrace this concept. I must write constantly. I must create paintings with my words and never worry if my painting is a Da Vinci or a 6-year-old's finger painting. I must understand that most of my work will be more like an A level art student's "edgy" end of year project. Hell, this post-spellcheck post alone is riddled with typos and grammatical errors.
This isn't a whining post. This is a personal call to arms, and I say to you now: I will beat this mental paralysis, this poison of the mind. I will write, and I will write well. I will keep my story concepts as far away from my heart as I will my characters. They will be abused, mistreated, and relatively often they will be killed. I'm still talking about both characters and concepts there.
I say this to you now, I will finish a book, with the end goal of getting it published.
I will succeed in my goals, and upon facing failure, I will take it like a man, and force my way through it even if I have to carve out a cave with my fists.
That, my dear reader, is my promise to me. My promise to you, is that I will provide you with something to read. It might not be straight away. It may be years until I create something worthy of your mind. But I will do it, not for me, for in that way lies Mary Sue bullshit. I will do it for you.
OOPS NO FUNNY.
I like to think of myself as a writer. I have written stories, (most of which being better thought out than the previous post which was dashed out in about an hour, all whilst I was taking calls from cunts who wanted to go places) and I have attempted to write books. Most of these are still in the process of being written, but I have been assured that what I have written has been polished to a mirror shine. My aforementioned problem (Probably only a kiloconcern sorry I'll stop that now) is that I also like to read.
"Christ, James," I hear you saying. "How is that a problem? Reading is meant to make your writing better. It is more or less essential to the writing process" to which I reply "This is indeed true you smug prick, but if you'd just wait one smug prick minute to leet me finish I will tell you why I decided to devote an entire post to the concept". Then I would have hurt your feelings and feel bad.
The problem lies in the fact that I like good books (Who's the smug prick now?). Books that make you think. Books that integrate quantum mechanics, theoretical physics and genius storytelling into the same thing. Ok, I've only read one book like the last one and I haven't even finished it yet, but shut up. I like books that require at least few minutes of cooldown time before you pick up the next one, while you consider what you just read, digesting words and concepts like mental toast. The downside is that while reading I tend to compare and contrast my own work against what it is I'm reading.
If I may, I'm going to draw your attention back to the paperback masterpiece I referred to earlier. Said book is Anathema, by Neal Stephenson. You may have loosely grasped my current adoration of this book. This book made me sit back up and remind me I wanted to write, if only to attempt to write something half as good. And that right there is the problem. This book is a colossus. It is a titanic superbook filled with amazing ideas, questions that really get you thinking, and a narrative that literally stuns. No, I mean literally. I was reading a scene in which someone died (it's not exactly a spoiler. Death scenes aren't exactly rare in literature). I was dragged willingly through the most teasing display of a character's death that I have ever read, and when the chapter closed, I sat, in silence, book closed in front of me. I mourned. I mourned a fictional character because that's how fucking good the writing was.
I long to write something like that, but this book has overwhelmed me. My confidence has been shaken, like a rubber dingy being pushed aside by an aircraft carrier. I refuse to write something inane, something without merit. I refuse to write self indulgent wankery unless I am sure that it can be justified by being interesting to a reader. I refuse to write Twilight. And therein lies my problem. It is my staunch refusal to write anything but the best that paralyses me when I try to write anything. "Has this been done before? Have I created a Sue? That bit is shit but if I delete it that bit doesn't make sense? Am I being too secretive? How much should the reader know?" These are but a few or the perfectly reasonable questions writers ask that my mind takes to petrifying extremes. This is where I take the wrong path. See, obviously, not everything I write will be good. In fact a good deal of it will be awful. Though I understand it, I am yet to fully embrace this concept. I must write constantly. I must create paintings with my words and never worry if my painting is a Da Vinci or a 6-year-old's finger painting. I must understand that most of my work will be more like an A level art student's "edgy" end of year project. Hell, this post-spellcheck post alone is riddled with typos and grammatical errors.
This isn't a whining post. This is a personal call to arms, and I say to you now: I will beat this mental paralysis, this poison of the mind. I will write, and I will write well. I will keep my story concepts as far away from my heart as I will my characters. They will be abused, mistreated, and relatively often they will be killed. I'm still talking about both characters and concepts there.
I say this to you now, I will finish a book, with the end goal of getting it published.
I will succeed in my goals, and upon facing failure, I will take it like a man, and force my way through it even if I have to carve out a cave with my fists.
That, my dear reader, is my promise to me. My promise to you, is that I will provide you with something to read. It might not be straight away. It may be years until I create something worthy of your mind. But I will do it, not for me, for in that way lies Mary Sue bullshit. I will do it for you.
OOPS NO FUNNY.
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