Left brain, right brain

Ganked from etrangere

I like having both a logical side and a creative side. One side runs from order and loves beauty and delight. It works on intuition and is never predictable. The other side finds patterns in seeming chaos and makes connections between disparate things. It works with effort and sees things through to the end. They work together in that thing I call my brain.


You are a narrative writer. Usually a writer of
stories rather than poetry, you grew up reading
Shakespeare’s less popular and heard of plays–
like King Lear or the Henry series. Your
writing contains a certain order and
organization–be it chronological or otherwise.
If you are to write poetry, it has to convey a
logical (or perhaps unreal) story with some
sort of order behind it.

What’s YOUR Writing Style?
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A Harry Potter question

current book: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Since I started reading the HP books, I’ve told friends about them, suggesting that they read them. And quite a few of them have said to me, “Oh yeah, I read a little of that, but I couldn’t get into it. I would have loved it when I was ten, though!”

This puzzles me. Am I so weird to like Harry Potter when I’m pushing 40? These are books about a group of kids in school, granted, but the books have a lot of adult subject matter–murders, emotional depths, moral quandaries, adult characters ensconced in rivalries, politics, and ambition.

This is not Walt Disney cartoon stuff. Or am I wrong? It’s been a long time since I watched any Disney cartoons. Maybe I’m reliving my childhood through the books, but it doesn’t feel that way. And I seriously doubt a ten-year old would get half of what is going on in these books, much less make it through the two-inch “Goblet of Fire”. The Harry Potter world is complex, both in its metaphysics and in the plot; even I have to go back and reread things a few times before I get what’s going on, if I do.

The books remind me a lot of BtVS and what I found appealing in that show–which is a show that drew in adults by the hoard, including some of the people who “never got into” HP because it’s too “juvenile”. And more than a few adults got that same reaction about watching BtVS: “Oh, I don’t like shows about teenagers.”

Just another one of life’s trivial puzzles I’m trying to sort through.

Deep thoughts on “Prisoner of Azkaban” coming soon.

My demon

Taking inspiration from the always inspirational aliera9916, I have my own quotage to share:

“Writing a book is a long, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”  ~ George Orwell

I have long thought of the main character of my novel as my muse, and probably it is the case that I have multiple muses, and they are always my characters. But to think of the urge to write as a demon is an interesting stroke of insight. For what could “possess” me to sit at my computer for hours a day, pounding on they keyboard like my little icon demonstrates? I always thought it was my characters, begging to have their stories told, giving me no peace until their voices were heard.

But what but a demon could force you to work for not months but years, neglecting the rest of life’s other pains and pleasures?

This demon is an incessant need to put words on a page, on a screen, spewing them out like a scream, like vomit, like one of those really, really long urinations you have after you’ve been forced to “hold it” for hours after drinking way too much coffee.

Oh, ho, get your metaphors and similes here.

The Metaphysics of Harry Potter

OK, I’m half way through “Chamber of Secrets” and, yes, I’ll admit it: I am now a fan.

But is this a surprise? Not to me. The books are better than the movies, charming and entertaining and almost a perfect fit for the kind of fiction I look for: sci-fi or fantasy that takes place in our world, but reveals a secret segment of our world no ordinary person knows about (BtVS/Angel and Highlander are both like this). And it’s a series, so that when I get that “so what happened next?” bug I can just pick up the next book. Or wait for the next book. And of course, I like books with complicated teen-aged protagonists/heroes. Don’t ask me why. Connor Angel, John Connor, Luke Skywalker, Buffy Summers, Richie Ryan, Harry Potter.

Rowling has created a rich complex sub-culture/universe that, only half-way into the second book, rivals a full 11 seasons of BtVS and Angel. To crawl around in this woman’s mind! I knew I was merrily in fandom land when I found myself looking for Harry Potter websites that resembled the Metaphysics section of my own ATPoBtVS. If I hadn’t come across a clever and decent little reference site on my first search, I would have had to wrestle my inner metaphysician to the ground to keep her from starting a new website, All Things Philosophical in… well, you know.

I came to Harry Potter through the movies, so that might make me sympathetic to the movies, but I actually find it fascinating to compare the books and the movies. I’m the sort of person who enjoys the writer’s and director’s commentaries on movie and television show DVDs almost more than the original piece. It’s interesting to see where the movie-makers cut corners, what they decide to chop out, what they decide to keep, and where they decide to make events go completely differently than the books in order to save time and resources.

But this is why the written word will never be replaced by film. The written word can go more places, and people are willing to give it more time than they’ll sit through a film.

Rowling has given a fresh face to classic fantasy themes: the unwanted child, discovering a magical new world right under your nose, good versus evil, the mundane/poor/outsider kids vs. the popular/rich/insider kids, secret passageways, mystical animals, bubbling potions, spells, rituals, monsters, super powers, and the panged, panged pains of childhood/adolescence.

Now I will just have to find a way to deal with the fact that I like something that is immensely…. dare I use the word? Ugh!

Popular.

shudders Instead of people staring oddly at the front cover of the book I am reading on the bus, they smile nostalgically. I am not used to this. I’m so used to doing what comes naturally to me and finding myself the odd girl out.

My writing personality

Ganked from bohemianspirit

You’re a PANTSER! A pantser writes without forethought to where the plot is going–sort of by the seat of her pants method. Youre a free spirited, creative person. You write with passion about what inspires you at the moment, and you probably have a strong voice. Dont worry about writers block–youve a different story. Youve got more story seeds than a hive has bees. When you write, its in disjointed segments. You may write sequentially or in flashes of inspiration, where you connect all your flashes later. People might say you ramble a bit in your work. Your revision process might take several passes, because you really have to whip that first draft into a more marketable shape. Youre novels either hit it big or miss. Theres no in between. Readers either love you, or hate you. Learn to channel that creative energy into a masterpiece and well be seeing your name on the NYT Lists!

Find Your Writing Personality!!
brought to you by Quizilla

Why is it that whenever I take one of these quizzes, I always get the exact same results as who ever I ganked it from? I don’t even post half my quiz results, because I get suspicious that the quizzes are rigged to give one result more often than others.

At any rate, this result seems true. I can’t outline a story before hand. And most of my stories write themselves in moments of inspiration (usually in the shower, where I can’t write them down). Actually no–my characters are the ones who write my stories. It’s like a dozen crazed elves in my head all speaking at once. The main character is the one who shouts the loudest.

I am a creature of habit about where I write most of the time (my blue recliner) and when I write (every moment that isn’t taken with work or friends or sleep). And I usually have ideas for other stories in the back of my head, but I get pretty intensely into the one I’m writing and don’t come up for air until it’s done.

I haven’t come up for air in seven years. ; )

On the border

Voice

Had my writing class today. The class is a 2 1/2 hour free-writing session designed to unblock your writing, to have fun, explore. It rarely ever works for me. More often than not, I can’t even string two words together in that class. I think it’s because we’re supposed to “share” our writing afterwards. Nothing blocks my muse more than the knowledge that I’ll have to read it aloud immediately after writing it.

And then when they do go around the room, I am amazed at everyone else’s ability to write rich images and fluid words off the top of their heads. It’s all vivid description and instant similes and metaphors popping off the page:

“The smell of the tarmac glistened in her throat.”
“She thinks about how many bodies have sweated and salted these sheets.”
“The tree was angular and gnarled like the bones of the woman leaning against it.”

And I just think, “Why can’t I write like that, even when I don’t have to read it aloud?”

So I go to that class to socialize with other writers, not to write. And to hope that some of their descriptive power rubs off on me.

Not that my writing’s so bad. I spent a couple of hours yesterday when I was supposed to be writing database programs writing a short scene that captured the experience of the split seconds of a near car accident.

She set her hand on the steering wheel and flipped her eyes back on traffic. Red break lights loomed ahead, coming up fast.

She stood on the brake. Her cigarette flew out of her mouth. Her tires squealed. The car swerved. Her hands wrestled with the jittery steering wheel. A green mini-van filled with kids and camping gear was dead ahead of her on the road. There was no shoulder to the left, just the another lane, filled with creeping cars. On the right, the same thing. And to the right of that, a ravine.

She couldn’t go around the cars. She couldn’t slip between them.

And she wasn’t going to stop in time, she knew that.

Shit, shit shit.

Her car skidded forward.

Her foot crushed the brake pedal to the floor.

It was all over in a second. The car jolted to a halt right behind the van. She jerked forward. The seat belt snapped her back. Her foot trembled, paralyzed on the brake. A couple of the kids in the van stared down at her. She gaped at them in a fog, her heart racing.

So my writing style is less flowery, less fluid, more gritty and mundane and literalistic. It’s writing at the pace of the novelist, designed to be accessible to the reader, not to wear them out after one paragraph. It’s fiction writing tempered by philosophy essays and journaling.

And it’s writing in the voice of my characters, all my inner selves. It’s a writing style I’ve developed over many, many years. It’s not really an imitation of anybody, it’s just me, writing.

“You have to play a long time to play like yourself.” –Miles Davis

Books

So I was busily using this keen LJ feature called “Memories” to categorize and quick-link all my LJ entries on movies, TV shows, writing, books, etc, etc, when I realized I haven’t written much about books. It’s not that I haven’t been reading them, I have–what else is there to do while you’re walking down the sidewalk in San Francisco?

I did get to the library and checked out some books, as I mentioned previously, mostly out of the juvenile reading section. This may be part of my summer fluff-mode thing. I’m just not up for serious movies, or adult reading.

I’ve been writing journal entries about what I’ve read, I just haven’t been writing them in my LJ. I think it’s because every time I’m moved to write about what I’m reading, I’m somewhere like deep in the forest hiking or up 30,000 feet in a plane. And then I’m too lazy to transcribe what I’ve written long hand onto the computer. Books I read and wrote about elsewhere: “The Fancy Dancer” by Patricia Nell Warren and “Dive” by Stacey Donovan.

“The Fancy Dancer” is a book I’ve owned for 20 years and have read many times in that span, but I got something totally new out of reading it while I was in Guernville in May. It’s about a priest in Montana who has an affair with a half-breed mechanic. It explores some controversial issues around using sexual metaphors in religion (an example of such a metaphor would be “the bride of Christ”, but in this case the metaphor is homoerotic).

“Dive” I read on the plane heading down to Arizona. It was about a 15-year old girl who’s father is dying of a rare blood disease. It has the most beautiful use of similes I’ve ever read, used to get across this anxiety-laden, claustrophobic feeling of having a family member dying (and in case you’re wondering how that fits into my “fluff mode”, I checked it out because it was supposedly a teen lesbian romance. The love interest doesn’t even appear until 150 pages into the book!)

I more recently discovered a fun little teen book series by Tamora Pierce called The Song of the Lioness series, which tells the story of a young girl growing up in a mythical land not unlike Medieval Europe. She and her brother are each being sent off to school, her to learn magic and him to earn knighthood. But each wants to do what the other sibling is being sent to do, so they trade places. She pretends to be a boy and goes to the palace to learn how to be a knight. I’m not usually into historical fantasy, but with a spirited little cross-dressing tomboy, how could I resist?

I’ve decided that libraries are a Good Thing. However, bookstores are also a good thing. I ordered the four-volume set of the Harry Potter books from amazon.co.uk. My friend Gloria was supposed to buy me “Philospher’s Stone” when she was in England. Then she comes home with two copies of “Order of the Phoenix”. I assumed one was for me, and then she gives me this weird look and says she bought the other copy for her ex-girlfriend.

Whatever. As soon as I get through the first four books, I’ll buy my own friggin’ copy of “Phoenix”. Who can resist a story about a cranky, morally ambiguous teen-aged boy?

Taking the red pill

The Matrix starts out with intriguing promise: you know exactly where it’s going–Neo’s world isn’t real–but that’s cool. You want to see what they’ll do with that, especially after Morpheus says to him,

“You’ve felt it your entire life. That there’s something wrong with the world. You don’t know what, but it’s there, like a splinter in your mind.”

Then he wakes up in that vat in the “real world” and it’s so chilling!

After that, the movie falls into a familiar ennui-filled post-apocalyptic sci-fi mode that is broken only by action!packed moments of gratuitous violence. The basic premise behind the future world is incredibly lame–machines harvesting people for energy? Puh-lease. There are much more efficient ways to create energy. This was something someone made up at the last minute to have an excuse to keep humans locked up in virtual reality.

The philosophical quandary the movie’s premise turns on is also nothing new. It’s a contemporary spin on an empiricist brain-teaser that’s been around since the 17th century–“just because we can sense things with our five senses, does that make them real?” Philosophers call this “problem of the external world”. Buffy the Vampire Slayer‘s “Normal Again“, in which Buffy is shown switching disorientingly back and forth between the story world we’ve come to know on the show where she is a small-town superhero, and another life, in which she is institutionalized and only imagines she’s a small-town superhero, did a better job of driving home that philosophical dilemma and its existential horror.

The one genuine truth to come out of this movie is the absurdity of our socially constructed reality. When I was a teenager, I had this fantasy that I suddenly fell and found myself looking back up at my life as if it was a play on a stage. At that moment, I realized that everyone around me, including myself, was an actor playing a role. Suddenly I didn’t know what was real, what was genuine, what was “really me” or “really you,” or if asking for genuineness was even meaningful. You see, unlike The Matrix or “Normal Again”, there is (probably) no conspiracy of machines or demons or other sinister Others creating a false reality for us: we do it to ourselves. We create social rules and mores, roles and constructs for each other, and we create them as individuals for ourselves. And we do it because we’re programmed by nature and nurture to have this deep need for a solid “reality” to live in.

That’s why Normal Again demonstrated the philosophical “problem of the external world” better than The Matrix. Because when Cypher says he wishes he’d taken the blue pill, you know he knows he’s accepting a lie. He wants to live a lie, and it’s made quite clear in the universe of the movie that the world create by the machines is the false world. Buffy is never quite sure which world is the real world. Both worlds–the world of the Sunnydale superhero, and the world of the asylum–are presented by the narrative as in some sense products of her mind and her conflicted needs. Not for Cypher. In the narrative of The Matrix, there is a real world and a fake world in the absolute metaphysical sense, and neither is a product of his needs and wants, he simply chooses one over the other due to his needs and wants.

Buffy, on the other hand, must make a choice between the superhero world and the asylum world without knowing which is “more real” in an absolute metaphysical sense, if either is. Both are presented as “created” out of her differing needs. The demon in the episode merely makes them come alive for her via magic. And in the end, when Buffy makes her choice, it is a choice between which is more real to her as an individual choosing the way she wants to live, as an individual choosing the way she wants to think about herself.

In my teenaged fantasy, I imagined myself superior to those around me because I fell off the stage of life and saw it in all its absurdity. I could see “reality” on a different level than those around me. Unlike them, I didn’t buy into the necessity of the social constructs. I was Neo, choosing the red pill. Yay, me. Now I understand it’s a little more complicated than that. Taking the red pill, seeing the basic non-necessity of our conception of the world, is only the first step. If there is a proper way to conceive the world, who knows if we are even capable of having that conception? We may just have to settle for building a new construct to live in. And that demands choices.

But if, like Morpheus and his gang, we do discover the proper conception world, we still have to live in it, build in it, create it. Cypher was unhappy in the “real world” because it was all fighting, a daily grind of bad food and fear of being caught. Was that “necessary”? Could they have built a better life for themselves in the “real world” than they did?

In so many ways, reality is a choice. So easy to say. But not easy to put into practice. Most of us just end up “taking the blue pill”–accepting the socially constructed world we happen to live in as unavoidably “real.”

Dis/Inhibition

With Buffy being over and my uncertainty about next year’s Angel being at “If I think about it, I may go mental” proportions, I am going to start talking about other things in this here blog.

Like my novel. I really wanted to be farther along in this thing than I am right now. Would have been nice to have it near the publication stage before everyone at ATPo went scampering off to their lives and I could use my built-in audience to sell a piece of fiction that has absolutely nothing to do with the supernatural, the Buffyverse, or philosophy.

But *alas* I am in the editing stage, and I don’t see being out of the editing stage even by the end of this calendar year. The big hold-up in getting done, I suppose, was the website. But enough about that thing.

My novel. My novel is about Continue reading “Dis/Inhibition”