When people ask me what my novel's about, I tell them to think of Who Framed Roger Rabbit crossed with The Big Sleep. This is pretty accurate, seeing as how noir inspiration surges throughout Who Framed Roger Rabbit, and I'm writing a noir-inspired story about a cartoon detective come to life and investigating a murder. And, generally, when people hear it, they nod and say "OK," and we move on. I think that there's something about the way I dismiss it that almost forces the other person to move on. Not that I don't want to talk about it, it's just that I don't know how to talk about it.
"Let me tell you about this crazy dream I had, except I have been awake, it has lasted for over two years, and it's not a dream. But, boy, is it crazy." It definitely feels very related to unconscious hallucinations, except I control it. Every once in a while, I get completely lost in it. I'm sure if I'm still writing when my mind starts to go, it will be very horrifying.
But what, really, is this story about? Ultimately, it's the story of me trying to write a story, except you're seeing the highly polished end version, in the end. Seeing as how I've been working on it for so long, I do have a few ideas about it, and I'm not sure whether these would come across better than my pat response.
It's about memory and identity, and how the two are intertwined, yet separate. It's how our souls are like birds nests, all similar, yet strikingly different, our memories the twigs and leaves that go into the nest, the occasional eggs those brilliant dreams that we try to hold onto, and just can't. We are who we are because of what we remember, so what happens when we start losing our memory? Do we consequently fade away, or do we persist in the face of an eroding life?
It's about self-discovery, about finding yourself by not trying to find yourself (very zen, I know). The protagonist is investigating a murder, this much is true, and the story leads up to the resolution of this act, but that is not the main point of the story. The murder is just a vehicle to carry the reader through the protagonist's realization of himself, as he shifts from belief to ignorance and belief again, and how he decides to react to finding himself.
It's about acceptance, acceptance of who you are, and who everyone thinks you are. You can deny it, but in the end, you are who you are. No matter how you try to couch it, you can't outrun your own skin.
It's about standing up for what you believe in, doing what you need to, even if no one else wants you to. The story leads our protagonist into very compromising positions just because he's trying to uphold the law and find justice, even when those two are at cross-purposes.
It's about duality, how there are at least two sides to every story, every person, everything. How nothing is ever as it seems, and no one single viewpoint is ever correct. It feels like almost every major character in this story, every major location, every major anecdote, comes out differently to different people, and neither is correct, and both are correct. Negative capability, baby.
It's about irrational bias, and how we can't escape it, no matter what we try. Even with enlightenment, people will find a way to hate each other. That's just the way we are. Of course, on the flip side, it implies that people will find a way to love each other, though I'm not sure that actually comes out in the story.
It's about eighty thousand words.
And, in the end, it's about hope. You hold out hope because there's going to be an answer. You hold out hope because you believe what you're doing is right, even when everyone knows it's wrong, and tells you so. You hold out hope because you will be happy again. You hold out hope because if you give up, that's boring, and we need more excitement. You hold out hope.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Infrequent Communication
As of late, to assist with my general writing endeavor (endeavour?), I've taken on the burden of a journal. Please note that I call it a journal because diary is far too sissy, even though the thing is probably much closer to a diary than a journal. You know what they say, that if it quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, it's a diary.
Every so often, before I write another entry or two, I'll flip through and attempt to read some of the earlier entries. This is quite difficult, as my handwriting has declined over the years. In addition, sometimes I'll make entries when I'm falling asleep. Thus, my thought process, which seemed clear and logical while caught in the throes of impending slumber, are actually nonsensical and confusing upon second look. Still, many of the entries are things that I probably could/should put on this blog.
And herein lies the problem. I value my privacy, and I am somewhat loathe to share myself with the anonymous internet masses, even though I've hewed towards anonymity here. Just thinking about some of the more personal things I've written about makes me cringe, not necessarily that I wrote them, but more that they're out there for anyone to read, and anyone that has enough brain power and pencil lead to connect the dots would be able to trace it back to me.
As our networking technologies grow ever more advanced and our web of communication is drawn tighter, it is both easier and harder to not only preserve our identity, but also to keep our personal information from becoming public. Note that we all have to be ever-vigilant should the too-real specter of identity fraud spirit away our virtual/banking self. Also, we have to (though we often don't) operate under the simple assumption that if we put it on the internet, it is going to get out. At the same time, I have relative freedom to write whatever I want under this pseudonym, and so long as no one posts a comment that will trace it back to me, I'm OK.
(This is where some smartass posts personal information in a comment.)
Technology has always driven our society. Train schedules forcing people into a more regimented schedule. The printing press and the Gutenberg Bible spreading literacy to the masses. Metal smelting making more feasible a quick and bloody death for your neighbor. So it is with the internet and cell phones, where now we are no longer ever out of touch with anyone for too long. It makes the concept of pen pals almost laughable. Why wait for weeks for a several page response, when you can e-mail them a few paragraphs, text them, reply on Twitter?
It all continues to cheapen information. Not that more accessible, cheaper information is a bad thing. Perhaps I should count myself among the Luddites infesting every generation, swearing that new technological discovery X will ruin society. Humanity adapts. It's what we do. As transmission of information gets cheaper and quicker, we have less need to spend vast amounts of time in a block in order to communicate. I can break out the phone and text someone a couple of sentences just like that.
Of course, the flip side is that, as our communicae become shorter, more electronic, more divorced from personal interaction, we actually do convey less information. Could we be at the point where an innovation actually makes it harder to really communicate? Telegraphs convey words without inflection, or even punctuation, though they weren't the primary form of interaction. Phones at least carried inflection and intonation, and when tethered to the wall, were only usable when at home. You still had to leave the phone behind. There are probably people now for whom the predominant communication method doesn't allow for body language. They may type and convey more than previous generations, but do they actually say more, do they express more?
To sort of bring the jagged circle all the way round, I do not update this blog very often. If I did, most of the entries would consist of pap and fluff, space fillers just to prove that I could post something. My mind doesn't work that way. I work more long form, getting semi-obsessed over an idea, worming it around in my brain until it burrows out in some fashion. It's why I prefer writing novels to more short-form writing. It's why when I finally do post these days, it comes spewing forth instead of trickling out. It also allows me to resume my emotional distance, to ponder carefully and let an overall mood command, rather than the tempestuous fluctuations of the day-to-day living (and good lord, am I wearing black makeup and cutting myself so I can feel something? That was pretty melodramatic).
Every so often, before I write another entry or two, I'll flip through and attempt to read some of the earlier entries. This is quite difficult, as my handwriting has declined over the years. In addition, sometimes I'll make entries when I'm falling asleep. Thus, my thought process, which seemed clear and logical while caught in the throes of impending slumber, are actually nonsensical and confusing upon second look. Still, many of the entries are things that I probably could/should put on this blog.
And herein lies the problem. I value my privacy, and I am somewhat loathe to share myself with the anonymous internet masses, even though I've hewed towards anonymity here. Just thinking about some of the more personal things I've written about makes me cringe, not necessarily that I wrote them, but more that they're out there for anyone to read, and anyone that has enough brain power and pencil lead to connect the dots would be able to trace it back to me.
As our networking technologies grow ever more advanced and our web of communication is drawn tighter, it is both easier and harder to not only preserve our identity, but also to keep our personal information from becoming public. Note that we all have to be ever-vigilant should the too-real specter of identity fraud spirit away our virtual/banking self. Also, we have to (though we often don't) operate under the simple assumption that if we put it on the internet, it is going to get out. At the same time, I have relative freedom to write whatever I want under this pseudonym, and so long as no one posts a comment that will trace it back to me, I'm OK.
(This is where some smartass posts personal information in a comment.)
Technology has always driven our society. Train schedules forcing people into a more regimented schedule. The printing press and the Gutenberg Bible spreading literacy to the masses. Metal smelting making more feasible a quick and bloody death for your neighbor. So it is with the internet and cell phones, where now we are no longer ever out of touch with anyone for too long. It makes the concept of pen pals almost laughable. Why wait for weeks for a several page response, when you can e-mail them a few paragraphs, text them, reply on Twitter?
It all continues to cheapen information. Not that more accessible, cheaper information is a bad thing. Perhaps I should count myself among the Luddites infesting every generation, swearing that new technological discovery X will ruin society. Humanity adapts. It's what we do. As transmission of information gets cheaper and quicker, we have less need to spend vast amounts of time in a block in order to communicate. I can break out the phone and text someone a couple of sentences just like that.
Of course, the flip side is that, as our communicae become shorter, more electronic, more divorced from personal interaction, we actually do convey less information. Could we be at the point where an innovation actually makes it harder to really communicate? Telegraphs convey words without inflection, or even punctuation, though they weren't the primary form of interaction. Phones at least carried inflection and intonation, and when tethered to the wall, were only usable when at home. You still had to leave the phone behind. There are probably people now for whom the predominant communication method doesn't allow for body language. They may type and convey more than previous generations, but do they actually say more, do they express more?
To sort of bring the jagged circle all the way round, I do not update this blog very often. If I did, most of the entries would consist of pap and fluff, space fillers just to prove that I could post something. My mind doesn't work that way. I work more long form, getting semi-obsessed over an idea, worming it around in my brain until it burrows out in some fashion. It's why I prefer writing novels to more short-form writing. It's why when I finally do post these days, it comes spewing forth instead of trickling out. It also allows me to resume my emotional distance, to ponder carefully and let an overall mood command, rather than the tempestuous fluctuations of the day-to-day living (and good lord, am I wearing black makeup and cutting myself so I can feel something? That was pretty melodramatic).
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