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fulldamage

Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real


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fulldamage

Deliberately Abstract

Firstly, Click here, all new format, let me know what you think.

Secondly, this is the first part of a two part... thing. I don't know what to call it. Musings, or an article, or something. Maybe it will be three parts. I don't know, I just know I need to get to bed by 2 to remain vaguely functional.

part one

Concerning Layne of the Korgan

Layne of the Korgan came to herself in the hollowed-out ashtray of poets and thugs that is Lower Bottom, West Oakland, during the anagramic year of 2002.

Looking back through old sketchbooks and notes, I can see her in
gestation even earlier, a sonogram in flashes of faces, angles of her
cheekbone in other figures, coming alive in scattered turns of phrase.
I can see that she began to come to life in lightning flashes during
the warm downpours of a summer spent couch and warehouse-surfing in New York. Delicately built and hard-faced women dressed in black, haunting
coffee shops and office patios at lunch, self-assured auras holding
fragile bones together, ready to bloom or spit acid at the merest
unwary touch. Questing gazes, deliberately abstracted 9 out of 10
times, but on that 10th time smouldering sharp enough to light a fire
and take the measure of you as you burn in it, before turning aside to
contemplate the menu or their own phantoms, momentary curiousity sated
but not quenched, leaving only a husk of wondering cinder in your
shoes. Long wandering and the tightly-wound tension of that Eastern
metropolis had made a ragged exultant out of me, delusional and daring,
but under those gazes I always hung trapped and breathless, unable to
turn away lest I miss whatever glimmer of curiousity, haughty disdain,
or lechery might escape those brittle sphinxes.

Layne as she is now, her name, face and mannerisms, did not come until
some time after I'd returned to the West Coast, and was at the peak of
my online writing period. Chatroom-based writing is 90% a hive of
wretched scum and villainy, but here and there amidst the bottomfeeders
there is a breed of quick and deadly writers that can rise to the
occasion in this brutal environment, learning to cripple the beast of
Writer's block through the under-the-gun onus of writing in public, and
able to adapt to nearly any fucktarded event that any hack out there
might throw at you into a thing of moment and beauty. With the aid of
a few of these rough and ready subgeniuses, Layne emerged as a figure
of high tragedy, the last warrior bard from the Last City, whose whole
world was torn down and annihilated in the most literal of ways, by a
man who decided to take a chance on bucking the System.

Her long quest to find this man and deliver justice for the ruin he'd
wrought, is a tale I have yet to tell. We began at the Endgame. The
final leg of her journey and its eventual consummation, were blessed
and marred indelibly by the revelation that she owed her continued
existence to that same man, that she herself was only tentatively real,
a waking dream of sorts, born of his spirit of true remorse for the
cost of his decision. And though the haunted, relentless anti-heroine
made few true friends, many a soul was marked by the spirits of Loss
and Fury within her, and her end in flame, robbed even of the solace of
knowing that her Vengeance was a True one.

Her grave is an unmarked cairn located within a forest that is Lost to us.

Her story twists my heart a little bit every time I revisit it, for
many reasons. The dreams we produce, alone and together, they may not
need diaper changes, a shoulder to cry on, or college money. But there
are paralells. You can't control whether a dream is good or bad, but
part of me feels that once a dream is called into existence, it is
there forever in a way, and it's up to us to take some responsibility
for our dreams as they make their way out into our thoughts and
influences, our musings and conversations. Moreover, we need to be more careful in general, because you never know. You never know when the thing you are about to say or do may burn or kill someone else's dream, something that you don't know about, some part of them that you didn't know existed. They might not even realize it IS a dream, until it's dying at your feet.

Have you ever held tightly to something, so tightly you didn't realize that what you were holding onto was just never there to begin with? So tightly that it didn't matter, the dream didn't matter, not as much as the holding?

And then had it taken away?

Next: The Art of Internet Scrying

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...Good. And that just doesn't even begin it. I adore the layout, it settles well. Fits right across the shoulders like one of them danger suits.

Being a girl who's life is lived in those little moments when everything is tied together, hopping from one collective synapse fire to another, I find the current topic serendipidous. For not only do I adore Layne, your writing, and the sharing of the creational journey, but I've been doing something similar myself. I won't write it here, this is your spotlight, brother.

The story of Layne reminds me of the quintessential value of negative space. Whether you are a character in my dream, or I in yours, it doesn't really matter because either way you're breathing, fighting, and trying to find your place.

You never fail to inspire.


Moreover, in perceiving a negative space, we must owe it a debt of sorts, because in perceiving it to exist, it defines us through anathema. You wouldn't be where you were if that space wasn't there, being what it is.

A debt, or a payback.

Speaking of inspirations; your own unique outlook on the world has never failed to baffle and amaze me, you know. See, I usually expect people to sort of fall into one of two camps...
Left brainers: There are subtle connections between many things, but a coincidence is just that and nothing more.
Right brainers: Coincidence! There must be a connection!

But you hop back and forth between the two with such fluidity, sometimes I just have to sit back and be all like, "Daaaaaamn, girl, you crazy!"

^_^

::grin!:: Thank you. I have been trying to tell those brain-sides-quizzes that I'm both. They don't listen.

And ironically...

Last night I was ruminating with my roomate about what each writer brings to the table, and she wanted to know what I brought. This is a snippet of that conversation:

The Amazon Queen ponders, "I would say it's...rotund creativity."

"Heavy and lumbering creativity, huh?"

"Uh...shoot. Wrong word. Crap." Her art is visual, not verbal, she looks really embarassed, but we laugh and kick our feet in the air.

"I dunno...maybe like a sparkplug. Just hop about and connect things and ignite things." Pause. "Rampanat creativity?"

"Yeah!"

So I think between the three of us, that pretty much sums it up.

Rampant crazy, that's me. ;p

One of these days I'm really going to have to figure out how to create my own space, too. For now, I lurch through with the staggering selection offered by the livejournal slaves.

It's nice to hear where Layne "came from". There's nothing wrong with forensic writing, of this sort. You're leftw ith the death of a character and then it takes time to backtrack to discover how it was she ended up in a grave in the middle of someplace nobody goes too often.

It's why we have "Prequals". (Not that I may've spelled that right.) It's a chance to answer things we're curious about. Not that it's always a good idea...(The Star Wars stuff is a fair example...) but it helps those readers who want to know, nay DEMAND to know "How did this get this way to begin with?"

I find I can't just *Poof* create a character without having some inkling of a background, whether it's slyly suggested in the mannerisms of the character or if it's loudly hinted at during the course of the actions. The public writing venue, at it's best, demands you have substanance to these shades of creatures we play out...even if it's never revealed during the four-hour, sucking-down-sodas, nail-biting, thesaurus-humping role playing that transpires in the course of a late evening/early morning.

So, Kudos, Hermit. Looking forward to more.


"even if it's never revealed during the four-hour, sucking-down-sodas, nail-biting, thesaurus-humping role playing that transpires in the course of a late evening/early morning."

:: DIES!! ::

Thesaurus humping. HA!


You know, all of the layouts I've used so far have been using the LJ presets, followed by a large amount of tweaking to get them "just so"... picking colors, picking images, that sort of thing. It just takes an afternoon or two of fiddling through their Customizations and FAQs sections to figure out most of it; it's only a little tougher than setting up AOL homepages.

Layne was always meant to be a tragic character, you know, from the moment she came to me. That was why she was so intense, maybe sometimes too intense, because I knew that she was reaching her ultimate moment, line by line, and I didn't want to waste any of it.

It never really feels like I'm "thinking up a backstory," when I ponder a character... or when I do that, it never comes out well. It feels more like staring into a black well, staring and staring until I can see a detail, and waiting until I have enough details to start. But the details are never the same. Like people I meet on the street, I only see a little piece of them to begin with, but there's so much more to them. Sometimes I need a history; sometimes all I need is to see them in action, and then I find I understand the history behind them.

"It never really feels like I'm "thinking up a backstory," when I ponder a character... or when I do that, it never comes out well. It feels more like staring into a black well, staring and staring until I can see a detail, and waiting until I have enough details to start. But the details are never the same. Like people I meet on the street, I only see a little piece of them to begin with, but there's so much more to them. Sometimes I need a history; sometimes all I need is to see them in action, and then I find I understand the history behind them."

Oooh, I get that! It happened last night. I'm sittin' there sketchin' and BAM! Something I couldn't figure out smacked me up side the head. It rocked! See upcoming lj entry for more on this.

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