Character Assassination

Allow me to introduce myself.

I am a serial killer. There. It's out. It's told and announced that I am a killer.

But who are my victims? What is my Modus Operandi?

Both can be answered simply enough. Yet, my Ego demands a bit more attention than that. I must tell it slowly, delicately, descriptively and, most importantly, gently. There are those among you who may faint at what I will disclose.

Or not.

Let us see, shall we?

First of all, let's look at my motivation. Why am I driven to kill? What is it within me that must hunt, trap and eliminate those who catch my eye?

Well, I gave you the first clue. My Ego.

My Ego is such that it must never take second place. Its need to be first and foremost is paramount. There is no room for allowing anyone else to take the light. I am the one who must shine. My ideas are the important ones, not the ideas of others! Their lives and growth must never deviate from what I have planned for them! Never! I am the one in control! Not they!!!

I believe I have just given you the second clue as to who my victims are.

Characters. Entities within the Writing Project who dare think they are autonomous beings who have lives of their own and may go where they will without permission or even notification. Just who in the Pit do they think they are? It is my story! Not theirs! Mine!!!

I am a task-master and must not be disobeyed. So I kill.

One character had the audacity to be the nexus of a spiritual caste who possesses an important thing. She just popped up without even a hello in one, solitary chapter and acted as if she was really that important. As if it was all about her and no one else!

It made me angry. She thus died in the same chapter. Her brains were sucked out.

Another character would not stop whining about how much she was being left out of the political loop. She made me sick to my stomach with her pathetic ideas of a coup. She hung herself at my instigation.

Another one was, quite simply, ugly. Loud, demanding and very ugly. She got an arrow in the head.

Liking that particular image of an arrow in the head, due to my archery practice as well, another character went by that means. He was stupid. And ugly. And served no real purpose beyond carrying the conversations of the moment. Therefore, he had his soul sent elsewhere.

Maybe another writer will find him?

I doubt it. He isn't worth the trouble.

And a great trouble it is to work upon the Writing Project. All these characters demanding a slice of the pie, the lime light, the chance to actually live and do! How can I function in such a communal piece of work?!

I must kill. It is inevitable. Unavoidable. It must be done.

And now here is the dilemma. If I kill them all, there would be no Writing Project. There would be no entertainment and pleasant distractions to keep me sane. I would, in short, die.

Pain

What is pain? Many artists, whatever be their medium, attempt to express pain in all it's forms. But has it yet been defined? It has been categorized, surely. But actually defined?

Within the Writing Project, I struggle with the concept of pain in all of its manifestations, emotional, physical, spiritual, mental, (not to be confused with the emotional which I will explain in a bit.) But what is it?

Or should I ask: What is it not?

In the emotional category, pain is usually likened to an absence of someting such as love. (I will not dare to define love just yet. Let a braver soul take that on.) The absence of something is not limited to love, but it encompasses the loss of a loved one, a loss of an interest, loss of a thing, loss of an idea and more loss. Very painful. A hole. ( Such a cliche there.)

Then there is rage. Rage is very painful since it errupts from the emotional loss. But there is another kind of rage. A bestial dichotomy that tears at the spirit which then leads to spiritual pain. "Who and what am I?" are the questions asked in this moment. It is sickening, entrapping, making one want to crawl into a corner because to emerge into the light would reveal the true nature of our "natural" existance. And that is both illegal and immoral.

Physical pain is never fun, and if it is, then it's the emotional pain that one strives to escape through the physical. Masochism is a serious business.

Voices and delusions in an otherwise "normal" mind bring about the mental turmoil. Again, one is trapped with no "rational" way out except through either medication or masochism, medication leading to the pain of loss of one's true self.

A circular and twisted motion, pain is. And it is a motion that traverses through the emotional, mental, spiritual and physical in such a way as to create the illusion of no seperation.

Pain is then illusion and one which is the most insidious because we all feel it and therefore believe that it is very, very real.

What a pain in the ass, that is.

Music and the Mind

Has anyone really took notice of just how much music there is in the world? If one were to record all of it into a computer, it would be countless terabytes and none of us could live long enought to listen to it all.

That's quite a bit.

So why is there so much music? Why do we, when doing some manual project such as tree-house building, gardening, writing and other creative or practical tasks, seem to have a need for auditory stimulis? Are we seeking to block out our minds' attempts to cycle through our various concerns? Is it to establish a rhythm to match our work? A mood setter?

I think all of the above apply, and then some.

I have music playing while working on the Writing Project. Sometimes there are soundtracks to good movies, like "Batman Begins" and the "Dark Knight". Other times it's the music of Steve Roach, (a link to his site is right to the right of this blog.)

But it's always music that sets the tone, environment and attitude for the situations in the story. Each character has a theme music piece as does each social group. Obviously, I use music for inspiration.

And here's another thing about me and the Writing Project: I do not like music with english lyrics. They're distracting and cause a jarring sensation between the need to suddenly write tons of poetry and the story within the Project. However, music with lyrics done in a different language do not affect me so much because then the voices are just another instrument.

I know that none of what I had just written does not answer the original question so much. Perhaps it's a mystery to be solved by the individual for the individual rather than a collective and generalizing explaination.

What do any of you think?

Though computers are handy. . .

Though I do not have Human skulls on my writing desk, I can relate to this picture due to the mix of the archaic and the mordern. How many young people of today know how to look through a phone book?

I've been having some serious difficulties with my computer, upon which is the Writing Project, and I can say with confidence that when the machine gives up its last gasp, I will have lost nothing important. Remember, I hand write everything, (except these blogs.) I also have all the CDs of my music and a sterio on which to play them.

However, without a computer my time on the web writing these blogs and E-mailing friends will be cut out completely. . . until I get a new machine.

For anyone familiar with the Dune series written by the late Frank Herbert, you will understand the term, "hydrolic dependancy." The Chinese came up with it a thousand years before the Romans. Build conduits where running water is distributed to the populace in such a fashion as to make going to the well or stream or river on a daily basis for water no longer necessary. After only one generation, going to the well, stream or river is considered "out-moded" and a waste of time. When the Goths, led by Aleric, sacked Rome, one of the things they did was destroy the conduits of free-flowing water. There was a marked social collapse. It is the same with electricity and all of the neat little gadgets our society has become reliant upon.

I will be upset if the computer dies before I get a new one, but I won't kill myself over it.

Character characteristics

Though the above picture may seem a bit disturbing, I thought that it best describes the characteristics of the characters of the Writing Project.

Earlier this week, I finally had the breakthrough that I've been long awaiting with a couple of the characters. (And about bloody time too. . .) These particular characters had appeared out of the creative ether a couple years agao, but were never fully formed. I found that I was writing around them rather than through and thus the story began to take shape based on that path. But when it came time to review other characters, the main ones, it seemed there was a bit of a block and I couldn't really figure it out. Knowing that main characters depend upon supportive or antagonistic ones, I had been blinded by the illusion that that was the only way to go.

Obviously, I was wrong.

Supportive and antagonistic characters also have a reliance upon the main, thus creating a symbiotic relationship that is one of the paramount basics of story-telling. (I think I had been sleeping through that class session way back when in school. . .)

As I had writen about before, my style of writing takes the wholistic approach rather than the linear, and yet while understanding that, I still had been linear with the characters.

Well, not now.

The characters, be they main, supportive or antagonistic, grow out of each other necessarily and naturally. To not recognize that would be the death of the Writing Project, and that, I know, would make some people very unhappy since they've been waiting and waiting and waiting. . .for the rewrite of book one, the completion of book two and the rest to follow shortly thereafter.

Oh, by the way, Bo, my dear and very patient friend, the title of the first book has changed. And it's not my fault. Maya made me do it. . .

Out of the fog. . .

Having finally come out of the fog of foolish despair, I've been energized anew for the Writing Project. Friends keeping note will be happy to know that I've begun book three full on. Chapter 1 is completed and 2 is not that far behind. Of course I realize that the rewriting of book one is not yet complete, nor is the finalization of book two any closer. But I'm very excited about the Project and so I feel strongly that it shouldn't be too much longer. I think that all I needed was an emotional kick in the ass to get me going again. It's also been helpful to finally realize that, yes, I can do two things at once in terms of going out to my favourite coffee shop to work on the rewrites and put myself out there for someone to possibly take an interest in, and then going home after a few hours to work on books three and four. That way, I'm not forever in my cave and my goals are being completed apace.

Chocolate and espresso helps too.

To be or not to be. . .

Or. . . the pros and cons of being single.

This time of year is a bit difficult because the sun is much farther south and so I suffer through a lack of light and I get lonely.

In every single relationship I've been in, there have been more cons than pros and so I've generated a list of what I do not want in a relationship. It is longer than what I do want and so I had come to the conclusion that being single is a hell of a lot easier.

Or so I thought.

Pros:

I have all the personal space and time I want, (minus the cats.) Chris, the co-dependant and Tracy and Lisa, the jealous types.

I don't have to keep my home white-glove spotless, just sanitary. Stephenie, the snob.

I don't have to tell where I'm going or how long I'll be gone. Lisa, Stephanie and Tracy, the jealous types.

I can spend time with friends without worrying about the jealous trip. Lisa, Stephenie and Tracy.

I do my own laundry. Stephenie, the snob.

I keep comfortably odd hours. Very, very odd hours. Tracy and Stephenie, the control freaks.

I watch the shows I like. Tracy, the idiot who doesn't understand Brittish humour.

I can eat what I want when I want. Tracy, the materialist control freak.

I don't have to deal with negative attitudes about everything. Tracy, the drenched wet blanket.

I am the only insecure person here. Stephenie, Tracy, Lisa. . .

I'm not self-conscious about having false teeth or hairy legs. Stephenie, the snob.

I don't have to change any aspect of myself just so the other person will shut up about what ever it is they want me to change. Stephenie and Tracy, the snob and the control freak.

I don't have to celebrate the holiday I hate most: Valantine's Day. (Icky poo mush, mush.) Tracy, the pathetic romantic who thinks that a chair full of useless gifts are the way to a person's heart.

And last but certainly the most important, I can work on my Writing Project without someone getting in its way and then getting jealous over it. Creativity keeps me sane, and every person I'd been with has always, always tried to pull me away from it. Each and every one of them. . .

Now, for the cons:

There is no one to come home to.

There is no one to be held by while watching a show.

There is no one to cook for.

There is no one to keep me sane after a bad day at work.

There is no one to look up to.

There is no one to share my creativity with.

And so, again, I have come to the conclusion that being single is best for me because there is no one out there who can or would even want to put up with me.

It's going to be a long winter.