writing, writing, wrating, wcrastinating, procrasting, procrastinating.

Yesterday was a glorious day in Winchester: the clouds had dissipated, the sky was beautiful blues and there was an airy breeze that was a nice respite from the weather I'm used to back home. I never really get to appreciate it because I usually keep myself locked up in my room scrolling through vast pictures of men, hipsters smoking (men) and meme's (hahaha, no I just look at men) on Tumblr.

So I go out with my housemate, bask in the weather and get on planning my novel; and it was great. I got some ideas, character appearance  setting and considered different influences for my characters, plot and the like. Fantastic! So I think I'm going to start writing today, but I think 'Well, no point if I'm going out tonight, I'll definitely work on it all day tomorrow.'

And guess what, guys? I did SWEET FUCK ALL.

I've been sat, stuck scrolling through Tumblr and music videos and impulse buying Azaelia Banks' weird new track 'YUNG RAPUNXEL' (or whatever it is) and now I'm procrastinating even further just by writing this post.

Here's a picture OF A HORSE.

Seriously though, I'm finding it bloody hard to actually motivate myself. I've got this great idea and it has so much potential so unfortunately, I've just let myself do other menial tasks in order to not do it. Why, do you ask? Because I've been struck by a lethal case of self-sabotage.

I mean, why write about it if its never going to be as good as it is in your head? Why present it to everyone else if it may not live up to my expectations? Its like a baby that is ready to be born and I think 'wait, stay in my uterus! I'm not ready for you yet!' - Thankfully I have neither a baby or a uterus, or a vagina otherwise that would be some crazy shit. But if I can't 'birth' my idea, so to speak then it just builds up and up and feels ready to burst from my head.

So the best thing I can think of, and it scares me a bit and I'll panic and cry and whatever, is just to let it happen. Write it out. If I don't exorcise this baby it'll become a demon and, I don't know, make me use ouija boards and like country music or something.

So here I go. To Tumblr. Tumblrrr, Tumblriting, triblriting, wriblrting, writing.

"There Is No Cruelty Without The Beast"

One of the first times I tried to 'speak' to one of my characters I decided to tap in to something that I was barely experienced in; a ouija board. Some people out there will consider my decision stupid or irresponsible, but I was more concerned with trying out a novel technique then the lurking dangers of the supernatural. I'm not one who believes in ghosts or phantoms, in fact I've never had any experience with that kind of phenomena. So I gathered a bunch of my friends and we set out to try and find one of my characters.

It didn't yield any kind of result; we lit candles, got a board and a cursor and started to play. I thought of it as a game; an innovative and interactive ploy to create a character, but after half an hour of everyone not taking it seriously I decided to leave it, so we said 'goodbye' to 'hedgehog' who wanted 'Emily's boobs' and I never touched it again. In retrospect, it just wasn't going to work and I would just go with my original plan.

After a while I finally concocted an idea that was born out of cruelty; a character rich in decadence, pleasure, sensations and rage and although then it felt I was pulling the strings, it was merely the other way around. Character's are born out of us; we give them a face, characteristics, hobbies... But what we constantly forget, or ignore, is that they can manifest themselves in dangerous ways and not only on the page. I noticed this when I started to write the character of 'Salome' for a possible novel idea and found that she was trying to break out of the confines I had placed her in.

As Wolverine says in the (not-so-great) film X-Men 3: "When you cage the beast, the beast gets angry". They find a conduit in which to hate, they begin to obsess over ways to find their own way out of their situation but once they break free, they don't know what to do. I found when my emotions were unstable or life was difficult, I would mirror some of the traits of my character or ask myself, what would she do in this situation? And that is where I began to become my character more then I expected.

I based her on the anger and hatred that human beings feel when it is left to fester. I think everyone, even if they do not actively hate, have had this feeling at some point in their lives and I know I definitely have. Its dangerous to feel that way because its so powerful and absorbing and once it starts, it needs to stop as soon as possible; hate is a nihilistic emotion that ends with nothing but malice and misery. When we find motive and reason and pleasure within this negativity it begins to form, almost, a personality of its own. Like Voldemort splitting his soul to render himself immortal, we feel the need to do the same just to survive. But it needs energy and fuel to keep on thriving and so we nitpick, or target. We use every inch of our body, exhaust ourselves to try and satiate an almost unlimited force.

We've all done this before and once we stop and look back, we realise how obsequious we have been. Our actions, though deplorable, need to be justified one way or another by ourselves just to try and reason with the side of us that is no longer static, but transient and faded. We kill ourselves a tiny bit and end up monsters.

What do we have to left to go back to though, when we discover this? How can we return to how we feel when we've been pushed to breaking point with our emotions? Do we deserve it? Can we ever redeem ourselves? - I'm not so sure. I wish I could answer this myself because its a question that I've been asking myself for so long.

I remember reading The Satanic Bible by Anton LaVey and his experience with christians: "On Saturday night... I would see men lusting after half-naked girl dancing at the carnival, and on Sunday morning... I would see those same men sitting in the pews with their wives and children, asking God to forgive them..." - Once we are in the cycle is it possible to break free? Can we relent the forces control of us and stop the cycle? If not, what levels of degenerance will we slip to and how long will we fall before we hit the ground?

How far do we fall before we can't even forgive ourselves?

A Tiresian Tragedy

I haven't blogged as much recently, partly due to the fact I've been blogging here, but also due to the fact its been difficult to write about a particular subject. Well, anything really. I mean, I have so much to say that before I can even go all ninja finding writing materials that I've forgotten what I wanted to say. I'll sit and ponder for ages what it was that I was thinking and another idea fades like a shooting star.

It really is starting to become a problem (ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ

Recently though I've been working on a new story for my Textual Intervention module. We're studying fairy tales; their dynamics, how there is underlying intratextuality and how ANGELA CARTER BASICALLY WROTE LOTS OF PORN (yup). But I love her work, and it actually influenced my decision for my assignment piece, which also takes its form from my favourite fairy tale; The Little Mermaid.

Now, I know what you may be thinking, "Oh I love it! I've watched the Disney version!" - NO. Stop, please don't go on because to me, it just takes the essence away from the original story. It just polluted the story with unnecessary characters and campy villains and oh dear I really can't go on any further. But the original by Hans Christian Anderson, is a tale of unrequited love, self-sacrifice and humanity. Yeah, it probably sounds like a misery machine and do you know what? Perhaps it is. The first time I read it I felt melancholy; I guess, since Anderson's original reader was for a man who would never return his love, I can sympathise. But there is something I was fascinated with: the notion that even though we come from different places and speak different languages these cannot hinder us from tearing down barriers and escaping our roots. But when we tear ourselves from the past, we can't go back. When our hearts are set on something we can't persuade them out of it. We should follow what we want and if it leads to misery, then we can proudly say that we did what we wanted to do. That, in essence, is what I find to be one of the most poignant messages within the tale.

Although my retelling of the story is actually intentionally supposed to be depressing  (〃￣ω￣〃ゞ Here is an excerpt from my piece called A Tiresian Tragedy:

But Warren and I were aware that none of them were like us. They had a linear path that was set for them, whilst ours was twisted and bent, marred by transience and uncertainty. When my family saw me stray from what they wanted they left me to the obfuscation and retreated. To them, our family was a machine and I was a broken cog that should be replaced. Now, their lives functioned like clockwork.

We had planned that day to take a walk down to the beach in the hope that we’d either be able to pull or get hideously drunk trying. As I pulled myself onto a chair at the beach bar, I felt my skin sizzle like the electric wires that stretched across the city. Even in this weather the scarring, though barely traceable in normal weather, felt as if it were suppurating. The glints of glass that remained embedded in my skin felt as if they shimmered as the rays of light danced upon my cheeks.

I'll be uploading it to my blog in the near future, once I'm entirely satisfied with it. Hopefully I'll be posting more regularly now~