Oh, how my bulb has burnt out. Constant redrafting query letters for a slew of prospective agents, synopses of varying lengths, content tailored made for whatever agent I may decide ‘I guess that’ll work’ through their interest in my genera, and other conditionals has left me too weak.
Amidst university work and other art-related projects, it’s a slow process letting my filament heal, but I think soon, I’ll be able to delve back into the combative and time consuming task of finding an agent.
The State of the Book
I’ve revised the Grand Order to a point that most editing is superficial now. Thinking of doing anything makes me nauseous anymore. Largely, due to this late stage of revisions. At 120 thousand words, post massive rewrites where the book was at around 85-90 thousand, has rendered the manuscript thickly packed.
I do believe that my next work will be superior. However, at this point, aside from some extra chapters, and side content that exist in the periphery of the main story (and are largely for myself); there isn’t much to do, other than heading into the digital metropolis to seek more prospective agents. Alas, I suffer from directional incompetence.
I do, terribly and sincerely beg your pardon from including entries about matters aside from literature and the like, but I find that my pictorial arts to be of importance.
All rivers, and ponds dry, and likewise, I fear the day that I have no story to tell. Although I’ve experienced dry-spells where articulating narrative was as difficult for me as lifting an auto, the weight lifted after a while of time and persistence. However, a thunderous looming doom I fear awaits me when no story comes to mind, no character born any-longer and my worth as a story-teller turns to vapor. Despite that fret, I’ll persist with my goals, for what else is there for me to do? Creative impulse is what is always at the end of any hall I walk.
Just putting out some thoughts, digging my fingers into my brain to try and bleed out some writing. I’ve had such difficulty as of late. Hope you’re well all who read this and all who don’t.
A not necessary component of stories, but an important aspect of a storytelling, are stories that exist outside, in some capacity, of social restriction.
That is to say, whatever social conventions and taboos that exist within the author’s residence, this content extends beyond it’s boundaries. They might carry with them turbulent contentious thoughts from the readers, but are in no way less important or less artistically viable.
Things such as homosexuality, if within a society where it is persecuted, should be contained within a work if pertinent. Other socially shamed sexual interests, unapproved hobbies, philosophies and so forth can be expressed in numerous ways through literature. Authors ought to bring forth concepts that mightn’t be approved by their surrounding society, and if done correctly can afford such a society a perspective and awareness of sides of reality that they reject or of which are ignorant.
This extends to all prohibited activity, be socially or legally, and the significance of it be illustrated through the work itself. These are important due to the potential complacency and atrophy that many people undergo when they parrot and blanket themselves within the social system. When no critical thought is produced and one is merely a mirror, stories that exist outside of the social architecture can jostle the reader into creative and critical meditation.
An often forgotten, or intentionally ignored aspect of stories by many is that content of a story is something that often exists outside of the artist themselves. Characters and scenarios, relationships and ideologies, can be numerous and be expressed through an array of characters that don’t necessarily reflect an author’s personal interests or otherwise.
Somewhere distant an apparitional voice I cannot hear Calls me to an eldritch place of ineffable answers No legerdemain but apertures though common reality Mysteries of otherworlds detonates in my bantam ego
To imagine, or dream, of the world: friends, families, pets, shops and weather; technology and governments, and all of their mundane and fantastic activity. Then to imagine, you cease to be, no longer you, your ego, your memories and desires disintegrate. Never to influence anything again beyond memories some may carry.
Your dearest companions live their lives–as you watch; an apathetic echo, that deforms into the trough of dreamless slumber. And in that neither light, nor dark no-space; the universe subsists, and you will never know. In this void–it is the same place you were before you were born.
If you are reborn, you will not be who you were. Nothing you’ve done, you’ll ever know you’ve done, and knowing it would achieve nothing; for you, your entire identity died. Who is reborn is not you as you are now, just as who you are now is not who you were before this samsaric crest.
Death and dieing should be important events, but not everyone needs to stay dead. The problem then arrives for a writer, death should have weight (unless that’s not the kind of story you’re telling), in which case their rebirth should change something, unless of course it was a quick fake-out-death/trick and not much time has passed or something. In such a case it’s best to use your interpretation.
However, assuming they died and are as dead as dead can be but are resurrected or the equivalent; either the character or the environment needs to have altered. Otherwise their death was indeed meaningless. Perhaps the character is the same, but people treat them differently—they did just come back from the dead after all. Or their persona has been transformed—or their body isn’t quite functional in some aspects. Maybe they return inhuman. There’s numerous ways to show the significance of their death and rebirth.
These are just musings and aren’t any sort of requirement. (Which in Of itself is a bold remark about the value of my thoughts) In any case hopfully this is good food to help get ones mind churning.