An unbreakable bond….
So a funny thing happened, ten years ago two girls met each other for the very first time…..
What was supposed to be a two week holiday of hanging out, turned into a ten year friendship…
So how is it that you can meet someone for the first time in your life, spend two weeks with them and have an instant bond, a bond so strong that no distance and no problem can get between that….A magical bond.
This brings me to us even writing a novel together, when L and I first met we were shocked how similar two cousins could be, cousins that had never met or spoke a day in their lives growing up, but yet there we were. Remembering after the two weeks we had to say goodbye, I had felt a sadness and cried for months after she had left. How forming an emotional bond with someone can last a life time…she’s been my best friend for ten years, been there through happy times, sad times, keeping in touch every single day, overcoming the distance with more ease than I ever imagined. I’ve made more effort with someone that stays thousands of miles away than people that stay right next door…What is it? What is that thing that defines a friendship, a relationship? What is that special something that you either have with someone or you don’t? What makes it last?
Is it because we’re family?
I don’t know – but what I do know, is that there are people in this world that will come across your path, that are meant to stay – almost like a twin soul….a bond you will find with someone that will be so strong that nothing or no one can come between that…
What is it about smoking? I hate it. I absolutely hate it.
But I also love it.
And I don't mean love in a blissful, happy sense. I mean obsessive, infatuated, bottom-lip-hanging-dumbly-with-a-double-chin besotted kind of "love."
It's not because of the disgusting smell (that only worsens and sours) or the horrid and terrifying side effects of cigarettes (I'm all about health,) it's the hypnotic, beautiful smoke. Holy Hannah Banana, I love the look of smoke. It gives the illusion of time slowing, of life pausing for a moment to exhale, of a person taking a minute to stop, just stop everything, light up and ponder.
However (this is a huge however,) if you try to smoke next to me at a bus stop or outside a building I will run away. Like, ew. Real life smoking is nasty. I guess it's similar to a fictional romance scene -- girl catches the intense stare of a beautiful stranger across the street. He approaches her and makes some odd gesture or says something strange and she's putty in his hands (terrible example, but I'm sure you get the drift) -- when in real life we've been taught that murderers can be handsome too, and would probably be too freaked out and suspicious of someone's severe stare.
Besides, most real-life smokers lose the art of smoking. They're so frantic to suck back the nicotine and all those toxic chemicals, the subtleties that probably made them attracted to smoking in the first place are lost: wafting white smoke dancing before their face, creating a cloudy veil to hide their eyes and intentions. Nope. Suck suck suck. Stub stub stub.
I've discovered I love the theory of smoking, but not the practice. I love it when I realize my character is a smoker, although they're never a smoker for long because I naturally create a relationship with them and want to save them (which is bad, I know.) I will forever be entranced and charmed by the look of smoke (especially when the film or photograph is in black and white... like, come on!) or reading about a character exhaling a pure puff, but I will never partake nor enjoy it in reality.
Waking up at 6am in the morning – in the freezing cold….is not my idea of fun, but reading L’s blog I can appreciate the frosty touch of ice on my nose this morning.
Heat….the pungent and smothering blanket of heat that covers you in summer…L, I feel for you on that side of the world….in reality it shouldn’t matter what season you write in….but summer – writing in summer is like writing on a boat in the middle of the ocean, unbalanced and all over the place.
Not only can you not focus – but you don’t want to focus, your mind suffocates under the smouldering heat pouring in from open windows and doors, whereas right now…right now I’m sitting in front of my computer – ready and focused, alert with the cold creeping up the back of my shirt every now and then.
Having the little hairs on my neck stand up every minute or two – concentration versus headaches of heat…
Coming back to L’s question – there is no doubt in my clear frosty mind, that I write better in winter….and that I prefer writing in winter J
Winter gives inspiration – only because your brain isn’t magnified by the sweat drops falling around you….
I'm sweaty. I'm uncomfortable. My head hurts.
I have TWO mosquito bites.
Like, how am I supposed to focus on characters or the storyline when my back and legs are sticking to the furniture? To top it all off, I wrote this blog about ten minutes ago, hit publish, and guess what? It didn't publish and deleted the entire thing. Fun times. Just adds to my heat-wave triggered bad mood.
Z and I live on different sides of the world, so when it's my summer it's her winter and vice versa. I find I write well in the autumn and winter (hot tea, fluffy scarves, hearty soup,) but how does this suit Z? How are we supposed to write a story when one of us is grooving in our surroundings and the other is a puddle of melted make-up and failed deodorant? (I just smelled my armpit to see if there was any truth to my comment.... Unfortunately, there is.)
Z, I haven't spoken to you yet because you're still asleep, but what season do you prefer to write in? Does the heat fuel your imagination or hinder it?
Lycanthropes are usually portrayed in film and television as strong, masculine creatures; a man who transforms into the beast during a dreaded full moon; rippling muscles, aggressive, salivating huffs and a terrifying gleam in his eye...
But I'm here, standing atop a jagged precipice with the pine-scented wind billowing through my hair and the stark light from the monthly full moon shining upon me, to raise my fistful of tampons in protest, realization and clarification, all while being bloody bloated and in a foul mood. Women are true, real-life werewolves.
The similarities are uncanny:
1. We have a condition that we don't control
2. We transform once a month
3. We have peculiar cravings and needs
4. Just like a wild animal, we can't be trusted or controlled
5. Sometimes we wake up covered in blood
Need more proof? Didn't think so.
On a slightly more serious note, this concept crept into my consciousness earlier this week when both Z and I were rage-filled, get-out-of-my-face, I-disagree-with-everything, give-me-chocolate-this-instant twin werewolves. Clearly we're spending too much time together because we've latched on to each other's monstrous cycle, forcing us to take a deliberate and surprisingly rational break from writing and querying. It's a good thing this doesn't happen every month... oh wait.
Too much information? Didn't think so.
We all want to be published writers…..screen writers, producers you name it…
The fact that when a topic pops into your head – something you’re passionate about, something that makes you tick….that one thing that makes your world spin just a little…and you cannot write about it for various reasons…mainly being because that’s not what people want to see or read….BUT AGAIN who are the ones that decide this?
The main stream idea that fiction or romance has to be some conceptual idea or mold. The only reason I say this is because I was sitting in front of a blank screen on my lap top – and I have an idea….an idea of greatness, love, loss and sadness. But I was hampered to even type one word – not because the idea wasn’t there – but because it was tragically doomed before it even started.
Doomed by the media – doomed by the main stream idea of art. “AHHHH art isn’t always main stream…..” or is it? The clothes we wear – no matter how unique was once upon a time picked by someone for us, the books we read, the movies we watch – it’s not all a coincidence – its pre-planned pop culture…L wrote about having to censor even a simple blog the other day – and I find it so silly – yet understandable….We edit – we over edit – we completely change the original product.
So in the end – and ill close off with this – when we have an exceptional idea – an idea of Truth, love hope, happiness or something dark and sad – after all the editing, after all the main stream interference of change, what’s left of the original idea.
How much is yours and how much is pop culture, who do you write for?
Who truly values what you write?
Is it even you doing the writing?
This is my first blog and I find myself censoring my thoughts and words, like I don't want to express the deep stuff; the harder, truer topics that detail the struggles and challenges throughout my writing experience. I like to believe that when I'm writing a character they are vulnerable and transparent--they hold nothing back and speak from the heart--but writing from within my own skin is an experience I've yet to find comfortable or even enjoyable. I can't hide behind someone else's eyes or flesh, and that's terrifying.
I consider myself a very private person. I mean, go ahead, ask me whatever you want and I'll tell you the truth, though that truth might be diluted. Example:
Them: "What do you do for work?"
Me: "Oh, nothing."
Me: "What do you do?" (Usually they'll talk about themselves. But not always.)
Them: "Well, what about hobbies? What do you do in your spare time?"
Me: "Umm... a few things. Mostly writing."
Them: "Oh okay. Like, what? Novels?"
Me: "Yeah. Hey, I've got to pee, which way is the bathroom?"
Of course, this example is also an example of the diluted truth that I habitually give.
This blog is a new journey. And I'm apprehensive. The thought of a blog is so cool: a free space to share and explore and express.... but then you start it and you realize that sharing and exploring and expressing is kind of daunting. I don't want to have a topical, boring, superficial blog! But I realize it might take some time to get comfortable writing in my own skin and not a character's. So bear with me.
It boggles my mind that a fictional person (especially one I've created) can get under my skin, but it happens all the time. Sometimes I wonder if I'm crazy, but then (here's one of the biggest perks of working with a writing partner) I talk to Z and she's just as flustered or excited about a character and I feel slightly more sane.
Sure, you can argue that we're both crazy. And you're probably right. But what the hell are we supposed to do about it? It's too late to stop these characters now!
So I’ve had a realization, either we are amazing or just weird. L and I have spent the past year and a half messaging on skype for hours at a time covering all topics – chapters, characters, sparkles, party pants, weather, coffee or what the cat is doing. Some might think this is strange – I see it as artistically gifted or a tad weird. J We’ve spent so many hours talking and working through ideas – getting lost in random conversations about things that really didn’t matter – but always staying focused on what we wanted to achieve…. A well written book.
I find the way we’ve managed to keep things serious at times a complete miracle J
[3/13/2015 9:02:14 AM] L HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH ARRY!
[3/13/2015 9:02:16 AM] L: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I just hear Alexei
[3/13/2015 9:02:28 AM] Z: LOLOL
[3/13/2015 9:02:45 AM] Z: it’s funny because I’ve almost called him Aary and i was like zee you don’t know this man…he’s a character.
A snip it from the crazy random conversations J
Ahh yes so we are done with our first novel *HIGH FIVE*…..one of three….*SIGH*
So I feel like the late nights and early mornings definitely feel worth it when you get rejections from agents OOOOR NOT…:-)
Having said that I’m being super – crazy – magically positive... like unicorns with sparkles positive, pretty sure I've already imagined the movie deal in my head….:P
Drafting the queries and sending them happens within moments, but then the WAAAAAAAAITING begins, and it feels like it never ends…
WHEN WILL THE WAITINGGGGG ENNNNNNNNNNND K