the fiction of reality
Feb. 6th, 2002 04:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fictionali was really reluctant to get out of bed this morning. more so than usual. it wasn't just because the Dandelion-Head was being all snuggly either. my narrative writing class reviewed the beginnings of my novella today.
i was a little (okay, terribly) nervous...i only write about sex and death, and everyone else's stories seemed to be about summers on the beach, and going to church in alabama. my story was graphic, and violent...and did i mention graphic?
so astonishingly, the majority of people actually seemed to enjoy it. someone's critique even said that they really liked how "intense" it was compared to the tame things we'd been reading in class up till now.
i was pleasantly surprised.
also, another interesting thing. most of my characters are not exactly fictional. if i ever decide that this novella is suitable for public consumption, in other words, if i ever let my friends read it, many of them will recognize themselves. i write what i know, i suppose.
i fancy them up a bit, add ingedients of myself, but they are based on other people.
there was four people who come on stage in the excerpt of this novella, and three of them were imagined only in the sense that portraiture is imaginary. however the fourth one was someone that i made up completely, and he was there only for a brief moment, as a plot device to allow two of my other characters to meet.
how weird was it to hear that he was someone that people were interested in. they wanted to know who he was, where he came from, more about what he was alike. they found him deeply fascinating, just as much as any of the others that i spent lots of careful time trying to make come alive. odd, that such a unthoughtout chracter could be so appealing. and stranger still, that the only person that i actually created out of nothing should be the one that everyone wanted to know more about.
but. (and of course there's a "but".)
they didn't like my main character. they thought she was well written, yes. but they also thought that she was too cynical, tougher than nails, self flagellating, and messed up. and promiscuous. not even just promiscuous, they thought she was a hooker. with disgusting personal hygiene.
this'd be okay, except for the fact that she's me. a little more colorful, definitely a bit more fucked up and dramatically painted. but me, nevertheless. i was sad. i kept wanting to cover my manuscript so that she wouldn't hear all the things they were saying about her. they'd have really hurt her feelings.
and sometimes they made me laugh, like when they said things like "come on, people who like their sex that rough, and do drugs, can't really appreciate beignets, and chicory coffee and fruit. not to mention appreciate sunrises."
are they really that sheltered?
i was a little (okay, terribly) nervous...i only write about sex and death, and everyone else's stories seemed to be about summers on the beach, and going to church in alabama. my story was graphic, and violent...and did i mention graphic?
so astonishingly, the majority of people actually seemed to enjoy it. someone's critique even said that they really liked how "intense" it was compared to the tame things we'd been reading in class up till now.
i was pleasantly surprised.
also, another interesting thing. most of my characters are not exactly fictional. if i ever decide that this novella is suitable for public consumption, in other words, if i ever let my friends read it, many of them will recognize themselves. i write what i know, i suppose.
i fancy them up a bit, add ingedients of myself, but they are based on other people.
there was four people who come on stage in the excerpt of this novella, and three of them were imagined only in the sense that portraiture is imaginary. however the fourth one was someone that i made up completely, and he was there only for a brief moment, as a plot device to allow two of my other characters to meet.
how weird was it to hear that he was someone that people were interested in. they wanted to know who he was, where he came from, more about what he was alike. they found him deeply fascinating, just as much as any of the others that i spent lots of careful time trying to make come alive. odd, that such a unthoughtout chracter could be so appealing. and stranger still, that the only person that i actually created out of nothing should be the one that everyone wanted to know more about.
but. (and of course there's a "but".)
they didn't like my main character. they thought she was well written, yes. but they also thought that she was too cynical, tougher than nails, self flagellating, and messed up. and promiscuous. not even just promiscuous, they thought she was a hooker. with disgusting personal hygiene.
this'd be okay, except for the fact that she's me. a little more colorful, definitely a bit more fucked up and dramatically painted. but me, nevertheless. i was sad. i kept wanting to cover my manuscript so that she wouldn't hear all the things they were saying about her. they'd have really hurt her feelings.
and sometimes they made me laugh, like when they said things like "come on, people who like their sex that rough, and do drugs, can't really appreciate beignets, and chicory coffee and fruit. not to mention appreciate sunrises."
are they really that sheltered?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2002-02-07 10:41 am (UTC)as for the character that's you-
next time, make her a dragon ;-)
(no subject)
Date: 2002-02-08 02:10 pm (UTC)funny you should mention that...
Date: 2002-02-09 07:26 pm (UTC)tee hee! great minds! (and ours) *grin*