Link to original post: [drupal=1697]"terrifying my love of commonness"[/drupal]
Or, "Rant about Writing #367" (At least it isn't about cockroaches this time?)
Almost every fanfic writer has a reason. It's probably because, as a hobby, fanfiction earns a writer more odd looks and raised eyebrows than, say, playing videogames. So there's a greater need to explain oneself.
I don't really have a reason. It isn't all that interesting of a story.
A lot of fanfic writers who claim to take their work seriously also claim that they're writing fanfiction as a form of practice before they tackle original work. That has always struck me as odd, though I can see the logic behind their reasoning. It's common for art students to copy established artwork to practice technique, actually. So, that there is a writing equivalent isn't surprising. But when I started writing, I wrote "originals." I didn't call them that because it never occurred to me that a person would ever write someone else's ideas. Even as part of a school assignment, when we were told to write an epilogue for a book we had read in class, I had trouble with it. I always--always--brought in my own characters. Writing someone else's stories was just a weird concept to me.
All you need to know about my current relationship with reading and writing is this: I f*cking hate writing. Reading is not much better. Sometimes I can force feed myself a book. Often times, I can't.
Reading fanfiction is easy in comparison. It's instant gratification. Writing it, however, is less so. Significantly less so.
I used to love reading. I probably used to love writing too. Those days are long gone, and there's no point in trying to bring them back. I don't want them back anyway.
Given a chance, I'd ditch this fantasy world and all its trappings like a bad habit.
I came upon fanfiction when I was in school. I was too old for it then, and I'm too old for it now. There wasn't an Internet when I first started writing. Good thing too because that prevented me from inflicting my juvenile abominations on too many outside eyes. I gave up writing at around the same time I gave up games.
It all came back to me the day my roommate came home with a free promo copy of Super Smash Bros. Melee from work. We had all the characters unlocked within a few days. I even broke my rule against using Gamefaqs to find out how to do it.
I found myself on Smashboards looking up advanced techniques. There was also a writing forum, I found out, totally choked up with fanfiction.
I'm a slave to the visual. Give me an image without a story; if it strikes me, I will probably make a story for it. And that story, if it imprints on me deeply enough, gets stuck. Whether I choose to write it or not, it doesn't go away.
So how do you deal with something like that? You're obsessed with something you hate.
I don't do it for practice, but it's become practice. My unfinished works from years past have resurfaced. Unless I take a power drill to my head, none of it will ever go away.
My mistake was probably in giving in to the impulse to spit something out onto the Internet and expecting it to cleanse my mind, to dissolve this mental fog and return me to myself. Maybe I wanted something simple to construct, something to carry the mantle for all those unfinished works I abandoned years ago, something to stand (or to fall) in their place. Instead, it all just snowballed.
I read books this way. I watch movies, listen to music and play games this way. I always, in the back of my mind, look for narratives that are similar to those old ghosts, those old stories, my stories. I want someone else to do it; I want someone to have done it, so I don't have to.
I don't ever find them, though, not really.
There's a real life case study I learned of about a man who was incapable of forgetting. His memory went beyond photographic. He remembered everything he had ever experienced, every detail, however minor. He worked as a news reporter. His boss got mad at him for not taking notes during a press conference, but he proved that he could recite everything that had been said during the meeting.
He was tormented by his memories. He wrote them down onto pieces of paper and set them on fire. It didn't work; he couldn't make himself forget. He also suffered from depression and eventually committed suicide.
I'm not that guy. I'm glad I'm not that guy. I remember his story though, when I forgot most everything else that was taught in that neuroscience class. It was just an anecdote the professor told us to hold our attention through the rest of the hour.
I used to say that I don't remember why I remember the things I do, things from my life, from the books and articles I read. But it's become obvious that I only remember the most useless details. These things serve no purpose; they don't help me learn the subject matter at hand; they don't help me contribute to the pool of human knowledge; they don't even make good stories to tell at a drunken after party, in between conversations with old friends about the old days, old bar fights, old riots, old loves, old f*cks, old and new altercations with law enforcement officers. The things I remember don't serve any purpose.
But these things, these useless anecdotes and pointless details--they can be weaved into a narrative, can't they?
That's how it begins.
Free will, like justice, like world peace. Such a brilliant f*cking illusion.
Or, "Rant about Writing #367" (At least it isn't about cockroaches this time?)
Almost every fanfic writer has a reason. It's probably because, as a hobby, fanfiction earns a writer more odd looks and raised eyebrows than, say, playing videogames. So there's a greater need to explain oneself.
I don't really have a reason. It isn't all that interesting of a story.
A lot of fanfic writers who claim to take their work seriously also claim that they're writing fanfiction as a form of practice before they tackle original work. That has always struck me as odd, though I can see the logic behind their reasoning. It's common for art students to copy established artwork to practice technique, actually. So, that there is a writing equivalent isn't surprising. But when I started writing, I wrote "originals." I didn't call them that because it never occurred to me that a person would ever write someone else's ideas. Even as part of a school assignment, when we were told to write an epilogue for a book we had read in class, I had trouble with it. I always--always--brought in my own characters. Writing someone else's stories was just a weird concept to me.
All you need to know about my current relationship with reading and writing is this: I f*cking hate writing. Reading is not much better. Sometimes I can force feed myself a book. Often times, I can't.
Reading fanfiction is easy in comparison. It's instant gratification. Writing it, however, is less so. Significantly less so.
I used to love reading. I probably used to love writing too. Those days are long gone, and there's no point in trying to bring them back. I don't want them back anyway.
Given a chance, I'd ditch this fantasy world and all its trappings like a bad habit.
I came upon fanfiction when I was in school. I was too old for it then, and I'm too old for it now. There wasn't an Internet when I first started writing. Good thing too because that prevented me from inflicting my juvenile abominations on too many outside eyes. I gave up writing at around the same time I gave up games.
It all came back to me the day my roommate came home with a free promo copy of Super Smash Bros. Melee from work. We had all the characters unlocked within a few days. I even broke my rule against using Gamefaqs to find out how to do it.
I found myself on Smashboards looking up advanced techniques. There was also a writing forum, I found out, totally choked up with fanfiction.
I'm a slave to the visual. Give me an image without a story; if it strikes me, I will probably make a story for it. And that story, if it imprints on me deeply enough, gets stuck. Whether I choose to write it or not, it doesn't go away.
So how do you deal with something like that? You're obsessed with something you hate.
I don't do it for practice, but it's become practice. My unfinished works from years past have resurfaced. Unless I take a power drill to my head, none of it will ever go away.
My mistake was probably in giving in to the impulse to spit something out onto the Internet and expecting it to cleanse my mind, to dissolve this mental fog and return me to myself. Maybe I wanted something simple to construct, something to carry the mantle for all those unfinished works I abandoned years ago, something to stand (or to fall) in their place. Instead, it all just snowballed.
I read books this way. I watch movies, listen to music and play games this way. I always, in the back of my mind, look for narratives that are similar to those old ghosts, those old stories, my stories. I want someone else to do it; I want someone to have done it, so I don't have to.
I don't ever find them, though, not really.
There's a real life case study I learned of about a man who was incapable of forgetting. His memory went beyond photographic. He remembered everything he had ever experienced, every detail, however minor. He worked as a news reporter. His boss got mad at him for not taking notes during a press conference, but he proved that he could recite everything that had been said during the meeting.
He was tormented by his memories. He wrote them down onto pieces of paper and set them on fire. It didn't work; he couldn't make himself forget. He also suffered from depression and eventually committed suicide.
I'm not that guy. I'm glad I'm not that guy. I remember his story though, when I forgot most everything else that was taught in that neuroscience class. It was just an anecdote the professor told us to hold our attention through the rest of the hour.
I used to say that I don't remember why I remember the things I do, things from my life, from the books and articles I read. But it's become obvious that I only remember the most useless details. These things serve no purpose; they don't help me learn the subject matter at hand; they don't help me contribute to the pool of human knowledge; they don't even make good stories to tell at a drunken after party, in between conversations with old friends about the old days, old bar fights, old riots, old loves, old f*cks, old and new altercations with law enforcement officers. The things I remember don't serve any purpose.
But these things, these useless anecdotes and pointless details--they can be weaved into a narrative, can't they?
That's how it begins.
Free will, like justice, like world peace. Such a brilliant f*cking illusion.
