on the road again
I just had my first workshop experience--it's the kind of thing a masochist would get off on, big time.
Overall, it was... a lot better than I thought it'd be. I didn't pull one over on them with lack of plot, but at least talking about it--and hearing it be talked about--gave me some fantastically fabulous ideas. It really reminded me where the story came from: the weight of words. It's kind of funny how you can go to any bookstore and pick up different books and feel how heavy the books are. Physically feel it--and then think about the meaning.
The Communist Manifesto is one of the lightest, smallest books in the entire store. It's right up there with the Declaration of Independence, or a collection of ee cummings' poetry.
The weight of words, versus the weight of paper. And the binding--you know how prett ythose books with uneven pages always look? Well, they're awful. They get messed up and they stop being so pretty after a while. Kind of like people--at first, fucked up and messy is interesting, then it just becomes old and broke.
I took a walk with the dog last night. I have to be at home this week to stay with the little sister while the mom is away at a conference--maybe in Colorado, maybe in another country? It was so late out and everything was just dark, dark dark. Suburbia had never been intimidating or even frightening until last night. I don't know what it was--well, perhaps it was the fact that some streets had zero light posts that seemed to work. Everything was dark--and walking up to someone became a surprise.
For whatever reason, I just want to go do a head stand [no, no. better yet, a summersault] in the middle of the grass in the diag.
Rain sure sucks, but it's okay when you see how heartbreaking that green grass can be.
Overall, it was... a lot better than I thought it'd be. I didn't pull one over on them with lack of plot, but at least talking about it--and hearing it be talked about--gave me some fantastically fabulous ideas. It really reminded me where the story came from: the weight of words. It's kind of funny how you can go to any bookstore and pick up different books and feel how heavy the books are. Physically feel it--and then think about the meaning.
The Communist Manifesto is one of the lightest, smallest books in the entire store. It's right up there with the Declaration of Independence, or a collection of ee cummings' poetry.
The weight of words, versus the weight of paper. And the binding--you know how prett ythose books with uneven pages always look? Well, they're awful. They get messed up and they stop being so pretty after a while. Kind of like people--at first, fucked up and messy is interesting, then it just becomes old and broke.
I took a walk with the dog last night. I have to be at home this week to stay with the little sister while the mom is away at a conference--maybe in Colorado, maybe in another country? It was so late out and everything was just dark, dark dark. Suburbia had never been intimidating or even frightening until last night. I don't know what it was--well, perhaps it was the fact that some streets had zero light posts that seemed to work. Everything was dark--and walking up to someone became a surprise.
For whatever reason, I just want to go do a head stand [no, no. better yet, a summersault] in the middle of the grass in the diag.
Rain sure sucks, but it's okay when you see how heartbreaking that green grass can be.
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