The paradox of being a writer.

I'm basically reading essays about writers and writing and thinking lots of it is true, but here's something I think is going to be my detriment someday:

What happens when I have this marvellously brilliant idea and find out someone much more famous has already incorporated that idea?

Well I used to think that meant I couldn't use the idea anymore, and then it sort of shifted to making me feel guilty about de-facto plagarism. For example, I have this character named Anath and he is very much in tune with all human senses - and then some - minus only eyesight. I should mention he is not human. And now I learn that Octavia Butler has some alien race just like this if not better!

What's a girl to do. Nothing is original, right? But what if it IS original originally?

Some ideas that've come to me in the past five minutes - (I give them to you on the condition you DON'T plagarize my work ;) ):

• A race like some species of fish that begin female and mature into males. I like to think of it as a comment on social constructs (two individuals can't be together but they want to) and homophobia.
• A woman who has to kill an abusive boyfriend in order to be free of men. Think "Private Benjamin", a movie I will reccommend to anyone. The idea isn't feminist exactly, but more as a self-liberation thing, albeit tragic.
• I really want to incorporate my Zonian warrior women into something. Also a gender issue; they treat men much like men treated women a few centuries previous: as property. They are...um...they're like taking over my brain. Zonians tend to do that to you.
• (There is a bug on me, and sometimes I get paranoid when I am up late at night that there are people in the house. Is that rational or normal?)
• Some irrational fear about something. I don't care if the character is totally mad. The madder the better.
• I want to prove someone wrong about mermaids. They're not gorgeous women laying on the beach for you to look at, boys. They're vicious maneaters. They have teeth.
• Something that has amnesia and wakes in the clutches of humans? Obviously this stems from my current work on Butler's Fledgling. I remember reading something about a trapped angel somewhere, that would be interesting.

Alright folks, looking back looks more like stream of conscious inspired by late-night exhaustion than anything. Give me two weeks and all be all on these ideas like gravy on potatoes.

Peace,

Becs.

I try my hand at Old English.

When put I quill to paper, my words all do scarce redeem mine conceit. Wherefore dost bane of writers close stop up, charged with worries that cross beyond mortal burdens plague mine mind? An I could bring proper words to the front ‘twould be still shrewd and nice, I doubt. Alack! Mayhap ‘tis far the better they remain mewed away, lest a natural I should be deemed.

Thank you, headache.

This piece is going under rights for Images, the literary magazine on my campus. It'll b e back up when I get rights back! YAY! Happy dance!

A snippet from a line

“You got an ID, son?” the barkeep asked. His hand, clutched around the tap, hesitated.

An ID? Jacob laughed. What good was an ID? What on earth would his ID say? ‘Born in 1467, Provisional until age 18 in 1485, Age 21 in 1488’? The same picture, a mirror image of the real self, forever on his ID, no matter what the year. And it wouldn’t even bother to designate a hospital should his organs be needed in case of death.

Jacob shook his head. He was far older than 21, but he didn’t want to cause an argument. He didn’t have the energy. “Not with me.”

The barkeep shook his head in returned and dropped his hand, picking up a rag again and polishing some glasses. “Sorry. No drinks without a card.”

Jacob shrugged. “Juice, then. Orange juice.” The barkeep nodded and got him the drink. In this age of technology, when everyone knew who you were with a single click of the electronic mouse, when you could be tracked in a heartbeat, it was getting harder and harder to remain out of anyone’s radar. Jacob moved out of town every decade or so to keep from arousing suspicion. He didn’t have a job, he didn’t go to college. A modern-day rover, a vagabond of sorts, for what good was money when you lived forever? After the first few hundred years material possessions had begun to lose their luster. The ancient man drank the orange juice, but today it gave him no satisfaction. What he wanted, what he had wanted for a long time, was companionship. Someone who wasn't going to keel over and die after a couple of decades. Or after a car accident. Ageless fingers ran over a line on his forehead. Every time...every time he fell into getting to know someone. Well, what did he expect? As far as he knew he was the only one on earth of his kind. Though he had searched. Boy, had he searched. But after a while, one begins to turn to other things.

But what else was there to turn to?J

acob finally sat at the bar and rested a head in his hand. Nothing to be done. No more loving, he decided fiercely. No more companionship.

"Rough day, huh?" Jacob looked up. A few seats down. A pretty girl with a drink in hand, eyeing him over the rim with deep, deep wells of brown eyes, framed in serious-looking glasses.

Jacob's mouth twitched in a smile. "Rough couple hundred years, honey," he replied. She laughed.

I am an idiot, thought Jacob as he moved to the seat next to hers.

Some Relevant Quotes on Writing

"Writing is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public." --Winston Churchill

"A writer needs three things, experience, observation, and imagination, any two of which, at times any one of which, can supply the lack of the others." --William Faulkner

"After all, most writing is done away from the typewriter, away from the desk. I'd say it occurs in the quiet, silent moments, while you're walking or shaving or playing a game, or whatever, or even talking to someone you're not vitally interested in. " --Henry Miller

"Write without pay until somebody offers to pay you. If nobody offers within three years, sawing wood is what you were intended for. " --Mark Twain

"The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit detector. This is the writer's radar and all great writers have had it. " --Ernest Hemingway

"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." --Ernest Hemingway

"Whores and writers, Mahound. We are the people you can't forgive. " --Salman Rushdie

Thoughts? Are they right? Wrong?

Exposition on an Unknown Man

This may seem odd; it's a writing exercize during a last-minute study session over the course of about an hour. Each break in paragraph is a time lapse wherein I turned back to studying. I was sitting on the other side of the room from this guy who was also studying and decided to describe him. I have never met the man before. Here it is, the description of an unknown guy in a page:

Some guy in the corner with glasses, chewing gum and looking intently into his laptop, twirling a pen with focused indifference. Drops it.

Now he’s leaning on an arm, looking utterly both concentrated and exhausted, as if changing the direction of his head will somehow change the words on the screen to something more interesting. He looks like he’s asleep, except for the pen in his other hand which is sticking up in to the air, reminding those in the room that he’s still there. His short, inconsistent beard changes colors of black as he chews.

A knee up to his mouth, still staring at the screen. He holds it to him with childlike innocence, stopping once in a while to tap the keys on his computer. He is entirely comfortable with being so informal.

He sighs, eyebrows furrowed, and puts his feet up on the table, hands behind head in an almost theatrical motion of cool relaxation. Now he’s smiling, smacking the gum with entertainment at his computer screen. He stretches, leaning as he is back in his chair, only briefly.

What’s this? He’s tapping the table as if listening to the same music I am. His computer is a brand I have not seen before. He leans back, leg now again as it was against his chest, in the stiff chair he’s sitting in.

His hand is a claw, surrounding the caged electronic mouse beneath those fingers. He is smiling, a tongue roving in his cheek. He seems to have strayed from studying. He scratches the back of his head thoughtfully, chin wrinkling as he does so. That same, open mouthed grin playing at various levels on his face.

I scratch the back of my head, thinking and gazing at posters of overseas programs, loving the feel of my soft hair. Always hoping somebody is going to notice my feigned indifference.

He chews like he’s chewing a particularly delectable piece of meat. A Celtic warrior swapping tales around a campfire at the end of the day. His whole body is smaller now, arms reclining on his knees. An ape, surveying the clan before him. He puts a wrist to his mouth in thought.

Three professors stand in the way, blocking my view and speaking loudly and excitedly. They have no idea the connection they are disturbing. I say nothing.

I see a peek of him. His eyes - pained? A girl with a bright red jacket sits across from him, blocking anything I may have been able to see.

A hand to his cheek, wonderingly. Thoughtfully. Frowning at his computer. Stretch back, you Celtic lord.

Where has he gone? He got up and walked off casually, gum still in mouth. Now the red-jacketed girl is sitting alone, poring over some book with interest.

He’s eating. Sustaining himself on Sprite and a chocolate chip cookie. Leaning against the wall, now. He is pulling bits of information from his brain with his claws.

Do You Believe in Werewolves?

(This story was written for a contest several years ago.)

It was a full moon that night, just as any good horror movie would be. I was alone in bed reflecting on the day in my journal. Suddenly I heard a high-pitched scream. I immediately jumped out of bed. My heart thumped with the extreme thrill of an adventure. Being the audacious kid that I am, I naturally tugged on my blue-jeans and sweatshirt and was just about to rush out the door to see what all of the commotion was about, when suddenly my mother barked, “Stop! Where do you think you’re going, young lady?” She tapped her foot impatiently.
I spun around and said, hoping that I was looking quite innocent, “Just out for a walk, Mom!” She didn’t look convinced.
“You know that it’s a full moon! Not one person is allowed out of this house at night during a full moon!” Needless to say my mom is a little bit superstitious. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t understand it myself.
“I’m not going out long, Mom! And besides, it is a cloudy night, and the moon isn’t even visible now!” The full moon had been concealed in a misty veil that masked its face.
She hesitantly said, “Alright, but be back soon and take your brother with you!”
I didn’t have a problem with that. I silently padded to his room and entered. “Come on!” I said, “There’s a crime to report!” My ten-year-old brother named Rex jumped out of bed quick as a flash. He had the same nose for adventure as I did, and as we both wanted to be news reporters when we grew up, we always reported everything. I, however, usually led the expedition, having much more experience than he did.
I grabbed a notebook and a pencil and headed out.
With the sound of “Don’t go far!” ringing in our eardrums, we trod off in the direction of the hideous scream.
It was about time I found out what was going on with the screaming. It seemed to be coming in the direction of the field across the street from our house, so Rex and I headed over in that direction.
It was then that I started to become frightened. It was a misty, dark night because of the cloud cover, and it was eerily silent. Any could have heard a pin drop in the enveloping gloom. I jumped at a strange sound, though it was only an owl. I could have sworn that my heart was going to give me away to the demons of the night. Not that I belevie in demons, just a manner of speaking of course.
Suddenly, my keen ears picked up the soft rustle of a bush. My eyes darted to the dark green shrub and I was not surprised to find movement there. I slowly, bravely, gathering courage from the pits of my soul, advanced toward the noise and was surprised to find that, behind the bush, was not a big, scary monster, but a young girl, about the age of fourteen, crying with supreme remorse. Her face was puffed up and her long brown hair was sadly matted to her face with tears.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude…” I said apologetically and turned to leave.
“Wait! Do you know where I can get away?” she asked vehemently. I glanced around, and though I admit I had previously been daunted by the foreboding night, I did not see anything near to cause this extreme grief.
“I don’t, sorry.” Then, seeing her disappointed face, said, “Would you like some food, though?”
She smiled and nodded. I sent Rex back to the house for a ham sandwich.
The girl looked a bit out of place for a moment, drying her tears, and then asked slowly, “Do you believe in werewolves?”
This question struck me and for a minute I did not answer. I had been frightened of the night, to be sure, but a thing as this had never crossed my mind. Even Mom didn’t believe in that nonsense. I tried to answer her without laughing outright, “No, they’re not real.” She bowed her head with rosy cheeks as Rex came jogging with a sandwich and a glass of milk. She gratefully gulped down both of them.
I said to Rex, “She believes in werewolves. Do you think that you can quiet her fears?” As with everything that I cause, I had spoken at the wrong time. Without any warning, the clouds parted in a fierce wind and the face of the full moon shone directly above us. I glanced at Rex, and he seemed to read my mind. His face contorted in a painful grimace which resembled what I felt at that moment. The girl behind the bush looked from me to him with a look of utter horror on her face.
I dropped to all fours and let out a long, low howl. Rex did the same. Shaggy fur flashing, we grinned mockingly with our razor teeth as the girl began to run, shrieking into the distance. We chased after her with a speed incomprehensible to even an Irish Wolfhound’s great speed. Within seconds, we were upon her.
Needless to say, there is one more member in our pack since last week.