I have to say this is true. It's not enough to like writing, although of course people wouldn't write if they didn't, but I remain surprised by the amount of authors I admire who find some parts of it grueling. Oh, some of it will come fairly easily, but virtually every positive and in-depth review I've had are for chapters that made me literally sweat, and seriously consider taking up cake decorating, because I sure as hell am never going to be able to write. Either I had to push the words out as if through a rusty mangle, or they were emotionally draining, or both.
I think this is the quotation Pandë mentioned.
The lesson I most mercilessly bludgeon the classes with (besides clarity, clarity, clarity) is to write from the heart and project themselves into the characters whose lives they want to chronicle. To open up their goddamned veins and bleed into the keyboard and MAKE. ME. FEEL.
Mark Waid.
It's hard to make me feel. I'm not exactly a cynic, but I have read far too many good books (and far too many poor ones) to be easily moved either to tears or admiration. (I've also gone through too much to be easily moved, to be frank). I will encourage authors by finding something I like, if they're at all good, but I recc very few people, and I read far more critically than any-one would imagine.
Never forget that stories are about people; how they shape events, influence them, live through them. Stories are not about *things*. In the earliest times when people sought to understand the world, birth, death, they told tales of gods and goddesses, as you know. They wanted to give the forces of nature, the sun, the stars, the world itself human attributes because that is what people connect with.
Perhaps because of your work, you write about things in great detail. I don't want to know every detail of glass-making. If I did, I would read a book about it. There is no emotion in it. It is not speaking to me. If you feel you must write of your characters making things, then infuse the person with the 'doing.'
Have you read Pandemonium's 'The Glitter of Swords' (http://www.lotrgfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=1941&warning=3)? specifically the chapter where her character Mélamiré, Sauron's daughter, and a Fëanorion reforges Narsil into Andúril. It is written from Aragorn's viewpoint.
She reheated the blade in the furnace, drawing out the hot metal and folding it again and again, refining the sword's form and smoothing its surface. Red-gold light illuminated her face alternately set in concentration or grimacing with her exertions to reveal her teeth in an almost feral snarl. Her aspect was that of a vanished world: a goddess of fire.
And again.
For a moment, he hesitated. Who is this woman? What is she? But then he responded, “Yes, I trust you.”
She laid her hands on top of his. “Then take the tang. Now.”
He grasped the end of the sword with both hands. The metal was hot to the touch, but not unbearable. A tingling heat coursed through his arms and ran up his neck. His vision blurred, and he no longer saw the furnace, but only her presence: a wheel of golden fire at the gates of his mind.
The wheel of fire sang to him. Aragorn. Son of Lúthien. Son of Melyanna. Open yourself to me.
...She spread into his thoughts like a fire that consumes dry grass. He perceived her strange language at once: long strings of ornate words as sharp as the rattle of spears, as clarion as the ringing of many bells, and as lofty as the winds off the mountains.
The foreign words became comprehensible and made their intent known. She beckoned him to come with her, calling upon his courage. He gave himself over to her, and she pulled him into wheel of fire that spun through the liquid metal of the sword’s blade.
Now there is a making that has magic, human emotion, mystery and grandeur. Yes, it's nothing like making glass, but it could have been written boringly. Pandë wove together two characters and a process of 'making', so that it's completely enthralling.
The only interest 'objects' have, even ones as iconic as the Silmarils and the One Ring, are in how they affected people. People, not 'things'.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2012-03-24 08:46 pm (UTC)I think this is the quotation Pandë mentioned.
The lesson I most mercilessly bludgeon the classes with (besides clarity, clarity, clarity) is to write from the heart and project themselves into the characters whose lives they want to chronicle. To open up their goddamned veins and bleed into the keyboard and MAKE. ME. FEEL.
Mark Waid.
It's hard to make me feel. I'm not exactly a cynic, but I have read far too many good books (and far too many poor ones) to be easily moved either to tears or admiration. (I've also gone through too much to be easily moved, to be frank).
I will encourage authors by finding something I like, if they're at all good, but I recc very few people, and I read far more critically than any-one would imagine.
Never forget that stories are about people; how they shape events, influence them, live through them. Stories are not about *things*. In the earliest times when people sought to understand the world, birth, death, they told tales of gods and goddesses, as you know. They wanted to give the forces of nature, the sun, the stars, the world itself human attributes because that is what people connect with.
Perhaps because of your work, you write about things in great detail. I don't want to know every detail of glass-making. If I did, I would read a book about it. There is no emotion in it. It is not speaking to me. If you feel you must write of your characters making things, then infuse the person with the 'doing.'
Have you read Pandemonium's 'The Glitter of Swords' (http://www.lotrgfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=1941&warning=3)? specifically the chapter where her character Mélamiré, Sauron's daughter, and a Fëanorion reforges Narsil into Andúril. It is written from Aragorn's viewpoint.
She reheated the blade in the furnace, drawing out the hot metal and folding it again and again, refining the sword's form and smoothing its surface. Red-gold light illuminated her face alternately set in concentration or grimacing with her exertions to reveal her teeth in an almost feral snarl. Her aspect was that of a vanished world: a goddess of fire.
And again.
For a moment, he hesitated. Who is this woman? What is she? But then he responded, “Yes, I trust you.”
She laid her hands on top of his. “Then take the tang. Now.”
He grasped the end of the sword with both hands. The metal was hot to the touch, but not unbearable. A tingling heat coursed through his arms and ran up his neck. His vision blurred, and he no longer saw the furnace, but only her presence: a wheel of golden fire at the gates of his mind.
The wheel of fire sang to him. Aragorn. Son of Lúthien. Son of Melyanna. Open yourself to me.
...She spread into his thoughts like a fire that consumes dry grass. He perceived her strange language at once: long strings of ornate words as sharp as the rattle of spears, as clarion as the ringing of many bells, and as lofty as the winds off the mountains.
The foreign words became comprehensible and made their intent known. She beckoned him to come with her, calling upon his courage. He gave himself over to her, and she pulled him into wheel of fire that spun through the liquid metal of the sword’s blade.
Now there is a making that has magic, human emotion, mystery and grandeur. Yes, it's nothing like making glass, but it could have been written boringly. Pandë wove together two characters and a process of 'making', so that it's completely enthralling.
The only interest 'objects' have, even ones as iconic as the Silmarils and the One Ring, are in how they affected people. People, not 'things'.