But it's a queer dystopia that I'm creating....
I had my critique with my advanced fiction workshop today.
Like a rug that has been woven too tight, my piece is beginning to crack, but the shellac that it has been coated with (apparently) should protect it.
I'd like to the thank C. Garcia for that lovely imagery--and she's absolutely right, it's like I hand picked every single word for the draft that I submitted and the result is so sickly sweet and hard to penetrate that even my head wants to explode.
There were also references to repelling.
But, mostly, it seemed that everyone kind of liked it, at least a little bit.
Even the ones that thought I was talking about WWII.
And the ones that thought my character didn't have hands.
And the ones that got really confused and started talking about how my story made them want to write postcards--and where is the rest of it because it just doesn't seem to be complete?
I love it.
This is the first thing that I've written in ages that I've been even somewhat pleased with. It's a spin-off of something else, but in this incarnation everything is coming together.
It's coming together in a well paced and painfully disjointed fashion--but, hell, the bitch has rhythm.
And what amazed me was that some of them got it. I was terrified that I had really fucked it up and that it didn't actually make sense outside of my head.
One of my classmates, an older resumer student, wrote the most amazing notes on her copy and it was a little freaky because it felt like she was in my head, but overall indicated that I had managed to get my point across and show what was happening and where my character was, without going into some obscene amount of detail about the particular shade of the paint on the walls and the way in which the light from the window mocks his broken heart...etc.
I think she might be the only person that actually read it...well, read it before scribbling all over it and demanding to know who people were...and then realizing that I explained a page over.
Christ, it's one of those things that I look at a week after submitting it for critique and go 'wtf?! was I thinking?!' in regards to.
I mean, really, was I on some kind of crack?
Did I have too much caffeine? So much that writing something that no one can relate to seemed like a good idea? It's like a giant ego trip wherein I, the narrator, am grand and all knowing and can break people's spines and give them shitty childhoods and send them to war and have their best friends abandon them and then take away their basics like electricity and hot water and lock them in an apartment wherein eventually they will resort to gnawing off their own limbs in order to escape! And...yet, I can fuck them up so much that no one is actually sympathetic to their plight. Nice. Very nice indeed.
But...ultimately it was hard to read.
And it's different than what a lot of my peers are submitting! I think... or I like to think....
I have mixed feelings.
I love it, and I love my main character, and I want to fix him and at the same time beat him over the head--and I think that's good, because it means that I'm getting outside the world of too much perfection.
For all of it's pretentiousness and it's irritating tone of superiority, I think it's okay. I think I can work with it.
When I look at the things that I write, it makes me really glad that people like me don't go out for poli sci.
And, what I can't help but be amused by, and also thankful for, is that no one took the time to remark upon the fact that...all of my characters seem to be a little bit gay.... I don't do it on purpose, they're just born that way.