I like whoever it was who told Lillian Hellman "Nonsense. A writer writes. Go home and start working. Go home and write now."

She'd had her second play crash and burn on Broadway and hadn't written a word in two years. I want to say it was Benchley, but I think that's wrong.

Heh - sometimes it feels like craft is all I've got. I can't say that I've ever gotten anything useful from a dream. And maybe there's something a little messed up about a kid who never had imaginary friends growing up into someone who has them just walking up to her and talking all the time.

Half the fight is figuring out what you're good at and, more importantly, what you need help with. I wish somebody had told me that in a book years ago...

But deb (and many other people I've talked to) say they just do stuff. They actually don't thinkabout it that way.

Rebecca, let me clarify this, if I can. You know the kind of people who want to tell you why a piece of music works? "Oh, what the composer did here was to integrate a cunning use of tritone with the descant to the major seventh, and that call-response is specifically designed to provoke that particular emotional response, especially in women..."

I, well, I want to kill these people. Bite me, evil rationalists! Because for me, music is a magic spell; it's purely visceral. There's nothing intellectual or even really cerebral about it, for me. It's straightforward abacadabra, or perhaps nom myoho renge kyo: a mantra.

Magic, mantra, either way, what happens when you deconstruct one of those things? They lose their power.

So I don't. I avoid practicing the craft, or training in it, or considering the word and how it falls, because I'm afraid, if I put too much mind into it, the spirit will fly. When I read it back and change things, it's generally because new bits of the story have come clearer for me, or new bits of what makes the characters who they are. That's all, really. So, I'm a primitive.

Also explains why I am so wide open to input. I won't do it myself.

edit: just realised, that sounds pompous. I swear, it wasn't meant to. But I'm wretchedly tired, and Nic just pulled up. Time for me to say goodnight.

And this has been an insanely nourishing few hours. You know?

Believe me-- I think very much most of what I judge to be successful writing comes across as effortless. It's just that, apparently, for some people, it actually is.

I think it was Stephen King who said, "Only God gets things right the first time."

RL, insent with Deb's suggested edits.

Crawling back in (asleep on feet, huzzah for meds) to say, remember the conversation we had awhile back about there being no One True Way?

There aint no One True Way.

(thunk)

sleep now....

Someday I won't be on this night shift anymore, someday I'll have only one job and someday I'll have time to write and offer to read Buffistas' writing.

Someday starts the 31st, with any luck.

Good sleep to everyone. I'm off to catch up on Angel episodes.

My characters are all lazy bums - they'd much rather just lay around talking endlessly.

Your characters and mine should get together, but I greatly fear that they'd all talk even more.

But deb (and many other people I've talked to) say they just do stuff. They actually don't thinkabout it that way.

Rebecca, let me clarify this, if I can. You know the kind of people who want to tell you why a piece of music works? "Oh, what the composer did here was to integrate a cunning use of tritone with the descant to the major seventh, and that call-response is specifically designed to provoke that particular emotional response, especially in women..."

I, well, I want to kill these people. Bite me, evil rationalists! Because for me, music is a magic spell; it's purely visceral. There's nothing intellectual or even really cerebral about it, for me. It's straightforward abacadabra, or perhaps nom myoho renge kyo: a mantra.

Magic, mantra, either way, what happens when you deconstruct one of those things? They lose their power.

Ahhhh. I love Deb. So. Damn. Much. I even bookmarked the post this came from. I feel the same way -- about music, writing, movies. I don't like seeing the man behind the curtain.

So I don't. I avoid practicing the craft, or training in it, or considering the word and how it falls, because I'm afraid, if I put too much mind into it, the spirit will fly. When I read it back and change things, it's generally because new bits of the story have come clearer for me, or new bits of what makes the characters who they are. That's all, really. So, I'm a primitive.

And this has been an insanely nourishing few hours. You know?

Oh, yes. Very very good. Definitely.

The fire highlights a girl’s face, making her nose longer, then shorter, casting shadows on her companion through ragged hair. The light dances on the chain, shimmers on the manacles at ankle and wrist. A slim brown hand slides through the hair, smoothing, stroking the scalp underneath. The girl stirs, sighs, stretches, and is hushed by the stroking hand. The speaker goes on.

Yes, I tell you when we are eating, and I tell you when you bathe, but I also tell you now. I think you are beautiful. I do not usually say so much. It is just that when you look at me, when I see you first, with your ragged hair, all yellow and brown and almost white, all hanging down below your ears and half covering your pale eyes and something else covering your eyes that I can’t see, but makes me so I can’t see myself and can’t see what you think, I know I want to be near you and hear you speak in my ear. I do not want that so often, and so I think that must be beauty.

I wish you to know me, but it is hard. I ride my bike across the desert for the gathering people. You may know them; they save things they say are important from the before. I make my own wind when I ride, and I see the bush ripple with pale colors and the animals jump at my noise. Sometimes I find a book or a story. Once I find music and they are very happy. I never find computer parts, too bad, because that makes them also happy. I thought one day, but I guess not.

The voice is silent again; the hand strokes eyelids and brow, up through the hair across the scalp, drawing the hair to its ends before letting it fall. The hushed sounds of the bush reassert themselves before the voice begins again. There is a rhythm to the speech, a melancholic call to prayer.