Friday, September 29, 2006

I'm one of those pathetic sort of people who doesn't watch tv or read much news, so I feel sort of invasive pretending I can write the experiences of a person who's name I barely know. From the first time I saw the prompt for this, I was pretty certain of what I would write about . . . but I still have no idea WHO to write about.

So, although the point of the assignment was probably to write with a certain person in mind and flesh out someone we don't really know . . .


She sprawled on the bed in her day clothes, shifting painfully to find the most comfortable position. The trainer was right: she was discovering muscles she didn't know she had, but only because she was now sore in ways she hadn't know existed. Here, in her own room, with the shades drawn, she could finally squish her face into the unbecoming mush it had been wanting to fall into all evening. "This is how normal people are supposed to feel," she muttered to herself, and she wasn't sure whether her words were bitter or wistful.

She could always, she offered herself, go injured diva on the world, whine and complain about her situation, fire her trainer in a spoiled fury. But it wasn't as if a different trainer would get her ready for the actions sequences in November with any less pain, and although it would be wonderful to let loose like that . . . what came after would only be more frustrating.

Sighing, she raked her fingers through her hair. It had been cut short for the last production, but the directors wanted it longer for the next filming. From the wigs she'd be wearing until her hair caught up, it looked like a dye job was in order, too. Oh, how nice it would be to have a hairstyle and keep it for a year or so . . .

Sometimes she wondered why she was still doing this, why she didn't retire, give up acting and publicity and media frenzies. She could sell books in some out-of-the-way oceanside town, catering to tourists in the warm months and lounging in the winter, enjoying a nice fireplace and the silky scent of campfire wood. "Or draw caricatures," she snorted aloud. "I've always been good at drawing caricatures."

A voice wound up the stairs and through the locked door. "Honey, don't you have that thing at the rink in half an hour? Shouldn't you be getting going?"

"Yeah, I'll be down in a minute!" Somehow, she knew, she wouldn't be complete without this life. The intregues, the drama, the fame made her feel like a member of the court, balancing friends and enemies to get ever closer to the power of the queen. And if she didn't have her acting, where would all those other people she'd been go?

As she stood, stretching painfully, she wondered how long Danny would stay with her, and whether the girlscouts still liked pink or if girls were choosing another favorite color. She made a few faces in the mirror by the bed, imagining each of them on the cover of tabloids with a grimace and a laugh. Moving to the door, she returned a congenial smile to her face, opened the door, and--Lights! Camera! Action!--stepped out into the hallway beyond.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

I just realized I still had this sitting as a draft. Bother.

Chores finished, he sat in the edges of the shade and watched his sister work. She dipped her curved needle in and out like a streamer-fish weaving in and out of the clouds, and he wondered if that elegant creature was the first inspiration for sewing. Beneath her fingers, a kite was slowly taking shape, patched in the motley of the scraps she'd saved that year.

It took most of his concentration to avoid squirming and distracting his sister. Each stitch was critical, he knew, a difference between catching the air firmly or tearing in the wind. He scowled in what he thought must be a very manly way as he fought with his infuriatingly child-like body. It still thought he should be running about, chasing his friends, but he knew better. He was nearly ten, and too old for kid games.

What attention remained was dedicated wholly to the kite. It was his, he knew, his very own, his first lure. He was determined to know every stitch. It was a basic beginner's lure, brightly colored to entice the smaller fish, but too unformed to attract too large a flier. Tomorrow Grandfather would teach him the double-string controls and Mother would cut his hair and he would earn the clothing of an apprentice windfisher.

His eyes followed her fingers as each tiny stitch appeared, critically observing their shape and placement. That one was a little too big, he thought. That one too small. It'll give too much, it'll tear too easily. The spine made it inflexible, easy to break in the grasp of a fish. The brindle was too high; it'd dive in a hard wind. It wasn't perfect. But winds, it was his!

His sister glanced up, noting his scrutiny with a skewed smile. "It's almost done," she said. "Do you want to do the last few stitches?"

He shifted his weight from side to side and sat on his hands. "No," he said. She shrugged with her eyebrows, and he watched all the more intently as her needle dipped for the final times.

Monday, September 11, 2006

I recently purchased a new operating system to adhire to Gustavus' new no Win98 policy, a process that required much searching and gnashing of teeth. Ultimately I discovered a company offering academic discounts from which to order the software. The product arrived this morning accompanied by a catalogue wherein I found the following product:

Dramatica Pro 4.1: The Ultimate Creative Writing Partner

Immediately the title was disconcerting. The blurb that followed, however, was far more frightening.

"Dramatica presents a fresh approach to writing your story, one that stimulates you to create a solid structure, deeply dimensional characters, meaningful universal themes, and clearly defined dramatic conflict. And it does something no other writing software can do - it predicts the rest of your story, based on the decisions you've made! Dramatica pro 4.1 writing system is easier to use than ever. "Term Swap" replaces specialized Dramatica terms with plain English. Shorter & simpler paths in the StoryGuide help you quickly turn your idea into a story and begin writing."
More worrying details can be found in this product synopsis: http://www.filmwareproducts.com/WriteBrothers/wb904045.html

I'm not quite sure whether to be disgusted, terrified, or largely bemused. Perhaps all three. This is most certainly one of the more depressing programs I've discovered in my lifetime. Maybe I'm reading this wrong, but this seems to be largely an antithesis of creative writing. If this really has been"embraced by writers, reviewers, and over 700 colleges and universities", I'm seriously worried about the future of the creative writing craft.