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All shall witness my shame, and LOL.
I am looking back over my site, and it occurs to me that I really need to trim out some of the dead weight. I'm looking at some of the fic between my fingers, actually, what with the need to cover my face in shame.
It's rather interesting, actually, to see how my writing has evolved. I started writing fic when I was 15 (15! Gosh, I'm old now.) Some of my ideas were not entirely awful, aside from lack of logic, and I can see places where my writing style was beginning to develop. I almost want to go back, rip them to pieces, and try to insert a lower level of suck. I had no concept of pacing, and for some reason felt the need to describe everything that everyone did and every step they took. Oh, god, the prose. The horrible, awful, clunky prose, and my need to spell out everyone's accents phonetically.
I was so very proud. *dies*
This is not the Logan you're looking for:
“You have a name, girl?” Logan asked the blonde in his campsite again. She’d been coming for the past five weeks, never staying long, never moving much, never trying to communicate, but listening. Somewhere along the way he’d started to talk to her, as if she were a diary, and he the little girl that kept it. She’d become his silent companion. He guessed that he didn’t mind that much. It helped take the sting out of the loneliness that even an assassin was prone to.
No matter where he travelled, she’d find him, somehow keeping up with him, even though she looked all of eight.
He wondered if maybe he was going insane, if he spent his nights confiding in a figment of his imagination. She didn’t have a scent, never ate, and appeared and disappeared without a single trace.
This is, like, so totally in character for Logan.
“It’s all right,” he said soothingly, not knowing why he cared if she ran and never came back. Now that he thought of it, he’d never touched her. Now he knew that she was substantial, at least. He wondered what had been done to her, to make her so afraid of human touch. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you.” When she didn’t change her posture, he tried again, “If it makes you feel better, I won’t try and touch you.” She still didn’t react. “Fine. You want to stand away from the fire, and me, go ahead.” He sat back down and pulled his shoes off. When he turned around, she was gone. Cursing, he threw his boot at a tree.
Logan smash tree! Logan have curious lack of curiosity and character!
The stream of consciousness ones are the worst, though. No plot, just really, really emo reflection. People, seriously. I write fic where Emma Frost CUTS HERSELF. I had blocked this from my mind completely, to hold onto some shred of self-respect.
Monologues were never my friend, m'kay?
... and apparently, neither were paragraphs.
She’s tried to find herself, separate the essential *her* from everyone else, the part of her that started, that’s something less and something more than what she’s become, but every time that she thinks she has it, something in her snaps under the strain of the voices, all those voices, pounding inside her head.
It’s not like being taunted on the school yard, words that can be screened, can be ignored, don’t hurt in the end. These are true, unwatered opinions, and they’re always there, no matter what she does.
Sticks and stones to break her bones.
She should thank them, she supposes. They’ve exposed her ignorance for what it truly is.
She’s stopped thinking that *this* time, it will be different, that some how, magically, she’ll be one of them. It’ll stop her from sinking each again, each time.
She is what she is.
So she knows that whatever she is isn’t enough, that it could never be enough.
She’s started cutting herself again.
She knows that Father was right all along.
And, oh, look! Melodrama and purple prose!
I wonder when he’ll reach the point that he’ll lose that idealism. I pray for that day, because it will save him from so much pain. I pray that moment, that one, final realisation, will never come, because I need someone who’s that true and that sure. His hands burn against my back and my neck and my face, and he has left his fingerprints melted into my skin. He’s everything I’ve never wanted and he might just be everything I need.
If he was nothing, if this was nothing, I wouldn’t be out that door. If he didn't make me want everything that I can't afford to have. If he didn't make me want to be everything that I can't afford to be. Maybe he knows that. Maybe he knows that and he can’t say anything, because he knows the rest, too. Maybe this is going to kill something inside him. Maybe with leaving I am taking away one more thing that needs the burning, and I am giving him one less thing for which to find tinder.
Maybe it is, and maybe I know that, and I have to do this not only to protect myself, but to protect him as well. Maybe he will burn the less, but it will leave him a period of grace.
This story now kind of makes me laugh my ass off.
Why on earth did this stuff seem to resonate with so many people, OMG?
Forgive me, please, for inflicting this stuff on the internet in the first place?
I think that today is a day where we should all share our shame.
It's rather interesting, actually, to see how my writing has evolved. I started writing fic when I was 15 (15! Gosh, I'm old now.) Some of my ideas were not entirely awful, aside from lack of logic, and I can see places where my writing style was beginning to develop. I almost want to go back, rip them to pieces, and try to insert a lower level of suck. I had no concept of pacing, and for some reason felt the need to describe everything that everyone did and every step they took. Oh, god, the prose. The horrible, awful, clunky prose, and my need to spell out everyone's accents phonetically.
I was so very proud. *dies*
This is not the Logan you're looking for:
“You have a name, girl?” Logan asked the blonde in his campsite again. She’d been coming for the past five weeks, never staying long, never moving much, never trying to communicate, but listening. Somewhere along the way he’d started to talk to her, as if she were a diary, and he the little girl that kept it. She’d become his silent companion. He guessed that he didn’t mind that much. It helped take the sting out of the loneliness that even an assassin was prone to.
No matter where he travelled, she’d find him, somehow keeping up with him, even though she looked all of eight.
He wondered if maybe he was going insane, if he spent his nights confiding in a figment of his imagination. She didn’t have a scent, never ate, and appeared and disappeared without a single trace.
This is, like, so totally in character for Logan.
“It’s all right,” he said soothingly, not knowing why he cared if she ran and never came back. Now that he thought of it, he’d never touched her. Now he knew that she was substantial, at least. He wondered what had been done to her, to make her so afraid of human touch. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you.” When she didn’t change her posture, he tried again, “If it makes you feel better, I won’t try and touch you.” She still didn’t react. “Fine. You want to stand away from the fire, and me, go ahead.” He sat back down and pulled his shoes off. When he turned around, she was gone. Cursing, he threw his boot at a tree.
Logan smash tree! Logan have curious lack of curiosity and character!
The stream of consciousness ones are the worst, though. No plot, just really, really emo reflection. People, seriously. I write fic where Emma Frost CUTS HERSELF. I had blocked this from my mind completely, to hold onto some shred of self-respect.
Monologues were never my friend, m'kay?
... and apparently, neither were paragraphs.
She’s tried to find herself, separate the essential *her* from everyone else, the part of her that started, that’s something less and something more than what she’s become, but every time that she thinks she has it, something in her snaps under the strain of the voices, all those voices, pounding inside her head.
It’s not like being taunted on the school yard, words that can be screened, can be ignored, don’t hurt in the end. These are true, unwatered opinions, and they’re always there, no matter what she does.
Sticks and stones to break her bones.
She should thank them, she supposes. They’ve exposed her ignorance for what it truly is.
She’s stopped thinking that *this* time, it will be different, that some how, magically, she’ll be one of them. It’ll stop her from sinking each again, each time.
She is what she is.
So she knows that whatever she is isn’t enough, that it could never be enough.
She’s started cutting herself again.
She knows that Father was right all along.
And, oh, look! Melodrama and purple prose!
I wonder when he’ll reach the point that he’ll lose that idealism. I pray for that day, because it will save him from so much pain. I pray that moment, that one, final realisation, will never come, because I need someone who’s that true and that sure. His hands burn against my back and my neck and my face, and he has left his fingerprints melted into my skin. He’s everything I’ve never wanted and he might just be everything I need.
If he was nothing, if this was nothing, I wouldn’t be out that door. If he didn't make me want everything that I can't afford to have. If he didn't make me want to be everything that I can't afford to be. Maybe he knows that. Maybe he knows that and he can’t say anything, because he knows the rest, too. Maybe this is going to kill something inside him. Maybe with leaving I am taking away one more thing that needs the burning, and I am giving him one less thing for which to find tinder.
Maybe it is, and maybe I know that, and I have to do this not only to protect myself, but to protect him as well. Maybe he will burn the less, but it will leave him a period of grace.
This story now kind of makes me laugh my ass off.
Why on earth did this stuff seem to resonate with so many people, OMG?
Forgive me, please, for inflicting this stuff on the internet in the first place?
I think that today is a day where we should all share our shame.
no subject
"Gee. That sucked."
Hope to see you on chat sometime.