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electric eels
I had a two-hour gap between lessons in the middle of today, so I went into the Old Tom pub to write. No one was there but a hunched young man at the bar, staring oddly, sweating hard and wearing a crumpled tracksuit. I sat down with my laptop and a couple of minutes later he took his bright pink pint (lager and black?!) and plumped down on the other end of the couch I was sitting on. Uh-oh, I thought, and kept typing. He sidled up to me and (without looking at me) said conspiratorially, "I'd love to shoot that CD player."
I tried to pretend he hadn't been talking to me.
"Wouldn't you like to shoot the CD player? Blow it to bits? Eh?"
The White Stripes were playing. "Actually, no," I said, not making eye contact.
"I just want to have a drink and a laugh. That's what it's about. A drink. And a laugh. If I want to talk about electric antelopes, I should be able to, right? Right?"
"I dunno," I said, "I'm just here to get some work done."
"Work. What's it for? Jobs. All the big houses and fast cars and stuff. Money. What's the point of money? Tap tap tap tap (miming typing). What's that for, eh? In the end? Ever think about that, didja?"
He went on in similar vein for a while as I tried to ignore him, and finally the irony of him assuming I was some business bigshot because I was in my work clothes and had a laptop, when in fact I was struggling with my book, got too much for me. "Listen, mate, you don't know what I'm working on. You don't know why I'm doing it or if it pays me money. So stop making assumptions, all right?"
"Oh, I know bits and bobs. I have my reality in my head. I should keep my reality in my head, right, that's what you're saying, yeah?" He tapped his temple. "I should not speak my thoughts out loud. Yeah?"
"It's just – I just want to get this stuff done," I said. I started chugging my Coke and planning my escape.
"Work, eh. What's the point? Now, if you were drawing a picture of an electric eel, that would be great. That's what I like. Electric eels."
"How do you know I don't draw electric eels?" Okay, I don't. But I draw cartoon squids. And the thing I was trying to work on involved alien flying creatures who looked a bit like stingrays.
"Really? Tell you what, I'll finish my drink, and go up to the cash machine and get out a – a grand, and come back and buy the eel picture, if you've got it. Have you got it?"
"No."
He seemed satisfied by that. He put on his discman and started boogieing in his seat. The barmaid eyed me, sympathetically I thought. Now and then he sang a line from the song in his ears, unintelligibly, and pumped his fist in the air. But a couple of minutes later he took it off, put it away carefully in his coat pocket, and sidled over again.
"You don't drink, then, do you?"
"I'm sorry. I don't want to be rude. But I've got to get this stuff done, and I'm not very good at talking to strangers."
"Talking to strangers. That's where it starts, right. Everybody's a stranger. Everyone's strange. Everyone's got their own reality in their head."
"I think you're right. But I just don't feel like talking."
"But you don't drink, right?"
"Er… yes, I do. Just not in the middle of the afternoon."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm working."
"You shouldn't be drinking that Coke. You should have a whiskey," he said, pointing at his pink pint. "That'd be good for you."
I knocked back the rest of the Coke and started gathering up my stuff.
"I'm going to go home and get my sports car," he was saying as I left. "I have a sports car. I drive over the rats in it."
"Buh-bye," I said. I even gave him a wave. I went up a couple of doors to the St Aldates Tavern, where I found half a dozen thick-set blokes giving each other a running commentary on the talk show about violent 12-year-olds that was on the TV. The strange twilight world of city centre pubs in the early afternoon.
When I told Dan about the electric eel guy, he said he sounded not so much like a crazy person as like a person trying to sound crazy. "Are you sure you weren't being filmed?" he said. I have to admit the "electric antelope" thing did ring an alarm bell at the time because it's exactly the sort of thing I'd say if I was trying to sound crazy. Well, I submit it here for your consideration, o minds of Livejournal.
I'm nearly 18,000 words into NaNoWriMo and feeling kind of despondent. I was a bit behind due to having been Teh Ill and the aforementioned falling asleep every five minutes with a brain full of wool, and last weekend consisted of a lot of grinding my teeth at the computer and not an awful lot of words at all, and then last night I hit a massive plot snag. It turns out my plot outline is fractal. It makes sense in the broad strokes. But if I zoom in on any one bit, I find there's just as much detail in that one bit as there is in the whole damn thing. And the little details, as I write them, do their damnedest to swerve the plot away from where I want it to go. I have a character who needs to get across the sea to the Forbidden Island of the Alien Stingrays, she's got to go, it's fundamental to the plot, and thanks to the way I've written the minor characters and the bits of plot dump I've given her so far, she now has no reason whatsoever to go there. "Are you mad?" she says. "I know I've done some pretty foolhardy things in my time, but I mean, really."
I'm sure I'll figure something out. I just feel a bit burnt out right now. And it's not as bad as the time I worked up a complicated origin story for a religion in a fantasy world, worked on it for months – it involved a legend about an asteroid hitting the planet, and a chunk of the asteroid still kicking around being worshipped in the Holy City – and when I finally got the nerve up to tell someone about it, they went "Er, isn't that Islam?" Oops.
Edit, 2.30am, a sudden dam-burst and maybe 2000 words later: "Burnt out"! Ha! I spoke too soon. Boy, that felt good. Tired now. Flump.
I tried to pretend he hadn't been talking to me.
"Wouldn't you like to shoot the CD player? Blow it to bits? Eh?"
The White Stripes were playing. "Actually, no," I said, not making eye contact.
"I just want to have a drink and a laugh. That's what it's about. A drink. And a laugh. If I want to talk about electric antelopes, I should be able to, right? Right?"
"I dunno," I said, "I'm just here to get some work done."
"Work. What's it for? Jobs. All the big houses and fast cars and stuff. Money. What's the point of money? Tap tap tap tap (miming typing). What's that for, eh? In the end? Ever think about that, didja?"
He went on in similar vein for a while as I tried to ignore him, and finally the irony of him assuming I was some business bigshot because I was in my work clothes and had a laptop, when in fact I was struggling with my book, got too much for me. "Listen, mate, you don't know what I'm working on. You don't know why I'm doing it or if it pays me money. So stop making assumptions, all right?"
"Oh, I know bits and bobs. I have my reality in my head. I should keep my reality in my head, right, that's what you're saying, yeah?" He tapped his temple. "I should not speak my thoughts out loud. Yeah?"
"It's just – I just want to get this stuff done," I said. I started chugging my Coke and planning my escape.
"Work, eh. What's the point? Now, if you were drawing a picture of an electric eel, that would be great. That's what I like. Electric eels."
"How do you know I don't draw electric eels?" Okay, I don't. But I draw cartoon squids. And the thing I was trying to work on involved alien flying creatures who looked a bit like stingrays.
"Really? Tell you what, I'll finish my drink, and go up to the cash machine and get out a – a grand, and come back and buy the eel picture, if you've got it. Have you got it?"
"No."
He seemed satisfied by that. He put on his discman and started boogieing in his seat. The barmaid eyed me, sympathetically I thought. Now and then he sang a line from the song in his ears, unintelligibly, and pumped his fist in the air. But a couple of minutes later he took it off, put it away carefully in his coat pocket, and sidled over again.
"You don't drink, then, do you?"
"I'm sorry. I don't want to be rude. But I've got to get this stuff done, and I'm not very good at talking to strangers."
"Talking to strangers. That's where it starts, right. Everybody's a stranger. Everyone's strange. Everyone's got their own reality in their head."
"I think you're right. But I just don't feel like talking."
"But you don't drink, right?"
"Er… yes, I do. Just not in the middle of the afternoon."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm working."
"You shouldn't be drinking that Coke. You should have a whiskey," he said, pointing at his pink pint. "That'd be good for you."
I knocked back the rest of the Coke and started gathering up my stuff.
"I'm going to go home and get my sports car," he was saying as I left. "I have a sports car. I drive over the rats in it."
"Buh-bye," I said. I even gave him a wave. I went up a couple of doors to the St Aldates Tavern, where I found half a dozen thick-set blokes giving each other a running commentary on the talk show about violent 12-year-olds that was on the TV. The strange twilight world of city centre pubs in the early afternoon.
When I told Dan about the electric eel guy, he said he sounded not so much like a crazy person as like a person trying to sound crazy. "Are you sure you weren't being filmed?" he said. I have to admit the "electric antelope" thing did ring an alarm bell at the time because it's exactly the sort of thing I'd say if I was trying to sound crazy. Well, I submit it here for your consideration, o minds of Livejournal.
I'm nearly 18,000 words into NaNoWriMo and feeling kind of despondent. I was a bit behind due to having been Teh Ill and the aforementioned falling asleep every five minutes with a brain full of wool, and last weekend consisted of a lot of grinding my teeth at the computer and not an awful lot of words at all, and then last night I hit a massive plot snag. It turns out my plot outline is fractal. It makes sense in the broad strokes. But if I zoom in on any one bit, I find there's just as much detail in that one bit as there is in the whole damn thing. And the little details, as I write them, do their damnedest to swerve the plot away from where I want it to go. I have a character who needs to get across the sea to the Forbidden Island of the Alien Stingrays, she's got to go, it's fundamental to the plot, and thanks to the way I've written the minor characters and the bits of plot dump I've given her so far, she now has no reason whatsoever to go there. "Are you mad?" she says. "I know I've done some pretty foolhardy things in my time, but I mean, really."
I'm sure I'll figure something out. I just feel a bit burnt out right now. And it's not as bad as the time I worked up a complicated origin story for a religion in a fantasy world, worked on it for months – it involved a legend about an asteroid hitting the planet, and a chunk of the asteroid still kicking around being worshipped in the Holy City – and when I finally got the nerve up to tell someone about it, they went "Er, isn't that Islam?" Oops.
Edit, 2.30am, a sudden dam-burst and maybe 2000 words later: "Burnt out"! Ha! I spoke too soon. Boy, that felt good. Tired now. Flump.
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Go back. She's probably done some pretty foolhardy things in her time, but has buried them because of something. There's someone who will bring out the foolhardiness in her.
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2. Writings--man, I don't have plot problems... I just have the broken brane. But I sympathize, I really do.
*sends hugs*
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18,000 words. Hmmm. I think I've struggled to 8,000 so far - I know where the story should be going but it wants to linger on a knotty plot point and I keep rewriting the same page in order to get past it, with no success. I'm going to have to write 'chapter four goes here' and skip on, I fear. Pterodactyl ex machina, if all else fails.
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It's not perfect, but I figure I've got a couple of weeks to work on it.
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That gave me a giggle :)
You handled that situation well, too.
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I have an inconvenient phobia of eels and can't bring myself to check what an electric eel actually looks like, but hopefully I'm not too far off...
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And I am still only on 10,000 words.
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You coming to writer's triangle on Wednesday?
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