Writing Discussion II

[Luminesa]

Ever have a writing epiphany? Like, when you're doing something normal and something just clicks and suddenly a story is completely changed but it was always meant to be?

Love it when that happens. I just feel a wave of peace when I get a good idea that untangles a plot.

[Conserative Morality]

I wonder why I like writing fascists as protagonists so much.

[The first Galactic Republic]

I wonder why I like writing fascists as protagonists so much.

Does it remind you of NSG?

[Reikoku]

Ever have a writing epiphany? Like, when you're doing something normal and something just clicks and suddenly a story is completely changed but it was always meant to be?

Not something which changed the entire story, but I've had epiphanies which deepened the plot.

[The 19th Century]

I wonder why I like writing fascists as protagonists so much.

Does it remind you of NSG?

I dunno about CM, but it would for me.

[Unitaristic Regions]

I wonder why I like writing fascists as protagonists so much.

Does it remind you of NSG?

NSG is a mixed bag but it seems mildly left wing on average?

[Geneviev]

I'm struggling to write a short story that's not about the same characters that I've been using for four years now.

[Zyr and Pony]

The prologue of my story. Warning: it's rather dark...

Late one chilly afternoon, as my mother and I were cleaning our master's foyer while he did...something, I don't remember what, she turned to me and said, “my daughter.”

I remember that phrase well, and have always loved it. I remember she would never call me by my name. That cruel joke of a name. Sevah. Slave. It was always “my daughter” or “my little raven.” A reminder that I was more than just some elf slave to be used. That I was loved and cared about.

I turned to her and asked, “yes, mother?”

“I want you to promise me something. Right now.”

“Yes?” I asked.

“Promise me that, no matter what happens, you'll never let Master hurt you. Please, my little raven.”

I looked her in her big, dark green eyes, framed by greasy black hair, and so full of worry. They sat over a small mouth and chin with a long scar under the left eye. Filled with resolve, I said, “I promise.” I didn't ask this, because I didn’t think it was my place to, but quietly I wondered why she wanted me to make that promise to her now.

At the same time, I vowed to keep said promise no matter what.

We kept doing the housework in the Beechtree manor, one of the smaller mansions in the capital but was the best that our master, an elf noble, could hope to get, for the next few hours, as we were supposed to, cleaning, dusting, putting things back where they belonged, making his bed, emptying his chamber pot, so on and so forth, until said master, a tall, skinny man with dark hair slicked back from his forehead, and a seemingly perpetual scowl on his face, returned and loudly ordered both of us into our room. Once all three of us were in the dark, smelly space my mother and I spent most of our days and nights in, he said, “Sevah! Take off your clothes! Now!”

Despite my promise and knowing what evils he had planned for me, I was about to take off the thin sack that was the entirety of my clothing, both out of long-ingrained habit and fear of the angry, sadistic look in his dark green eyes, when my mother stood between me and him and shouted, “Please! Don’t hurt her! Take me instead!”

“Out of my way, slave!”

“No! I will not let you harm my daughter!” My mother yelled back, her voice gaining an edge I had never heard before.

“I said get out of my way!” Master yelled as he tried to shove my mother aside.

She stood firm, bracing herself on the wall and saying nothing. All the while, I watched her standing there, unsure what to do as my ears rang a bit from all the yelling.

Master tried to move her or go around her a few more times, to no avail, before pulling his dagger from his belt, pointing it at her throat, and snarling, “Your daughter is of age now, and I only need one slave for my home and my...needs. If you die, as you will of you don’t fucking move, what difference does that make to me? I will still have her, after all.”

Despite his threat, she stood firm, saying nothing. I badly wanted to just tell her to stop, and then take off my clothes so he wouldn't hurt her, but I had made a promise, and I intended to keep it.

Master said with a terrifying calmness, “If you don't move by the count of three, I will kill you.”

I couldn't see my mother's face, but her body didn't move an inch as he slowly counted, “One...two...three!”

At three, he thrust his dagger into mother’s throat, then, with a flick of his wrist, ripped it open, splattering the wall with blood, and causing her to collapse at my feet, her face locked in a calm, defiant expression. Right then, something came over me like I had never felt before. Before I knew what I was doing, I tackled Master and started pounding his face as tears streamed down mine, only half aware of what I was doing.

I don't know how long I beat him for, but it seemed like an eternity. I remember the sounds of crunching and wet slapping as I hit him, the pain when my fists came in contact with his cheekbones and forehead, but what I remember most was the blood. Oh, Nocturne, so much blood!

Eventually, when I realized he hadn't moved for a long while, even to try to get me off of him, I stopped. Wiping the tears from my eyes even as they kept coming, I turned to my mother, who I knew was truly dead at this point. Pulling her still warm body close, I said, “I kept my promise to you, mother. I didn't let Master hurt me, but why did you have to die? Why couldn’t I protect you? How can I go on without you?”

[Reikoku]

I wonder why I like writing fascists as protagonists so much.

Author avatar?

[USS Monitor]

The prologue of my story. Warning: it's rather dark...

Late one chilly afternoon, as my mother and I were cleaning our master's foyer while he did...something, I don't remember what, she turned to me and said, “my daughter.”

I remember that phrase well, and have always loved it. I remember she would never call me by my name. That cruel joke of a name. Sevah. Slave. It was always “my daughter” or “my little raven.” A reminder that I was more than just some elf slave to be used. That I was loved and cared about.

I turned to her and asked, “yes, mother?”

“I want you to promise me something. Right now.”

“Yes?” I asked.

“Promise me that, no matter what happens, you'll never let Master hurt you. Please, my little raven.”

I looked her in her big, dark green eyes, framed by greasy black hair, and so full of worry. They sat over a small mouth and chin with a long scar under the left eye. Filled with resolve, I said, “I promise.” I didn't ask this, because I didn’t think it was my place to, but quietly I wondered why she wanted me to make that promise to her now.

At the same time, I vowed to keep said promise no matter what.

We kept doing the housework in the Beechtree manor, one of the smaller mansions in the capital but was the best that our master, an elf noble, could hope to get, for the next few hours, as we were supposed to, cleaning, dusting, putting things back where they belonged, making his bed, emptying his chamber pot, so on and so forth, until said master, a tall, skinny man with dark hair slicked back from his forehead, and a seemingly perpetual scowl on his face, returned and loudly ordered both of us into our room. Once all three of us were in the dark, smelly space my mother and I spent most of our days and nights in, he said, “Sevah! Take off your clothes! Now!”

Despite my promise and knowing what evils he had planned for me, I was about to take off the thin sack that was the entirety of my clothing, both out of long-ingrained habit and fear of the angry, sadistic look in his dark green eyes, when my mother stood between me and him and shouted, “Please! Don’t hurt her! Take me instead!”

“Out of my way, slave!”

“No! I will not let you harm my daughter!” My mother yelled back, her voice gaining an edge I had never heard before.

“I said get out of my way!” Master yelled as he tried to shove my mother aside.

She stood firm, bracing herself on the wall and saying nothing. All the while, I watched her standing there, unsure what to do as my ears rang a bit from all the yelling.

Master tried to move her or go around her a few more times, to no avail, before pulling his dagger from his belt, pointing it at her throat, and snarling, “Your daughter is of age now, and I only need one slave for my home and my...needs. If you die, as you will of you don’t fucking move, what difference does that make to me? I will still have her, after all.”

Despite his threat, she stood firm, saying nothing. I badly wanted to just tell her to stop, and then take off my clothes so he wouldn't hurt her, but I had made a promise, and I intended to keep it.

Master said with a terrifying calmness, “If you don't move by the count of three, I will kill you.”

I couldn't see my mother's face, but her body didn't move an inch as he slowly counted, “One...two...three!”

At three, he thrust his dagger into mother’s throat, then, with a flick of his wrist, ripped it open, splattering the wall with blood, and causing her to collapse at my feet, her face locked in a calm, defiant expression. Right then, something came over me like I had never felt before. Before I knew what I was doing, I tackled Master and started pounding his face as tears streamed down mine, only half aware of what I was doing.

I don't know how long I beat him for, but it seemed like an eternity. I remember the sounds of crunching and wet slapping as I hit him, the pain when my fists came in contact with his cheekbones and forehead, but what I remember most was the blood. Oh, Nocturne, so much blood!

Eventually, when I realized he hadn't moved for a long while, even to try to get me off of him, I stopped. Wiping the tears from my eyes even as they kept coming, I turned to my mother, who I knew was truly dead at this point. Pulling her still warm body close, I said, “I kept my promise to you, mother. I didn't let Master hurt me, but why did you have to die? Why couldn’t I protect you? How can I go on without you?”

This is competently written in terms of style -- not clunky -- but I think the subject matter is a bit hackneyed and I am not convinced that it belongs in a prologue. I can't say for certain because I don't know what the rest of the story is about, but I suspect that this would be more effective as a flashback later in the story instead of using it as a prologue.

[Nordengrund]

Do you notice a difference when writing with pencil and paper and when writing by typing a story on a document? What I mean is, does one help you get your creative juices flowing more, or is there no difference?

[New Neruda]

Do you notice a difference when writing with pencil and paper and when writing by typing a story on a document? What I mean is, does one help you get your creative juices flowing more, or is there no difference?

Typing is certainly easier for me, as my hand gets tired easily, so I'd say typing is better for my creativity, although it is easy to get distracted while on an electronic device.

[Shwe Tu Colony]

Oh yes, if we're going about grading stories, I have a bad fanfiction to share. Well, it's pretty original, but I refuse to say "original story" or "original character." Makes me feel condescending & arrogant although I believe that I am condescending, arrogant, & mildly narcissistic. Now then onto the fanfiction, which was actually a NationStates post, but still... I've been told that it's good by a few people, but I'm certain that there is a number of grammatical errors, among other such mistakes, like Mac & the overall confusing plotline. Snipped out the last bit since it was a small conditional post for the roleplay.

Parfuhmerie, Verndara Manor, Sekka's Office
"Okay, that's inadvisable at best, Sekka," Mac said, levitating over the demon as arrogantly as he could & with as smug of an expression as he could make, "Yah got the Geometric Ohioans o'er there who seem awfully avid on exterminating magic stuff in tandem with overall unpleasant folk. Maybe don't send such a letter, or if you do, at least let me send it." A brief respite from Mac's rant. "Well maybe it's best we don't let them enter this world at all, else we'll get a real hodgepodge, especially once they start hunting me down. Go with a hologram message to anyone who drops by, I'll see if a certain someone's willing to let me borrow the core of their force."

"Wait, Caliburn is alive?" Sekka asked, completely emotionless as he usually was.
"Oh poo, don't tell the supreme commanders. Not like they can do much anyways," Mac said, "Dang, I knew my puns would ruin the tension one day. Speaking of ruining the tension—"
"I have a feeling this will be completely unrelated to ruining the tension."

"It depends on what we mean by tension. On one hand, I know this boy-o got some mighty potential & I might be ruining the plot, but still—" Sekka took him by his purple boots & threw him out the window of his villa, which was a short flight to the ground, since the window was not far from the ground, being on the building's first floor. "Okay, I guess we're leaving who it is a mystery!" Mac said after landing in the mud outside, "Oh deities, Sylvanna won't be happy with me."

"It's your just desserts!" Sekka shouted back, "I hope she mixes your whites with your purples!"
"So everyone's a lit—," a pistol shot from Sekka was enough to silence him, although it of course was deflected by Mac's shield & promptly rebound back to the demon, striking him in the head & knocking him away a short distance, "You missed me, Hamilton!" Yet another pistol shot came out this time, along with an orb of fire that came down from the heavens; Mac sensed Shiranui's glower in the woods of Parfuhmerie. "Trời ơi*, gotta dash!" Mac said before jumping flamboyantly into a portal, scattering thousands of ribbons everywhere before they were pulled into the vortex, which soon closed.
*Vietnamese for "oh my god"

"What's worse is that he evidently found it fun," Sekka said to nobody in particular — perhaps to Shiranui, perhaps to the wind, perhaps to a ghost, perhaps to Mac. What was sure is that he certainly said it. "Shiranui, could you go tell..." he paused & examined a list of names, "D'aillisioux, Pâté Chaud, & Bo'kan to go man a store along with you? I just got news that apparently there's going to be some violins — ah! I meant violence, not violins... yes, violence over in another universe, & I'd like to sell some stuff, of course. It's in space, though, so remember to ask the Psytrines for some precautions."

"Introductory letter?" she asked, jumping through the broken window into Sekka's Office.
"Mac says it's too dangerous to do something like that, because apparently there's some sort of group of Ohioans over there? I don't know, it's Mac, & I'm apt to believe him. He may be a total jerk, but he's not a liar... most of the time. Plus, he never feels threatened unless it's 'world-ending threat' or 'enigmatic & deadly' threatening."
"Did someone say foreshadowing?" Mac opened a portal & Sekka promptly struck him over the head, sending him back in & closing the vortex.
"I'm glad I was made to mostly not have nerves, sometimes," Sekka said, "Headaches would be endless with him around. I'm surprised anyone even tolerates his presence, really..."

Paladin Island, Sector of the Braided Cathedral
Mountain peaks rose in the distance to the right of D'aillisioux, a filthy dirt path in front flanked by hundreds of dilapidated, wooden buildings that indicated the sheer squalor of their residents & owners, & a shining white & light blue cathedral contrasting with it all behind him. Outside this town — if it could even be called that, considering what a disappointing, terrible area it seemed to be — a lone house in just as much disrepair as the other structures sat upon the hills & another just lower. While looking around at these pitiful sights, a boy that greatly resembled the paladin Tsemper ran past him, towards the Braided Cathedral.

D'aillisioux then sighted his target: a building that stood unlike the others, being adorned with ornate stones, carved out of marble, & extending a red banner in front. Unlike the countless other shameful houses that were decaying & inhabited by the destitute folk of the island whose very despair seems to have leaked into their homes & caused them to bend over in pitiful disgrace, this building & its banner stood tall & arrogantly. Its presence — the way it rose into the skies & seemed to gloat its supremacy over the other buildings — was utterly disgusting & only deserved contempt. Even the most prideful of folk would utterly despise the building.

The accursed structure radiated a worthless conceit, the sort that has absolutely no backing. It'd be pitiful if that aura wasn't so overwhelming & crushing, emitting its overconfidence in such a way that it cursed despair upon the souls of those near it. To see that building crumble would be immensely satisfying for many, for it was the reason the island suffered, being the center of its vile government. Perhaps it was for that fact that the structure was so despised, since it served to constantly remind the inhabitants of their eternal squalor & how they would never be free.

Just as this prideful building rose from the ground to curse the land with its detested presence & arrogance, its counterpart of the Braided Cathedral was similar, yes, but it rose out of the ground not with that dastardly aura, but with the grace & generous qualities of a saint. It reached for the sky with the very same marble & with the very same jewels embedded in its walls, but the citizens loved it anyway. After all, the benevolent, humble cathedral was not the source of their misery, but rather the source of their one joy other than the children, who they motivated to find life, meaning, & more joy, which they could not find on this island... "home," as they titled it — but it was hardly home.

Yes, D'aillisioux remembered these two buildings much, for they were like polar opposites — one radiated joy & benevolence, the other radiated a revolting arrogance, their only similarity being the physical stones that laid their foundation. On the metaphorical side, the cathedral was built upon generosity & goodwill & the government facility upon what would be at best cruelty & at worst a sort of bizarre sadism. For D'aillisioux though, that structure was founded on sadism that could be found only in the most despicable persons, the sort that could leave reputations in irreparable tatters.

It was the sort that left memories that would never be forgotten, especially when it was all D'aillisioux remembered before leaving for Parfuhmerie.

He remembered that day — well, it was a dark night, but he referred to it as a day nonetheless. On that day, he fled the island as a stowaway on a vessel bound for Parfuhmerie, having been foolishly left alone. On that ship, he met a powerful man in armor that radiated the same aura as the cathedral, & he felt a sort of kinship with him immediately. While on the stormy trip to Parfuhmerie, the two spoke with one another, eventually being comfortable enough to reveal their life stories. When the vessel finally docked at the Parfuhmerian Harbor, the man revealed his name: Tsemper Fi, Sea Paladin. D'aillisioux promised to remember that name.

& there did D'aillisioux stand in that same city where he & Tsemper came from & were humiliated by. The Boy Ninja knew this to merely be a dream, but to see that accursed building, that culprit behind it all, that puppet master, that fiend; for it to crumble & fall from its haughty heavens, to see it up in his flames of vengeance that would absolve it of its terrible sins...! That would be enough, & it would be a grand day for all. Nothing worse could possibly replace Paladin Island's supposed government, if one could even call it that. Truly, it was a disgrace to the idea of governments across the universe, even for the most psychotic. At least they guaranteed protection, but the island's? It would shove their citizens out as cannon fodder at the first sign of trouble.

The story of the island was much like Sekka's, only with a worse ending. Their leaders saw the chaos of the early Thryllasian Region, where one's loved ones could be murdered by a bandit, drowned, or slain by some terrible creature in the middle of the night. Consequently, Sekka & the early residents of the island developed a great fear of disorder & ruled with an iron fist. But, power corrupted the island, & eventually their want of caution & distrust devolved into a psychotic dictatorship that oppressed its people into destitution; on the other hand, Sekka's a gentle hand pushed Parfuhmerie towards success that has lasted until this day.

At last, D'aillisioux took his first steps towards the government building, emitting his signature death rattle & drawing his sword. This was a dream yes, but for that structure to haunt him like so was enough to drive him into an absolute frenzy. How powerless it kept him in his earlier days! Now, he would show it a superior strength, one that would make it crumble & humble the accursed building. After the countless abuses it committed, this opportunity filled D'aillisioux with an exhilaration he had never felt before.

Suddenly, a blast of some viscous tar-like material struck him from behind, causing him to fall onto the dirt path only meters away from that building. Before he could get up, he found that the black fluid had solidified & trapped him. "Gods, I — show yourself, ba'urh*!" he said, thoroughly angered that he was stopped, "I'll... I'll..." He remembered that he didn't practice his ominous Parfuhmerian phrases very well, because he never had use for them. His other assassin friends, on the other hand, were surprisingly good at making such quips in a matter of seconds. "Dzsht... just... get out here, you coward!" he said.
*Highly inappropriate curse in Demonish

Moments later, the grand marble doors to the government building swung open, nearly flying off of their hinges as a large figure flew out of it, wearing a dramatic purple cloak, a purple mitre, a clown mask, & brandishing a menacing scythe. D'aillisioux froze in fear & found himself powerless before the figure. If there was one person he despised on the island, it was this nightmarish jester, who was the master behind the boy's memories under the name of only "Master." That mask guarded the monster's face, but they both were more than likely equally abhorrent & deserved the same vengeful punishment.

Of course, D'aillisioux would have loved to been the executioner of this man, but whenever the boy's gaze fell upon him, he felt only terror & helplessness. "P-please..." that revolutionary fervor that powered him moments prior was now all gone, now that he was in the shadow of this supposed "master," but just what he had mastery in was the question, "I-I c-can't... go back."
"Perhaps you will," the figure said, its voice & tone ominous & deeper than some stupid philosophical quote the seas of the Thryllasian Region, & just as enigmatic & horrifying, "Adieu, & you will be enjoying this memory!" He cackled & swung his scythe high above his head before bringing it down on D'aillisioux's back.

Dark Shadowy Tavern (literally its name because Sekka got bored)
D'aillisioux sprang upright in his bed in the Assassins Guild Headquarters, screaming at the top of his lungs & in a daze & panicked mood, his hands holding the sides of his head to stabilize it after the nightmare he just had. Surprised by the boy's sudden awakening, his fellow assassin Pâté Chaud jumped away from the bed with enough force to tear off his legs. "Whoops! Uh, you okay there, Deli*?" Pâté got up, reattached his legs, & walked over to the bed before promptly being sliced in two by D'aillisioux's sword.
*Because of how long his name is, Pâté usually refers to D'aillisioux as Deli.

A momentary pause before the boy realized that he had accidentally bisected his undead friend. "Ah! D'uh... sk'aratu*!" D'aillisioux said, "S-sorry about that!"
*Highly offensive Demonish curse
"Eh, it's fine, Deli," Pâté reattached his body, using a combination of nanomachines he purchased from some other world plus magic to both act as glue, "Nightmares got yah again?" D'aillisioux nodded. "Mmm, I see. Anyways, Shiranui told me to come fetch you. Sekka found some conflict some miles away from us & he wants us to guard the store. Think you'll be..." He searched for a word. "Okay enough to do it, though?"

"Yes, I think I'll be fine enough," D'aillisioux replied, "Just give me a few minutes to get ready." He paused for a moment while getting out of his bed. "W-wait, m-my kimono didn't... s-slide away, r-right?" he asked, his tone strangely nervous.
"Saw nothing. Now, please hurry, everyone else is about ready to leave. Why even are you so worried over exposing anything that's not your face? I don't think I've even seen your hands!"
"N-none of your business!" D'aillisioux said, his tone sharp.

Pâté quietly wondered just what had happened in the boy's past.

Some unspecified area in space far enough away from the battlefield not to cause an issue, but close enough that a trade route between the location & any civilization should be feasible
In some location in space that fulfilled the above prerequisites, a large purple vortex opened. Moments later, a small island made of stone floated out from it, the top of it composed by smooth tiles carved from the same stone as the island itself. In the center of the island was a simple L-shaped wooden structure that resembled simple Renaissance buildings & stores (& not the far more ornate cathedrals) decorated with a few ferns & other such plant life here & there. Behind it was a small fenced-off area with a portal & its corresponding structure, the latter of which had a far more complex design than the store. Occasionally, someone would exit from the portal, transporting crates or boxes of goods in wagons.

Inside & around the store were the assorted mid-ranking Parfuhmerian assassins, while Shiranui, D'aillisioux, & Pâté Chaud stood near the front of the store with Shiranui's fire orbs (which were currently somewhat dim to prevent blinding everyone) flying around the store to guard it. Likewise, a human man with a crook, a white cassock, a golden-colored belt, and a simple miter was near the door & next to a small human woman in a brown shawl, brown dress, and durable black combat boots. Moments la—
"Uh, I'm not the only one getting déjà vu, right?" Bo'kan said as she exited the store.

"Déjà vu! I just been in this pla—" Pâté began before Shiranui sent one of her fire orbs dangerously close to him, "Please no."
I think this exact scene played for both Ka'irs," the woman said, "Well, I think it'll be best if we don't question it. Probably just Mac fooling with us."
"Hopefully we actually get buyers this time, unlike those last two incidents," Pâté then said, "Apparently the most that happened at any point was a blockade."

& then Mac suddenly teleported in in the middle of the air where the door faced & far from the door, continuing to float there. "Yello!" he said, probably emitting a massive amount of magical energy, "Ya'llses be improperly armed against... basically everyone here. Which is why I stole some shtuff."
"Wait, what do you mean by steal?" asked Bo'kan.
"Took with permission," Mac said, well aware of the contradiction in his words, "Anyway, I'm sure ya'll will enjoy this." Having said this, he pulled out his wrench & slammed it into the floor of the store's island, causing a large fissure to appear where he struck. Moments later, a huge red fern unfurled from the crack, which then repaired itself. "Wait, that's not what I was supposed to summon! It was supposed to be a giant mechanical turret!" Mac said, "Meh, this'll do, this'll do. This thing looks like a plant, yes, but I assure you all it's a mighty powerful mechanical & magical turret."

"This one of Sylvanna's plants?" asked Bo'kan approaching the fern.
"Mebbe a tad. Plus some other technology & magic. Wonder who will provoke it! Fufufufufu. Oh, & another thing." He absentmindedly threw a small black & red robot around the size of a small bush into the fern, which immediately unpacked to show a small gun probably around the length of a few feet before facing upwards, slowing rotating the gun around. "& there's the other thing. Stole these both from a certain someone. Let's hope that they work well, but all things considering... nah, you guys will have to deal with that! & maybe me too, later on. Let's hope not. I don't feel like doing that." However, Mac was not leaving quite yet, & anyone nearby could probably detect his sheer divine power & presence, along with an equally powerful shield that was created through magic & science. He would be a difficult opponent to take on.

Do you notice a difference when writing with pencil and paper and when writing by typing a story on a document? What I mean is, does one help you get your creative juices flowing more, or is there no difference?

The only thing that matters for my writing quality is my mood, really. On some days, I don't feel like myself enough to write well, & my writing ends up feeling quite strange to myself, as though someone else had written it. On other days, I start ranting about minor details, making sure to repeat the word, draw analogies, & try to include as much emotion as possible.

[Geneviev]

Do you notice a difference when writing with pencil and paper and when writing by typing a story on a document? What I mean is, does one help you get your creative juices flowing more, or is there no difference?

Typing is definitely easier. I do like sitting down with a pen and paper sometimes, though. It really depends.

[Nordengrund]

I want to write sci-fi story with space travel, aliens and all that jazz. However, what bothers me about this type of sci if is that you have a whole universe of opportunity yet most of the stories are boiled down to humans fighting aliens in a war.

[Anywhere Else But Here]

I want to write sci-fi story with space travel, aliens and all that jazz. However, what bothers me about this type of sci if is that you have a whole universe of opportunity yet most of the stories are boiled down to humans fighting aliens in a war.

Then don't write about humans fighting aliens? It's not hard to not write about something.

[Arkotania]

There's been something about writing nagging the ever loving hell out of me. I've got some sci-fi and fantasy ideas on my computer I'm hoping to turn into something but I always run into a spiraling question of "Is my inspiration from other fiction just plagiraism?" and then I get stuck being unable to write moving forward because I'm lost to whether what I'm writing will come off as plagiarism or if my inspiration from another text will be uncouth when I use the words(like orcs/elves stuff like that) even if they're not similar in other ways.

It's like a weird form of writers block.

[The Sherpa Empire]

There's been something about writing nagging the ever loving hell out of me. I've got some sci-fi and fantasy ideas on my computer I'm hoping to turn into something but I always run into a spiraling question of "Is my inspiration from other fiction just plagiraism?" and then I get stuck being unable to write moving forward because I'm lost to whether what I'm writing will come off as plagiarism or if my inspiration from another text will be uncouth when I use the words(like orcs/elves stuff like that) even if they're not similar in other ways.

It's like a weird form of writers block.

Using orcs and elves is fine. Those races come from traditional mythology, which is public domain.

I want to write sci-fi story with space travel, aliens and all that jazz. However, what bothers me about this type of sci if is that you have a whole universe of opportunity yet most of the stories are boiled down to humans fighting aliens in a war.

Then don't write about humans fighting aliens? It's not hard to not write about something.

This. ^

I've dabbled in sci-fi, but I've never done a war between humans and aliens. There are plenty of other things you can do.

[Forsher]

Half a month of inactivity is fine for A&F. But what happened to this thread that that happened?

Do you notice a difference when writing with pencil and paper and when writing by typing a story on a document? What I mean is, does one help you get your creative juices flowing more, or is there no difference?

Writing by hand feels more real. And the way you think about things is different.

The biggest downside to my mind is not that it's slower, but that it's harder to get anyone else to have a quick look at what you're doing.

There's been something about writing nagging the ever loving hell out of me. I've got some sci-fi and fantasy ideas on my computer I'm hoping to turn into something but I always run into a spiraling question of "Is my inspiration from other fiction just plagiraism?" and then I get stuck being unable to write moving forward because I'm lost to whether what I'm writing will come off as plagiarism or if my inspiration from another text will be uncouth when I use the words(like orcs/elves stuff like that) even if they're not similar in other ways.

It's like a weird form of writers block.

One of the last short story contest stories that we had here was hosted about the same time I was watching or re-watching Avatar the Last Airbender. There's some great world-building in that series and I just felt the urge to muck around in a similar kind of world. So I wrote a story involving a desert and cabbages. I really don't think the final product gave off strong ATLA vibes. If it did, then it's an issue. But if it did, then it just becomes a kind of fan-fiction... which is only a problem with a very small number of authors.

Personally, I get something similar when I look at something I've written and it reminds me of how some other author actually goes about writing. Part of the problem is that a lot of the things I read have, I suppose, noticeable authors because I don't read that much. I think you can get a feel of what I mean from what I've been working on lately... but I'm wondering if between the first and second sitting's I've gone from "a stylistic choice" to, I'm not sure how I'd describe it, but I suppose "blogging" might be the answer.

Samantha Sloane read a lot of books as a kid. Some of the books stuck with her. A lot of them did not. But one book she wished had stuck with her had been about castles. Samantha Annabelle Sloane loved castles. And knights. And sieges (“see-gees”). And palfreys. And hunts. And banquets. And lords. And peasants. And, well, it was a long medieval related list; which was why she’d once read that stairwells in castles were designed so that right handed invaders were cramped. That was a seriously cool bit of information. Not that Samantha ever really had a chance to share it with anyone. Until now. But she couldn’t remember the book.

It’s said you can tell a lot about a person from their rubbish. Not just the physical waste, but the digital waste too. Any waste, really. There are lots of reasons why waste is the friend of cops, stalkers, doctors and identity thieves the world over. A big one is that it doesn’t really lie. People don’t think about waste. Even the most strident and paranoid environmentalists don’t really think about waste. They put thought into sorting, destroying and policing waste, of course, but it’s just all generated idly. Waste is all by-product and all incidental. Having waste that says nothing about requires doing things that say nothing about you. And that’s the real reason telepathy should freak people out. Because mental waste is a thing. Take Samantha’s ruminations on castles, books and forgotten things.

It’d probably help to have some context. The hypothetical telepathic identity thief, cop, psychiatrist or stalker would probably have context, right? Maybe they’d be set up across the street from Samantha in the low-slung, red-roofed cafe, drinking coffee like a dweeb and peering over a suspiciously broadsheeted newspaper. Or perhaps on the bench under the tree off the park’s main path. A good spot, that one. Beautiful scenery, an unobstructed view of Samantha as she crossed the road and on a fine day, the sort that made Samantha’s leather shoes blind a too keen observer no-one’d think twice about anyone sitting there. Hell, most of the coffee dweebs would flick envious eyes over thinking, “I wish I had the time to people watch, but it’s 7:30am and I’ve got to finish breakfast”. Yeah, the hypothetical telepath couldn’t sit at the cafe, not when they’d have to also inconspicuously get Samantha’s train. The bench was best. Unless it was raining.

Samantha’s train station could be said to mirror the cafe. It was a low-slung building with an over-hanging roof and plenty of room outside. Except the space wasn’t for a car park but rather buses. And instead of a couple of exhaust-choked tables, there were four benches for bus passengers. Those benches would work when it rained. Savvy train passengers even used them because the train side was much more exposed (a much lamented point prior to the closure of the local tabloid). Even a paranoid Samantha wouldn’t notice the hypothetical telepath then. Probably not even if the observer was really obvious – staring into Samantha’s big brown eyes, or trying to read the dusting of freckles over her nose or just checking her out more generally. Samantha was used to that. And if it was raining Samantha would be struggling to get her umbrella down, adjusting her angle (the park wasn’t quite opposite the building’s doors) and preparing to tag on as soon as she was out the building’s other side. But the hypothetical telepath probably wouldn’t be that obvious. And Samantha wouldn’t be thinking about castles. If it was raining.

It wasn’t raining. And today Samantha wasn’t walking. She never walked on Mondays.

A lot of people don’t like Mondays. Samantha wasn’t among them. Ever since she’d been a little girl, she’d loved Mondays. That was when she saw her dad. Every Monday. And only Monday. For years. Even now. On Mondays she’d catch the bus. Not from the stop by her home. Not even from the one round the corner on the other route. No. Samantha would catch the bus that went by her dad. Except even wasn’t the right word. Of course not. How could it be? If you knew, you’d never use even. And if you didn’t know, you’d wonder how Samantha could have loved Mondays. You’d have some idea in your head, and it’d be wrong. You’d think there’d be some way, some formula or something. But for every Samantha you’d get a Samuel. And maybe Samuel would never catch that bus. Never go by dad. Never seem to think on it, never say anything. And he didn’t. So, yeah, Samantha loved Mondays. Mondays were what her mum called perfect moments. Even in the driving rain. Especially in the rain.

Now, the hypothetically telepathic stalker, identity thief, cop or psychiatrist wouldn’t need long to notice the pattern. Two whole weeks of observations would probably do it: people always want to find patterns. People are good at patterns. On Mondays, Samantha tended to think about her childhood. It was natural, given her routine... given the prompts of her routine.

Which is basically to say that you can use a hell of a lot of words to say that it was a Monday and it wasn’t raining that day, the one when Samantha thought about castles and stairs. Hell, it was actually an ordinary Monday, too, because Samantha didn’t deviate from her routine.

Context. Done. What about the actual thoughts?

There are lots of different schools of, ahem, thought when it comes to interpretation. There’s what might be called the Naive View. To that lot, the text has some sort of meaning, which is brought out by the reader. Samantha actually knew a really good critique of this. She’d been out on a date once, one of the funny ones that you get when you’re figuring out what to put in an internet profile.

Samantha’s little spiel mentioned she liked reading. Her favourite book, she wrote, was Lord of the Flies, but it wasn’t really. Samantha did like it. In fact, she’d read it four times and the first time was because she wanted to (most people Samantha’s age were forced to read it in school). Yet, her real favourite was a book called Witch Week, from the Chrestomanci series Samantha had always meant to finish but never got around to. The problem was it was a kid’s book, and early internet dating Samantha had Views.

The date had started off pretty well. The idea was to go up to the Museum on a surprisingly crisp April afternoon, take a self-led tour and then go grab a bite to eat after watching the sun sink to the point where it started blinding people. That probably should have been a warning sign. But the tour had been good. Neither of them led it. Neither of them interrupted. They had different favourite parts; adult Samantha had always found the little galleries the best, but didn’t mind the colonial exhibits. And the half sunset was good too... endless possibilities in that evening glare. It was dinner, when they started on the books. That’s when it went wrong. Lord of the Flies was just too damn allegorical and he, it turned out, loathed Simon and thought the Beast was a complete bore. The normal reading of the book! In fact, he objected to the whole idea.

“The thing about books is that there are two questions. Did you like it?”

“Well, yes. It’s my...”

“Yeah, we’ve been over that. And I wasn’t finished. The second question is: did you understand it? And that’s got nothing to do with Simon or even the Conch or Rogers or anything like that.”

“Well, come on. There’s nothing superficial about LOTF. It was written as a response to that island adventure book and literally everything in it is an allegory.”

“So what? You like it because it’s well written. Because it’s got good characters. Because the plot’s interesting. And it’s got that great line at the end: ‘I saw your Fire’... best line in the English canon.” Samantha wrinkled her nose at this point.

“Surely, ‘the fall through the air of a true, wise friend called Piggy’ is better?”

“Hah. So mainstream. But at least Goldman had the balls to tell it to his reader straight: ‘Here’s what this book was about. Sure, it obfuscated and confused and distracted with all this world building, plotting and characterisation but this book, my book, is about how we’re all evil little shits who do good things only because we’re told to.’ If books were really about what English teacher’s say they are, they wouldn’t be written the way they are. It’s just so... inefficient.”

“You don’t get it. The only reason you know exactly what those lines mean is because Golding stepped you through his thinking with all the allegories, metaphors and symbolism.”

“Look, Sammy, that’s all nonsense. When I was a kid I used to read this magazine about Dinosaurs. And one of them had a story about Edward Drinker Cope and the Elasmosaur or whatever. And the point is that this dude, who spent a lifetime looking at bones, read them and said, ‘Well, this bit’s obviously the neck!’ And then he put the skull on the tail.”

“So you’re saying that Golding doesn’t step us through anything? That we project a meaning on to the text, draw meanings off an essentially blank canvas? Because how can ‘giving it to us straight’ be more efficient?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it like that Sammy...”

The conversation went on. And it was almost exactly what Samantha had always looked for in life. Educated persons. Intellectual conversation. But he didn’t listen very well. And Samantha had been very clear. But she always liked the story about Cope and the Elasmosaurus. So she remembered it, even after she forgot his name. And she knew it was a pretty lethal criticism of the Naive View. If they were right, Cope couldn’t have made his mistake. He had time. He had experience.

During the date, Samantha actually brought up another school of reading. She used it to show how the date had misunderstood the implication of his argument. Even looking back as she’d gone to bed that night she couldn’t understand his view. The Elasmosaurus really was a perfect criticism of thinking about “efficiency” in communication. That was completely obvious. It’s a great story for subscribers of the Narcissist’s View. Yeah, you could only use... At that point Samantha fell asleep, but where her thoughts were going really was pretty clear. Natural, even.

There’s lots of ways of thinking about a text. You can look at the components and the decisions that went into it. You can look at the context it lives in. You can, well, read it. But in all of these ways you look at it, you’re doing something. The text is always a passive communicator. It doesn’t come to life, even metaphorically. Thus the Narcissist’s View because it’ all about, purely about, the reader... and what the reader wrought. Not as far to say that misreading was impossible, but in the sense only the reader actually did anything. All contexts are imposed on a text. All inferences about why an author chose to say “always” instead of “only” are based on theories that live in the reader’s head. Do you say “always” to indicate that you don’t buy in? Do you say “only” to suggest the natural or inherent properties? Is that buying in? Is that being fair? Honest? Writing with integrity? Who knows? Indeed, who could possibly know? No-one. The choice of “the writer lacks integrity” seems natural to Samuel because he’s him, and Samantha stops at “doesn’t buy in” because she’s her. It’s their experiences and thoughts that do the work.

To be honest, any one of the four hypothetical telepathic observers would bring a lot of themselves to the task. Not just in their experiences, either. The stalker would look at Samantha’s castle thoughts and, assuming they’re that lovestruck kind of stalker a bad movie would make you forgive by the end so watching the wedding doesn’t come across as completely creepy and abusive, decide Samantha was some kind of romantic. Possibly a Romantic, possibly romantic. Depends on the exact hypothetical telepathic stalker Samantha would be dealing with. The analogous cop would... well, were they after Samantha as a suspect, witness or potential victim? Suspect!Samantha would find a crack team of detectives trying to figure out (a) which castles she could be thinking about and (b) who she’d have confided in. And once they figured out (b) they’d start on (c): how do we turn the witness? The identity thief would also think about (b) but more importantly they’d see a somewhat lonely young woman, not sure who she could talk to and, therefore, a viable target... fewer people to give the game away. And if they were a particularly evil identity thief, they’d be thinking a trip to the right places in Europe wouldn’t throw any alarm bells in the heads of people who did know Samantha. The psychiatrist would see the same lonely person, and probably try and connect with Samantha by being the person Samantha could talk about stairwells too. Or they might see someone who’s less lonely and more reserved; unsure about who’d want to see this insight into Samantha not who could possibly listen.

[USS Monitor]

Half a month of inactivity is fine for A&F. But what happened to this thread that that happened?

I dunno. It's a shame. I don't write as much as I used to, and I guess some other regulars either dropped off writing or drifted away from NS too.

When I do write, nowadays, it's more likely to be issues or sports RPs rather than short stories, novels, or comics. My RPs get fairly detailed, but because they have to be posted on a schedule with limited time for editing, they aren't exactly literary masterpieces. A lot of the characters are pretty one-dimensional because that makes them easier to keep track of when I am writing quickly, and easier for other players to understand so that they can jump in on the same plot thread. There are more stereotypes and running gags than what I would do if I was writing a novel.

[Vienna Eliot]

Half a month of inactivity is fine for A&F. But what happened to this thread that that happened?

I dunno. It's a shame. I don't write as much as I used to, and I guess some other regulars either dropped off writing or drifted away from NS too.

When I do write, nowadays, it's more likely to be issues or sports RPs rather than short stories, novels, or comics. My RPs get fairly detailed, but because they have to be posted on a schedule with time for editing, they aren't exactly literary masterpieces. A lot of the characters are pretty one-dimensional because that makes them easier to keep track of when I am writing quickly, and easier for other players to understand so that they can jump in on the same plot thread. There are more stereotypes and running gags than what I would do if I was writing a novel.

I'm a creative writing minor now, if that counts.

(this is NWO; former improviser editor; eb white fangirl)

[Respubliko de Libereco]

Half a month of inactivity is fine for A&F. But what happened to this thread that that happened?

I dunno. It's a shame. I don't write as much as I used to, and I guess some other regulars either dropped off writing or drifted away from NS too.

I wouldn't know anything about that, obviously.


Honestly, it's been a while since I wrote anything substantial that wasn't technical documentation. My Esperanto is getting good enough that I might start experimenting with translating some of my favourite poems from English/French, though.

[USS Monitor]

I dunno. It's a shame. I don't write as much as I used to, and I guess some other regulars either dropped off writing or drifted away from NS too.

I wouldn't know anything about that, obviously.


Honestly, it's been a while since I wrote anything substantial that wasn't technical documentation. My Esperanto is getting good enough that I might start experimenting with translating some of my favourite poems from English/French, though.

Hey, long time no see!

[Forsher]

I dunno. It's a shame. I don't write as much as I used to, and I guess some other regulars either dropped off writing or drifted away from NS too.

I wouldn't know anything about that, obviously.


Honestly, it's been a while since I wrote anything substantial that wasn't technical documentation. My Esperanto is getting good enough that I might start experimenting with translating some of my favourite poems from English/French, though.

You know how in movies, characters always turn the TV on just in time for the incredibly story relevant news broadcast? Or it's just filled with all the wrong, normally never on, movies?

This sort of thing clearly happens. You come back to A&F just in time for a conversation on the vitality of this thread? What are the odds?

[Pax Nerdvana]

I'm starting a new SF story about Martian and Jovian colonists rebelling against Earth. I can explain more if anyone is curious.