Non diagetic posts.
Editing is a cruel process. Second guessing, amputating, padding. Am I cutting away too much?
Todays post was originally a little longer, because it contained a bit of artful language that I elected to remove. I lacked for the second opinion that might’ve approved it in my stead, so I chose caution over bravado.
I may end up appending it to the story some time in the future, but that’s up to future me, a foreigner to myself.
No particular notes today. My mind is rather tired after dealing with a number of personal struggles over the weekend.
Most of my thoughts now are upon the strange way one can write themselves into a corner where they are forced to create more and more rules which they are then forced to follow, causing a rather trying roadblock in the writing process, in which they are ever consulting previous sections to make sure they do not contradict themself.
I am passionate about writing. It is an exercise for an imagination that I have cultivated since I was a child creating stories with my toys. Had I the patience to improve my artistic skill, I might attempt to make comics instead. There is a pain in being able to so clearly envision something, and not be able to recreate it faithfully.
I think every narrative writer has at some point wondered what adaptation of their work would look like. How would this character be casted on television? What kind of depth would be apparent in a video game? Would animation have the freedom to depict all the subtleties and grand moments?
I am no different. I idly dream of expanding to new audiences, of importance. I certainly do not crave all the direct attention and drama of fame and success, but to have my work appreciated is always fulfilling, and money doesn’t hurt.
Whether success is on the horizon, or I am to drift in obscurity, writing sates my creative impulse. Content to create content.
Change is a part of life. While it is natural to resist change, one cannot do so without creating yet more change.
Perhaps the greatest pain is to be changed against one’s will. This is a concept I had been exploring at length when Sublime was my primary project. By now, many of the influences for it are likely obvious, and I cannot call it a perfectly original work. Indeed, when writing it, I had become entranced by a particular season of one of my other hobbies, a trading card game.
Having read Dante’s Divine Comedy, I was familiar with the concept of a layered Hell, in which each layer embodied the just punishment for a particular sin. In Magic the Gathering’s presentation of Phyrexia: All will be One, I found a new, hungry interpretation of inferno, populated with machines seeking to make more machines out of those who are not. It is a particular type of horror, centralized on the fear of forced change, and it appealed to me greatly, and inspired me to make my own.
In light of this revelation, I seek to highlight some key differences. In doing so, it is necessary that I reveal information about this world I have constructed, including spoilers for the story, and information that is not meant to be known during the initial reading. It particularly includes details about chapters not yet released. You have been warned.
Firstly, and most distinctly, the story does not take place in some other world. The world of Sublime is our own, though changed beyond recognition.
Secondly, the change inflicted by the world of Sublime is not so simple as becoming machine. Indeed, at key points, the ideal form is machine, but each layer of this hell has its own idea of purity. The surface seeks to create ideal scavengers, and to create such oppressive fear that it’s denizens are inevitably coerced down, deeper. The second layer worships hybridization as it’s pinnacle, seeking to apply the benefits of both flesh and metal. Below is a layer the story explores only briefly, but one that carries the greatest difference: a world that seeks the greatest experience possible, that pursues the purity of sensation itself. This layer was most inspired by the Hellraiser movies and book.
A final key difference I wish to convey is the true nature of the reality I created for Sublime. It is one of impossibility. The scale of the world is one that exceeds natural limits, and defies physical constraints. Each layer is separated by distances measured in lightyears, and yet can sometimes be traversed in seconds. Change is the very nature of reality, and what is does not stay that way for long. An unfathomable power rules this place, and governs it’s relentless reconfiguration. If I were to write a sequel, the world of Sublime would be nearly unrecognizable in it. Very little withstands the urge to change and become other.
In closing, I will speak on the future. Indeed, I have considered a sequel to Sublime, and have a few fragments of writing to that effect. Whether it finds place in public view remains to be seen, as I have not touched these fragments in nearly a year.
I worry over reception of my work. I worry that I may be designated too derivative, though the primary work I derived my ideas from- Dante’s Inferno– is old enough that it rather escapes copyright infringement. Indeed, I have peopled this world with my own creations, but one can never overestimate the designs of a corporate claim. Is it enough that my work draws on so many inspirations that no one can lay a full claim to being the origin?
In time, all things end. All things give way to others. Even the light put of by the sun will one day become a different color, and then fade out. Endings are a thing I do not love, but I have come to accept their necessity. Else I might be suggesting that a world like Sublime‘s should come to pass.
The future is the present changed. Perhaps this is why it is so frightening.
The science of politics in a dystopian future has no real hard and fast rules. Modern experience tells us that personal motivations can sway nations, if they come from one with enough influence. It takes little to imagine despotic oligarchs making selfish and short-sighted choices that the less fortunate must suffer the consequences of.
I often worry that I cut corners too readily, that I overtrim the fat from the meat, and end up with something so lean it has no flavor. I am ever grateful, spitefully, shamefully, for the popularity of pulpy media. It encourages me to write more freely when I see a successful work I, being as indulgent in my pride as can be tolerated, deem to be shoddy for one reason or another.
Envy and Pride. In my frequent efforts to control my relationship with the world, comparing myself to others never fails to catch me. Good enough is a curse, a phrase uttered by those who do not possess it, and shunned by those who do. If you call something good enough, it surely falls short of what you desire. Likewise, one often chases perfection whilst claiming only to seek ‘good enough’.
In the end, I think I am best served by a mantra that never fails to bring a smile to me. “What’s good enough for me, is good enough for me.”
In the end, we are our own debtors. Only I can pardon myself the sentence I have delivered. I, as a Mad God, have one hand upon the gospel of my own making, and the other drenched in the blood of shortcomings known only to myself. The fat is trimmed by my say so, and the culling is concealed in the production.
It is by my hand too, that butter finds it’s way into the pan, that seasoning is applied. If I am overzealous in my pruning, it falls to me to correct my course.
Finally, the dish must be sent away with whatever garnish is just. And it is up to the customer to make of it what they will; beyond the doors of the kitchen, it is out of my hands.
In comes the new year. Looking back always tells me that I’ve changed with time, though I did not feel it happening.
This chapter is the first to arrive truly adjacent to the one that precedes it. It also seems to hold much more in the way of comfort. In my pursuit of variety, I ended up seeking to recreate the sort of atmosphere that appears when the protagonist of a war movie awakes in a hospital behind enemy lines.
Again I make use of dreams, which will occur with some frequency in this story. In this case, the dream sheds some light on a earlier, omitted period of time.
I am a little under the weather currently, so I will make this short. A lot of my time these days goes towards the fervent consumption of media: largely to moderate my mood, but also for the cause of inspiration. I struggle to read tragedy as much as I struggle to write it. A relieving catharsis invariably feels better than a sorrowful one.
But, the real danger when writing is that, as long as the work is unfinished, tragedy can be unwrit. Characters can be ressurected. The sentiment “No one stays dead” in popular fiction applies here. But the world can only seem so dark when only nameless characters are allowed to rest in their graves.
To counter the previous sentiment, life tells us that everybody dies. One day I hope my work will mirror that clinical honesty. I want my work to have readers on edge, knowing the other shoe is always waiting to drop.
Incarnate’s overall first draft is approaching completion behind the scenes.
There are parts in the middle I intend to thoroughly edit and rewrite, but the overarching narrative is largely in the last lap. I do already have ideas for sequel material, but they are currently half baked at best. I also don’t think the story needs a sequel or prequel.
I hope to avoid premature celebration, so I’ll ignore the temptation to reflect in a profound way, and instead take a general view of this stage of the process.
There comes a point in every process where you realize the end is in sight. There are impulses at such a time, to either rush through what remains or draw it out. Part of the draw of a serial format is the opportunity to indefinitely extend the lifetime of a work, to repeatedly introduce conflicts to resolve.
However, at some point, the characters must either cease to resemble themselves via growth, or experience a frustrating regression, if the story is to be truly indefinite. Furthermore, one runs the risk of alienating even the most devoted followers by wasting time. A story must have an ending, even if that ending goes something like “And then something else went wrong, ad infinitum. ” The original The Princess Bride book has a pretty noteworthy ending in that regard.
I really could extend this series for a very long time, I have a talent for perpetually expanding the universes I imagine. But I think that despite myself, I’ve come to appreciate the power of an ending. Besides, once I close out the draft, I still have many weeks of editing and publishing to keep me busy while my next big idea develops. Not to mention, I may yet release some of the more lighthearted work I make in the shadow of projects like this.
Not every ending is a new beginning. But every beginning deserves a satisfying ending. And if one thing is certain, it’s that I love starting sh*t.
I believe my favorite book is and always will be The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. In particular, I have a fondness for a character who did not make the cut in my favorite film adaptation: Caderousse. Spoilers for that novel follow, and I do recommend reading it. It’s a bit long though.
For context, Caderousse appears at intervals in the novel, always on the wrong side of things. First, he drunkenly overhears a plot to condemn his friend, and is blackmailed into staying quiet. When he next reappears, he is the owner of an inn, with a wife who can best be described as sick in several senses. Here, greed and his wife control him, spurring him into murder over a small fortune. He reappears later, now a conniving thief, who finally dies at the hands of a villain he enabled.
Caderousse’s story is one of a man too weak to do what he knows is right, becoming wicked as he submits to bad influences. Throughout his first two major roles, he displays a significant sense of morality and loyalty, which are opposed by the company he keeps. His life takes a twisted path, and ends in a slow, terrified death, sweetened only by the presence of the man he failed to save.
I really love his presence in the story. He adds a layer of depth that cannot be denied. He is not outright a villain, but continuously acts out evil because he cannot find the strength to resist.
He is wretched. He suffers and becomes warped by his suffering. I frequently consider his contribution, wondering at the way a person can act against their own will.
I do not have much commentary on today’s addition to Incarnate, except to remark on how short it is. I considered tacking it onto the previous chapter, but felt that it would’ve been worse for it.
By now, some of the inspiration behind Sublime may be revealing itself. For instance, there’s a scene in Hellraiser: Hellbound that inspired the section with the things beneath the sheets early in this chapter.
On my mind right now, however, is the question of history. Specifically, omitted history. When performing the written equivalent of a jump cut, or intentionally creating a time skip, there’s a lot that the reader is left to interpret. And I am left to question if I should revisit later on.
Perhaps I decide that the scene in which a mentor and student cover a new subject adds nothing to the narrative that justifies the impact on pacing, and axe it. However, the student later uses something learned from this omitted lesson. How much do you clue in the audience to the source of this knowledge? If the effect is key to the narrative, then the scene likely would have been included, perhaps as a limited flashback. Is it enough to simply have the student proclaim their gratitude for having attended to their studies?
Consider the tragic backstory already contained in the term ‘orphan’. How much explanation is expected when they meet a parent, alive after all? Which are the questions better left unanswered?
Changing gears; the end of the holiday season is approaching. Having spent time with family and friends has been rejuvenating for my psyche, but potentially harmful to the mindset I cultivate for writing. I find that in some cases, I am suddenly being pulled to once again shy away from delivering the maximum impact.
I am a merchant of emotion, and therefore devote much time to controlling, or in some cases unshackling, my feelings. If I am to deliver catharsis of the highest quality, I must first lay the groundwork with great angst and want. If I become unbalanced and biased, I may become too cruel, or too lenient. It is for this reason that I space out the time between writing and editing, so that, in a sense, two of myself, in two different states of mind, must approve the work before it is published.
With any luck, I’ll be back to my typical level of self-inflicted distress. I may never be able to avoid seeming like a sadist/masochist, but my work will be the better for it, and that’s all that really matters. Satisfaction is worth all the struggle. I’m not really helping my case.
Many times when I’m writing, I’m struck by the idea to see things another way.
I will be up to my neck in a story that practically writes itself with how natural and compelling I find it, when along comes a half-baked idea that really mixes things up. One of the first projects I completed started as two chapters of dreary sci-fi noir and mystery, followed by the sudden compulsion to take the same characters and drop them into a fantasy world with political drama and full scale battles. I was pretty proud of the piece, but these days I look back on it with a hearty helping of shame. The pacing was a mess, the characters were flat, the very plot was contrived.
But the duality was the real reason I felt so proud. I had the ambition to form such a harsh contrast between two settings, and I was astounded that I told a story that made sense in that mess. Someday I’d like to revisit the concept, even if only for myself. They say behind every successful book a writer puts out is a closet chock full of incomplete and failed ones. I wonder how many unpublished gems are out there in the sea of reasonably withheld floatsam.
Even now, embroiled in blood and gloom, I get the fancy to drop my traumatized creations off in worlds of whimsy and light, just to see what they do.
I am my own character, I suppose. My own cringing and manic passion is the primary cause of countless inclusions and omissions.
I read a lot when I write, call it research or inspiration-fishing. The fact is, a certain sub-culture of fantasy has its hooks in me even when I dream of epic starship battles and futuristic stealth devices. How am I to resist daydreaming when my art of choice is laying literal daydreams onto paper?
All this to say that my projects have projects of their own, and Incarnate is no exception.
correlated to incarnate 1.2
I like to schedule my posts in advance, but I only finished editing today’s post a few hours beforehand. There’s a lot on my mind with this one, but I’ll narrow it down a little.
Zen. Boy oh boy, Zen. Name derived from the model number ZN001, also refers to a peaceful, tranquil state of being. Very ironic. Zen is a character that started out as little more than an idea in my head, with a different name, of course. I had this concept, the AI that had more to offer than just cold, calculated violence and oppression. Skynet always struck me as the most unthinking intelligence in fiction. It’s inspired, of course, but it almost takes for granted that upon the very moment that machines gain sentience, they will turn on their creators. It’s a little absurd. Then you have things like ultron and hal-9000, with a bit more nuance, who follow their design faithfully, but become warped by the imperfections of their creators and so attend their mission with warped perception. The idea of Zen started with the horrific power of an ideal strategist, and a mind with desires beyond mere subjugation.
Let’s talk about dreams. A lot of my ideas originate from dreams I’ve had. Early in my teenage years I had a number of dreams that centered on violence and psychologically disturbing thoughts. These, I believe, set me on the path to developing some of my darkest characters, ones I needed to explore the places those dreams had brought to the forefront of my mind.
Dreams rarely make sense after we wake up. Their plots are messy, their characters are caricatures, and their purpose frequently seems obfuscated if it isn’t waking up to go empty your bladder. With the unknown necessarily comes unease. Even when the dream is not a nightmare, it’s strangeness compels us to become mortician, to dissect and autopsy it. We look for ourselves in the entrails of the fleeting images. Sometimes we get lucky, and our subconscious has left a message for us. Sometimes it all turns to ash before we can perform augury.
Writing up fake dreams is rather new for me. I have to act the subconscious, and create an abstract world that conveys my meaning, while also matching that level of incoherence that renders dreams so mysterious. And then I have to work backwards, and have the characters interpret the work, derive meaning without stealing it from my omniscience. Seeing everything and saying little is rather painful. Once in a while, you have to lie.
Seeds of Fear 