Under the Sun

They say there's nothing new under the sun. Whoever they are, it makes you wonder whether or not they're right.

A lot of what we (as a society) produce seems to be based on, inspired by or downright copies of, things that came before. I'm not just talking about things (for the sake of this discussion, I'm going to stick to artistic endeavours) that were created with the intention of retelling a familiar story, like Westside Story or She's the Man* - I'm talking about everything.

I would say the vast majority fiction, if we were to take away the stylistic aspects and change the characters' names to Protagonist, Antagonist, etc., would tell very similar stories. Which isn't to say those stories aren't compelling, but it calls the idea of originality into question.

Somewhere in this article, I've probably alluded to Shakespeare (and the Bible and maybe a hundred other things), without even knowing. Some things are so prolific that they become part of us, as if by osmosis, and can't possibly be avoided. We write them or say them out loud without any intention to do so. So is it even possible to be original?


I'm wondering if the similarities in the stories we tell exist because they follow a set format that limits us, like that Docx guy suggested, or if it's because we're unconsciously copying each other.

Or, do they exist because of common interest, because we like reading about badass men and damsels in distress, because we like the idea that enemies can become friends and lovers and that the underdog can win, because blood is literally our life force and therefore extremely important to us - do they exist because we're human?

Personally, I think there is plenty new under the sun. I'm a firm believer of originality in art and as far as I can see, it's still going strong.

*I couldn't think of another example off the top of my head, but this kind of leads me to believe that Shakespeare should be left alone... although, 10 Things I Hate About You was really good.

Picking Your Battles (or, at least the order they come in)

I have so much going on right now. Not just in my non-writing life (which is wonderful and crazy-intense), but my writing world as well. I've got my normal 60+ stories on the go - I've been trying to pear (pare?) the list down to just a few, so I can complete some of them, and I think I'm down to about 5 that I'm actively writing. What I've discovered: 5 is still too many. I remember the wonderful years between '02 and '07ish, when I could keep all of my characters and storylines mostly straight in my head (2004 saw the introduction of the Characters spreadsheet, which I used to keep my 300+ characters in order and avoid reusing names), when I could write two or three novels simultaneously and not get confused, or figure out the entire plot to a new story and keep it straight in my head long enough to write it down.

So the question is, how do I narrow my list down even further? I don't want to give up on any of my stories, I'd like to think that I'll write them all, eventually, but the problem is that for every story I complete I start at least two, so how am I ever going to achieve that?

To get the 5, I've used a rough set of criteria based on what I feel like writing, what I can complete in the shortest amount of time and what has the greatest publishing potential, all of which, for reasons I don't quite understand, kind of makes me feel like a sell out. I don't know what else I can do to shorten the list, I honestly don't.

So how do I (or how does any writer) decide which projects to work on and which to push to the (seemingly endless) back burner?

Vintage Writing - Through Darkness

I wrote this on April 26th, 2003, according to the little note I left at the bottom of its original post...which I believe was on Pile of Crap back in the day. I'm rather glad I did that...left the note, I mean, since otherwise, I'd have no idea when I'd actually written it.

Anyway, I was reading it over again, and I don't think I would change any of it, awkward phrases included. It's rare that I would say that about a piece of writing of mine, especially one that's as old as this one is.

Other bit of back history...I wrote it before I took any writing classes. I think, in many ways, I was a much better writer back then. I didn't know the rules, and so didn't care if I broke them.

Whatever...hope you like.

Through darkness I strode, in the fullness of a dream, watching wearily the solid black, though I could see nothing. And yet, my steps knew their purpose, and heading, and my legs moved of their own accord, so while even though I could see not a thing, I could walk and be unworried that I would trip.

Wearily still, however, I peered around, hoping that I could discover something that I could see, and perhaps learn of how I came to be in this place, where there is no light. But I could see nothing, hear nothing except a dull echo of my foot steps upon the inky black floor, and could feel nothing except a slight, very slight, breeze from my passing.

And so I walked, into time uncounted, wondering and wandering across a void so profound that even its presence began to weigh heavily on my heart, and my steps - firm until now - faltered, and stopped. I could not move. What had once been a comfortable walk, albeit a weary one, was now sorrow unbound. I felt now tears on my face.

A vision came to me then, in the back of my mind, although I could see nothing through my physical eyes. A vision of a smile, a look, a glint of blonde in weary weather, a laugh and a fond remembrance of a joy long shared, of lying on a hill top and watching clouds drift lazily above, slowly and away, of a hand holding mine...

I remembered now my purpose, to find him on the other side of the darkness. I had forgotten, in my long walk, what it was that I had been looking for, but, now I knew, more deeply than I had ever known, exactly what it was that I had lost. And now had to find.

With a cry that echoed as dully as my footsteps, I lurched forward, breaking into a run. My heart knew now where I had to go, and to that place I ran and never grew weary. Sounds returned to my ears; laughter, tears - waves upon a shore. Feeling returned to my face; a caress, a chaste kiss, hair upon my cheek. Scent returned to me - summer rain and summer fields, and the wind off the ocean. And finally, most wonderfully, sight!

For an instant I was blinded, the deep darkness through which I had come had left my eyes starved for sight, but unused to it. Pain at first, but it was bearable. The brightness faded, and I saw his face, looking down at me from above, and I knew.

Through darkness I had come - and I was Home.