Young Writers Society

I am currently working on one of my larger attempts at greatness: a short story with the working title The Difference Between Landmines and Time Bombs. Don't get excited, it's a far cry from a war story.

It's going well, to say the least. I've really stepped up the writing, and it's some of the best material I've put out in a long while (I probably shouldn't mention it's some of the only material I've put out in a long while.)

I'm just getting really impatient with it. Any short story I've written prior to this has not exceeded four pages (typed.) Landmines and Time Bombs, I feel, is going to take months to work itself out of me -- it may become twenty plus pages -- and I'm just afraid of losing motivation along the way. Or afraid of not having enough time for it. I want to make writing a big part of my life, but right now so many other things are getting in the way...

In other news, I've also started on a sequel to Jesus Was Gother Than You. Ha.

OMG... the best you've come up with? I can't wait.

Aw, Snoink. Thank you for the encouragement. I appreciate it so much.



One of the things I most admire about Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire is the role reversal. You go into it thinking you know whose side you're on: there is always this immediate desire to find the protagonist, we like to have someone to root for. And Stanley fills the position. He is our golden boy: This funny, handsome blue collar god -- you know, one of us. And when he hates Blanche, we hate Blanche: that annoying waste of space who is filthy and deceptive as sin. You know, one of them.



And then -- GOSH. it's so good.

Slowly, Stanley evolves into this ... this monster. Right before our eyes, he becomes one of them! And we thought we had it all figured out. And we watch, helplessly, as one of our own spirals into a tragic demise. If only we'd have known, Blanche. We were so blind before! To have hated that vulnerable, heartbroken, mess of a woman who lies deep within every one of us.

Williams is one of my "heroes." His life was tragic, but that his trials hit so close to home. He can tug on our own heartstrings because he had his own ripped out. He was so keenly familiar with pain that he could write it well -- something most people will never touch. Art is the most beautiful product of suffering. Look at Remarque, Hemmingway, Plath, Keats.



Anyway, I'm trying out this "role reversal" thing on my story. It's difficult. It's hard to write a story when you don't know where you want it to go next. I have never planned a story in advance, but I've heard it's useful. I need to think on it.

Okay, it's up.

-Takes a nervous gulp of air-

viewtopic.php?t=14581