a fool's musings

Fool, said my muse to me, look in thy heart and write...

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2002-03-18 - 9:36 p.m. One Hundred Dollars You lucky folks get to reap the rewards of my two hour commute home tonight. Remember I was talking about the next RR story? And how I wasn't sure how it was going to go? Well, it went. It actually went pretty well, if I do say so myself. *g* It definitely needs tweaking, and I need to look over the last few stories and the timeline to make sure of things, but overall, I'm fairly pleased. I got most of what I wanted in, and if Rogue let the bet slide a little too easily there at the end, well... I'm thinking that's not completely resolved and it will come up again. Anyhow, here 'tis, the first draft, fresh from being typed up... ~*~ Title: One Hundred Dollars Author: Victoria P. Summary: "A hundred bucks? That's what I'm worth to you?" Series: Unspoken RR #57 [dear god!] Timeline: Directly after "The Sure Thing" Rating: NC-17 to be safe Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights. Archive: Lists, RRindex at jenn's Indulgence, Muse's Fool Feedback: Builds strong bones. Notes: Thanks to my gusys (sic): Jen, Meg, Dot, Pete & M'Rae. To Laura, who pushed me until the writer's block finally broke. ~*~ One Hundred Dollars Logan grumbled the whole ride over to the Hilton, planning ways to get back at Betsy for this little stunt. The night clerk made as if to stop him on his way to the elevator. He bared his teeth. The man returned to reading his newspaper. Logan hit one on the panel, shaking his head at the lax security even as he was grateful for it. Something nagged at the back of his mind, but he was too annoyed to pay attention. He hated hotels -- the noise, the smells, the freaky carpeting, the questionable sheets -- they were the same the world over, and they grated on his hyperacute senses. The elevator doors opened and he exited onto the first floor. The sign pointed left for rooms 101 through 145, and right for 102 through 144. "Room 113," he mumbled. He turned left and took a deep breath. And it all clicked into place. The scent that had been nagging at the edges of his consciousness suddenly became identifiable. Betsy wasn't staying here. Marie was. "I take back every bad thing I ever said about you, Betts," he muttered, not even trying to stifle the grin that creased his face. Betsy could be annoying, and more than a little domineering, but she usually had his interests at heart. He didn't know how she'd gotten this particular bit of information, and he didn't care. He strode down the hall, purpose in every step, imagining a continuation of his conversation with Marie, one in which he got to check out the place his tags had been living. The flimsy card-key lock was no match for Logan's superior breaking and entering skills, and she hadn't bolted the door. He'd have to have a talk with her about that later, he thought absently. The door swung open silently, creating an arc of light in the darkened room, and he entered, closing the door behind him, his body already tense with arousal from her scent. And promptly got hit in the head with something hard and rectangular. Something that felt remarkably like the Gideon bible in every hotel room in the country. "Ow." Before he could identify himself, she followed up with a punch to his stomach. She'd put some muscle behind it, he noted clinically as he caught her other fist and easily subdued her, holding her within the adamantium circle of his arms. She was wily, though, and swept her foot out, just as he'd taught her in their short time together, catching him behind the knee. He didn't let her go, and they tumbled to the floor. They rolled until he was on top. Then he grasped both her hands in one of his and stretched them over her head, pinning her with his body. "Marie, baby, it's me, Logan." She bucked her hips in response, which made him suck in a breath. "I'm glad I hit you. I hope it hurt," she hissed. "What? Why? If this is about Betsy--" "It's not." "Good. She's a business associate and a friend. Nothing more. So," he shifted his weight a little, moving his legs to either side of hers, but still keeping their bodies pressed close. He was enjoying it and he knew she knew it. She was enjoying it, too, if her scent was anything to go by. He just had to figure out why she was so pissed. "Why'd you hit me?" "You broke into my hotel room." He nodded, then remembered the room was still dark and she might not be able to see him as well as he could see her. "Yeah. You really should use the bolt, kid. Those magnetic locks open if you look at them too hard." She squirmed beneath him, making it difficult for him to focus on the conversation. His hand tangled with both of hers above her head, the soft glide of her skin sending shockwaves to his already hard cock. "God, Marie," he rasped, and it hit him full-force. "You're touching me." She raised an eyebrow in a gesture that was eerily familiar. "And Scott said you were slow on the uptake." He growled low in his throat at the mention of her fiancé -- ex-fiancé now, if the way the guy was hovering around Jean was any indication. He knew Rogue could feel the vibration when he growled; her body trembled beneath him, and not from fear. But even in his surprise he hadn't released her. His free hand came up to caress her cheek, wonder flooding through him. "How--" "I went to see Erik." "Erik?" "Magneto." He unconsciously tightened his grip on her, his free hand now entwined in her hair. "And you're all right? He didn't try anything?" "He touched me." Every muscle in Logan's body tensed; she must have felt realized he was afraid for her, because she continued quickly, "He *taught* me. Everyone said it couldn't be done, but he did it. He showed me how to touch." Her voice was husky from some emotion stronger than lust or fear or anger. It took him a moment to place it -- it was joy. Logan cupped her face tenderly, sliding his thumb along the curve of her cheek and then over the full lips he'd been dreaming of since that night on the Statue of Liberty. He knew that kissing her, making love to her, meant something it had never meant before -- she would be conscious of the touch of his hand, his lips, this time. He would wed her to him, body and soul, with the touch of his bare lips on hers. Her first kiss without ill effect. He dropped his head and, whisper-soft, kissed her. He was kissing Marie. The thought sent another hot rush of desire through his veins. He nibbled at the corner of her lips, coaxing her mouth open much as he had earlier coaxed the lock to her room. He slid his tongue inside, reveling in the warm velvet wine of her taste. She moved beneath him, their legs tangled together. He freed her hands so he could run his fingers through her hair as he stroked her throat with his other hand. She gripped his shoulders and skated her teeth lightly along his bottom lip before sucking on his tongue. Electricity again jolted through his body, and his caresses grew fevered as he felt the need to touch her, consume her. He wanted to absorb her as she had him, and keep her safe and loved within himself. And then she clocked him with something that felt like the remote for the television. "Wha--?" Dazed by the passion of their kisses, he didn't move quickly enough, and she managed to break free of him. She stood, panting, in the center of the room. "A hundred bucks? That's what I'm worth to you?" she screamed as he slowly got to his feet. He froze. "Oh, shit." The bet. He's completely forgotten the bet. And she obviously had not. "You better believe you're in deep shit, buddy," she snapped, launching the box of tissues from the nightstand at him. He ducked and it clattered harmlessly against the wall. "Marie, baby--" "Don't you 'baby' me, mister. I still have enough of Magneto's power to pretzelize you." He felt laughter bubble up inside, but kept his face impassive. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," he intoned with mock solemnity. His good humor only seemed to make her angrier. "What?" she shrieked. "You weren't exactly *scorning* me two seconds ago." "No," he agreed, holding his hands up as she reached for the lamp, which was (luckily for him) bolted to the table. "I wasn't." He took a step, and when she remained silent, he kept moving until he could take her hands in his own. Again, the feel of her bare flesh against his sent a thrill through his body. "I'm worth more than one hundred dollars," she said. "Yes, you are," he replied. "And don't ever forget it." He brought her hands up to his lips and reverently kissed her palms, darting his tongue out to taste the soft tang of the skin that so tantalized him. He could smell her growing arousal as he kissed her knuckles, and then took the tip of each finger into his mouth, licking and sucking gently. "The bet," she reminded him, but the anger was gone from her voice. "It was supposed to be a compliment." That wrung a weak laugh from her. "That's what St. John said, but--" "St. John?" So that's how Betsy had known where Marie was. She'd picked it out of the kid's mind after he must have spoken with Marie. "Yeah. St. John. He said you meant it as a compliment." She took a deep breath and he wondered if she was still wearing his tags. "Just so you know--" "Yeah?" "It's not." He nodded and went back to fondling her fingers. "It's like -- it's being bought and paid for. It's being played for a fool. I don't like either of those options, Logan." "I know, and I didn't mean--" "How am I supposed to know what you meant?" Her voice was rising again. "I want you. You picked that up from my thoughts, right? The last time we touched, at the lake?" She blushed but held his gaze. "Yes, but--" "No buts," he whispered. She overrode him. "But how do I know it's *me* that you want and not the -- however many hundreds of dollars are in the pot now?" "If I win, I won't take it," he said immediately. He really couldn't see any other way to answer her question, and he couldn't have cared less about the cash. She was right. "You're way more important to me than any amount of money, Marie." "Prove it," she challenged. "I'm trying," he said, feeling that laughter bubble up again, and this time letting it out, "but you keep talking." "Oh," she whispered, dropping her eyes. He cupped her chin and stared down into her eyes. "I'm going to kiss you, Marie." She raised her face to his, eyes fluttering closed as he pressed his lips to hers in a searing kiss he felt all the way to the marrow of his metal bones. He couldn't get enough of her; he didn't think he ever would. His hands were everywhere, caressing, teasing, stroking her body. He ripped his shirt off, popping all the buttons, which scattered across the floor. Her sleep shirt followed, tossed over his shoulder carelessly. He just wanted to feel her against him. He thumbed her nipples, making her arch her back and cry out wordlessly for more. He bent his head to suckle at one, and then the other, paying homage to their perfection with lips and tongue. Her hands skimmed over him, learning the feel of his body, making his muscles jump when she returned the favor and played with his nipples, before moving around and sliding down his back to squeeze his ass. Her legs cradled him and he rocked his groin against her wet heat, feeling it even through her panties and his jeans. Her hands slid beneath his waistband and he sucked in at breath as her fingers danced along his hard shaft. He kissed his way down her stomach, feathering touches along the soft curve of her abdomen. "God, Marie," he groaned, inhaling the deep, rich scent of her arousal. She purred in response, raising her hips off the bed, an invitation he was not slow to take. He slipped his thumbs beneath the waistband of her underwear, slowly dragging them down her long, toned alabaster legs-- And the phone rang. "Grrr. Ignore it, Marie." "I-- I--" He grinned at her inability to form words, and dropped delicate kisses along the sensitive flesh on the insides of her thighs. She was an X-Man to the core, though, he realized in resignation, when he heard her say, "Hello?" His acute hearing picked up Charles Xavier's voice on the other end. "Rogue, it's Charles. I understand you saw Erik this evening." "Yes, Professor, I did. He--" "We can discuss that later. It's of the utmost importance that you return to the mansion, now. The Friends of Humanity are not stopping with the bomb at the warehouse--" "Bomb at the warehouse?" Rogue repeated in a daze. "One of Warren's warehouses was bombed earlier this evening. I'm afraid Candace did not make it out alive." Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, God." "Yes. Warren is here tonight. Scott was heading toward the cabin in the mountains, but I have called him back as well. Betsy has said she will contact Logan. I've just received some information about the Friends of Humanity's plans for the rest of this evening. "This time, the X-Men will be there to stop them." "Yes, Professor," she said. "We'll be right there." She hung up, and Logan felt the desire drain from his body. "Promise me you'll stay at the mansion," he demanded as she pulled her underwear back on. "I can't promise that, Logan. I'm part of the team--" "You're the weak link, Marie. You know that. A few more weeks of training with me, sure, but these fuckers mean business. They're not going to let you get away with negotiation and defensive tactics--" She pressed a finger to his lips, followed by a swift kiss. "Get dressed, Logan. You'll be there to protect me." He sighed. "Yeah. I guess I will." They dressed quickly, and were headed back to the Xavier mansion in less than ten minutes. Logan feared what the rest of the night would bring, that he'd lose everything he'd just gained. ~*~ Feel free to comment. *G* ~victoria [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2002-03-18 - 12:38 p.m. "mood swing, you bring me up, you bring me down" Okay, laura ellen has a survey up about mood in (fan)fiction, which is very interesting. I just took it, and I think you should too. *g* It's made me do some thinking about mood and tone and the choices I make as a writer, and how unschooled I feel sometimes next to people who talk about their outlines and their plans and their setting out to write to theme etc. Me, I set out with a premise - "If Logan did X, how would Rogue respond?" or "What if XYZ happened? How would Rogue handle it? How would Logan?" I tend to be Rogue-centric far more than Logan-centric in my writing, which is possibly a topic to be explored another day. Anyhow, yeah, mostly it's a premise, or a snippet of dialogue, like the following: "Why do you let him treat you like that?" "Like what, Logan?" "Like his personal --" He stopped abruptly. "Whore?" "Marie!" "It's what you were going to say, isn't it?" She took his silence for agreement. "Just say it, then." "I mean, I understand why you two got together. He's in love with Jean, you're in love with Scott, but..." "Well, you're almost right." "You're not in love with Scott?" "He's not in love with Jean." "Huh. But then why--" "Scott made his choice. Jean made hers. None of us were it, were we? Which is why you're still running around like the man with no name, and Warren and I are ..." "Are what?" "Just leave it be, Logan. It's -- you of all people should understand." This dialogue was somehow inspired also by a snippet of lyrics from "Downtown Train" : Well you wave your hand and they scatter like crows They have nothing that will ever capture your heart They're just thorns without the rose Be careful of them in the dark (as an aside, as an almost-Brooklyn Girl, let me say I'm not pleased at this unflattering portrait, though the last line is quite true. *smirk*) So, we went from lyrics to dialogue, and somehow, someday, I'll spin a story around that (I hope). I mean, yes, I do occasionally answer challenges, but that's rare - I prefer Khaki's open-ended Opening Sentence Challenges or something like Caroline's "Rogue screws up so massively she has to beg for forgiveness" to anything that explicitly lays the story out for me. I tend to feel trapped if I start outlining too much too early. And I've been known to chuck whole scenes from a fic if they don't wind up working. Anyhow, mood is interesting, because what is it? The definition of mood from Merriam Webster online is: Main Entry: 1 mood Pronunciation: 'müd Function: noun Etymology: Middle English, from Old English mOd; akin to Old High German muot mood Date: before 12th century 1: a conscious state of mind or predominant emotion: FEELING; also: the expression of mood especially in art or literature 2 archaic: a fit of anger: RAGE 3 a: a prevailing attitude: DISPOSITION b: a receptive state of mind predisposing to action c: a distinctive atmosphere or context : AURA A feeling, a state of mind, an atmosphere - an ambiance, if you will. How do you create mood in text? Tone. Word choice. Tense. POV. Setting. Dialogue or lack of same. This opening: Wolverine was bored. It was a beautiful summer Saturday. The brats were out doing things -- baseball, swimming, trawling the mall for sales -- and the X-Geeks were all occupied as well. Logan had the whole damn mansion to himself, it seemed. He sat in solitary splendor in the living room, a six-pack of Molson at his side, enjoying ESPN Classic's rerun of Game Seven of the Rangers-Devils Eastern Conference Finals on Chuck's new wide-screen TV. ~from Day of Beauty creates a totally different mood than: Scott stands at the soda machine, money in hand, shoulders slumped. What should be the best day of his life has turned into one long nightmare. Thirty-six hours of the worst hell he's ever faced, including the months he spent with his eyes taped shut in fear, and the minutes he spent falling from a burning plane with a parachute that didn't open. ~from Root Beer Reverie Okay, so one's a big foof-fest and the other is depressing as hell, so here's another happy one for comparison: He heard it every day, but he'd never paid attention to it before. The soft sound of music spilling from the room at the end of the hall. Finally succumbing to his curiosity, he followed the music to its source. Stopping quietly in the doorway, he saw Marie sitting at the piano, face radiant in the sunlight, her ungloved hands dancing along the keys. He hadn't seen her smile like that in a long time. Maybe never. He knew that, even though she was loved and protected here at Xavier's, she still missed out on so much. She never let on that she was at all unhappy, but he had only to look at her now to see that her smiles around others were a pale shadow of the joy she felt at that piano. ~from The Music Lesson Even though both Day of Beauty and Music Lesson are happy fics, they have different moods, and the opening paragraphs reflect that. So yeah, word choice, setting, tone, tense, POV, all very important to conveying that elusive thing called mood. I think it's hard to shift gears well; in a short piece, one mood - two at most - will predominate. One can go from happy to sad, or sad to happy, but one shouldn't run the gamut from sad to angry to depressed to happy in 1000 words. Hell, you can set the mood in the first line. "They died instantly" or "He should have seen it coming" both bode ill, even if, as people other did, you write a funny story instead of one that follows through on that somber/ominous mood. That abrupt shift in tone from ominous to funny works, in the right hands, and the foreboding words serve to throw the reader for a loop when what he didn't see coming is a blueberry pie, rather than, you know, a bullet or the question that's going to ruin his love life for a long time coming. *g* {another aside: my mouse hates me. It doesn't like moving from left to right, only up and down. Damn evol mouse.) Anyhow, I think I've rambled long enough on mood. Go take the survey and help a fellow ficcer out. I'm still pondering mood... ~victoria [current er mood: cold and annoyed at my mouse] [current music: American Band - Grand Funk Railroad. Oy.] [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2002-03-17 - 11:43 p.m. deadly as a rusted nail I wasn't planning to do this, since I thought I'd be in bed by now, because I have to get up an hour earlier than normal because I have to take the stupid railroad in to work. I'm finally getting to burning the CD I made. Here's the track list: Deadly as a Rusted Nail One Way- the Levellers Southside- Moby & Gwen Stefani Elevation - U2 Ladyfingers - Luscious Jackson Gravel - Ani DiFranco Sick of Myself- Matthew Sweet If I Can't Change Your Mind - Sugar Hey Jealousy - Gin Blossoms Alive - Pearl Jam Treason - Velvet Chain This Street, That Man, This Life - Cowboy Junkies Full of Grace - Sarah McLachlan The Space Between - DMB Last Goodbye - Jeff Buckley Anna Begins - Counting Crows Down to Zero - Joan Armatrading One - U2 Hunger Strike - Temple of the Dog 32 Flavors - Ani DiFranco In other news, if I find out you're not watching Alias, I'm going to have to come over there and *thwap* you, and I'm sure you don't want that. Watch, dammit. Watch this show. Love this show. Because it's the best damn thing television has produced since BtVS/Angel took a downturn. Ah, cd's done burning. I'm going to bed. Erin Go Bragh. ~victoria [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2002-03-17 - 4:28 p.m. imperfection Since yesterday was a big ego fest for me in here, I'll do the thing I meant to do earlier in the week, which is, list my flaws as a writer. ::deep breath:: In no particular order: => I suck at description. I just have no interest in reading it, so I tend to skip over it while I'm writing it - I mean, they're clothed unless I tell you they're not. Let your imagination run wild. *g* If an item of clothing is necessary for plot purposes, it gets described. I think I manage to give an idea of what the characters look like without having to do the "The tall, brown-haired man" etc. Same with background. You can imagine the mansion decorated anyway you please. I'm not going to enthuse about the Chippendale breakfront or the topiary in the backyard unless there's a plot reason. I *do* try to get a descriptive of feelings and sensations, especially in erotica, but even there, sometimes, I think I leave out more than I probably should. => I generally can't handle more than three people in any given scene. You'll notice, if you read any small amount of my fic, that there are always dyads involved in conversation, never triads or more. It's always Jean-Scott, Scott-Rogue, Rogue-Logan, etc. I have a hard time with the briefing and "team" scenes because I forget that the other people need to *do* things, just enough to remind you that they're there, but not enough to take your attention away from the main speakers. And I often forget to do that, and have to be reminded by my betas - "Is Kitty still there? What's she doing?" etc. => I suck at action scenes. Again, they don't hold much interest for me. I'd much rather have someone else choreograph them, like Joss Whedon's infamous, "Fighty? All righty" in the script for something or other, and then Jeff Pruitt [or whoever the fight coordinator is now] would choreograph the fight. Part of this is lack of familiarity with the terms one uses [roundhouse? uppercut? okay, those I know, but putting them all together into a coherent paragraph about a fight makes me sweat blood]. => I'm not so good with the plot. I find that I know what I want to happen - or rather, I know what the end product is supposed to be, but I have a problem figuring out all the little twists and turns on the way there. Even when I outline and such, I'm still unsure of what exact events are going to occur. Now, I prefer to write and let the story guide me, but I also tend to panic when I'm writing a noir thriller and I can't figure out how Rogue is going to get off when she's confessed to killing her father in front of half a dozen witnesses. *g* Luckily, these things get sorted out when I take a shower. I highly recommend the shower as the cradle of creativity. That and the time before you fall asleep and the time just after you wake up and are sort of floating along in a half-dream-state in bed. I'm tempted to share the outline here for something, but... I'm also paranoid that I'll never actually write the story, so it's a no go for now. and the flaw that absolutely makes me wail and gnash my teeth, and probably the thing that stops me from planning really long stories (that's not counting the stories that turn into monsters, like Consumption): =>I rush the endings I, like any good shipper out there, just want to get my couple together. I want to write the big revelation scene where they admit their love for each other and fall into each other's arms. I don't necessarily like all the sturm und drang that leads up to that, and I get impatient with it sometimes. I get impatient with other people's stories, when I think, "Arrgh, why isn't he telling her the truth? Why does she let him think she's in love with someone else? Arrgh!" and the same thing happens with my own work sometimes. So I jump ahead. I get frustrated and say, screw it, I'm ending this sucker. And I shortchange the story. And that's a big bad. And people have commented on it, and I know I do it. But sometimes I just feel so... grrr... bored, or frustrated or something. So I end the story, but don't tie up all the loose ends or it seems like I've skipped a scene or two or something. See, I can't even articulate what it is, but I do it. Anyhow, people have arrived for St. Paddy's Day dinner, so I have to go now. ~victoria [current mood: Irish, and confessional] [current music: To Make You Feel My Love - Billy Joel] [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2002-03-16 - 10:35 p.m. not a tease I feel like I should be doing something productive, or creative. Or at least answering some email. But meh... I did answer some email, but this desk is too high up for comfortable typing. Or I'm a lazy ho. Whichever. I did do more on Consumption. A little more. Nothing to get excited about. I mean, yeah, big needles and dramatics, but I still haven't figured out how to transition to the stuff that's going to happen to Scott. Poor Scott. He doesn't know it yet, but he's going to be one miserable fuck by the time I'm done with him. I feel bad about it, but it's the way the story has to go. So far, his was the rising arc, but now he's in for a fall... Plus, I want to get back to the RR. I need to write the story where Logan goes to the hotel room. I just have to decide if there's going to be a consummation or not. Sigh. This is why I don't like co-authoring. It's not my baby, even though I've donated quite a bit of the DNA. So I have the general idea of what happens, I'm just not sure if there's finally going to be sex, or if I'm just going to tease. Ah me... ~victoria [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2002-03-16 - 12:18 p.m. the good, the bad and the ugly Christine has an entry in her blog that asks the forbidden question: How do you know if your writing is any good? Seema tackles the question and comes up with this: In the end, I think 'good' is defined as what captures the reader's interest, in terms of storylines and plotting and the characters the stories focus on. And to some degree, I think that's true. If you're writing for a specific audience (as most fanfic writers are), then you can gauge to a certain degree how well you accomplished your goal by how the audience responds, i.e., by how much - and what kind of - feedback you receive. Except of course, that anyone who's ever put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, as it were) knows that feedback is often... odd - things get interpreted differently than intended, throwaway details become major focus points, people tell you how wonderful it all was when you wanted them to curl up weeping and die... So yeah, feedback - not exactly a good gauge of writing merit. As Seema puts it: . It just goes to prove that the writer's intent isn't always properly interpretated (can you imagine what Emily Bronte must be thinking of modern day interpretation of "Wuthering Heights"? I can only imagine her marching her into a classroom, exclaiming, "You all have it wrong!") nor is FB necessarily a gauge of what's 'good' - only that at some point in time, what you wrote appealed greatly to a particular audience for a particular reason. We've all seen crappy stories that get reams of feedback where well-written ones get passed over. Is it because the crappy ones (technically speaking) are touching readers while the well-written ones are not? Can something be well-written and yet not move an audience? Jae Gecko has a similar discussion going on in her LJ, and I swear, it's like she's jacked into my brain. *g* I tend to be the technically brilliant yet somehow less-emotionally involving type writer, and that rubs my rectum the wrong way, to quote Munch. I want to move people to tears. I want them to feel what Logan or Rogue or Clark or Lex is feeling. I want to rip out their insides and make them wish they'd never been born... oops, that's a different kind of power I'm wishing for there. *g* Seriously, though, sometimes it seems as if technical proficiency steals or dilutes that raw emotional connection, and emotional connection always trumps technical brilliance, for me, as a reader. It's a puzzlement, for sure. So, once again, I repeat, How do you know if your writing is any good? For me, I feel it. I've been writing - fiction, poetry, songs, papers, email, etc. - since I *could* write. Much of it is a function of imagination and emotion. Marrying the imagination to the stringent rules of writing is one step. I learned *how* to write - i.e., non-fiction, term paper stuff - presenting arguments and then backing them up - and then it was a question of taking those skills and applying them in some way to the stories I wanted to tell. I think you feel it in your gut if your writing is good. I'm going to sound like an egotistical monster, but I know mine is. I know that technically, I've produced some wonderful sentences/paragraphs/dialogue. I know that when I reread my stories, I'm sometimes delighted by the multiple layers of meaning I've managed to cram into three sentences - some of it that I was completely unaware of until that rereading. The one thing that I can't tell when I reread my work is how much of an emotional impact it has on others. My stories rarely have an impact on me. Maybe one or two have, I mean, I can recall getting upset when writing Keep It Like a Secret or Very Sickness, or Long Hard Road, I can remember the feeling of depression that was weighing me down when I wrote Girl of His Dreams, but overall, I can't remember crying over something I'd written, even when I look at it and say, "damn, that's sad." I hope someone's out there crying or rejoicing along with the characters. But I don't know. There are people I trust to tell me if I'm doing well (hi gusys!) and people whose feedback I've come to cherish because they explain what moved them, and what worked as well as what didn't. But I don't think you ever really know what kind of an emotional impact you're having. Though occasionally I do reread Best Laid Plans or Soiled Dove and think "I wrote that?" because I think they work so well, and yet I can't believe I managed to put together a story that worked like that. Especially Soiled Dove. If you never ever read anything I've written but one story, make it that one. Because even though I know it's got flaws, it just... I love that story. I don't care what anyone else says about it. *g* And now I want to take a shower, but I'm stuck in the office with the dog, since the cable guy is here and he won't leave! WAH! ~victoria [current mood: self-satisfied, and trapped] [current music: One Way - the Levellers] [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ previous - next DiaryLand Disclaimer: Reading this diary is not required by law. If you do not like or agree with the contents herein, or find them to be offensive on more than one occasion, please go elsewhere and don't come back. Management is not responsible for any adverse reactions to content within. The painting is "Boreas" by John William Waterhouse. Again, not a muse, but I like her. She suits the color scheme. The quote is from Sir Philip Sidney. 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