a fool's musings
Fool, said my muse to me,
look in thy heart and write...
Warning: Adult Content
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07.20.02 - 6:33 p.m.
Undeserved and unbalanced
You know, I've been thinking, as always, about feedback, and it struck me today that I'm highly uncomfortable getting it from people I don't know (i.e., 'I just found your site and I loved XYZ story') or writers I think are better than I am, or for stories I don't think deserved it (Object of His Affections)...
It's not that I don't want the feedback (it's damned addictive, more than any pharmaceuticals, I bet, in the long run); I love it. It's just that I'm bad at *dealing* with it.
I'm also bad at dealing with compliments, and obviously, feedback of the nice kind generally includes them.
It's taken me a long time to learn to say, "Thank you so much" and leave it at that when someone compliments me.
I was wont, in the past, to deflect or turn aside compliments. "Oh, it's nothing. No big deal. You can't be serious. Little ol' me?" And not in the coy, flirtatious fishing for more way, but in the, "You've gotta be fucking kidding me that you've got something nice to say about *me*" way.
I think my natural paranoia is aroused whenever I feel like someone's giving me something for nothing, and while feedback *isn't* something for nothing, it often feels that way to me. I do ask for it, yes, but I don't expect it. If there's any gift-giving going on in fandom, I'm not the one doing it. Let me put it this way, while I might, as a reader, view other people's stories as gifts, if they truly move me, and I may write, "Thanks for sharing" in feedback to the authors, I don't see my own stories in that way.
In the end, I'm going to write regardless of the feedback. I'm not whining about how much I do or don't get. I know that there are people who get way more than I do. I guess there may be some people who get a little less (in some cases it'd be impossible to get a *lot* less than I do, unless someone's getting nothing and since that has yet to happen to me, thanks to some lovely people out there, I really can't whine, and I'm not).
But that's off the point.
I'm wrestling with my own responses to feedback, and how I feel like "thank you" isn't enough, that it doesn't sound sincere even though I really mean it.
I'm also worried about sounding like a dork ('Duh. Cool! You liked my story!') or a pretentious, pompous blowhard ("Why yes, I did intend that reference to the Gotterdammerung. I'm so happy someone was finally smart enough to pick up on it. Did you also see how I interwove the motif of the Bleh with the imagery of the Wah?"), so I usually end up with, "Gee thanks. You liked it! You really liked it!"
It's much easier for me to discuss a story when someone talks about what they liked or didn't like, or has questions as to why I did something, because then I can feel like a "writer" instead of just victoria, tooting her own horn.
It's an odd distinction, but a true one.
And even then, I still worry about coming off like a pseudointellectual prat, an egotist or a shrieky, brainless girly girl.
Somehow, I feel like I'm shooting myself in the foot with this entry, and no matter what I say, someone is going to not send me feedback where they would have in the past, or snark to their friends about how 'victoria is whinging about feedback again' (if they don't have something more pressing to discuss, like another hooha over on TWoP *g*), but I think this goes back to the idea of how many writers in fandom (and possibly in profic as well) have low self-esteem or are insecure in their writing. I'm no different there. Well, kind of. It's also about separating the writing from the author.
While I don't feel, usually, as if *I'm* under attack when someone criticizes one of my fics in good faith, I do feel that I'm being complimented when one of my stories garners praise.
And while I think I'm a good writer, and I'm glad other people agree, it still feels... gah, I can't find the word I want... hinky* would be a good one - it feels hinky to be getting compliments on writing, even though I think I'm good at it.
So I have this uneasy relationship with praise.
I always have. I was a straight-A student my whole life. I expected to do well and wasn't only disappointed, I was often *angered* when I didn't. Not just with myself, but with my teachers. As in "how dare they not see my brilliance!?"
Yet at the same time I was always - and am still - afraid that they could see right through me, that they knew I was a poseur, that I hadn't really worked that hard to get the grade, that I was playing it off the top of my head. Because while I was a grades junkie, I was never a grind. I never studied, rarely worked hard in school.
And sometimes I feel the same way about writing.
I read all these blogs and talk to other writers and they talk about how hard the writing is and sweating blood and being so organized and having outlines and doing research and blah blah blah fishcakes and I swear, I don't do most of that.
I get the words in my head, I sit down and I write.
Sometimes it's hard, yes. Sometimes the words don't come or the inspiration dries up, the urge to write isn't there at all, or it just seems like *work*.
But mostly, it's pretty easy.
And oh, *GOD* I can feel the flames licking at the soles of my feet now as I'm going to drawn and quartered and then burned at the stake for admitting this.
Yes, I do edit my stories, and agonize sometimes over plot (always over plot), but that's either before or after the writing itself.
The writing itself comes pretty easy when it's good, and when it's bad, I just don't do it. I stop and wait, because I know, like the weather in Denver, if I wait a few minutes, eventually I'll stumble into something I like.
So to accept compliments on that seems... wrong. Shady. Hinky.
Undeserved.
That's the real feeling.
I don't feel as if I deserve anything, and therefore don't feel quite capable of responding. I feel like a fraud.
This is not a new feeling.
To be completely wanky, I've written reams of poetry about this very feeling, and could quote it all at you now, but I won't. I have some mercy.
But yeah, if you've spent any time at all with me, you'll notice this odd dichotomy I've got going on over supreme confidence mixed with near-crippling insecurity.
On any given day, I'm not sure which is the front and which the real me, and I'm coming, after many years of navel-gazing, journal-keeping (I'm a champion at introspection), and now therapy, to believe that I'm both, and that the key, as with so many things in life, is just to find the balance.
*hinky: suspicious from The Glossary of Hardboiled Slang.
I'm almost afraid to ask, but, er, comments?
~victoria
[current mood: brutally honest]
[current music: news]
[random quote: Tact is just not saying true stuff. I'll pass. ~Cordelia Chase, BtVS]
~*~
07.19.02 - 8:52 p.m.
Hestia
Lex fell in love with Martha Kent the moment he met her.
He saw her red hair glowing in the sun, and he knew. Not only had Clark given him a second chance, a new lease on life, but he'd also provided the opportunity to have a mother again.
Lex missed his mother.
He would never be so crass as to say so, not in so many words. He buried his feelings deep, and played the wild child to his father's stern patriarch, but really, he just wanted his mother back.
Alive and healthy and whole.
That had never changed, as he went from sullen eleven-year-old to drug-addled eighteen-year-old to ruthless corporate shark at twenty-one.
And here was another redheaded woman, one whose smile seemed to clutch at his heart the way *hers* had, and he was lost.
Lillian had tried to give him some of the homier experiences of childhood, but even she hadn't been able to banish the ever-present sense of Luthor hauteur. He had been floored at the middle American, Norman Rockwell version of life he saw at the Kents'.
He'd known before he ever set foot in the house that Martha Kent's kitchen would be bright, cheery, warm. It would smell of apples and cinnamon.
And it *did*.
He could count on one hand the times his expectations were matched by positive experience, and it made him love her all the more when she not only lived up to what he'd anticipated, but gone far beyond it, with her cookies and pies and the beautiful boy she'd raised to be his friend, Patroclus to his Achilles Hephaiston to his Alexander*.
His first day in Smallville, he'd searched the Castle, looking for something of his mother's, but it was all Lionel.
Finally, he'd made his way down to the kitchen, thinking that there, perhaps, he could find some trace of warmth or comfort.
But no.
Big stainless steel appliances overwhelmed him. There was a staff of three hurrying around, and he'd sighed internally. He somehow doubted there'd be any cookie baking or ice cream making in there.
But Mrs. Kent's kitchen, with bright copper-bottomed pans hanging from the ceiling and cheerful gingham curtains on the windows, there was a room made for little boys (and men who wanted to remember sometimes what being a little boy was like) to play in.
He schooled his expression and reminded himself that he was an adult, a Luthor. He wasn't giddy over being asked to dinner at the Kents' for God's sake. He wasn't giddy at all. Luthors didn't *get* giddy. Or nervous. Or, he reflected dryly, happy. Well, he would try to be different on that last score. And he would start now, by simply enjoying the gesture Martha had made, though he was sure the meal would be good, as well. He opened the door and said, "Mrs. Kent."
***
Martha hummed along to the radio as she cooked.
She turned, and Lex stood in the doorway.
"Mrs. Kent."
She inclined her head in greeting, hands busy chopping carrots. "Lex."
He walked over to the stove, lifting the lid of the pot and inhaling the fragrant steam that escaped.
"That smells absolutely delicious. I wish Enrique would make chicken with dumplings."
She smiled, feeling the blush creep up her cheeks. "You can bring the recipe home, if you'd like."
He grinned. "I don't know, Mrs. Kent. I'll tell you a secret." He leaned in and she felt a small thrill at his easy confidence in her. "Enrique kind of scares me."
She blinked and laughed. "Oh, go on, Lex. I seriously doubt you're afraid of anyone or anything." She didn't say, but it hung there in the space between her words, that he had faced down his father and come out on top. There was nothing left for Lex Luthor to fear.
At least, nothing in the material world.
Martha feared for him, though. Jonathan would no doubt call her melodramatic, but she feared for his soul.
Lillian had been a good woman -- strong, intelligent, a good match for Lionel -- but she'd been taken from Lex too soon, and Martha feared the boy had been permanently scarred by her death. Her heart ached for him; underneath his urbane façade, she knew a there lurked a hurt little boy, and she wanted to reach out to him before he was lost completely to his father's manipulations.
He looked out of place in her cluttered kitchen, his black pants and jacket definitely in danger of being splashed with chicken stock or Bisquick. He set a bottle down on the table. "Beaujolais," he said. "For the house."
She wiped her hands on a paper towel and moved toward the table. "Lex, you shouldn't have--"
"Don't worry, Mrs. Kent. It's not from my father's cellar. It's a nice ten dollar bottle of wine."
She blinked. Underneath his casual insouciance was a hint of bitterness, much like she knew the wine would have a spicy pepper undertone.
"Yes. My father used to serve something similar." She wanted to let him know she understood; she was from the city, and knew how lonely -- how alienating -- life could be when you were different. And no one was more different than Lex. Even Clark fit in better. She took a breath, glad that she'd invited him. It had been Clark's casual mention of Lex being alone on his birthday last weekend that spurred her on. No one should have to be alone, especially not on their birthday, not when Martha Kent was around to remedy the situation.
And if Jonathan was away at the National Corn Growers' Convention in Metropolis, well, she could be as devious as Lionel Luthor when the situation called for it. Lex needed a family, and since Clark had taken to him so readily, Martha was willing to give him a chance, Jonathan's (valid, but somewhat overwrought) concerns notwithstanding.
Martha had done some investigating, starting with Sonia Rafelson, who was cleaning for Lex since the Parkers (?) had gone back to Metropolis after that business with Amy.
Sonia said Lex didn't seem to care much what he ate; as long as it was hot and filling. That surprised Martha, because she'd expected him to be something of a gourmand, but no. He lived on coffee, bottled water and expensive cognac, and didn't bother himself with any of the fancy dishes Enrique liked to cook.
So Martha was going to mother him.
Chicken and dumplings, and apple pie for dessert.
Clark's favorite meal, and despite the disparity in age and social standing, she didn't think Lex would be much different.
And so far, he seemed to approve, if his expression when he sniffed at the pot was any clue.
Martha realized she'd let the silence stretch too long as she contemplated this young man, the boy king of all he surveyed. She looked at the bottle of wine again.
"We should let that breathe," she said, going to the workbench and getting the corkscrew.
"Let me," he said, taking it from her.
***
Half an hour later, Clark still hadn't returned from bringing in the herd, and Lex wondered if he was up in the loft, staring soulfully at Lana's bedroom window.
Normally, he'd have gone to check that out, but somehow, he and Martha were bonding over the bottle of Beaujolais.
It wasn't a bad wine, he thought, though not, perhaps, up to his usual standards. Mrs. Kent liked it though. She was flushed and smiling.
He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, noticing her eyes widening at the gesture. He thought at first it was in fear but then she burst into laughter. It was a rich, full alto sound and again he was reminded of his own mother, and the way she'd laughed with him over -- God, something he couldn't even remember. It didn't matter. Making her laugh had been a goal in and of itself, especially toward the end.
"What?" he said, smiling.
She pursed her lips and tried to stop laughing. "You leaned in some flour. Your shirt--"
He raised his arm, and looked at the white powder now clinging to his linen-covered elbow. He lifted his eyebrows in question and she said, "I was making dumplings. I guess I didn't wash up as well as I thought."
"Martha Stewart would be disappointed."
Another laugh. "Oh, yes. It's not a good thing to douse your guests in flour, is it? Unless you're intending to fry them, of course," she teased.
"Of course," he said. "Believe me, Mrs. Kent, you're a much better cook than Martha Stewart."
She blushed, but played it off. "It doesn't surprise me. She's so impractical. A woman pressed for both money and time would never do things her way."
He nodded, though he knew nothing about being pressed for money, and never would, if he had anything to say about it. He wanted to make life better -- easier -- for her, for Clark, as well, but he knew that whatever the cause of it, the enmity between Jonathan Kent and his father ran deep, and all the Beaujolais and laughter in the world wouldn't change that.
She must have noticed his sudden darkening of mood, because said, "And I'll tell you a secret."
His mouth turned up in a half-grin. "I like secrets."
"I bet you do," she answered. She nodded her chin toward the pots dangling over the counter. "Those pots came to Kansas with Jonathan's great-grandparents. His mother used them, and passed them on to me." She leaned forward and whispered, "They're a lot of trouble to clean, though. I never use them, except when Jonathan's family visits." She pointed to the pot on the stove, the one containing dinner. "Non-stick T-Fal. Bought them at Sears a few years ago, after spending all of Thanksgiving scrubbing burnt pots while the rest of the family watched football. I keep them under the sink, where no one can see."
She looked smug and a little silly, and his throat tightened. "You remind me of my mother," he blurted
She blinked.
"Oh, Lex," she said, laying a hand on his arm and squeezing gently.
"I'll tell you a secret," he offered.
"A fair exchange, huh?"
"Nothing's free." He smiled again, though it felt more like a grimace. He looked away. It was always easier to admit something when you didn't have to look the other person in the eye. "I miss her."
Her hand slid down arm and grasped his tightly. "Of course you do, Lex. You always will. But as long as you remember her, she'll always be alive inside you. She loved you very much."
He returned the pressure on her hand, catching his upper lip between his teeth, feeling all of eleven again.
He wanted to lay himself down in Mrs. Kent's lap and cry, the way he had when she'd died, but Lionel had burned the tears out of him. He could hear his father's voice, 'Luthors never show weakness.' He blinked a few times, and withdrew his hand, suddenly awkward.
He stood abruptly, and took a sip of wine, the weight of the glass in his hand comforting.
He was saved from having to say something when the door banged open and Clark walked in.
"Lex! You're here!"
"Nothing gets by you, does it, Clark?" Lex replied.
Martha rose as well, and kissed her son hello. Lex pushed down the envy that rose in him, and took another sip of wine.
"Why don't you boys set the table," she suggested, moving back to the stove to tend the stew. "Dinner will be ready soon."
"Ooh, chicken and dumplings," Clark said, inhaling deeply. "My favorite."
"I know," Martha said.
"And apple pie for dessert?" Lex asked, willing himself to feel a part of the family, at least for the next few hours, rather than apart from everything.
"And apple pie for dessert," Martha replied, her smile encompassing both of them. And Lex was, for the moment, content.
end
***
I dunno. It's gone through one round of paper editing, and is with the betas, but... I don't know.
Of course, I really like the first line and the title, so it's not a total failure, but...
Anyway, comments are welcome.
*edited, since I like the second pairing better than the first for CLex, though I can see Achilles/Patroclus fitting, if Clark were human.
~victoria
link
[current mood: electric]
[current music: the hum of the air conditioner]
[random quote: I have yet to find a sure thing that I don't doubt / I can't think of a thing I can safely think about]
~*~
07.19.02 - 5:26 p.m.
down to zero
Email is down.
I hate that!
Stupid att.net.
Almost time to leave, and I'm STILL not done with Lex and Martha.
But almost. I know now what they're doing and how it's going to end, at least.
I jsut have to do the writing of it.
Sigh.
And I have to pack tonight, for a trip I won't be taking for a week. Weird. But true.
I'm sure today's been a big disappointment, with me writing absolutely nothing substantive, but look!
Pretty colors! New graphic!
Whee!
Here are some lyrics I'm contemplating ficcage to...
Down to Zero
Joan Armatrading
Oh the feeling
When you're reeling
You step lightly thinking you're number one
Yown to zero with a word
Leaving
For another one
Now you walk with your feet
Back on the ground
Down to the ground
Down to the ground
Down to the ground
Down to the ground
Brand new dandy
First class scene stealer
Walks through the crowd and takes your man
Sends you rushing to the mirror
Brush your eyebrows and say
There's more beauty in you than anyone
Oh remember who walked the warm sands beside you
Moored to your heel
Let the waves come a rushing in
She'll take the worry from your head
But then again
She put trouble in your heart instead
Then you'll fall
Down to the ground
Down to the ground
You'll know heartache
Still more crying
When you're thinking of your mother's only son
Take to your bed
You say there's peace in sleep
But you'll dream of love instead
Oh the heartache you'll find
Can bring more pain than a blistering sun
But oh when you fall
Oh when you fall
Fall at my door...
The line, "When you're thinking of your mother's only son" sends chills down my spine.
I'm on this Lex/Martha kick with the mothers and sons, so...
~victoria
link
[current mood: okay]
[current music: The Bitch Is Back - Elton John]
[random quote: \"I'm an extraordinary bitching pain in the ass.\" Beau Felton, HLotS]
~*~
07.19.02 - 1:36 p.m.
sod's law, and *green*
Okay, new, darker color (and am I the only one who saw that lighter color as *green*? It really is green, not blue. The same green, in fact, as the square in the lefthand corner.), plus! a graphic.
Boreas, by John Waterhouse (I think - I have to look up the artist's name again.).
Spring, the north wind, whatever.
I feel all refreshed and melon-cucumberish now, don't you?
Speaking of which, yesterday, I used my aromatherapy lavendar/vanilla lotion from Bath and Body Works, and not only does it smell FABULOUS, but the scent sticks to you forever.
I could still smell it on my legs when I took my shower last night.
Mmm...
It's a very comforting scent, babyish in some ways. I like.
~*~
This morning I was 2 hours late for work. I overslept my alarm, and then had to wait half an hour for the A train.
Talk about sod's law. Damn.
Of course, I've spent the time I've been here fiddling with the layout of this diary, so I guess I've made up for having a crappy morning, eh?
Oh well, again, let me know what you think.
I want reading this diary to be a... good experience, if not always a pleasurable one. *snerk* I don't want to induce eyestrain in anybody.
I guess I had no problems with the blue and gold, but others did. Huh. Someone should have told me.
I doubt I"ll be changing the fic site any time soon, but this layout was originally designed for that, so you never know.
~victoria
[current mood: artistic]
[current music: The House of the Rising Sun - the Animals]
[random quote: There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun, and it's been the ruin of many a poor boy and god I know I'm]
~*~
2002-07-19 - 10:50 a.m.
New layout
As you can see...
new color scheme and lay out.
I'm a little nervous.
I'm already missing Venus, I think.
More later. Having a bit of a day.
~victoria
[current mood: anxious]
[current music: Sparkling Diamonds - Nicole Kidman]
[random quote: Square cut or pear shaped these rocks don't lose their shape, diamonds are a girl's best friend]
~*~
2002-07-19 - 12:17 a.m.
berserk
I hit ctrl-w and closed the window instead of shift-w for a capital.
Grrr...
Let's try to reconstruct.
I've been reading and thinking a lot about Day's Hard Light.
Khaki, the reason I haven't answered your questions yet is because I'm still pondering. You sent me all into a tizzy, because I'm used to just writing instinctually. I know why everything is set up the way it is in the story - and I think there are good reasons for the way I did it - but now I have to actually consciously articulate it, which takes a little longer. And also edit to make those things clearer.
Like about *why* Logan bothers to tell the story if Rogue has his memories of it and he knows that.
And the thing of it is, it's not really about *Rogue*, though at the beginning they both think it is.
I mean, yes, he wants her to be safe, and yes, it's important that she listen and be sympathetic, but it's more important that he actually TELL the story.
It's cathartic.
Was talking about it with the betas, and Yasi just sent me this quote from a Holly Lisle book she's reading:
He'd lost so many people. With each one he lost, he lost another part of himself, because when he alone remembered the things that happened, it was as if they hadn't happened. Only when he had someone to talk to and to remember with did he feel that he had really existed at all.
Yes. That's it exactly.
Logan tells the story to Rogue for the same reason - for all the various reasons - that there are so many Holocaust memoirs and war/disaster memoirs - as a way of dealing with trauma. As a way of remembering the dead. To try to make sense of the senseless. To make sure the pain and horror is not forgotten and never repeated.
And can I say, more reading in this book Achilles and Vietnam (thanks for the rec, Min) has totally convinced me that Logan is more fucked up than even I thought.
Check this out:
On the basis of my work with Vietnam veterans, I conclude that the berserk state is ruinous, leading to the soldier's maiming or death in battle--which is the most frequent outcome -- and to lifelong psychological and physiological injury if he survives. I believe that once a person has entered the berserk state, he or she is changed *forever*. (emphasis his)This is not a historical curiosity. More than 40% of Vietnam combat veterans sampled in the late 1980s [...] reported engaging in violent acts three times or more in the previous year. [...] A growing body of recent physiological evidence suggests a relationship between disorders of specific brain neurotransmitter function and impulsive violence.
If a soldier survives the berserk state, it imparts emotional deadness and vulnerability to explosive rage to his psychology-- hallmarks of post-traumatic stress disorder in combat veterans.
Logan, of course, had berserker episodes long before he ever went to Vietnam - by the time I'm writing about him, he's already been in 3-4 wars and has detached himself from everyone - hence his being a sniper, working alone, without anyone to worry about protecting (from himself as well as others) or harming.
It makes me wonder about his mutation. There's more physiological stuff in the book about adrenaline rushes and hypersensitivity and such... I wonder if he's just nature's "perfect physical soldier" in some ways...
And then there's the fluky memory thing, which shows up long before he's taken into Weapon X (see Origin):
Whether the berserker is beneath humanity as an animal, above it as a god, or both, he is cut off from all human community when he is in this state. No living human has any claim on him, not even the claim of being noticed and remembered. Frequently, a veteran cannot remember the names or faces of any other soldiers he served with after he became a berserker."I wasn't close. I can't remember no one after that, and I was there over two years more. I can't remember that much. I can't even remember the people." (quote from a veteran)
So yeah, I'm impressed with Logan's characterization, even in the movie, and wonder how much Stan Lee [or Chris Claremont or whoever actually started fleshing Wolvie out] actually knew about veterans and how they reintegrate into society.
The loner/drifter who has violent outbursts and drinks to keep himself... what? Why does Logan drink? He's an alcoholic who can't get drunk, but I'd bet he *needs* to drink, needs to try, anyway, for whatever psychological reasons he doesn't want to explore - to make the pain go away.
I wonder if this memory-loss in the berserker state is another of nature's little tricks, but unfortunately, it seems these men can remember the horrible stuff they did, so it's not like it helps them out on the other end, you know?
Same with Logan, I bet. He drinks to forget the stuff he can't remember as well as what he *can* remember, which is probably the worst of it, if that makes sense.
I have much thinking to do, and I still haven't written that damned Martha vignette.
~*~
~victoria
[current mood: pensive]
[current music: Perfect Blue Buildings - Counting Crows]
[random quote: I got bones beneath my skin, mister, there's a skeleton in every man's house]
~*~
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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