The "Freeola Customer Forum" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
Bah.
When I first conceived my little tale, which I call Half-Life, the idea was relatively simple. It was far different to anything I had tried to write before, a synopsis of the plot being that Brian falls ill, is diagnosed with cancer and leaves his family to spend his final months living it up in Australia. The story turns from sympathy vote to love story up until Brian's death-bed, where the story ends.
Somewhere along the line, the story took on a mind own. Before I know it, I was writing about tortured dreams entailing gruesome death, an increasingly blurred divide between dreams and reality, and a rapidly failing mental state for the main character.
And it gets worse. I've re-plotted most of the story in my mind. Gone is the sympathy, the token love interest and the months of freedom in Oz. It's quickly turning into something very sinister instead.
I had intended to write something nice and lovely, which could have brought a tear to the eye. I'm instead writing what will probably amount to a thriller/horror story.
I didn't design these changes, my mind altered the story all by itself. It's not being written by me anymore. It's being written by a part of me that seems hard to part from. The cynical side. The dark and unforgiving blackness that comes across so well in most of my one liner posts.
What will the story eventually be by the time I've stopped writing? I can't tell you. I can't tell you because I don't know. But I can say this; it's not going to be a happy happy joy joy rollercoaster ride through life love and happiness. I don't seem to have much choice in this matter.
Anyone else ever find that they conceive a story, and helplessly stand by as their mind evolves it into something else while they're typing it?
When I first conceived my little tale, which I call Half-Life, the idea was relatively simple. It was far different to anything I had tried to write before, a synopsis of the plot being that Brian falls ill, is diagnosed with cancer and leaves his family to spend his final months living it up in Australia. The story turns from sympathy vote to love story up until Brian's death-bed, where the story ends.
Somewhere along the line, the story took on a mind own. Before I know it, I was writing about tortured dreams entailing gruesome death, an increasingly blurred divide between dreams and reality, and a rapidly failing mental state for the main character.
And it gets worse. I've re-plotted most of the story in my mind. Gone is the sympathy, the token love interest and the months of freedom in Oz. It's quickly turning into something very sinister instead.
I had intended to write something nice and lovely, which could have brought a tear to the eye. I'm instead writing what will probably amount to a thriller/horror story.
I didn't design these changes, my mind altered the story all by itself. It's not being written by me anymore. It's being written by a part of me that seems hard to part from. The cynical side. The dark and unforgiving blackness that comes across so well in most of my one liner posts.
What will the story eventually be by the time I've stopped writing? I can't tell you. I can't tell you because I don't know. But I can say this; it's not going to be a happy happy joy joy rollercoaster ride through life love and happiness. I don't seem to have much choice in this matter.
Anyone else ever find that they conceive a story, and helplessly stand by as their mind evolves it into something else while they're typing it?
Page:
Bah.
When I first conceived my little tale, which I call Half-Life, the idea was relatively simple. It was far different to anything I had tried to write before, a synopsis of the plot being that Brian falls ill, is diagnosed with cancer and leaves his family to spend his final months living it up in Australia. The story turns from sympathy vote to love story up until Brian's death-bed, where the story ends.
Somewhere along the line, the story took on a mind own. Before I know it, I was writing about tortured dreams entailing gruesome death, an increasingly blurred divide between dreams and reality, and a rapidly failing mental state for the main character.
And it gets worse. I've re-plotted most of the story in my mind. Gone is the sympathy, the token love interest and the months of freedom in Oz. It's quickly turning into something very sinister instead.
I had intended to write something nice and lovely, which could have brought a tear to the eye. I'm instead writing what will probably amount to a thriller/horror story.
I didn't design these changes, my mind altered the story all by itself. It's not being written by me anymore. It's being written by a part of me that seems hard to part from. The cynical side. The dark and unforgiving blackness that comes across so well in most of my one liner posts.
What will the story eventually be by the time I've stopped writing? I can't tell you. I can't tell you because I don't know. But I can say this; it's not going to be a happy happy joy joy rollercoaster ride through life love and happiness. I don't seem to have much choice in this matter.
Anyone else ever find that they conceive a story, and helplessly stand by as their mind evolves it into something else while they're typing it?
When I first conceived my little tale, which I call Half-Life, the idea was relatively simple. It was far different to anything I had tried to write before, a synopsis of the plot being that Brian falls ill, is diagnosed with cancer and leaves his family to spend his final months living it up in Australia. The story turns from sympathy vote to love story up until Brian's death-bed, where the story ends.
Somewhere along the line, the story took on a mind own. Before I know it, I was writing about tortured dreams entailing gruesome death, an increasingly blurred divide between dreams and reality, and a rapidly failing mental state for the main character.
And it gets worse. I've re-plotted most of the story in my mind. Gone is the sympathy, the token love interest and the months of freedom in Oz. It's quickly turning into something very sinister instead.
I had intended to write something nice and lovely, which could have brought a tear to the eye. I'm instead writing what will probably amount to a thriller/horror story.
I didn't design these changes, my mind altered the story all by itself. It's not being written by me anymore. It's being written by a part of me that seems hard to part from. The cynical side. The dark and unforgiving blackness that comes across so well in most of my one liner posts.
What will the story eventually be by the time I've stopped writing? I can't tell you. I can't tell you because I don't know. But I can say this; it's not going to be a happy happy joy joy rollercoaster ride through life love and happiness. I don't seem to have much choice in this matter.
Anyone else ever find that they conceive a story, and helplessly stand by as their mind evolves it into something else while they're typing it?
Insane Bartender wrote:
> Anyone else ever find that they conceive a story, and helplessly stand
> by as their mind evolves it into something else while they're typing
> it?
That happens to most writers (and the Child Support Agency too).
> Anyone else ever find that they conceive a story, and helplessly stand
> by as their mind evolves it into something else while they're typing
> it?
That happens to most writers (and the Child Support Agency too).
Well, I can understand a story changing slightly as you put it into words, but mine has changed from love and happiness to despair and discontent.
Yeah, a story is only limited by our imagination; usually the darker side of our subconscious. I was reading what Donaldson was saying about his GAP series and he said that it scared him how the story was developing and he had recognised a darker side in him that he never thought he'd possessed.
You'll probably find that alot of it is how your mind actually works or is working at the time.
Look at the stuff you have posted over recent months and there has not been much about peace, love and happiness. Your story is following along in the direction of your mindset and your experience - probably..
It's the type of writing that you find easiest to put down I suppose and even though you initially wanted to follow a different direction - your subconcious (sp!) wouldn't let it.
I think that made sense..
Look at the stuff you have posted over recent months and there has not been much about peace, love and happiness. Your story is following along in the direction of your mindset and your experience - probably..
It's the type of writing that you find easiest to put down I suppose and even though you initially wanted to follow a different direction - your subconcious (sp!) wouldn't let it.
I think that made sense..
subconscious
:-{
=Þ
Insane Bartender wrote:
> But I can say this; it's not going to be a happy happy joy joy rollercoaster ride through life love and happiness. I don't seem to have much choice in this matter.
Part 7 was good - and as I was reading it I was wondering where it was going.... and now you say it's going to get more and more dark and twisted. Excellent. Let's face it: that's more interesting than sweetness and light.
> But I can say this; it's not going to be a happy happy joy joy rollercoaster ride through life love and happiness. I don't seem to have much choice in this matter.
Part 7 was good - and as I was reading it I was wondering where it was going.... and now you say it's going to get more and more dark and twisted. Excellent. Let's face it: that's more interesting than sweetness and light.
"Humans define their existence through suffering and misery".
Agent Smith
I tell you the mind is a funny place: when I knock myself off at night, I should in truth be thinking big (fnar fnar) and taking the entire female cast of Baywatch for a jog along golden, sandy beaches. Instead I find myself beating my meat to the rhythm of a fat lasse's ar*e bagging against the back of her head, in a Ice Cream fan parked outside a Kebab shop, Scunthorpe.
Agent Smith
I tell you the mind is a funny place: when I knock myself off at night, I should in truth be thinking big (fnar fnar) and taking the entire female cast of Baywatch for a jog along golden, sandy beaches. Instead I find myself beating my meat to the rhythm of a fat lasse's ar*e bagging against the back of her head, in a Ice Cream fan parked outside a Kebab shop, Scunthorpe.
Page: