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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?
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I'm trying to picture precisely how you get the a8se to bang against the _back_ of the head.
Must be bendy for a big girl.
"can I have chocolate sauce with that mister?"
Must be bendy for a big girl.
"can I have chocolate sauce with that mister?"
No it's just that I wouldn't want pesky kids asking me if I can give them a 69, flake on their cones.
It would ruin the moment.
It would ruin the moment.
Because that would be over the top.
What? It's not like the Van's chime music is playing or anything.
Ewwww
I really didn't need to know that.
"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.
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.
=Þ
:-{
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