on writing: a scrooge

Sometimes I wonder if I write the way that I write because I have absolutely no talent to give. I mean, aren't the really talented authors supposed to write those quiet slice-of-life stories, the ones about the guy who loses his job and pines around all day until, after seeing the world in a way no one else could, he kills himself? Or the woman who somehow discovers that she's a real person with conviction and strength blah blah blah? That seems to be the general idea. Mythology is dead, in that sense, reaching for something truly universal and infinite is tossed aside in lieu of discussing how, no matter what happens, we tend to be miserable creatures with a splinter of redemption that makes us human. That's the postmodern perspective of what a good story is, at least.

Well, hell. I think life is really actually very boring. All that pomo stuff that I read last semester? Boring people bitching about how bored they are.

But then there's the upswing of that pendulum, the absolute escapist world of sorcery and witches and spaceships and creatures that don't and never will exist. And yes, these are supposed to have some ounce of human drama in them, some quality where you go "oh! yes! the robot is us!", or when some warrior grabs some glowing weapon and overcomes his fear and you realize that his experience is your experience. But the point of all these stories is not so much the plot or the dynamism of the characters, but the spectacular world that the author, in his infinite imagination, has created. We think it's cool, and that's it. If it didn't have all the cool lazers and centaurs, it would be a movie on Lifetime or PAX TV.

So there's nothing to that, either. All fluff, hardly any stuff.

The stories that have stuff are the ones that have lasted longest: the myths and legends, the folk and fairy tales that everyone, in their heart of hearts, knows. Why aren't those written anymore? Why don't we tap into that symbol system and breed new tales that rekindle our association with the archetypical world?

That's what I'm trying to do most of the time. Tell new fairy tales. Archer is the grounding point where the fairy tales have more solidity to them and are less fluid. But does that make me unskilled, telling fairy stories? Telling myths? I don't know. Maybe the writing class at East Anglia will help me out.

On that note, a few of my short items are up on DevantArt. Two of them are also on the blog, but The Princess Thief is new to the internet.

Hey look, cross promotion

If you're bored and wanna see something that I think should be looked at, head over to my DeviantArt page and look at all my new fantasy-esque sketches.

River Sprite Detail by ~Shmedgehog on deviantART

Isaiah by ~Shmedgehog on deviantART

Adonis Detail by ~Shmedgehog on deviantART

And that's just a TASTE of what's to come.

Don't you hate describing what you write or draw as "fantasy"? There was a time when the word conjured up thoughts of The Brothers Grimm and J.M. Barrie and Arthur Rackham, or the mythologies of the Old World. Now it makes you think of some chubby-esque guy wearing tights, cardboard armor, and a sword that he has given some pseudo-Norse name ("Behold---Niflgrassryodr!"). No offense to people that this statement might offend, but J.R.R. Tolkein ruined fairytales and mythology. FOREVER. I'm not even going to expand on that statement, because deep down you know it's true.

So that's what I've been up to these past few days, along with working on schoolstuffs, reading (The Winter's Tale is really good!!), and planning for upcoming things, which include:

November 23: Thanksgiving. Sit on couch with blanket and hot cocoa, watch parade.
Nov. 24: Family visits, big Thanksgiving dinner for everybody.
Nov. 30: Birthday. Turn 20. Drink, dance, celebrate fear of turning 30 in 10 years.
Dec. 2: Tori Amos concert. Wear face-paint, get adopted by Tori Amos.
Dec. 7: Golden Compass. The fact that I'm even putting that as a date equal to "Birthday" or "Thanksgiving" says it all.
Dec. 17: Go home, check out of Gage for the last time. Don't return to UBC for nine and a half months.
Dec. 25: Um, Noel.
Jan. 1: New Years. Will probably sit in my parent's basement watching something lame on TV.
Jan. 10: Fly to England
Jan. 11: Move into room at UEA.

So that's pretty much something significant happening every week for the next two months, not to mention all the ridiculous stuff that'll happen once I'm in England. And that's not even counting final exams or term papers.

Also, the exchange rate between the US and Canada is now a slim .98 to 1, which means that we should be getting back up some time in the next few weeks. I hope Canada enjoyed its month and a half of triumph. I found it annoying.

Seriously, go look at the arts! If nine million people look I get a lolipop!

That little white chick in her dress? That's herpes.