February 22nd, 2011

nightcrawler: sleeping

(no subject)

Okay, this month so far has been one of buzzy!tentacle retraction as I curled up as something small and eepsome. I am sure there are cool things, but I have just been getting up close and personal with my pills and my own lack of engagement. Not probably helped by accepting the fact that ESF (Every Single Failure) doesn't work.

Oh, and I upped my pills this morning. New and interesting effects will make themselves know shortly.

Currently, "up" is about 85 degrees away from the perpendicular.
  • Current Mood
    weird woozy
vecchio: hurty

(no subject)

Don't fall off your chair, lj, but I have something to say about POET.

[the WIP that ate Christmas 2007 and kept eating]

I've been "tidying" my room and the big pile of plot notes attacked me.

The Ray Vecchio in POET is trying to break free of his personal black hole - he's fighting gravity and that gravity is his need to provide for his family. Which doesn't sound terribly fucked up; but it is extremely fucked up. He's the dutiful son, his father was a loser who got knifed to death by the Mob (they sent flowers) and that set him on the path towards playing piano in Harding Welsh's workmanlike orchestra doing television theme music etc... there's duty, there's obligation, there's providing... there's that the Mob paid for his piano lessons.

It's rather messed up. Point Made.

INTERESTING NOTE says: could terrible shirts (of Season One) be a symbol of his liberation?!

His job is so far in the background, he's well but conservatively dressed, he's the piano guy that Stella meets at her mother's party (not least because Stella's mum is all for Stella meeting a better quality of husband) and Stella is the one person who can see her invisible man.

Bad shirts could be symbolic of freedom, imagination, Mr Vecchio's Opus (sorry) the guy writing correspondence jazz. (He's friends with the world's most reclusive jazz trombonist - if you know it, think Highway 51) His viewpoint on the world is incredibly gifted and completely his own. There is a huge extended metaphor.

I need to pull my socks up and get writing again. Cheerleaders welcome. Especially if they can get that my writing/plotting style does its own meta as it goes. [uh, I have this inkling that most peeps don't think like that, which scares me and probably ate Every Single Failure] That might be why nobody has seen anything from me for the last couple of years.