vixenmage: (existentialist)
...Okay, I need to do more writing in Barnes & Noble. That cafe, with Kafka staring through the fourth wall, straight, as all the other writers lounge and grin, is what I need.

“I’m not really… coming back. For that,” she continued, not without a sense of some discomfort. “A friend of mine asked me to talk to you – as a favor.”

He snickered, a rather nasty note creeping into the tone, and shook his head. “And what makes you think I’ll help you out of yet another one of your little jams?”

She started to answer, but a voice boomed down from the heavens, and Rolf snorted.

“Oh, so now you’re actually audible?” Piper, getting confused, said nothing. Rolf was not looking at her – or even in her direction, she realized. “Are you so desperate, so early?” he asked. “And I could very well have been speaking to the girl, you know,” he added. “She is my apprentice.”

“I
was your apprentice,” Piper corrected him, automatically. He gave her an inscrutable look, and she fell silent once more, feeling more and more out of her depth.

“That, too, actually,” he continued. “That really isn’t fair of you. I am not that bad.”

“You were more –” Piper started, then stopped in fear of an oncoming glare – which never arrived. Instead, Rolf looked at her somewhat curiously, as though seeing her for the first time.

“Aren’t you laying it on a little thick?” There was a long silence, which did absolutely nothing to ease the tension whatsoever. At all.

“Our narrator, “ he said finally, “Is strangely silent on the matter. I suspect you – your personality, really – turned out differently than she thought, and the dystopia is not as… dystopian, I suppose, as it was meant to be.”

Piper seized the only word that made sense, albeit probably from one of Kyle’s rants, or even all of them, actually. “Dystopia? You mean… this world?”

He nodded. “Too idealistic would be my guess. She tries to be cynical, but it takes more of a cynic to write a truly dystopian world. Get too idealistic, and you see your own world as a dystopia for not living up to snuff – which makes it far too hard to imagine and write about things getting worse, somehow.”

The girl looked absolutely mystified, and said nothing in response.
Rolf looked at her, shrugged resolutely, and leaned back in his chair, looking lonelier than Piper ever remembered seeing him. She felt guilty for a moment. “If you don’t understand the implications of any of that,” he said quietly – Piper shook her head, apologetic – “Then I am allowed some bitterness, I think.” Musing for a moment, he added, “And don’t feel bad. There’s nothing you can do, Piper.”


I feel guilty. But he would be disgusted if I just sugar-landed it. Maybe I should? No. That won't do anything. Story is Story. And he KNOWS that, which makes it so much worse. I'm really glad, if this is a novel, that I can't hear the narration - any of it.
vixenmage: (icarus)
A while back, maybe a year and a half, two years ago, I created this character, Rolf. He was a little bit character, but I kinda knew when I wrote him that he'd have a bigger role, in more than one story. I tried writing his own story up, but it never came together for some reason-- just a shop doesn't cut it. He was the old man who sold Jim his portalling guitar tuner, and the glowering man with dreadlocks who ran the Shop That Opens Every Now And Then across the alley, and the uncle of one main character in my last NaNo attempt, the shopkeeper who sent them on the road to Coyote Connor, the shaman on the mountain. He's got a backstory, but I don't know that I want to write it just yet, and he's got a slightly disconcerting habit of breaking the 3.5th wall by commenting on the plot, pacing, or narration from time to time. And making suggestions. And so on.

He's also, incidently, a cloudy sort of mirror to my own guilt complex. Not sure where that came from, but to explain would take the wind out of the sails of his backstory. I just remember telling my Chem teacher about how I had the tendency to blame everything that went wrong on myself. He raised an eyebrow and went, "Wow. You're really not that important, you know." It made me think. So... um, yes.

Here's a little bit-- I started writing in preparation for NaNoWriMo, and have been poking at him.

He pokes back. )

I think posting drabbles here is probably going to be a routine thing; I've learned the hard way to back stuff up on the Interwebs. I'll keep cutting it, though.

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vixenmage: St. Francis wiv a bird on 'is haid! (Default)
vixenmage

May 2013

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