Tag Archives: writing

How to choose the right books about writing?

Marcy L. turned to me with this question and though I can only guess answers to most of the questions, I can be confident, when replying to this one. I should – I’ve spent most of the last year reading one “how to write” book after another.

My advice would be this: there is no one book out there to fill you with skills you need as a writer. There really isn’t – one writer prefers one writing style, another seeks help from a different book, but there really isn’t one that would suit them all. This seems quite frustrating answer?

I would suggest instead of reading them all, which in the end gets very confusing, choose one and learn it by heart. By this I don’t mean to go and pick something random, you still need to read a bit to understand what they are about, but instead of getting them all, try finding one that calls out to you and stick with that one.

There are two things beginners love to forget: you do need to learn tricks of the trade in order to go pass “got idea, wrote it, it repeats what I wrote yesterday” phase and one book does give those tricks to you, you just need to actually use it. And I mean use it. Not go on to next one, because it didn’t make sense. Most of the beginners books have the same built and they take you through the all the necessary brick work. The difference is just in the mortal used to build the wall with the bricks.

I’m very fond of Donald Maass and Write Great Fiction series and don’t get me started on Dean Koontz book that came out in 1970s! James Frey and Nancy Kress have same style books, but I couldn’t get myself read them through. Yet I know they are just as good to teach you all the basics. The difference really is in which of the author suits with you and when you’ve found it, stick with the teachings and actually take the time to go through the exercises and try it out.

There is criticism, which I’ve often faced too, that if you have talent, you don’t need to know rules and you don’t need to mess your talent up by learning to push it in boundaries. That’s all very nice and I gladly shake hands with anyone, who is aware they’ve got talent, but it is sad site when such talents write and wait for someone to come and reclaim them, if one could say so. Unless you add work to it and get yourself some firewood for that phoenix, you will only see the ashes.

If you don’t know where to begin, I’d suggest Donald Maass “Writing the breakout novel” or anything from Write Great Fiction series. Nancy Kress series are also good to understand the tools. One thing is sure – most of us don’t have good courses to take or clubs to join, but this doesn’t mean you must parish without good teachings. It’s just about finding a good book and after that a library.

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Filed under elements of writing, writing trivia

Browning, not Browner!

I was eight, when my father walked out on us. I can only remember the shape of his face and unshaved beard that touched my face when he kissed me in the middle of the night. Mom can’t remember even that. He never said good bye to her.

My friends know it and they pitied me. Their parents wanted them to be considerate, so they never asked, why my father wasn’t around, but I knew from their dirt grey eyes that they knew. That was the life in our town – no one was left untouched by the ratchets of gossip, even children, who got all they needed to know from their parents. But I was lucky and pretty, made friends easily and they stayed, because we had big TV and free cable television.

On that fateful September night we had just branched out in our fully lit living room and dug out our study books, when Maybre turned the TV on. She searched through the channel with her usual rushed movements until she stopped on the news.

I never watched the news. They were horrible mix of death and despair and as I child I only wanted happy memories. It wasn’t because I was touched by the horror, but I simply chose not to take part of it. I had my broken heart. I didn’t need to add to the burden that would rip the wound farther.

She turned the volume on and one by one we all looked at the TV.

“I can’t believe someone could do that to a woman!” Hallee whispered from the sofa.

The news anchor was describing a murderer, who used needle work on the victim. I wasn’t listening her, but I remember seeing the bright image in my head of a lady sitting on a chair, head sagged on the back. Her legs were tied together and pulled together like piece of meat ready to be pushed into the oven.

I shrugged the image off.

“How many victims does he already have?” Maybre asked no one particularly, but she did look straight at me.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “I haven’t watched this.”

“You should!”

I was speechless. Why?

“Until they get that bastard you and us – we’re all in danger!”

“Don’t be silly, May! The killings take place in Tolsveren!”

“This one didn’t!”

We weren’t convinced. She did like drama and add to her truths. Hallee rolled her bright smart eyes and turned back to her homework as did I.

Maybre looked so distraught I couldn’t help but ask: “Then where, May?”

“In Montfort!”

“That’s still far enough,” responded Hallee and we left her sulking, delving in our books.

“Just imagine he could be someone from our city!”

“May! Montfort is hundreds of miles away!”

“Still, imagine if he was my father or your father or…” She pointed to Hallee and then turned her finger at me, frozen on spot. “Or your father!”

I probably grew gray hair right there. They did look dull after that fall.

It was outrageous, but all I could do at that point was to stare at her. I couldn’t even manage a smile.

“Uu!” she wheeled suddenly and shook herself so hard all her brown hair flew around, reminding me of jelly fish in deep-sea. “I wouldn’t wanna know you then!”

My heart sank. “What?”

“You don’t know who your father is – you might be daughter of that serial killer!”

Hallee shouted her name, deafening me for a moment.

“Oh come on, Hal! The murders started after her father left and she did receive a birthday card from Tolsveren only weeks before the first victim was found!”

“I should be afraid how much you know about that killer!” Hallee murmured, amazed by her facts.

When on Earth did she already connect me with that monster?

“They did say that he loves to use hunting rifle!”

“And this relates with me, how?”

“Because your daddy was in Hunters Society with my dad and he told me he took it with him!”

“And you can give the mold num…” Hallee mused.

“Probably semiautomatic Browner!”

“I’ll be damned…” I started, but Hallee burst laughing.

“It’s Browning!” she corrected Maybre

“What?”

“Browner does not exist, darling!”

“Yes it does!”

“In your dreams! Your dad may be master hunter, but he is obviously lousy on gun models!”

“HE IS NOT!”

With this they continued on different route and I was forgotten with my probable ancestry. But I sat on, frozen on my chair and staring at the screen behind Maybre. The newswoman had already moved on to some petty political argument, but I couldn’t get May’s logic out of my head. As long fetched as it sounded – what if she was right?

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Filed under Book in a Year bet, Dead Child's Portrate

Phobia

FMWriters monthly challenge: June 2012 – Phobia

We all have something in our past we are reluctant of coming public. I wish it was something embarrassing that I could simply get embarrassed with and get it over with. Unfortunately, I liked being special and being the only possible child for another very special person, I just loathed publicity.

“I thought you told them you’re searching your father?” Mykola innocence didn’t save him this time.  

Saul-Erik asked something.  He was loosing his patience, asking this what felt like sixth time, but I wasn’t paying him much attention. I was busy beheading Mykola with my eyes.

Drops were forming over my hair, I could feel my hair greasing up. Or was it sweat? My throat was dry and my muscles suddenly ached from all the running yesterday.

Suddenly I felt Saul’s fingers close around my elbow and it was jerked from under me, forcing me to look at him.

“You are Huntsman’s daughter?”

I still didn’t see his eyes, only the gritting teeth and tense jaw muscles.

Oh great, I was near finding my beloved daddy and now this!

“Are you Huntsman’ daughter?”

He shook me violently, pressing me off my chair and forcing to look up. I didn’t like what I saw – his entire face had turned into grimace and for the first time in my entire life I actually felt the threat, the need to get away and hide as if being caught up by a grisly bear.

“Don’t you dear faint on me!” his yelling brushed over my hair and I felt the heat from his slap mix with pain. “Answer me!”

“Yes! I am Huntsman’s daughter!” I screamed, pulling myself away from his arm, but it didn’t happen. He was out of this world and everything I had imagined him do, this was worse. I never imagined him hit me. Get angry, turn away, but no hitting.

Suddenly he let me go and I fell away from his reach. I immediately thrust myself further away and hit against the wall. This wasn’t far enough, but it was furthest from anybody else in the living room.

His slap worked its way to my brain and the light throbbing from the red mark changed into headache. I wanted to cry.

This was why I didn’t want to tell them before I could reach my goal. Before I could finish the terror my father brought and make them understand I wasn’t the same. I am not my father, I don’t kill for pleasure!

I had to get Mykola away from here. If he says I have already taken a life, they would never believe I was different.

With that I gasped and I wanted to beg. In my entire life I had never had to beg, but tonight I was willing to do it, beg for Saul’s forgiveness and make them see that I wasn’t same with my father!

But if I even made a sound, he would have simply tossed me out on the street and I knew it. It didn’t matter right now that I had helped Rasmus or Malek or Harry. They were sitting there behind their round table and gagged by Mykola just as much as Saul was.

It was better to leave myself, I decided and dragged myself up from the corner, eyeing my chance as Saul had left in the bedroom.

I froze on the second step, Mykola standing on my way.

“That’s what happens if you hold back information, darling!” he whispered and grinned.

“Like you were much better!”

I only felt the wind as Saul pushed himself between us and pressed me back to the corner. “You knew and said nothing to me! That is hardly honesty!”

“Saul –“ I started, but he responded without looking at me.

“Get out. I will have no-one related with that monster in my house!”

“Yes sir.”

I didn’t even know why I had said it, but I used the moment and ran back to my house, out of their way and hid myself under my own rusty bed. I should have run further, but I reacted by hiding myself under my bed like I did whenever they showed my father on TV. Back then I waited friends to call and mock me for it, realizing I was his daughter. Tonight I was hiding for my life and that only because I was his daughter.

Six hours later I didn’t hear anything from their house anymore, but I didn’t come out either. The floor was cold and the wall molted, reeking of wetted wallpaper and old newspapers that I saw under it.

Suddenly I heard footsteps on the stairs. They were heavy, wearing big boots and I knew it was Rasmus, because no one else had such boots around here. The kind that clings every time the chains brush against the buckles.

I pressed myself further away. I knew I should have pulled the blanket lower to hide myself better from being seen from the door, but it was too late. He had already reached the door and the door handle creaked.

The door opened and he looked in.

“Evelyn?” 

I held my breath. My shoulder was in the light and I instinctively pulled it in the shadow.

He was about to close the door, when he probably heard my movement, because he reached his head out one more time and eyed lower.

He held his breath for a moment and I knew he had seen me, but instead of coming straight after me, he simply sighed and closed the door and left.

I panicked. I wanted to leave, but I could still hear him on the stairs, so instead I crawled up against the most darkest place  I could manage and I begged God to forgive me the killing in Sandlewoods, for trusting Mykola and for any misleading action I had ever taken, as long as he would keep me from their revenge. Moment later I cursed him for letting me be born, because this faith, I assumed, had to be punishment for doing something very bad in my youth. Or my mom doing something wrong, but there was only one thing my daddy was and that was our punishment.

I saw daylight sneaking in from the curtains. No one came, but I was sure they were just outside, waiting me to walk to them, spreading this news to everybody. My dad had killed nine of them – there couldn’t be a family out there, who wasn’t related to them one way or the other.

They could just torch the house? I was allergic to the mold, I was reminded by it when the tears mixed with the dust and it burned my cheeks, but why bother with cream if all they had to do is fire my house up?

I hit my fist against the wooden base, then again and again.

Right then I heard the door open again and it was enough to make my heart jump. I pushed myself back against the molted wall and held my breath.

I didn’t know the man, who entered, but he didn’t seem angry. Instead he seemed relaxed, looking around, getting acquainted with my papers on the nightstand.

Something cluck in his jacket pocket. He sat down on the bed and I heard it come out of his pocket right before he put it on the floor and tossed it to me.

“Here,” the low voice said, “Saul said he’s sorry.”

I looked at the bottle that had hit my elbow.

It was the one unmarked blue plastic water bottles Saul used to carry with him. The one that no one else was allowed to touch. The ones that had painkillers added to the water

He waited and I waited. I still didn’t say a word, didn’t even breath properly.

After ten minutes he had enough and he rose. “Anyway, Saul wants to see you when you get over this childish hiding game. Bye!”

“Childish?!?”

I was out from under the bed and up before I understood he tricked me.

“See? That wasn’t that hard now, was it? Oooh!”

What ooh, I frowned.

“Perhaps shower first, then Saul.” He suggested chuckling and nodded towards the bed. “Unfortunately you need to climb after the bottle yourself,” he looked at me again, “but you already know the way I guess?”

He burst laughing and went, leaving me standing there like fish – gutted, molded and dehydrated.

But while I was there, contemplating my own death, I realized that it wasn’t gonna be that easy with my neighbors. Especially if Saul had the mentality to first cure his victims and then torture them again.

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Filed under Dead Child's Portrate, Phobia, Working through ideas

Writing biographies

There were some interesting articles today that made me think on biographies. One was in local newspaper on how in today’s writing world  in Estonia led by people, who come from criminal background. Basically – if you don’t work out as a criminal, become a writer and you will make good money. Best even – write a biography!

Biography seems to be the hottest of hottest right now – I keep hearing that word everywhere! People, who claim to have no writing skills, write biographies and they are adored for it. There was one writer, who was interviewed, who openly admitted that he wrote poems before, but that sort of didn’t make it, so he wrote biography of his own life instead. Nice turn-up, I say. The sad side of his entire interview was that he is 20, criminal on parole and couldn’t get two words after each to make a complete sentence.

It wasn’t me, who changed the radio station, it was my brother. His only comment was: “I bet life looks pretty full by the time you hit twenty.”

I agree. I’m half a decade older and it irritates me as if I was some 80-year-old. Which I am not. Still, at the age of 20, surely, if you wait just few more years, you’d get an interesting few years to add to your biography.

Biographies to me are still something that should come after your death. When you’ve got the beginning, middle and the end. Also, I see no good reason, why to shun half of your kin and friends by pushing them through your odd worldview.

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Sleeves part 1

Agath didn’t know he had sleeve tattoos. Both arms. Now that she knew, it was hard to concentrate on the meeting – her mind was invaded by images of his patterned flesh under the clean cotton shirt. The smooth skin caressed by the rough fabric sent goose bumps all over her body and she nearly broke the pencil.

He had run past her yesterday, after the woman who so carelessly had pulled her documents on the floor. The blond woman hadn’t stopped, ran straight to the waiting taxi and drove away. Leon had run right after her, but missed her. The rain soaked his shirt and vest, gluing the fabric on his skin and revealing the hidden secret under his white cotton armor. The always-perfect boss had both his arms covered with tattoos! She knew better than to hide behind the bush, getting herself all wet – but she had no wish to betray herself with the umbrella. He had a bad temper and even worse when caught off guard. But fortunately, he had passed without a glance to her direction. She promised herself never again to leave late, especially when it was heavily raining – that proved especially harmful.

At least her brain had worked then, not like now, when she couldn’t even keep her pencil on place. She tried concentrating on her notes.

He hadn’t seen her two nights ago, but she betrayed herself with her changed attitude and lack of concentration, and it puzzled him. He made a note to himself to have a chat with her after the meeting, better yet, ask her what he was talking about in the meeting. This ought to bring her back to her senses. The room was the only one in use on this floor right now and others would be long gone before she finished with her bag and that he knew gave him the opportunity he needed.

Leon dismissed them and stood aside to let others leave. She was busy with the zip on her black huge handbag which wasn’t co-operating and it gave him time.

Not once did she look up. Usually she did, shyly searching around with her clever foxy eyes,  never be the last, but this time she avoided any uncanny glances and it interested him, why? She wasn’t herself today. Fallen in love? Agath? Woman, who fell asleep after her third cup of wine? She was gorgeously shaped, but with her tolerance of booze she was hardly conversational. Nobody would get her to have decent conversation after driving her home. Not from the bar then.

Leon knew she didn’t tolerate even glasses of wine because of what happened last Christmas. It took him quite an effort to get her back to her place, but her trusty ways made the task easy. He felt the anger over her mousey ways even now, realizing how easily it could have been someone who would take advantage of such a situation. Then why hadn’t he?

He felt irritated, and it made him less humane. The idea of someone playing with her for easy swing made his mind block everything related with business. He regretted letting her go on that Christmas, going home instead and spending it alone. No one should be alone on Holidays, neither sleeping through them duo three classes of red.

When she finally got her things together, pen and paper off the table and she started to leave, he just acted without thinking. He closed the door in front of her and placed the files he was holding back on the meeting table.

She looked up fast, unable to hide what she was thinking. He didn’t budge, noticing how from one second her eyes held his, they moved on right away, but not far enough to show humility. They stopped. On his right shoulder. Light came back in his jealous mind and he felt he still had some hope, but her look puzzled him.

“Considering your absent-mindedness on the meeting today,” he started with a frown. “I thought it would be best if you explained to me the main concept of the new perspective.”

He thought better to sit while she watched her groan like a child before a teacher. She had no idea, he knew it in advance, but she had to learn this lesson. No mindless showing ups again. Even if she had problems somewhere else in her life, she had to stay professional at all costs.

“I don’t have the concept.” She said quietly, but raised her eyes then to meet his. “You finished the meeting before getting to it.”

He frowned. “I got there. Two minutes ago and then I asked you all to think about it and said we’ll get back together in the end of the week. Remember?”

Her shyness was reviving again and his frown deepened. “You paid no attention today – what’s the matter with you? You know we are thinking on redundancies, if you show this side of yourself, we have no other way but to let you go.”

Her stomach must have acted up on such news, because she pulled it in visibly,  and her hand struck up to cover it.

“So better come clean. What’s bothering you?” He offered. He’d known her over four years now and though they never came down to chatting like friends, he knew he could consider her one.

There was this look again, again over his hands and it dawned. Somehow she knew about his tattoos.

He pushed himself up, way taller than her and watched as his movement brought light back in his otherwise gloomy stature. Her eyes were on the same level as his shoulders and they never moved from them, like she was helplessly trying to see them through the sleeves.

He never exposed his tattoos to anyone at work. It would have brought misunderstandings and he knew better than just let a rumor out when he could avoid it. Especially as they could have easily brought back the past he was desperate to leave where it belonged – in the closets of history.

Her breathing changed. Gently but unmistakably deeper than he thought necessary, but it occurred to him almost at the same time that his wasn’t getting much shallower either.

She was so close. He smelled her sweetness mixed with the sweet violets. Unusual for someone in economy, but suited with her violet jacket, under which her blooming breasts were hidden behind delicate pink fabric so gentle it would’ve easily torn had he just stretched his hand and touched it.

That notion brought him back to the situation in hand and he deliberately changed his breathing before the chemistry did its work.

“How do you know about my tattoos?” he demanded and saw her look change. She didn’t say anything, rightfully aware it would bring trouble. “How, Agath?”

“Your shirt got drained.” She said after humiliating silence.

“What?”

“Yesterday. You know, if you want to keep it from everyone as you seem so inclined, I’d suggest wearing silicon clothing.” She pushed back, trying to turn the tables around, but it only angered him more.

He sat back down, wrapping his hands on his chest, creating surprisingly effective distraction to her. It would have been amusing hadn’t it been vital for him not to get the word around and he hoped to avoid it.

“Spying on me, missy?”

She frowned, oddly lost. “Hardly. I forgot my house keys to the office. Had to come back.”

“I didn’t see you yesterday.” He recalled, but the blush on her face already gave him the answer. She hid. Somewhere. He saw no point continuing this. It had been mere accident and his own wrong doing. “I don’t want this to go around, you hear?”

“I wasn’t planning a public announcement.” Her voice trembled with insult and she adjusted her handbag, hoping to buy some time. “Why are you so concerned if someone saw them anyway?” she asked suddenly. Shooting look right at him again with her typical peering eyes.

“I had them done when I was young and stupid.” He said, trying to avoid her question. He stood up and let his hands fall aside, glancing at her just in time to notice that longing look towards his arms again. “You must stop it,” he added quietly and picked up his papers.

“Stop what?”

“Your staring. If they notice, they will start rumors and that’s one thing you don’t want.”

“I just wished to see them.” She said.

He never thought those words could rise a storm inside him, but they did. His words were buried under the emotion that rushed through his body and he knew it pushed his button.

Suddenly she gasped, realized she’d said it loud and apologized.

“Perhaps some other time,” he said suddenly, unaware himself he’d let those words out, but he felt the need to say something before the moment passed. 

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Interview with yourself

What got you interested in your book subjects?

“Portrate of the dead girl” started off from researching people as a taboo in society, the so-called stigma and how it reflected in the life of human guinea pigs. It was an innocent idea that soon rolled over into alternative history and “what ifs” that demanded answers. I’m still working on it, but like real life – with every new piece of information, the entire road changes, so I just hope it will get done in time.

“Midas Ears” started as another study of human sexuality. At first I thought it was simply an erotic story that needed a background, but further I get with it, the less it is simple. I keep thinking on what it means to actually write on this topic, the twisted lives that get mixed out of a knowledge retrieved from our friends. How much it actually affects us what they give us for truth.

They both seem to be related with social taboos?

Yes. I am intrigued by the topic since I got my first access to the local university library and never looked back. People often say that it’s the darkness of humanity that appeals to me, but I don’t agree. When I was young, I knew I was easily influenced and I learned early that to me, the greatest trap was the mystery of not knowing what things were. So in order to protect myself, I simply started disillusioning myself. I started reading about topics others wouldn’t explain to me or deemed dangerous. After a while these topics started interest me not only because I wanted to protect myself, but also how others perceived them, how easily they were brushed aside for the sake of humanity without thinking twice.

Where do you get your information from?

Mostly from the libraries. While internet is good for understanding wildly perceived truths, then for more specific and medical information, it is still best to turn to the books. The scientific explanations might sound rigid and confusing at first, but after a while they read as logical as reading old fairy tales. If old fairy tales can be counted as logical.

You also work full-time?

Yes. I work for a company that accommodates university students.

How has this helped with your writing work?

Through my work I come in contact with people from different social structure and beliefs. I have discovered that if before I was able to only create characters, who had similar back story as mine, I am now able to take broader view and create characters on larger scale. Not to mention information and details I receive straight from the source. After I’ve started working with foreigners, I’ve also widened my characters base.

Is that why you decided to write “Midas Ears”?

No. I had the basic idea worked out few years before, so it was before I moved to work with foreigners. The full idea didn’t come to light before I had met certain people, yes.

Do you base your characters on real people?

I avoid it. I have characters, which have got inspiration from real people, but I never use them as one-on-one. I develop them all myself and though I borrow line or two from friends, I find it unethical to base entire form on them. Not only because it can tare people apart, but because they trust me not to end up in my books and I respect them for it. I write fantasies, after all and it’s not easy to walk around being judged by some outsider’s view on your life.

In your local newspaper there is a discussion over ending support for light reading in libraries to support more local writers. What do you think of it?

To be honest, I try not to get involved in public discussion on it. I have tried for years to make local writers to understand that you don’t have to write only large scale philosophical and psychological novels to be recognized as a writer. That it is ok to walk on a meeting with local writers and say that you are writing an action novel or that you write romance as profession and it isn’t diminishing your quality. Such decisions from our diplomatic corpus aren’t making things easier. It’s already hard to push through as it is, but such outbursts only harden society’s trust in literature. Often forgot, the two main reasons for literature to exist is to educate and to entertain, make things easier to cope with. By personality I don’t go running for heavy psychological drama if my own life is close to crashing and I don’t believe others would do. Perhaps indeed we should consider changing the lists of books ordered in library to support local market, but I don’t think they should be homes for heavy material only either. What seems philosophically good and valuable now will be just as invaluable in few decades.

Are there topics you never want to explore?

Never say never, but there are few. I think there is a good reason why some topics are not explored in literature. Yet I take my hat down before the writers who do write on them, because they are seriously hard to pull off. I don’t generally write about un-consented rape. As a writer, I make difference in different situations of rape, but as a person I do not.

How can you bring excuse to something unacceptable as a writer while not as a person?

When I write through a character, the impressions they give are not impressions of me, but my masked puppets. I would never consent into poisoning or cutting other’s fingers off while my character would. Nor would I start smoking though they do. My characters are not me.

What are your next years goals?

To finish the books I’ve started and send them to publishers in time. To find time for my love of writing and to be able do more than just work out new ideas.

***

Today’s post is my response to the prompt What books are your nightstand?, this month’s topic for the Merry-Go-Round Blog Tour. Throughout the month, you can get to know twenty (or so) other writers from various genres and backgrounds and at various places in their careers. Next stop on the tour is Tiberius Clausewitz Drusus Nero Germanicus on November 21st, 2011.

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Writing about itching and scratching

 I want to write about something that even mentioning the topic makes people squeamish on their chairs. I love it. On the other hand, publishing folks might not like it that much. It surprisingly thrilling to read something that has been banned, too. Why is that?

Also, being around people a lot lately, who preach the freedom of thought and ideas, are surprisingly judgmental of things around them. Like one lady that I’ve come to respect over the past year – she was the most amazing lady, preaching about freedom of speech and harmony and loving each other and Earth as our Mother… and following her on FB this past few months… All her testaments talk about protesting against one thing or another or how the government is poisoning them. That woman is so afraid!

Or a friend I’ve admired for close to 6-7 years. She is amazing artist, but quietly loosing her touch with reality. She also talks about freedom and happiness and ideals, yet she constantly comes back to her little truth of being harassed constantly because of her gender.  

Yet I’ve got several, who consider themselves conservatives, opinionated people, who speak of everything, not just preaching, but really talking about things that hurt and things that bring them joy. Surprisingly, they are unhappy and ok with it – they get angry, then they calm down again.

I took up a little chats with my friends on those topics and came to alarming results. I tested my book idea, giving each the same amount of information: “I’m writing a book about two men having sexual relationship, but who are not lovers.”

People, who said they are opinionated conservatives, listened this one sentence, burst laughing and then asked questions on relations and the reasons. Also, they asked about how I would represent it to the local editors, adding they would like to read it. Over all – they were interested what took the characters to take the path they are taking.

People, who said they are free minded people, I got very different responses. The one concerned of her own sexuality, immediately took the approach of the sexuality in the book and said it won’t be published because of it. The entire conversation turned into discussing intimacy between two people instead and how erotic and sensuality is the same (which I preferred to differ on the opinion).  The one having “old religious” views gave me long questioning stare, cheered on the topic, but didn’t get past that. Later I saw an article she had posted on her page about traditional family model. I hadn’t even mentioned homosexuality, because that’s not the main idea, nor had I said anything about cheating on their partners or threats of family life.

It has made me think if those conservative people really are to blame for censured books and topics?

General stand is that they are to blame, but how then is it that if I talk to them, they can find the point of the story and they care enough to learn more about it while free-minded, free-sexual-oriented just blast-hatch on it without any interest of any deeper thought? They just seek what goes together with their cause, but neatly leave all the rest out?

Perhaps I should re-orient myself to write for those opinionated folks instead of blasters, because the last month’s experiences have led me to believe there is very little freedom in free thinking.

Still, I appreciate having both of them around, because if I think back on this, they do make a nice sphere and together I can talk both on details, moods and backgrounds, see the problems it rises and find the solutions.

But when it comes to scratching the ideas that irritate – both are to blame.

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Filed under Working through ideas, writing trivia