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FIC: The Old Ways (Spock, gen)
Title: The Old Ways
Author: tkp
Word Count: 1,500
Pairing: Spock gen
Rating: G
Summary: The old ways are gone.
A/N: Sorry for the delayed repost, for those of you who've seen this.
The Old Ways
On Vulcan, there was so little water.
There were no oceans, nor any seas. Spock heard tell of them in his mother’s tales, stories of home, “songs of sail”, she called them. We come from the water, she told him, and we return to it. The way the waves come ashore, and back out to sea, said she. Some people hear the sea—in dreams, so the story goes—calling them home.
Home to her blue planet, its face awash with water, fed with dihydrogen oxide. She herself heard a different call, she said. Her home was a different place. We come from dust, so the story goes on Vulcan, and as dust we fall. It wasn’t by a shore that she died. It was as sand, as one of them.
On land in San Francisco, Spock felt drowned. Water was in the air like dew, every day a new wash upon him, far too fresh. It was not familiar, not even familial. Mother’s tales had been of another life, beginnings foreign from his own, before she had chosen his father. Water, like the Starfleet uniform, was only wished upon, like stars. It was not home for any one of them.
After Earth was saved, Spock left the stars behind.
On New Vulcan, there was little water. There were no oceans, nor any seas. Even the wind on New Vulcan sang of his heritage, the hot whip without wet, the sting of sand. The few spices could never be the same, the stones striped with too much red, but no where was there blue. This was the land of his life—perhaps not the land of his forefathers, but this was of his father, and of his mother, after she had chosen him.
With the death of his mother, the laying aside of Starfleet, Spock fully thought that he would achieve the kolinahr, the purge of all emotion. His work on the new colony would cleanse him; the air there would crucify him. This was not a punishment. This was the weight of Vulcan rite. Spock could feel the flames of the ritual tapers burned beside him. He could hear the voice of Vulcan ceremony; it called like home.
So Spock went to new Vulcan. He held in his mind the Vok-Van-Kal t'To'oveh for Amanda Grayson. He wore the heavy, knitted tunic, the koma of Vulcan ritual. He smelled the smells of incense, and the slight too-tangy twinge of salt and something else—sweat, which once he thought must be what water was. He smelled her, and the hot, arid air of a world no water touched. He heard the tam-tam, kep, ring for her remembrance.
In waking hours, the Vulcans left held no ceremony for the Vulcans lost. There had been too many, and there was too much to do besides. They moved stones into the central square of the new colony, and strung the kep between them. It hung between its silent sentinels like a gate to their past. In dreams, the sound of it called them all.
They planted Vulcan plants and the planned new Vulcan edifices, which they erected with new stone not of Vulcan. They selected the high council—new elders, they called them, which should have been a contradiction in terms. The effort to rebuild was long and hot and hard. Sometimes Spock would stand still, waiting for the whisper of sand-stricken wind.
(As dust, she fell.)
Sometimes, in those silent moments, another Vulcan—Stonn, T’Pau, Sarek, the elder Spock—would suddenly stand as motionless as he. Between them strung a gateway. Between them, the call of the kep.
United in their losses though they were, their new nation was not without dissent. The issue was adaptation. The few plants from Vulcan died, while the new plants specifically engineered for this new sandscape thrived. Certain traditions could be transplanted, they all acknowledged, and other ways must be changed completely. They agreed on this: the arguments were not so simple as keeping everything the same versus forward motion. No Vulcans left were so emotional as to deny common sense because they were nostalgic.
But even kolinahr, the height of pure logic, was steeped in history. Mystery shrouded the final level, achieved only through mighty ritual, performed by a master swathed in koma, and the ringing of the kep. There was not time for such procedure, Spock reasoned. What was more: there was not reason.
What they faced now was not merely the grafting of long held ken to the face of this new planet. The stone tablets of tradition had all been smashed to sand; the granite was all gone. They faced reformation, recreation, the reconsideration of old behaviors, of the paradigm. This was a new time. Sand, when the wind swept, shifted like waves.
Spock’s grief was not the living fire it had been. It could be handled now, as if on a candle, small but steady—controlled, yet ever continued, as if of a rite. That flame fed the fire of their reconstruction; it fueled the new biology they must adapt to their new geology, the new technology they must fit to new meteorology. It should not be extinguished; it must not be. Kolinahr was a legacy of another land, the birthright of another people.
Spock found that when he meditated, he did not light the new candles modeled on the wax molded from an insect of old Vulcan. He did not wear the pelal which used to sing against his skin. He did not poise his hands in the posture of deep contemplation, the nahr position of subjugation of emotion. He did not smell the scents that used to bring him back. That space of silence became singular, a personal spirituality molded to himself and not out of custom.
So it was with all of them. The first kal-if-fee performed in the square was for two young Vulcans, surviving because they had been visiting other worlds; they knew less of their homeland than many of the dead. The bells of the procession were made with new Vulcan metal. The cloth of the female tu’ruth was of a fresh-made dye. The wind had a different sharpness, and the plak tow of the male looked more like young eagerness than anything. The kep, when sounded, took them not into the past, but to a new future—another generation, and another Vulcan.
The eldest of them, the elder Spock, had long been ready for this new Vulcan. He well knew how to be from them, but not of them, how to forge new fires in the ashes of those past. Even in his own world, Spock suspected, Spock the elder had heard a different call. His home had been a different place. Regarding the eagerness of the young male, nothing like blood fever, there was a way Tela’hat Spohkh’s eyes shone, as if entirely in favor.
That night, Spock the Younger went alone into the desert. On another land, this was the start of the kolinahr, the purging of the self, the oneness with the sand, the dusk, the dark, the dust. He knelt down on the ground, and called forth the vision of the symbol of fullara, the first ritual of kolinahr. He spake the sacred words, ingrained in him like the biting wind. He raised his hand in the Vulcan gesture of cleansing, and drew the lines down in the sand.
Spock waited in the night without dreaming, the symbol of all their past before him. The night was cold and blank, the sand pale. He waited for the wind to feel the same. He waited for the scent of spices, and the tang of her salt skin. He waited for the call.
All he could see were stars, singing songs of sail.
Spock returned to the square the next morning. The stones stood tall and straight, the kep hung silent between them. It had been several months since the saving of Earth. This was new, too—Vulcan had no moon, while New Vulcan suffered tides, in and out. On this planet, Spock saw now, he only was a satellite, circling something to which he never could return.
That day Spock told the high council of his plan to return to Starfleet. United in their losses as they were, his decision was not without dissent. In their discourse he could feel the heaviness of the hard-knit koma. He could remember standing before them before; he could remember the voice of Vulcan ceremony, and the ringing of the kep. He remembered, but they did not call. His elder self, he felt, knew what it was he heard.
After all, there were other songs, other tales, stories of home, she called them. We come from stars, another story goes, and we return to them. As stars we fall.
In his dreams, Spock the Younger heard new things. He could hear Captain Kirk. He could hear Nyota; he could hear the Enterprise.
They sounded like the sea.
Author: tkp
Word Count: 1,500
Pairing: Spock gen
Rating: G
Summary: The old ways are gone.
A/N: Sorry for the delayed repost, for those of you who've seen this.
The Old Ways
On Vulcan, there was so little water.
There were no oceans, nor any seas. Spock heard tell of them in his mother’s tales, stories of home, “songs of sail”, she called them. We come from the water, she told him, and we return to it. The way the waves come ashore, and back out to sea, said she. Some people hear the sea—in dreams, so the story goes—calling them home.
Home to her blue planet, its face awash with water, fed with dihydrogen oxide. She herself heard a different call, she said. Her home was a different place. We come from dust, so the story goes on Vulcan, and as dust we fall. It wasn’t by a shore that she died. It was as sand, as one of them.
On land in San Francisco, Spock felt drowned. Water was in the air like dew, every day a new wash upon him, far too fresh. It was not familiar, not even familial. Mother’s tales had been of another life, beginnings foreign from his own, before she had chosen his father. Water, like the Starfleet uniform, was only wished upon, like stars. It was not home for any one of them.
After Earth was saved, Spock left the stars behind.
On New Vulcan, there was little water. There were no oceans, nor any seas. Even the wind on New Vulcan sang of his heritage, the hot whip without wet, the sting of sand. The few spices could never be the same, the stones striped with too much red, but no where was there blue. This was the land of his life—perhaps not the land of his forefathers, but this was of his father, and of his mother, after she had chosen him.
With the death of his mother, the laying aside of Starfleet, Spock fully thought that he would achieve the kolinahr, the purge of all emotion. His work on the new colony would cleanse him; the air there would crucify him. This was not a punishment. This was the weight of Vulcan rite. Spock could feel the flames of the ritual tapers burned beside him. He could hear the voice of Vulcan ceremony; it called like home.
So Spock went to new Vulcan. He held in his mind the Vok-Van-Kal t'To'oveh for Amanda Grayson. He wore the heavy, knitted tunic, the koma of Vulcan ritual. He smelled the smells of incense, and the slight too-tangy twinge of salt and something else—sweat, which once he thought must be what water was. He smelled her, and the hot, arid air of a world no water touched. He heard the tam-tam, kep, ring for her remembrance.
In waking hours, the Vulcans left held no ceremony for the Vulcans lost. There had been too many, and there was too much to do besides. They moved stones into the central square of the new colony, and strung the kep between them. It hung between its silent sentinels like a gate to their past. In dreams, the sound of it called them all.
They planted Vulcan plants and the planned new Vulcan edifices, which they erected with new stone not of Vulcan. They selected the high council—new elders, they called them, which should have been a contradiction in terms. The effort to rebuild was long and hot and hard. Sometimes Spock would stand still, waiting for the whisper of sand-stricken wind.
(As dust, she fell.)
Sometimes, in those silent moments, another Vulcan—Stonn, T’Pau, Sarek, the elder Spock—would suddenly stand as motionless as he. Between them strung a gateway. Between them, the call of the kep.
United in their losses though they were, their new nation was not without dissent. The issue was adaptation. The few plants from Vulcan died, while the new plants specifically engineered for this new sandscape thrived. Certain traditions could be transplanted, they all acknowledged, and other ways must be changed completely. They agreed on this: the arguments were not so simple as keeping everything the same versus forward motion. No Vulcans left were so emotional as to deny common sense because they were nostalgic.
But even kolinahr, the height of pure logic, was steeped in history. Mystery shrouded the final level, achieved only through mighty ritual, performed by a master swathed in koma, and the ringing of the kep. There was not time for such procedure, Spock reasoned. What was more: there was not reason.
What they faced now was not merely the grafting of long held ken to the face of this new planet. The stone tablets of tradition had all been smashed to sand; the granite was all gone. They faced reformation, recreation, the reconsideration of old behaviors, of the paradigm. This was a new time. Sand, when the wind swept, shifted like waves.
Spock’s grief was not the living fire it had been. It could be handled now, as if on a candle, small but steady—controlled, yet ever continued, as if of a rite. That flame fed the fire of their reconstruction; it fueled the new biology they must adapt to their new geology, the new technology they must fit to new meteorology. It should not be extinguished; it must not be. Kolinahr was a legacy of another land, the birthright of another people.
Spock found that when he meditated, he did not light the new candles modeled on the wax molded from an insect of old Vulcan. He did not wear the pelal which used to sing against his skin. He did not poise his hands in the posture of deep contemplation, the nahr position of subjugation of emotion. He did not smell the scents that used to bring him back. That space of silence became singular, a personal spirituality molded to himself and not out of custom.
So it was with all of them. The first kal-if-fee performed in the square was for two young Vulcans, surviving because they had been visiting other worlds; they knew less of their homeland than many of the dead. The bells of the procession were made with new Vulcan metal. The cloth of the female tu’ruth was of a fresh-made dye. The wind had a different sharpness, and the plak tow of the male looked more like young eagerness than anything. The kep, when sounded, took them not into the past, but to a new future—another generation, and another Vulcan.
The eldest of them, the elder Spock, had long been ready for this new Vulcan. He well knew how to be from them, but not of them, how to forge new fires in the ashes of those past. Even in his own world, Spock suspected, Spock the elder had heard a different call. His home had been a different place. Regarding the eagerness of the young male, nothing like blood fever, there was a way Tela’hat Spohkh’s eyes shone, as if entirely in favor.
That night, Spock the Younger went alone into the desert. On another land, this was the start of the kolinahr, the purging of the self, the oneness with the sand, the dusk, the dark, the dust. He knelt down on the ground, and called forth the vision of the symbol of fullara, the first ritual of kolinahr. He spake the sacred words, ingrained in him like the biting wind. He raised his hand in the Vulcan gesture of cleansing, and drew the lines down in the sand.
Spock waited in the night without dreaming, the symbol of all their past before him. The night was cold and blank, the sand pale. He waited for the wind to feel the same. He waited for the scent of spices, and the tang of her salt skin. He waited for the call.
All he could see were stars, singing songs of sail.
Spock returned to the square the next morning. The stones stood tall and straight, the kep hung silent between them. It had been several months since the saving of Earth. This was new, too—Vulcan had no moon, while New Vulcan suffered tides, in and out. On this planet, Spock saw now, he only was a satellite, circling something to which he never could return.
That day Spock told the high council of his plan to return to Starfleet. United in their losses as they were, his decision was not without dissent. In their discourse he could feel the heaviness of the hard-knit koma. He could remember standing before them before; he could remember the voice of Vulcan ceremony, and the ringing of the kep. He remembered, but they did not call. His elder self, he felt, knew what it was he heard.
After all, there were other songs, other tales, stories of home, she called them. We come from stars, another story goes, and we return to them. As stars we fall.
In his dreams, Spock the Younger heard new things. He could hear Captain Kirk. He could hear Nyota; he could hear the Enterprise.
They sounded like the sea.
no subject
I love the theme. Really, you had me as soon as you made the connection between the sea and the stars: I am a sucker for that one forever and ever, amen. "O grant Thy mercy and Thy grace / To those who venture into space."
no subject
If you're unsatisfied with the "it's omniscient" explanation, then I could tell you that the narrator is time, or nostalgia; the narrator is that awareness within each of us that all things pass. I didn't want to write a piece from inside Spock's head. I wanted to write a story on the outside looking in at Spock--all we humans looking in on this soldier learning to trudge on.
I've been writing Trek fic for the past 7 months, and have neither finished or published much of it. Part of the problem has been POV. Most of the things I write center around Spock (e.g. the massive, MASSIVE gen adventure fic which seems to have every POV except Spock), because I identify with him and always feel as if I know exactly what he's thinking. But writing what he's thinking seems problematic. I mean, how disappointing, to find out a Vulcan brain processes the world exactly the way a human's does.
There is actually a list of "Kirk/Spock fic cliches" written by someone who I guess is well known in the K/S community. One cliche is titling a thing after a song by Lorena McKinnett. I think if you get fannish--maybe I should use the word passionate--about something, every song that makes you feel feels as though it applies to what you're thinking about, or is aimed at you. Happens to me all the time. So I was listening to this McKinnett song and couldn't stop thinking it was about Spock, when of course it's about the waves of Ireland calling her home. And I told myself, "this is so stupid! For Spock, oceans are the exact opposite of home!" And then I lightbulbed.
I'm off to read your Rosetti fic, which I found and bookmarked last night. I hope you had a good new year.
no subject
Now I want to go back to my own journal and metatate on Fandom House Style...possibly with reference to the hummus essay.
I love, btw, that you DON'T write in Fandom House Style. I think the closest you ever got was Best Souvenir.
I think if you get fannish--maybe I should use the word passionate--about something, every song that makes you feel feels as though it applies to what you're thinking about, or is aimed at you. Happens to me all the time.
OMG ME TOO. Like crazy. This is why my iTunes is full of character playlists and fic soundtracks for other people's damned stories! I even start them for the novels I take on the train. I have one for Girls Are Great, hee hee yes I do!
no subject
I like very tight 3rd. You can do amazing things with it that I feel you can't do in 1st or a looser 3rd. But the prevalence of it has made it harder and harder to write omniscient. It's not that I write omniscient very much, but sometimes I do want to observe a character--I, the narrator. And it's strange to have to let the audience know that unlike all the other things they are reading, we are watching the character and not inside his head.
It's interesting you say that about Best Souvenir. I think most of the other stories I've posted on LJ have been my . . . uh, experimental stories. Which is definitely . . . something I do, now. But partly I post them because a) I know where they're going, b) I can finish them (because of a) and because they must be short by nature, and c) I know people will admire them. Even if they don't like the story I'm telling, they'll give me some clue as to what they think about the style.
A lot of the other stuff packed away in my WIP folder is a lot more like Best Souvenir in style. Though I lump the story about Angel getting a puppy into the same style as Best Souvenir. They are both straight-forward narrative with third-person POV. Though BS changes POV and has a narrator who goes on and on about what is going on in people's heads, neither of which I do so much any more. Or, I don't *want* to do them, and I'm actually having a very bad writery time right now because I want to write my epic gen Star Trek so badly, but can't seem to do it without POV switches and long metatastic explanations of people's thoughts. :o( :o(
This is why my iTunes is full of character playlists and fic soundtracks for other people's damned stories!
This is super fab! Honey, I *love* when I can get a song I actually think goes with something. I did a post about a soundtrack stoney321 made me for Connor from AtS. Basically it starts with his birth and goes through to the last time we see him, and I feel like I'm getting that whole story every time I hear that soundtrack and it crushes me. I wish I could make soundtracks like that, but . . . I'm not very good at listening to music. I have to concentrate really hard, and it take me a long time, so I don't actually have that much music that I love. And then it never occurs to me to connect the things I hear to other stuff.
Which is why some time I'd LOVE to pick your brain about your fic soundtracks. Of course I'm most interested in the one you have for Girls Are Great, because I'm self-involved like that. Hm. The short name for that fic is GAG. Which is dirty.
no subject
Oh, where's that essay? It was astolat or cesperanza or somebody observing that fanfic's median is a very straightforward, transparent prose that may be extremely well-crafted, but doesn't call attention to itself. She called it camera-like for the way it places emphasis on the characters and action rather than itself, which was a neat observation to connect with the fact that many of us are writing in tv-based fandoms. I think she actually called it "LJ house style," after the way publishing houses often have similar distinguishable styles or preferences.
I think tight 3rd is probably more the norm or less depending on what fandom you're in. I just linked it with "house style", possibly prematurely, because it's prevalent in SG-1 at the moment, being favoured by several BNFs.
I was reading Buffyverse fic the other day and was kind of startled to notice that it really is different from what I think of as "yer average Stargate prose". It's more baroque. I mean, SG-1 can get pretty damned silly, but...I dunno, maybe the sci-fi vs. fantasy favours blunt over poetical? In any case, I got all nostalgic for kita and lynnenne's enfloriations.
I like very tight 3rd. You can do amazing things with it that I feel you
can't do in 1st or a looser 3rd. But the prevalence of it has made it
harder and harder to write omniscient.
Hrm. I think you just have to be conscience of where you place your clues, which is just good writing anyway. The amount of distance between narrator and character is established in the first few lines. I think if you're shooting for omniscient, you start from a little farther back and then zoom in.
I'm actually having a very bad writery time right now because I
want to write my epic gen Star Trek so badly, but can't seem to do
it without POV switches and long metatastic explanations of people's
thoughts. :o( :o(
Auugh, I have so much sympathy, you don't even know. This is my problem with my Stargate gen! I keep adding POVs! Or, I should say rather, undesired characters keep wanting to talk! Damn you anyhow, Daniel. You had one job in this story, and that was to be a mysterious cipher. So STFU KTHXBAI. *iz long-suffering*
I did a post about a soundtrack stoney321 made me for Connor from AtS.
I have that soundtrack. It's brilliant.
Which is why some time I'd LOVE to pick your brain about your fic
soundtracks.
What do you want to know about fic soundtracks? I would love to make a post about them, if I knew where to start. I will upload my ridiculous one for GAG, and see if I can reconstruct the B/A one that I lost in a computer crash. I have two more I'm trying to make for an ailing friend, but I'm stuck for a song about culture shock/discovery/amazement/trepidation -- sort of "A Whole New World" but without the cheesy Disney voices, and one or several that would suit a dignified but ferocious warrior with a lot of Black Marks on his Soul.
no subject
I have also noticed that Buffyverse fic is more baroque/enfloriated (what a good word) than, say, Star Trek. It's . . . weird. The thing about Buffyverse was I knew that I could write something experimental and/or poetic and people would sit up and pay attention. This could be a result of the people I happened to surround myself with . . . and yet I built my early flist based on the people who were appreciating my stuff.
I was unable to "break in" to HP fandom with, uh, something fancy, and this piece right here has garnered almost no reviews. It might be just that this and Silver Tongues weren't as good as the thing that got me noticed in Buffy fandom (Blood Types), but I notice looking around me that I don't see people DOING this type of stuff in Star Trek, or even HP.
HP has some truly magnificent work, but none match the out-on-a-limb quality of say, Kita's work. Then again, imo nothing matches Kita's work. But I haven't seen writers like you or seraphcelene in Star Trek or HP, either. A few sort of like Lynne in HP, maybe, and yet the focus for those writers seems to be on plots and characters, and not on theme, like Lynne. That's not to say the plot- and character-driven work isn't amazing (or thematic); some of it really is. But the approach seems different. I'm probably not making any sense.
I think you just have to be conscience of where you place your clues,
You have a point. The thing is, I feel like if I write something not-in-Spock's voice, that's the big, tell-all clue. But it's not, is it? Because people are approaching everything so used to reading up-close-and-personal third. The clues need to be different for that audience.
no subject
I'd like to figure this out. That's why I made a second comment. If you have time, and are interested, I have developed a worksheet for us. Please fill out.
1)Why is this happening to us?
2)Has this ever happened to you before?
2b) If so, what did you do?
3) Do you know the overall arc of your story?
4) What will happen if we leave these slowly-crowding-us POVs/interfering character scenes out?
5) Is it possible to write the crowding POVs/interfering character, and then write them back out again, so we feel satisfied, but not crowded?
6) Have you ever written epic gen before?
6b) If so, did you have trouble with POV/interfering characters?
7) What epic gen have we read?
8) What is your goal in writing said epic gen?
My answers . . .
1) I dunno!
2) No
3) Yes. Kirk and Spock become bff, Kirk becomes the man he is in TOS, and Spock at last finds peace in himself after the event of Reboot
4) I keep thinking I won't be able to tell the story I have to tell.
5) Haven't tried that yet. It sounds like too much work.
6) Yes. Angel got a puppy in it!
6b) No! The thing was, I did have interfering characters. Suddenly half the fic was about Illyria! But I was alright with this. She did not take over the POV, and her story was just as important as Angel's, because they were thematically similar.
7) Hm. Well, I'm looking for a large cast, a series of adventures, without an overbearing plot. I guess Harry Potter is epic gen. That's Harry POV, but it sucks. Does have lots of interfering characters who threaten to take over, though. That is dealt with by making Harry very ciphery. Lots of Charles Dickens is like that, too--also epic gen. Quality of Mercy by Maya was epic gen, focussed tightly on Harry and Draco. Almost too tightly to be a model for what I'm looking for.
The first book of Anne of Green Gables is epic, series-of-adventure gen the way I'm planning, but the POV is managed by making almost everyone lackluster in comparison to Anne. The Lord of the Rings is an interesting example, but it really is an ensemble cast, isn't it? I wonder what Narnia POVs look like. Of course I could go on with this.
8) I want to get from Reboot to TOS insofar as Kirk and Spock's characters go, at the same time keeping the changes of Reboot intact (Spock/Uhura, the destruction of Vulcan, Scotty actually being cool, Gaila, et al). Maybe I have conflicting goals, since I'm interested specifically in developing the Kirk and Spock relationship, but also in developing everyone else's.
But if I were to drop the K&S focus, could such a fic even be written? It would be even more of a mess of POVs, because there would be no central over-arching direction. :o(
This has not helped me at all.
It's alive! It's alive!
Heh, I guess Buffy is more baroque than Trek. Buffy's all blood and roses; it makes no bones about the fact that it is trying to be a *myth*. So many of the major characters (actually, all of them, really) already speak in a stylized way, that we're more willing to indulge stylization in fanwriters. We're used to it; there's less WTF.
I was unable to "break in" to HP fandom with, uh, something fancy, and this piece right here has garnered almost no reviews. It might be just that this and Silver Tongues weren't as good as the thing that got me noticed in Buffy fandom (Blood Types), but I notice looking around me that I don't see people DOING this type of stuff in Star Trek, or even HP.
Did you advertise this one anywhere? Fandom feels bigger to me than it used to. Do you find that? I think it's harder to break in just by writing something good. You have to spend substantial effort participating in the community. Look at lim's Harry/Draco novel. It's fantastic, and it got a piddly amount of attention compared with HP BNFs. She's an interesting test case, because she *is* a BNF elsewhere: she's a vidding superhero, and if she wrote, oh, a SGA epic, hordes would descend.
I also have to admit that I don't love Silver Tongues or this piece as much as either Blood Types or Down There in the Reeperbahn. Blood Types is rich like peat moss, but not actually very gimmicky. Reeperbahn is just craaazy, and wicked smart, and crazy fun to untangle and card through for double, triple, quadruple meanings. In everything you’ve written for Buffy, I feel like the language is perfectly suited to the story. The Old Ways, otoh, has a good concept, but I don't understand why you chose the narrative voice you did. Like I said, it pings several quite specific time-and-place buttons for me, and because I can't see clearly how they fit in this universe, they come across as a somewhat mystifying affectation. BUT most of my Trek knowledge I acquired via osmosis. So. Food for thought, grain of salt, yadda.
HP has some truly magnificent work, but none match the out-on-a-limb quality of say, Kita's work. Then again, imo nothing matches Kita's work. A few sort of like Lynne in HP, maybe, and yet the focus for those writers seems to be on plots and characters, and not on theme, like Lynne. That's not to say the plot- and character-driven work isn't amazing (or thematic); some of it really is. But the approach seems different. I'm probably not making any sense.
I can think of people in (both) Stargate(s) who rock theme. I can't think of anybody who privileges it over character study, though; they use themes to explore characters. And plots to explore characters. And pastiche to explore characters.
I think...one of the differences in approach might be Jverse fans' obsession with patterns in Joss's universe. Fractals and repetitions and parallels -- they're everywhere -- he's Tolkien-like in that way. So that's where writers like me and you and Kita often start, by noticing something like that and capitalizing on it. Stargate doesn't have that literary quality. Vidders such as lim wrestle it out of HP. I can't speak to Trek.
But I haven't seen writers like you or seraphcelene in Star Trek or HP, either.
Yeah? In terms of content or style?
Because people are approaching everything so used to reading up-close-and-personal third. The clues need to be different for that audience.
I keep coming back to a metaphor of a camera zoom—and keep failing at articulating a clear rule of writing to stick it in, possibly because every rule of writing as a zillion exceptions. Something about establishing shots? I'm thinking of Jane Austen novels, with their "Dear Reader" POVs, that invariably start with truisms or affectionate but cool-headed and distancing character descriptions, and all their associated movies that begin with panoramic views of the countryside. I don't really know where I'm going with this. And I'm not critiquing __ anymore, either, I'm just ruminating about POV in general. *chews cud*
I have developed a worksheet for us. Please fill out.
Hee!
1)Why is this happening to us?
It's happening to *me* because I get really excited about things and start daydreaming about them for hours and weeks and months before knuckling down and figuring out that they don't actually have viable plots.
2)Has this ever happened to you before?
Well, see above, but this is farther than I've ever gotten before.
2b) If so, what did you do?
Gave up and wandered away to the next shiny non-viable. :/
3) Do you know the overall arc of your story?
I know the emotional arcs. I know the plot arc of one (of two, possibly three) set of characters. The others are lost in a great haze.
4) What will happen if we leave these slowly-crowding-us POVs/interfering
character scenes out?
Daniel will sulk, but that's about it. And hey, it's not like sulky!Daniel is OOC!
5) Is it possible to write the crowding POVs/interfering character, and
then write them back out again, so we feel satisfied, but not crowded?
Quite possibly.
6) Have you ever written epic gen before?
I have never written chaptered anything before!!
7) What epic gen have we read?
I'm pondering replacing your gen label with adventure or drama or some such, because it's worth noting that some relevant stories have romance, they're just not romance-centric. I also think it's useful here to divide gen into two rough categories:
- the kind that follows one protagonist or POV on one specific quest with a clear goal. The whole book is, like Neal Stephenson says, "the wood behind the point of a spear." Detective stories are a good example of this.
- the kind that follows multiple characters on different (though maybe related) errands in different places, and have a number of plotty episodes that may be thematically linked or advance a larger arc, but are more or less self-contained.
At the moment, I'm fangirling a few fannish authors who have written amazing examples of the former -- but I'm failing at imitating them. *My* story idea is not like a spear. It is like a sack of topsoil sprouting mushrooms.8) What is your goal in writing said epic gen?
Praise.
My answers . . .
3) Yes. Kirk and Spock become bff, Kirk becomes the man he is in TOS, and Spock at last finds peace in himself after the event of Reboot
That does sound cool. What do you think needs to happen to get them there?
6) Yes. Angel got a puppy in it!
I love that story so hard.
7) Hm. Well, I'm looking for a large cast, a series of adventures, without an overbearing plot.
8) I want to get from Reboot to TOS insofar as Kirk and Spock's characters go, at the same time keeping the changes of Reboot intact Maybe I have conflicting goals, since I'm interested specifically in developing the Kirk and Spock relationship, but also in developing everyone else's.
Okay. So write that. Write episodic epic gen: a string of single-chapter MOTW stories, each of which give full and loving attention to one POV. K&S can sometimes be foregrounded and sometimes burble along in the background, and the K&S-centric "season arc" can surge to the fore toward the end. It would work. I've read such things in other fandoms.
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Just remember, you asked.
What I Want To Know About Fic Soundtraks
What are some fic soundtracks you have made? (lists, please)
What parts of those soundtracks match up to which parts of the fics?
Why did you choose each song?
Do you consciously set about to make a soundtrack for a particular fic you've read?
If it's conscious, what sort of fic merits a soundtrack?
If it's unconscious, do you notice any commonalities between the fics you've made soundtracks for?
7) How do you choose the songs?
7a) For instance, do you hear a song and then know it needs to go on such and such soundtrack?
7b) Or do you say, "I need a song about a roguish hero!" and then search for songs about roguish heroes?
7c) If 7b) is true, how do you think of songs about roguish heroes?
7ci) do you just wait until you're listening one day and say, "ah! This song is about a roguish hero!"
7cii) Or are you just able to come up with songs about roguish heroes off the top of your head?
Do you assign songs to a soundtrack by subject or by theme (or sometimes one and sometimes the other and sometimes both)?
Do you arrange songs in your playlist by theme?
Do you ever have notes about a song, such as "to be used when a roguish hero is encountered"?
Where do you keep your playlists?
What do you do with them?
Do you ever share them with the authors? (Well, I suppose you are, for me.)
Do you listen to the soundtracks while reading the fic?
Do you make soundtracks for fic you write?
Do you listen while writing the fic?
Do themes from the songs work your way into your fic?
. . .
I am extremely interested in this because I have a difficult time listening to music. I am a very single-minded person. I can really only do one thing at once. This means if I am listening to music, I can do very few other things. I can't read; I can't study; I can't talk; I can't cook; sometimes I can't walk. (Actually, I can do these things, but I stop hearing the music when I do them.) Thus, listening to music is a big time commitment.
Secondly, I find myself disassociated and lost inside music. When I was in highschool, mostly I listened to movie soundtracks and musicals. I have since realized I was most attracted to those because they were the most like stories to me. Now I like some albums which I realize really are stories; you just have to read into them to realize what the stories are. I have difficulty making myself do this. Perhaps I am creative enough, but I am also lazy. I just don't have the patience to construct stories around some songs that have very interesting narratives hidden inside. I feel this decreases my quality of life. Music is important and tickles parts of your brain other things don't.
This is why Stoney's "Connor" soundtrack means so much to me. It's a story I know and love. It also has some really cool music, which I just totally would have been too lazy to parse had it not come to me in this form. What I really really want is to have character soundtracks for the stories of many characters. (I did a post about it here.) But for some reason my brain doesn't work backwards like that. There are some cool songs that I know and like, but I can't make them fit to stories I know already. I could construct cool stories from them, if I took the time, but I can't bring them to stories which already exist. This frustrates me, because if I could do that, I think it would give me a way to listen to music in ways that would enrich me.
Anywho. You don't have to answer all these questions. But I am very interested in this, and I wanted to let you know why. Perhaps in case you thought I was just being perverse with all my questions ;o)
no subject
lkreqwovp@gmail.com
(Anonymous) 2015-06-16 03:15 pm (UTC)(link)