what do you say?

Relatives of two friends have died recently; I never met them.
One was a mother, not exactly pleasant, an alcoholic who refused help, an angry, bitter woman who had neglected her son. She died from complications with emphysema. Other friends have told me that she was not a good person. But still, she was someone's mother, she was my friend's mother, and he is feeling the death hard. I'm deeply sorry for his loss.
The other was an uncle, nasty, abusive, predatory, mentally unhinged. The friend and I haven't been in touch since college and I haven't thought of her in a while. She is no one that my current friends know. She emailed me last night to say hello, to catch up; and to tell me "Ding dong, he's finally gone, I'm rejoicing." And I wondered what to say. What do I say? I wasn't sure if I could say I was sorry for her loss, because she's obviously not upset. I did not know her uncle, except from what she'd told me. He'd been a heroin/cocaine addict. He'd molested children. Unmedicated and possibly schizophrenic. Died from prostate cancer. But she's not upset, and so what do I say? He was her uncle. He is dead. I am sorry.

I don't do well with this sort of thing. It's so difficult for me to imagine feeling anything but sad when a relative dies, even if that relative was horrible; there are always many sides to a story after all. But it's also difficult for me to really feel very sympathetic when all I know is that they were horrible people according to others. All I can feel is sad and compassionate for the living left behind. All I can do is exist in this silence and be a friend.

I am in a strange headspace. I need to write when I get home. The novel is slipping into a darker place. I need to write until my fingers hurt.

what do you say?

Relatives of two friends have died recently; I never met them.
One was a mother, not exactly pleasant, an alcoholic who refused help, an angry, bitter woman who had neglected her son. She died from complications with emphysema. Other friends have told me that she was not a good person. But still, she was someone's mother, she was my friend's mother, and he is feeling the death hard. I'm deeply sorry for his loss.
The other was an uncle, nasty, abusive, predatory, mentally unhinged. The friend and I haven't been in touch since college and I haven't thought of her in a while. She is no one that my current friends know. She emailed me last night to say hello, to catch up; and to tell me "Ding dong, he's finally gone, I'm rejoicing." And I wondered what to say. What do I say? I wasn't sure if I could say I was sorry for her loss, because she's obviously not upset. I did not know her uncle, except from what she'd told me. He'd been a heroin/cocaine addict. He'd molested children. Unmedicated and possibly schizophrenic. Died from prostate cancer. But she's not upset, and so what do I say? He was her uncle. He is dead. I am sorry.

I don't do well with this sort of thing. It's so difficult for me to imagine feeling anything but sad when a relative dies, even if that relative was horrible; there are always many sides to a story after all. But it's also difficult for me to really feel very sympathetic when all I know is that they were horrible people according to others. All I can feel is sad and compassionate for the living left behind. All I can do is exist in this silence and be a friend.

I am in a strange headspace. I need to write when I get home. The novel is slipping into a darker place. I need to write until my fingers hurt.

what do you say?

Relatives of two friends have died recently; I never met them.
One was a mother, not exactly pleasant, an alcoholic who refused help, an angry, bitter woman who had neglected her son. She died from complications with emphysema. Other friends have told me that she was not a good person. But still, she was someone's mother, she was my friend's mother, and he is feeling the death hard. I'm deeply sorry for his loss.
The other was an uncle, nasty, abusive, predatory, mentally unhinged. The friend and I haven't been in touch since college and I haven't thought of her in a while. She is no one that my current friends know. She emailed me last night to say hello, to catch up; and to tell me "Ding dong, he's finally gone, I'm rejoicing." And I wondered what to say. What do I say? I wasn't sure if I could say I was sorry for her loss, because she's obviously not upset. I did not know her uncle, except from what she'd told me. He'd been a heroin/cocaine addict. He'd molested children. Unmedicated and possibly schizophrenic. Died from prostate cancer. But she's not upset, and so what do I say? He was her uncle. He is dead. I am sorry.

I don't do well with this sort of thing. It's so difficult for me to imagine feeling anything but sad when a relative dies, even if that relative was horrible; there are always many sides to a story after all. But it's also difficult for me to really feel very sympathetic when all I know is that they were horrible people according to others. All I can feel is sad and compassionate for the living left behind. All I can do is exist in this silence and be a friend.

I am in a strange headspace. I need to write when I get home. The novel is slipping into a darker place. I need to write until my fingers hurt.

Snippet from Chapter 12

And while reading over the chapter again, I just realized that I may need to completely remove a small plot point from the book. It just doesn't seem necessary anymore. Although it would probably make sense to keep it. Even though I seem to be ignoring it right now. Because there wasn't much mention of it at the beginning of the story. Damn it.
Grar.
I hate small possibly signficant or insignificant plot points that seem unimportant until they bite you. Writers, what do you do about those?

( Read more... )

Snippet from Chapter 12

And while reading over the chapter again, I just realized that I may need to completely remove a small plot point from the book. It just doesn't seem necessary anymore. Although it would probably make sense to keep it. Even though I seem to be ignoring it right now. Because there wasn't much mention of it at the beginning of the story. Damn it.
Grar.
I hate small possibly signficant or insignificant plot points that seem unimportant until they bite you. Writers, what do you do about those?

( Read more... )

Snippet from Chapter 12

And while reading over the chapter again, I just realized that I may need to completely remove a small plot point from the book. It just doesn't seem necessary anymore. Although it would probably make sense to keep it. Even though I seem to be ignoring it right now. Because there wasn't much mention of it at the beginning of the story. Damn it.
Grar.
I hate small possibly signficant or insignificant plot points that seem unimportant until they bite you. Writers, what do you do about those?

( Read more... )

Fragile Things

Currently reading: Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things.

Some of these stories I've read before: "Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire" is especially wonderful. "Closing Time" made me shiver. "How To Talk To Girls At Parties" made me smile knowingly. "The Problem Of Susan" raised my eyebrows and had me nodding sagely. "The Monarch Of The Glen" is always a treat, because I adore the character of Shadow from American Gods.

And then... and then, there is "Feeders and Eaters." It was the first of the stories in that book that I read. Even though it was in the middle of the book. Because I'd heard it summed up in one gruesome sentence: "An old woman eats her cat alive, slowly." And I knew that I had to get it over with. It's Neil Gaiman, after all; how could I not love him? But I also love cats. More than I love Neil. Could I forgive him? So I read "Feeders and Eaters," with trepidation. And it is an awful nightmare. Grisly, horrible, horrifying. But the bit about the cat didn't last long. Just a snapshot. A passage. Quick, nearly painless. But not really. And then I read the story a second time, because I couldn't help myself. It is painful, yes. But... I understand it. In the realm of fantastic horror, these things are meant to be understood. Maybe, I thought, the cat knew its own fate. The way it looked at Eddie, the way it meowed when it saw Eddie bringing the raw meat to the woman's bedroom. I reassure myself with that thought: The cat was okay with it. "Who's going to feed me now?" the woman cried. I knew who, even before the reveal at the end. But still, it is a gruesome story. Based on a nightmare. Started out as a comic book. Oh, gods, a comic book? I don't want to think about it, I don't.
So, fair warning, cat lovers. And people lovers, too.

Neil Gaiman needs to give us stories forever.

Fragile Things

Currently reading: Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things.

Some of these stories I've read before: "Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire" is especially wonderful. "Closing Time" made me shiver. "How To Talk To Girls At Parties" made me smile knowingly. "The Problem Of Susan" raised my eyebrows and had me nodding sagely. "The Monarch Of The Glen" is always a treat, because I adore the character of Shadow from American Gods.

And then... and then, there is "Feeders and Eaters." It was the first of the stories in that book that I read. Even though it was in the middle of the book. Because I'd heard it summed up in one gruesome sentence: "An old woman eats her cat alive, slowly." And I knew that I had to get it over with. It's Neil Gaiman, after all; how could I not love him? But I also love cats. More than I love Neil. Could I forgive him? So I read "Feeders and Eaters," with trepidation. And it is an awful nightmare. Grisly, horrible, horrifying. But the bit about the cat didn't last long. Just a snapshot. A passage. Quick, nearly painless. But not really. And then I read the story a second time, because I couldn't help myself. It is painful, yes. But... I understand it. In the realm of fantastic horror, these things are meant to be understood. Maybe, I thought, the cat knew its own fate. The way it looked at Eddie, the way it meowed when it saw Eddie bringing the raw meat to the woman's bedroom. I reassure myself with that thought: The cat was okay with it. "Who's going to feed me now?" the woman cried. I knew who, even before the reveal at the end. But still, it is a gruesome story. Based on a nightmare. Started out as a comic book. Oh, gods, a comic book? I don't want to think about it, I don't.
So, fair warning, cat lovers. And people lovers, too.

Neil Gaiman needs to give us stories forever.

Fragile Things

Currently reading: Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things.

Some of these stories I've read before: "Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire" is especially wonderful. "Closing Time" made me shiver. "How To Talk To Girls At Parties" made me smile knowingly. "The Problem Of Susan" raised my eyebrows and had me nodding sagely. "The Monarch Of The Glen" is always a treat, because I adore the character of Shadow from American Gods.

And then... and then, there is "Feeders and Eaters." It was the first of the stories in that book that I read. Even though it was in the middle of the book. Because I'd heard it summed up in one gruesome sentence: "An old woman eats her cat alive, slowly." And I knew that I had to get it over with. It's Neil Gaiman, after all; how could I not love him? But I also love cats. More than I love Neil. Could I forgive him? So I read "Feeders and Eaters," with trepidation. And it is an awful nightmare. Grisly, horrible, horrifying. But the bit about the cat didn't last long. Just a snapshot. A passage. Quick, nearly painless. But not really. And then I read the story a second time, because I couldn't help myself. It is painful, yes. But... I understand it. In the realm of fantastic horror, these things are meant to be understood. Maybe, I thought, the cat knew its own fate. The way it looked at Eddie, the way it meowed when it saw Eddie bringing the raw meat to the woman's bedroom. I reassure myself with that thought: The cat was okay with it. "Who's going to feed me now?" the woman cried. I knew who, even before the reveal at the end. But still, it is a gruesome story. Based on a nightmare. Started out as a comic book. Oh, gods, a comic book? I don't want to think about it, I don't.
So, fair warning, cat lovers. And people lovers, too.

Neil Gaiman needs to give us stories forever.