EDIT2: added a stupid flooble for fun. lol.
EDIT: I just released 3 half-fucked drafts that I fiddled with but never got around to fleshing out and/or was too disappointed in to complete. They are below this post. read, and be amused.
this post is completely Out Of Character. this is the author speaking.
I am stuck. HAHA.
-.-"
I have no plot, I have no direction, I don't know what the story is about. All I know is what my characters are, what they do, and all i've written is how they behave when interacting with each other, mainly Gwen and Dillian. The main 'theme', so far, is... hurr geez I don't really have a theme either... I guess it's the relationship between G and D, and... G's supposed homosexuality issues. *shrug*
All the posts that are up here so far are based on actual events that I've been through. I've been blogging here, in other words, except that I translate what's happened to me into either Gwen or Dill's viewpoint.
But, like I've said, I don't have a...Direction. A fanthomable ending. I, uh, need the box to work in. Else I'll just be rambling on and on and on.
So...yea. leave a comment or something. All 2.5 of you. >.<
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Taking a second plunge
Drafted: 7/7/06 1.10PM Posted 2/25/07 1.14am [random self-reflective scene]
I lay awake throughout the night. Exhausted as I was, I could not sleep.
Guilt, pleasure, excitement, uncertainty and a myriad of questions bounced around in my head like a herd of stampeding elephants, threatening to knock me out with a mental concussion.
I'd always believed, always known, that I was off-center in my sexual orientation. For years I'd been engaged in fulfilling homosexual relationships,.....................
I lay awake throughout the night. Exhausted as I was, I could not sleep.
Guilt, pleasure, excitement, uncertainty and a myriad of questions bounced around in my head like a herd of stampeding elephants, threatening to knock me out with a mental concussion.
I'd always believed, always known, that I was off-center in my sexual orientation. For years I'd been engaged in fulfilling homosexual relationships,.....................
Gwen finds that she's not a lesbo thru & thru!
Drafted: 5/16/06 10pm Posted: 2/25/07 1.12am [scene based on chalet. Gwen has first intimate encounter with Dillian]
The last of the dishes were finally washed and set aside. It had taken almost forever to get those of us who were not too drunk to stand to contribute to the clean-up effort.
With half of the gang high on alcohol and pretty much...........[end of draft]
The last of the dishes were finally washed and set aside. It had taken almost forever to get those of us who were not too drunk to stand to contribute to the clean-up effort.
With half of the gang high on alcohol and pretty much...........[end of draft]
Thoughts From The Back Of The Bus.
Drafted: 5/10/06 11.48PM. Posted: 25/2/07 1.28AM (unedited) [probably usable, too much rambling]
Reflective scene. Note: I forsee more posts like this. It's still early in the writing process and I think I'm spending more time getting to know my characters and letting them talk to me, to us, rather than having an actual plot at the moment. I have discussed several plot possibilities with 1 or 2 of you, and I will take those suggestions into consideration. Thanks for your input. Any more suggestions please lemme know? thanks.
I found myself taking the bus home the next day. This wasn't routine, for Dillian would usually give me a lift home, since we lived so close to each other. In fact, one of my schoolmates asked if we had an argument, and hoped that our 'relationship' was 'okay'. Relationship?! Did we really look 'together'? I shrugged it off. It was another straw in the hump of a bad day that I was having. Anal lecturers, impossibly long queues during lunch hour, and the incessant stares and wolf-whistles from half-baked guys from whom sophistication was gloriously absent.
I guess it was probably a good thing that Dillian could not drive me home that day. He was Not exactly good company when one was moody. Besides, there were quite a few good looking girls on the same bus I was on. But they did not rouse my interest for long. It was one of those days, I suppose. The bus hit the expressway and started to pick up speed. I extended a hand out of the window and let it dangle there, more exhausted than I'd thought. The wind flowed past us, brushing my hands and feeling very much like the reigns of some great chariot. I felt, for a moment, like Apollo in his chariot of the sun. And I was reminded of the myth of his son perishing because of his inability to control said chariot. I wondered if Apollo ever had any daughters worth mentioning. Everything in existance was male oriented. Even the language we used leans in favor of males.
I was about to nod off when we pulled into.....................[end of draft]
Reflective scene. Note: I forsee more posts like this. It's still early in the writing process and I think I'm spending more time getting to know my characters and letting them talk to me, to us, rather than having an actual plot at the moment. I have discussed several plot possibilities with 1 or 2 of you, and I will take those suggestions into consideration. Thanks for your input. Any more suggestions please lemme know? thanks.
I found myself taking the bus home the next day. This wasn't routine, for Dillian would usually give me a lift home, since we lived so close to each other. In fact, one of my schoolmates asked if we had an argument, and hoped that our 'relationship' was 'okay'. Relationship?! Did we really look 'together'? I shrugged it off. It was another straw in the hump of a bad day that I was having. Anal lecturers, impossibly long queues during lunch hour, and the incessant stares and wolf-whistles from half-baked guys from whom sophistication was gloriously absent.
I guess it was probably a good thing that Dillian could not drive me home that day. He was Not exactly good company when one was moody. Besides, there were quite a few good looking girls on the same bus I was on. But they did not rouse my interest for long. It was one of those days, I suppose. The bus hit the expressway and started to pick up speed. I extended a hand out of the window and let it dangle there, more exhausted than I'd thought. The wind flowed past us, brushing my hands and feeling very much like the reigns of some great chariot. I felt, for a moment, like Apollo in his chariot of the sun. And I was reminded of the myth of his son perishing because of his inability to control said chariot. I wondered if Apollo ever had any daughters worth mentioning. Everything in existance was male oriented. Even the language we used leans in favor of males.
I was about to nod off when we pulled into.....................[end of draft]
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Never Dance Again
(auth's background note: Gwen just sneaked out of drug rehab for a coupla hours because he was uncooperative with the program. more details later.)
I glanced over at the passenger seat, hoping that Dillian recognized where we were. But he only stared out the window, bloodshot eyes looking at nothing.
Half dragging, half supporting him out of the car, I led him to the second level of the building. Leaving him propped against the wall, mumbling about 'needing a fix' and scratching furiously at his neck, I turned my back on him and fiddled with the door lock, all the while trying to swallow a huge lump in my throat.
Prodding the door open, I gently shoved him into the room. Caught by surprise, and his nervous system clogged up with all those drugs, he lost his balance and fell onto his knees. Ignoring his muttered curses, I stalked over to the light switches and waited for him to quiet down before flicking them on.
It took him a while to get used to the light, and more time after to realise what he was looking at.
Parquet flooring, lacquered and smooth, but still rough enough to provide grip; A mirror that stretched from wall to wall, floor to ceiling; and at one end of the room, set into stlyish cabinets, the sound system's control center.
It was a plain and simple room, yet it was enough to knock Dillian into a stunned silence. It was a dance studio. Our dance studio. The one that we spent so much time and effort trying to create.
Our dream, realised.
But a realised dream meant nothing if the dreamers were not around to enjoy it, and seeing the empty studio, being in it, Dillian realised all that.
He struggled to his feet, as I watched silently from my position beside the door. I know not how long we stood at our respective positions, his stare alternating between the mirror, floor and his feet; my stare centered on him.
Eventually, though, his involuntary shivers stopped, his sniffles lessened, and he stood up straighter as he took a tentative step forward. It was a wobbly step, and he nearly lost his balance, but as he recovered, he glanced back at me and gave a weak smile. He was still awfully pale, and weaker than a baby, but he was most definately feeling better than an hour ago.
He tried to pace the width of the studio, but fell, before he even got to the halfway mark. I started forward, worried that he might have injured himself, but he waved me away and tried again to stand.
Again and again, he fell back down before he even got halfway off the ground. It was no good. His legs could not support his weight, and his breathing became more laboured. Having danced with him as his partner for such a long time, I could tell that he was getting extremely fustrated, and if left alone, would push himself too far, till the time came when he just gave up.
I could not bear to watch this anymore, I brought him here in hopes of raising his sprits, reigniting his desire to recover, the flame to dance again. But all I managed to do was to raise him out of his drug induced haze, and drop him into a pit deeper than the one he was in. Some friend I was.
I rushed forward and tried to calm him down, feeling guilty at the sight of his tears. He looked at me with the visage of one who has given up all hope and spoke his first words in a month. The same words he said the last time he spoke.
" I'll never be able to dance again, Gwen. "
(auth's note: its 2 in the morning. my brain ceased to function 4 hours ago. pardon the quality of writing.)
I glanced over at the passenger seat, hoping that Dillian recognized where we were. But he only stared out the window, bloodshot eyes looking at nothing.
Half dragging, half supporting him out of the car, I led him to the second level of the building. Leaving him propped against the wall, mumbling about 'needing a fix' and scratching furiously at his neck, I turned my back on him and fiddled with the door lock, all the while trying to swallow a huge lump in my throat.
Prodding the door open, I gently shoved him into the room. Caught by surprise, and his nervous system clogged up with all those drugs, he lost his balance and fell onto his knees. Ignoring his muttered curses, I stalked over to the light switches and waited for him to quiet down before flicking them on.
It took him a while to get used to the light, and more time after to realise what he was looking at.
Parquet flooring, lacquered and smooth, but still rough enough to provide grip; A mirror that stretched from wall to wall, floor to ceiling; and at one end of the room, set into stlyish cabinets, the sound system's control center.
It was a plain and simple room, yet it was enough to knock Dillian into a stunned silence. It was a dance studio. Our dance studio. The one that we spent so much time and effort trying to create.
Our dream, realised.
But a realised dream meant nothing if the dreamers were not around to enjoy it, and seeing the empty studio, being in it, Dillian realised all that.
He struggled to his feet, as I watched silently from my position beside the door. I know not how long we stood at our respective positions, his stare alternating between the mirror, floor and his feet; my stare centered on him.
Eventually, though, his involuntary shivers stopped, his sniffles lessened, and he stood up straighter as he took a tentative step forward. It was a wobbly step, and he nearly lost his balance, but as he recovered, he glanced back at me and gave a weak smile. He was still awfully pale, and weaker than a baby, but he was most definately feeling better than an hour ago.
He tried to pace the width of the studio, but fell, before he even got to the halfway mark. I started forward, worried that he might have injured himself, but he waved me away and tried again to stand.
Again and again, he fell back down before he even got halfway off the ground. It was no good. His legs could not support his weight, and his breathing became more laboured. Having danced with him as his partner for such a long time, I could tell that he was getting extremely fustrated, and if left alone, would push himself too far, till the time came when he just gave up.
I could not bear to watch this anymore, I brought him here in hopes of raising his sprits, reigniting his desire to recover, the flame to dance again. But all I managed to do was to raise him out of his drug induced haze, and drop him into a pit deeper than the one he was in. Some friend I was.
I rushed forward and tried to calm him down, feeling guilty at the sight of his tears. He looked at me with the visage of one who has given up all hope and spoke his first words in a month. The same words he said the last time he spoke.
" I'll never be able to dance again, Gwen. "
(auth's note: its 2 in the morning. my brain ceased to function 4 hours ago. pardon the quality of writing.)
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