recentaboutlinksarchive
INFORMATION

Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'

Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.

CONTACT

FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves

CREDITS

Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
Literally.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 11:23 PM

Dated: 11 July 2009
Hannah Fury, Emilie Autumn and a hefty dosage of Neil Gaiman's work is the perfect concoction for another short story, but as it uplifts and gives hope it also tells me my talent would never match up to those authors/poets. Like I mentioned to a friend, 'Neil's a genius'.

I wish my way with words would be just as admiring, but I think not. They give me the impression they've been writing since the day they found out that moving a pencil in a structured direction produces a letter, and many repeated similar actions produce words. Well, if only life was better. Then again, without cruelty nothing could be accomplished. Hannah Fury is the perfect lovelorn, jaded poet who seems to know everything and deeper and sings about it in her whispery vocals. Emilie Autumn is the Victorian revolutionist, pretty and frightening in a thrilling way, with lace, blood and surprises in store. Her outbursts of emotion are far more outspoken: while she screams, Hannah's voice trembles quietly in the background. Blood will spill at her feet, but in Hannah's case it seeps through the carpet, soaking like wine.

I came up with another plot an hour before this, but woe, I won't be able to finish it till come December. It's depressing, but priorities are after all, priorities. I've taken an enormous amount of effort to push its beckoning tendrils away to a corner. It'll stew a little further till it's perfectly preserved and ready. Meanwhile the only thing I allow myself to do is to sketch out its structure, minute character details and some useless setting information, preserving it's nature, so it'll be the way it is when revisited. I wonder how Peishwen does it. If she was in my place, she would have finished the whole shebang there and then, no questions asked, no lingering doubts.

Labels: , ,