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Would you like a bedtime story?
For lack of any better place to put it, for now, I will put it here.
Today I was asked about how I develop my characters in a writerly-type fashion. I started writing seriously when I was ten years old. When I started getting really serious my freshman year, I stopped watching television and started writing and drawing to entertain myself. When you look at something I've done, bear this in mind. This is literally all I do.
I have always been character oriented. I believe the plot falls into place around well made characters. I really get into my characters. At the moment, I just so happen to be drafting out the most recent incarnation of a very important and major character in my book. Please feel free to ask me anything at any time. More than anything, I love talking about my characters. This should give you lots of insight into my process, if you ever wanted to know. In fact, it will give you too much insight and you'll hate it, I'm sure!

So, I need to recreate Fiore. I'm going to devote the next week to building this character and her wonderfully mundane young life, before she escapes her father. She's one of the very few females I ever write about. She's based heavily on myself and my memories from when I was younger, as well as my perception of some of the other teenagers I knew.
Much of her day to day life revolves around her best friend, who is equal parts monster and ghost. He's named Gef.
Gef lives behind the grate of the age-old heating vent in the cracked plaster wall of Fiore's bathroom, which is attached to her bedroom. Her father owns the sprawling country estate where she lives in the very old mansion, surrounded by an overgrown, thorny garden and a high stone wall, but he himself is rarely there. His hunting hounds, hunting horses, and their stewards are always there. Gef has chosen to stay there, and he has been there since long before her family bought the estate. He likes it there in the grate because the old fashioned decor of the outdated bathroom appeals to him, and the tile on the walls is ridiculously fanciful, for a bathroom.
Gef usually takes the form of a rough-looking yellow mongoose, but he has several forms available to him, all of which are frightening. He deliberately speaks several octaves higher than a normal human, mostly to be weird and annoying. Gef could be more powerful than god. He's simply lazy, and behaves like such a caustic little asshole that nobody cares whether he lives or dies, or ever did; except maybe Fiore, because admittedly sometimes she did want him to die.
When she was little, Gef scared her a lot, on purpose. He tried scaring her a few times when she was an infant, but he didn't know much about human babies. To his bewilderment, she just giggled at him. That was the first time she hurt his feelings to the core.
When she began elementary school, she was bullied because she liked odd things, played with bugs, and read lots of books about animals. Gef got tired of watching her cry herself to sleep every night. She was too sad to be scared of him anymore. Gef followed her to school every day. He did not hesitate to make use of his monster forms. She was not bothered anymore, but she didn't make friends, either. It was okay, Gef reassured her, because he was the only friend she would ever need.
One day, during her second grade year, Gef stayed home because he wasn't feeling well. He'd gorged himself on all the trash in the kitchen after one of her father's dinners and had accidentally eaten a chicken bone. Fiore got to school and ended up getting punched in the mouth right away when it was found that she was without her protector. She tasted her own blood for the first time and instantly transformed into a monster. She quickly obliterated her school and several city blocks.
It was a very expensive private school, and the affluent parents of her injured classmates were horrified that an abomination like her could attend, or even be allowed to live at all. They wanted her to be hunted down and executed, as people with that curse used to be in the old days, but her father had more money than them.
Her father kept her home from then on, locked in her room, to be safe.
Since Fiore wasn't going to school and getting an education anymore, Gef took it upon himself to teach her everything she needed to know. He taught her how to play 'Smoke On The Water' on the acoustic guitar and how to steal chips from the top rack of the snack machine by negating reality and how to cook meth and how to teleport and fly space shuttles and build atomic bombs, but for most of it she wasn't listening because she never listened to Gef anyway.
She wasn't allowed to leave her room through the door. She would get onto the roof through her windows sometimes, but she was somewhat afraid of heights. Even though she got angry sometimes, and the thought crossed her mind, she wouldn't make herself transform. It had hurt her body to do that. She never wanted to transform again. She was terrified of losing control and hurting someone, until she got a little older, and then she looked back and resolved that they all deserved a whole lot worse.
Gef had endured a very long, sad century of loneliness before he knew Fiore, with no one there to listen to him speak. That was the worst part, to him. He remembered it often and decided that if she ever left he'd have to go with her.
They were together constantly, though she would never want him to think that she liked his company. She knew, though, that if it weren't for him, she would go days without speaking to anyone, maybe even days without using her voice at all. Her own father sometimes overlooked her existence; on occasion he even neglected to feed her. It was easy to disappear when you lived behind a locked door on the top floor of a house and everyone thought you were dead anyway. The pesky ghost haunting her bathroom was the only one who would never forget about her, and even that wasn't certain, since she was pretty sure he was insane.
She never left the house, and she wasn't even supposed to go outside, though Gef helped her sneak out on three occasions. The first two times, she didn't know she needed to bring a coat. She was too cold to enjoy walking around in the snow, or the lights of the city below, the deep darkness of the ocean which formed the horizon, or the way her breath condensed in the air and made it seem as though she was smoking those stately cigars like her filthy rich father.
The third time was her sixteenth birthday. That was the night she snuck out to the city, got drunk, got a tattoo, and then crashed her father's car. The next day her father hired someone to supervise her constantly. That's another story though. That's actually THE story I want to tell about her. She goes on to do important and wonderful things.
I'm going to think about stuff, like her favorite outfit, then I'll set up the furniture in her room, decide what her morning ritual is, what she likes to snack on when she watches films late at night, the name of the sudden feeling she gets when she's staring out the window and happens to see a wild animal running free in the forests beyond the walls of her father's estate, what she thinks about when she's taking a bath, or what she tries her hardest not to think about.
She probably just wears stupid looking pajamas all the time. Like, the stupidest pajamas she can get her hands on. Ones that are not logical. Maybe she collects them. She forces her father to buy them for her, and he would. She deliberately instructs him, "You have to hate them or I won't wear them."
She would do that.
I just made all of this up tonight based primarily on stuff from my memory. I spent several hours just typing out my thoughts about her and her adventures as a teenager, and more kept coming.
That's how it happens with me, when it's happening.
(Falstaff suddenly looks up) Here's the thing. Here's the thing that bugs the shit outta me. What you do is personal. It's too fuckin' personal.
(Graeme is eating, he doesn't look up) That's an extremely curious thing for someone like you to say.
Someone like me. Uh huh. And what do you think I am?
You know very well what you are. Stop making sounds. I will only ask you one time.
(Falstaff continues unhindered, looking up as if deep in thought) I see them all, they're all the same to me. They eat the same food. The same objects in their house. Their heads all pop just the same.
(Graeme doesn't look up, he continues eating) That's disgusting.
(Falstaff stares at Graeme in utter disbelief, then dismay, but Falstaff shakes it off and continues, looking away) I don't go into their heads, see. I go right through.
(Graeme doesn't look up, he continues eating) You think too much.
(Falstaff continues) You go too far. Way too fucking far. Unnescessarily far. The fact that you can, well, honestly I don't even like talking to you very much.
Then by all means, don't.
Ah, yeah. But not much else excites me, these days.
Are you trying to sexualize me again.
You jump straight to that, every time. Makes me think it's on your mind an awful lot.
Stop. Making. Sounds.
(Falstaff pretends to be hurt) How come you never say please?
That's begging.
That's manners.
(Graeme shoots an unimpressed look at Falstaff and continues eating)
(Falstaff looks out the window silently for a few moments, but being silent is the very last thing Falstaff is good at) Don't you ever wonder if there's a deeper meaning to all of this?
All of what?
Uh, the awful, nasty shit we do.
There is no deeper meaning. There is no meaning at all, to anything, ever.
Uh huh, and you're sure about that?
(Graeme looks up at Falstaff intensely) You have allowed your head to become idle. Your governing law has been totally corrupted. You have imagined some new, incorrect destination for yourself. One which bothers you less than the one intended for you. You call that place 'meaning'. You move towards it, or you tell yourself that you do.
(Falstaff is staring at Graeme in shock, since this is the most he has ever said at once)
(Graeme stares at Falstaff) You will move towards it endlessly.
Oh, my.
(Graeme watches a waitress pass by as if he thinks she is going to attack him) You never look behind you to see the only thing that does matter. Which is the thing that chases you. And it forever will.
(Graeme looks back to Falstaff) Until you stop.
(Falstaff stares at Graeme, mystified) Does it hurt to be that crazy?
(Graeme looks down and continues eating) No.
You are a source of endless amusement to me.
You're becoming more and more like a human.
Think so?
I do. Do you know what that makes you?
(Falstaff shrugs)
(Graeme looks up at him) Endangered. It makes you endangered.
(Falstaff laughs)
(Graeme continues eating) How long do you spend, imprisoned, when you get sent back?
(Falstaff shrugs) A month, maybe.
I spend no more than five hours.
(Falstaff shakes his/her head) How...?
You've asked me why I do the things I do.
Who the fuck wouldn't?
(Graeme shoots Falstaff a warning look) I recognized the pattern.
What pattern?
The worse you are, the less time you spend down there, caged up like an animal, and as good as one, as well. You are rewarded for being wrong, evil, bad, etc cetera, all those human terms for exactly the thing you are. The thing you're supposed to be, anyway. And so the more evil you are, the less time you spend down there. In a cold stark cell.
So you choose to do the awful things you do because you don't like spending a few days in a brick room?
I do not like to be controlled.
You would rather be an abomination?
Fuck, man, inside voices!
(Graeme goes back to eating)
But I never thought about that.
No, of course you didn't. You run around killing families and drinking their milk and sleeping in their beds. You don't think at all.
You just said I think too much...
You think about the wrong things.
So, maybe I should take a page outta your book and just start raping kids?
Why do you do that every time?
Why do I do what?
You ask me not to say it aloud but you never deny it.
You shouldn't be expecting me to deny that.
Uh huh.
You know reputation is more important than truth.
And you don't mind your reputation?
Why would it bother me?
(Falstaff stares at Graeme) I know you're supposed to be a piece of work, man, but you are a piece of fuckin' work.
(Graeme goes back to eating)
You're the one becoming more like a human.
That's a stupid thing to say.
You lie to yourself like a human would. Like you feel shame.
(Graeme ignores Falstaff)
You feel the difference between good and bad, don't you, honey?
Don't call me that.
I've got a really fantastic idea.
No, you don't.
Why don't we trade weapons?
For what purpose.
I want to see what it feels like to fire a gun.
Only if you agree to fire it directly into your head.
What's with all the hostility?
(Graeme gives Falstaff an unnerving look, Falstaff is a little taken aback)
(Falstaff stares down at his/her food) How are we going to pay for this?
We aren't.
Do you ever obey the law?
What law.
The human law.
I am not human so I do not obey the human law. I am what I am so I obey my own law. Even you must be capable of understanding this.
Uh, okay. So what are you? Do you even know?
I'll tell you what I am. I'm EATING. Could you CEASE your CHATTERING and this is the VERY LAST TIME I WILL ASK YOU NICELY.
Well! That wasn't very nice at all.
(Graeme goes back to eating)
Aren't you concerned about blending in?
I blend in just fine.
Oh? What's your occupation in the human world?
I am a maintenance professional.
Uh, a janitor?
If you must call it that.
Uh huh. Where?
An elementary school.
(Falstaff chokes and laughs hysterically)
(Graeme bristles) Why is that humorous?
Do you need me to explain it to you?
(Graeme stares at him)
Can't you see the irony?
Irony is a human concept. I don't recognize human concepts. You know this.
Uh, alright, so. Here we have the embodiment of evil on the mortal plane, going around raping and killing kids, maybe not in that order-
That's what the newspapers say you do.
The newspapers are written by humans.
Okay, and?
They want to catch me as fast as possible. I make them look very bad. They want all the other humans to hate and fear me.
I have a revelation for you.
And what is that.
Raise your voice at me once more and see what becomes of you.
Oh, you're the only one who's allowed to yell?
I have a scattergun. You have an axe.
Oh, fucker. Have at it! Why don't you just kill me already?
It is impossible for us to kill each other.
And from what random ass corner of your rationally derelict mind did you pull that notion from?
I didn't make that up. That is the truth. You don't remember the rules, do you?
Oh, look who's talking about rules now. Fuck.
It may be different now. I haven't tried in a few centuries.
(Falstaff looks down at his/her plate) I'll let you have the first turn.
(Graeme looks up at Falstaff) Excuse me?
You can try to kill me now. You get the first turn.
Turn? Turn? I have a gun, you dolt. The first turn ends with your brains on the wall. I hate you so much.
Are you going to take your turn or not?
You're an idiot. Of course I am.
Wait! It's only fair if you have some kind of handicap! Hmmm... (Falstaff is facetiously tapping his/her chin and peering around)
(Graeme is seething, he knows Falstaff well enough to know he/she is about to toy with him) Don't do the thing you are about to do, whatever it is, because I already know that I will have to end you for it.
You have to kill me with this. (Falstaff pushes a french fry across the table towards Graeme using just one finger)
(Graeme looks up at Falstaff, even more angry now) What is that?
That's a french fry. You don't know what a french fry is? You do understand that every single human on this plane has probably eaten a french fry.
Is that a fact.
No wonder you kill kids. You're too fucking stupid to do much else, aren't you?
(Graeme's eyes flick up to Falstaff)


Don't sing love songs

Hello, this used to be my journal. It was my journal from maybe 2001 to 2009 and it really tells about some unbelievable shit, and I am proud of what this journal contains, but it is no longer my journal. I do twitter now. My twitter is https://twitter.com/babysoot and I am very devoted to keeping it up.
I am a writer and an illustrator and I have projects I work on that I talk about on twitter. Due to the brevity required on twitter, I had to find an outside place where I could talk a little more, so I have decided to utilize my old LJ for this.

This LJ is now solely dedicated to everything I don't have the space to talk about on twitter. Mostly you will read about the various fiction and other writing projects I am working on, and when I have a matching illustration you can now see them together! Also watch for other special reports that I feel need pictures. But to tell you the truth, I'm not sure you're going to get much journaling from me. I already lived the life I'm going to tell you stories about. And to be honest I'd like to not think about it for a little while!

I have decided to leave all social media indefinitely. If you need me my email is thepatronsaintofpoison@hotmail.com