Call me unoriginal, but I hate being called unoriginal. Bending words on a computer screen to alleviate the experimental lusting within my strange and lewd cranial-scape is just too much fun. Necessary, would even be appropriate. Coloring pictures used to be all about staying within the lines, but all I want to do is see how fuzzy I can make them.
Reading "Writing for Story," by Jon Franklin, topples over writer's blocks, kicks our motors into fifth-gear, all with that Dad voice full of salt-pepper and knowing. He's reassuring but is careful to not prop writer's up on watery legs. His building blocks are solid, clear, and defined. Note-cards, structure, laptop--go out, write, keep your nose to the ground.
About half-way through the book, where he starts going on about stories involving Heroes, Dragons, and how sub focuses cannot occluded, my own focus waned. A little tick in the corner of my eye, twitching, twitching, nudged its way into the heart of the irreverent rebel--the royal ass-hole of experimentation--and would not shut itself up until I acknowledged the form Franklin was smoothly, casually introducing was too damn velvety, clean, bleached.
Franklin isn't a bad guy, nor is the book bad either. But it doesn't resolve my desire to experiment. You have to know the rules to break them--yeah, I have heard it before (any bad writer has)--but I don't know if I want the Secret to be hard work.
Is that pessimistic of me? Or just lazy?
*lights a cigarette, sips some coffee*