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Journal : settings to write
May. 26th, 2017 05:28 pmi'd like to write something with deserts, wastelands of apocalypses long removed. dry and hot and deadly, and a sky so open it hurts.
i'd like to write something overflowing with flowers; purples and pinks and a riot of scents, glittering dragonfly wings. honey and good soil.
i'd like to write something with coffee dark and creamy as oil, dancers lost in skirts and jewels and mosaic tiles, and smoky rooms worn out cards.
i'd like to write something about streetlights at night, and the sunset a slice of brilliant orange-gold at the horizon while dark clouds stretch overhead. Rain on windshields, the soft switch-switch of the wipers. Power lines and empty highways.
i'd like to write about old radios that play songs from the stars, ethereal and comforting in their strangeness. space ship crews singing songs best described as folk meets vaporwave.
i'd like to write about immigrants and prospectors outracing technology and the sky and land and the animals keep getting bigger and bigger the farther you go. wanderers and towns with their own strict moral codes.
i'd like to write about a lot of things. but where are the characters? the plots, the stories? setting isn't story, but that's all i have. Any time i've tried to construct characters deliberately they've... distorted the worlds, muddied their shapes. So does attempting to link the spaces together. the characters and bridges have to come naturally, or it all collapses, and i'm so tired of that. of not being the machine other writers seem to be, of not being able to just force it to happen. of writing hurting.
i'd like to write something overflowing with flowers; purples and pinks and a riot of scents, glittering dragonfly wings. honey and good soil.
i'd like to write something with coffee dark and creamy as oil, dancers lost in skirts and jewels and mosaic tiles, and smoky rooms worn out cards.
i'd like to write something about streetlights at night, and the sunset a slice of brilliant orange-gold at the horizon while dark clouds stretch overhead. Rain on windshields, the soft switch-switch of the wipers. Power lines and empty highways.
i'd like to write about old radios that play songs from the stars, ethereal and comforting in their strangeness. space ship crews singing songs best described as folk meets vaporwave.
i'd like to write about immigrants and prospectors outracing technology and the sky and land and the animals keep getting bigger and bigger the farther you go. wanderers and towns with their own strict moral codes.
i'd like to write about a lot of things. but where are the characters? the plots, the stories? setting isn't story, but that's all i have. Any time i've tried to construct characters deliberately they've... distorted the worlds, muddied their shapes. So does attempting to link the spaces together. the characters and bridges have to come naturally, or it all collapses, and i'm so tired of that. of not being the machine other writers seem to be, of not being able to just force it to happen. of writing hurting.
