Home > StoryBored > Putting a name to the face.

Putting a name to the face.

Meet Esme: she doesn't know it yet, but the old gods are watching her...

So I have a character. Her name is Esmerelda. It may be an odd choice, I admit, but she actually prefers being called Esme, which isn’t to say that the second part of her name will not be of some use to us further in the story. She is 17. I feel that is a good age. When I was 17, I had some close female friends and they seemed pretty clued in on what they were about and what they were doing, but they still had that slight lack of experience which gave way to making mistakes and still learning new things. I want her to be strong but not so far as to be a stereotypical Joss Whedon character.

I have outlined the whole story and in doing so I have kind of drawn a basic road map. I know where I start, where I finish and various stops along the way. What I do not know is exactly how I will be travelling, all the things I shall see and what little detours and diversions I may take. Suffice to say, I think I am going to enjoy the ride and I want to stop now because the journey analogy is making me feel dirty.

And not the good dirty.

So I got angry and I had a gut reaction and just poured my pain out onto this blog. It was cathartic, yes. It was also childish and hurtful to some people too. I never wanted to hurt people, yet I openly admit that I knew in writing it that I would be hurting people. I’m not just talking about the principle characters, but the people on the periphery – the friends and relatives who are left feeling awkward, unsure how to react, which side to land on etc. I apologise to those people wholeheartedly.

Love is fucked up. It really is. It is this wondrous, overwhelming feeling that fills your body and soul and makes you feel invincible and vulnerable at the same time. Once it is taken from you, the world becomes a bit colder and you feel lost. I don’t need to tell YOU this. We all have our broken hearted stories, out tales of loss and woe and the girl/boy who did us wrong. We must have also BEEN that person who did the heart-breaking and did them wrong too.

The things is… the thing is… the THING is. I will do it again. I will find someone and I will put my heart out there and I will let them take it and I will feel that way again – not the same way. I believe you can never feel the same way about a different person when it comes to love. Do you feel the same way about the same person though? That I do not know.

But romance aside, let us go back to Esme. One problem I am having at the minute is how to cheat. Yes, cheat. You see, the mythology of my story takes place in America. I want to set it in the UK. So I have several options. Do I just transpose the original myth to suit life here? Do I just say it is one of those handy literary cosmic coincidences in which the small town just happens to have the same name as the other town where something happened, or do I write in an explanation as part of the plot.

If I do the latter, it needs to be tight or it will come off as contrite and cheap “ah, we just said it was that town in America with the same name to confuse the baddies, but it was really here all along” like that see?!

Another issue is that of ‘Synaesthesia’. Synaesthesia is, according to top online dictionaries, “is a neurologically-based condition in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway.” In very simplified terms, to Synesthetes, the number 5 might be the colour blue. Time may be a distance, a shoe may sound like Beethoven. I have been fascinated by this since reading Alan Moore’s ‘Top Ten’ and I want to partially include it in this story. It is one thing to adjust your mind to try and think like another personality, but a far different thing to adjust your mind to think like an entirely different frame of reference. I just want a different way of communicating between a couple of characters.

Hm, I am starting to get how out of control this little project is. One simple, nice, little picture has led me to research bizarre mental conditions, Lovecraftian lore and how much classic vespas cost! Is this what real writers do? I must ask one.

Toodles.

Advertisements
  1. Elizabeth
    August 14, 2010 at 18:17

    To me, Lilt tastes like headaches, no one ever gets that. Oh, and I see and feel sound quite often, words are solid and look like themselves, obviously we’ve talked about how things feel in the mouth, I think that’s quite usual. Music makes pretty colours and thick patterns to dance through and with. Can I explain this well? No. Do I wish I could’ve just left it at “To me, Lilt tastes like headaches”? Most definitely.

  1. No trackbacks yet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: