NaDruWriNi
Nov. 4th, 2005 09:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
plonqOne more sleep before I start on my writing project. (I apologize to my liver in advance.)
I still have only a vague idea of what I am going to write about, but when I mix alcohol with my stories, they often write themselves without much advance planning. Just off the top of my head I can think of three stories that had their Genesis in a scotch bottle: Learning to Fly is a slightly "emo" piece that I wrote a few years back. The basic premise for the story came to me while I was out cutting the lawn one afternoon, but it was only later that evening as I was sipping on a glass of scotch that the first nuggets of an actual story began to take real form in my head. I kept sipping scotch as I typed (well, alternately) and by the time I got to the final word in the story my uncoordinated fingers were tripping all over each other.
When I wrote Life of The Party I intended for it to be a silly cyberpunk piece, but it later got slapped with the "transformation" label, and even made it onto the TSA. This story had no advance planning at all. I was sitting at home one evening, pounding back expensive brandy and puffing on a cigar (yes, that was back when I allowed - and even consumed - tobacco products inside the house) when suddenly this story fell out of my head. I just had this mental image of a poor sucker turning himself into a vixen as a joke, then learning that she couldn't change herself back (don'tcha just love switching genders in mid-sentence?)
Small Packages is another story that wrote itself. I had a few too many drinks, got bored, and decided to write about my crappy day at work. (I used to drink a lot more before I got married.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
atara has never actually seen me drunk.) I was as surprised as anyone when I discovered, halfway through the story, that the otter was gay. Who knew? Curiously enough, Giblet (and the wolf character in "Learning to Fly") are both patterned after the same person - though the otter took off with a life of his own after this story.
What do I plan to write about this weekend? I don't know, and I think that not knowing is part of the fun. I like stories that write themselves as they go. I've been kicking around a story idea involving an alien spaceport and a malfunctioning translator, but I may save that for a sober evening. All I know is that the story may or may not involve snow leopards, otters or skunks. Or sharks with fucking laser beams that shoot out of their eyes. Zap! Pfffew!!1
I still have only a vague idea of what I am going to write about, but when I mix alcohol with my stories, they often write themselves without much advance planning. Just off the top of my head I can think of three stories that had their Genesis in a scotch bottle: Learning to Fly is a slightly "emo" piece that I wrote a few years back. The basic premise for the story came to me while I was out cutting the lawn one afternoon, but it was only later that evening as I was sipping on a glass of scotch that the first nuggets of an actual story began to take real form in my head. I kept sipping scotch as I typed (well, alternately) and by the time I got to the final word in the story my uncoordinated fingers were tripping all over each other.
When I wrote Life of The Party I intended for it to be a silly cyberpunk piece, but it later got slapped with the "transformation" label, and even made it onto the TSA. This story had no advance planning at all. I was sitting at home one evening, pounding back expensive brandy and puffing on a cigar (yes, that was back when I allowed - and even consumed - tobacco products inside the house) when suddenly this story fell out of my head. I just had this mental image of a poor sucker turning himself into a vixen as a joke, then learning that she couldn't change herself back (don'tcha just love switching genders in mid-sentence?)
Small Packages is another story that wrote itself. I had a few too many drinks, got bored, and decided to write about my crappy day at work. (I used to drink a lot more before I got married.
atara has never actually seen me drunk.) I was as surprised as anyone when I discovered, halfway through the story, that the otter was gay. Who knew? Curiously enough, Giblet (and the wolf character in "Learning to Fly") are both patterned after the same person - though the otter took off with a life of his own after this story.What do I plan to write about this weekend? I don't know, and I think that not knowing is part of the fun. I like stories that write themselves as they go. I've been kicking around a story idea involving an alien spaceport and a malfunctioning translator, but I may save that for a sober evening. All I know is that the story may or may not involve snow leopards, otters or skunks. Or sharks with fucking laser beams that shoot out of their eyes. Zap! Pfffew!!1
