Planning on writing the best story in the world this march, for the audience of one husband. Call this post “thinking out loud,” as I’ve been known to do on stories in the past. I don’t know how many times I’ve done that in a blog post and had nothing come of it. Let this one be different.
The majority of the stories he loves the most are in contemporary settings. The grounding of recognizable reality makes the deviations from such easier to get with, makes magic feel more magical I suppose. Gotta go contemporary. Urban, suburban, rural? It’s tempting when going contemporary to set it far enough back that cellphones were less universal, but I should really get with the times on this. No narrative crutches. People should have cellphones that don’t conveniently lose signal when bad guy is closing in.
Puts me in mind of what I was sayin’ about the soap opera bits in Twin Peaks. I said the show within the show says something about the show, but it also invites you to become aware of yourself as watching a show. It could make the proceedings feel false, but alternately, it could be the rope ladder that lets killer Bob climb out of your TV, become more real. A cellphone in a story could create a bridge between maximal fakery and the mind of a reader. Get got.
The Satoshi Kon movies and series in the big list tend to involve modern technology and media, as a springboard for shenanigans. Gotta be careful to not go too creepypasta. In general, that dude’s output was too gonzo for where I’m aiming to be, but there are some subtle vibes hiding in it. The use of the real world as a foundation for surreal happenings, with a lot of depiction of the aspects of reality that don’t typically show up in our narratives – awkward insterstitial spaces and moments.
I remember how a critic who was disappointed by the lack of an overtly sensible narrative in Inland Empire said it was a “wagon train into Lynchistan” – something that can be a rewarding trip, but less powerful than your Mulholland Drives or Blue Velvets. How did its surrealism compare with that of Eraserhead? I dunno, been a minute since I’ve seen both. Pretty sure I need to start it out feeling less precisely like a dream than either IE or EH.
I think about how in the things we like the most, there may be things we don’t like. I asked my man what he liked least about Mulholland Drive and he said the scenes with side characters that had dubious relevance to the story. Similar quibble on some other Lynch stuff, especially for the sillier stuff in Twin Peaks season 2, which may have been the influence of co-creator Mark Frost.
Just the same, I can’t help but remember how having different characters with their own lives does give you a lot more room to explore variations on your theme, and generally get more material out of your story. Paranoia Agent, Uzumaki, and yeah, Twin Peaks, all made good use of large casts.
On the other other hand, this story is for my audience of one and the word has been handed down from god’s lips. I may refrain.
On the other other other hand, maybe I can try to come up with a bunch of concepts for side characters and subplots that I don’t spend my word count on, just use to inform scenes that are only half-understood, and add to the surreal atmosphere.
A suburban environment, a lil PNW Gothique. Everybody has their own personal demons, not everybody bothers to put on a brave face about it. Black mold. Al Columbia. Thompson’s Teeth. Some kind of mystery shit is happening, and characters are compelled to walk that path.
This stuff almost always has miserable endings. Hearts get broke. Makes sense, but ehhhh I dunno. I don’t know. I do not know.
At the end of Pulse, which is basically a ghostpocalypse, it seems like one character is getting away on a boat. Surely the ghostpocalypse will catch you, but you have your moment. Likewise Hellstar Remina – doomed survivors have a bleak moment of peace. Wan joy. Maybe that’ll be a fair compromise.
The other night I was realizing that I will always fundamentally be a baby, because I only ever think of baby scenarios. Superheroes, action, SFF. Genre fiction. When David Lynch wrote a story, he was thinking about adult concerns – the kind of feelings you can’t cure by punching Green Goblin. Even if I include an element of supernatural horror, which I surely will, it can’t be the point. It’s gotta just be a vehicle for the big surreal expression, whatever that is.
Whose feelings am I expressing? This may be something I can’t puzzle out in public. It might be too personal. And is it my person, or my audience’s? I write something that reflects what I am aware of in his own feelings and struggles, and he sees something that agrees with him, is personally moved… or finds it too painful to hang with. I write to express some way I feel, he probably won’t relate or connect, because at the end of the day we are fundamentally different. He is goth, I am a dork what falls in love with goths.
There’s a whole other branch of things I haven’t considered. Almost all of these influential stories are personal or small in scope, but some do get apocalyptically colossal. Or at least have a more grandiose scope, like Panorama Island. Maybe I should go big.
Comments from my last article that I’m taking onboard, at least, having some version of in the background of the brain: If powers appear, they could plausibly not be supernatural in nature. Vast remote gothic mansion with series of vignettes or short scenarios. Jazzlet won’t read this one.
The surreal thesis. The big surreal expression. What feeling am I trying to convey? Should be something sad or huge, something we can’t escape… Ya know, I think I’ve got it. Again, personal. Now, what kind of nonsense scenario would really pull that theme out and make it land like some Wile E. Coyote trap lands on Wile E. Coyote? I continue avec mes pensamientos ahora im privat.
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Thanks for the warning 😉
that’s what friends are for (/dionnewarwick)