3T Writing Tidbit

 So one of the reasons we read fiction is to get a perspective on our own lives we couldn't get without the distance.

I was just rereading one of the 3T blog posts to make sure it still scanned and I had a shocking realization.

The post (here) was about the mask of a complete human being -- that characters imagine themselves an archetype and do everything they can to live that archetype. The post's argument is that it prevents them from growing, from changing, from being truly themselves.

The shock was that I'd recently come to that same conclusion about myself.

I have an idealized form of myself, the person I want to be. Kind, funny, smart, graceful, charitable. I do everything I can to live up to that ideal, which is a good thing.

What's a bad thing is that I'm so focused on being that perfect ideal, I can't imaging anything else for myself. Worse, I'm angry and disappointed with myself when I fail to live up to my idealized self.

Any of you have this?

They're good traits, but they mean I can't grow or really be me. For example, I'm hell on wheels when it comes to finding errors in computer code. We need that -- when code goes wrong, it isn't pretty, and we need a surgeon to find that bug an excise it.

But in doing that, I'm not completely kind and definitely not graceful. It's a messy, unhappy business. I'm not saying it's not ultimately a good thing. It needs to be done in order for better things to happen. It's just not my "ideal" self.

And this is ultimately why we live along with some characters in fiction. To watch their mistakes as they cling to their ideal self. As if they're a human encased in a porcelain doll of themselves, we're relieved when they break the out of the shell and truly live.

I'm breaking out of my shell. Slowly, having to be reminded. Leaving behind the shards of my "best" self to become just myself.

What about you? Do you hold yourself to a perfect ideal? And... is it interfering with the amazing person you truly might be?

Published since 2009, over the years I've accumulated various items of writing wisdom. The Third Tuesday Writing Tidbit showcases these items in no particular order. Click here to see all 3T Tidbits.

2T Repeat Performance - editing examples

I've done a number of blog tours over the years, posting on different sites. Now I'm bringing them to you!

From books originally published in 2009

Elena stared at me a moment longer.  “All right,” she said finally.  Let’s go.

WeI climbed through the hole in the door, into the end of the world.

 

(Leading up: Chaos.  Violence.  Screams. Gaunt, fiery-eyed men rampaged outside.  Skull-headed, unnaturally fluid men with teeth like jagged glass.  Evil-looking men, seemingly hundreds of them.  A knot of red fire and flashing knives, surrounding...shit. 

Surrounding Julian and Bo.)

Bo held a limp bundle, fought ferociously with in one bare hand.arm.  The bundle seemed to havehad two blonde heads.  Then I realized it was two people, one a child.  Both were as limp as puppets.  Neither movedThey seemed unconscious...or dead.

But my attention was almost immediately snared by Julian.  Julian...Julian was magnificent.  He stood headBo fought ferociously with one hand.  He wielded what looked like a long knife, or a sword.  The blade whistled through the air, forcing the gaunt men back.

 

See one state before changing:

A skull-like head rolled to the edge of the circle, near me.  A body – a headless body –I shuddered, wondering what I should do.  What I could do, unarmed as I was. 

I knelt there, undecided.  That was when one of the gaunt men stumbled from the pack toward me.  His hands were pressed to his neck.  Blood soaked his shirt. 

He fell to his knees just a few feet from me.  Collapsed to the ground with a whump.

I crawled over to it.  Lay down next to the man.  His head.   was canted at an unnatural angle.  His hands fell away from his neck. 

His throat was almost completely severed.

I shuddered, covering my mouth.  A scream rang in my head but all that came from my mouth was a terrified little hiss.

And then – and then the unthinkable happened.

The head and the body’s neck...melded.moved.  The neck started to straighten. 

The throat...started to close.

Before my eyes, the muscle and gristle knit.  Became whole.  Over it, the seam of skin melted, became whole.fused.  Like clay smoothed shut. 

Soon not even a scar marked where the man’s throat had been cut.

The body sat up.  The body sat up.  Cricked its...man...corpse...God, I don’t know what he was...he cricked his neck with a loud pop.  Smiled,Grinned and rose to itshis feet.  Joined again in the attack.

 

Make more immediate:

In the dark beyond him I caught the impression of movement.  Blurs, twothree of them, coming in fast.  I couldn’t see much, sequestered behind Julian.  He was lean, yes.  But big.  His chest was solid and his shoulders broad.  His waist was easily as big as my hips.  That lean, flat waist.

“Get him!” someone growled.

In front of me, Julian’s arms jerked.  Cut through the air, hard.  His hands almost whistled with the force he used.  If he’d held knives, whatever he hit was now sliced, diced, and julienned. 

 

Straight view -> tension view:

“You have an awfula juvenile sense of humor, Strongwell.  Get Elena and Nixie out of here.  I’ll clean up.”  Julian jerked a hand toward where Elena and I stood.

I didn’t want to go.  I wanted to figure out what the hell had just happened.  And find out if Julian been hurt. 

And comfort him if he had.

Julian didn’t look hurt, butAll right, probably not a good idea.  But the body – the possibly headless body – of the gang leader looked big and fierce on the ground.  Julian was a lawyer.  A desk jockey.  For somewhatever insane reason I had to know if he was okay.  I edged closer, reached out to touch him.  “Emerson?” I said tentatively.  “Julian?”