The language of colors

I haven't had much time to write lately, and although I've had a couple of ideas, I haven't really had the time or the motivation to sit down and do anything with them.

The thing about writing is that it requires a lot more than just thinking of an idea and spilling it out into words. I am not one to labor over the precise words to use; generally, I just write in whatever voice is natural to me. Still, it often takes me so much effort to even put ideas into coherent sentences. Half the time I have a concept but not a plot, or a character but no driving force or flaw.

I have discovered that a lot of the time I don't think in words, which is probably what makes it so hard for me to translate my ideas into them. When people ask me to give me synonyms or ask what a word means, I often know exactly what it means and I will picture it or a response to it, but I will be absolutely incapable of explaining that to the other person. A lot of what I picture is color, especially in the context of music. My itunes playlists have titles like "blue-gray" "violet," and "jellybeans." I could not for the life of me explain to anyone else why I associate certain colors with certain songs, although there are a few general trends I could point out ("blue-gray" is mostly songs in minor keys, and "jellybeans" is very upbeat), but what makes something violet as opposed to blue-gray?

When I write, I have to channel all these grays and blues and greens into something that would make sense to anyone. It's a challenge, but when I finally get across what I meant to say, it's very fulfilling. It has taken me a while to learn how to say what I want to say without being to blunt about it; when I first started writing short stories, I wrote straight out exactly what my characters were doing/thinking/feeling  (that was before I knew about the golden "Show-not-tell" rule). I'd like to think I've improved since then, but I suppose old habits die hard because a lot of the time I just spit out what is happening instead of painting pictures and leaving gaps for the reader to color in.

I think writing these blog posts is a way for me to channel my thinking juices and get out of the completely analytical calculus-physics-chemistry routine that has become my day-to-day life. So even if no one is reading, at least I am writing, and that is enough.

Idea machine!

I have a couple of ideas stewing around in my head, so please let me know if any of these sound interesting. Sometimes I need a little push to get started on a story, and someone's nod of approval can go a long way to making that happen :)

• Ipseity - (n) selfhood, individuality
• We often judge people and characters by their names - we don't mean to do it, but it happens. When you're naming your characters, you very rarely decide to name the gangster "Walter Beauville" or the shy new girl "Jackie Quinn". The greatest irony of all is that people don't even get to pick their own names, but they are judged for them anyway (those poor children of celebrities!).
  Where am I going with this? I'm thinking of a story that takes place in a world where children are referred to by their surname (with a 1,2,3 tacked on at the end to differentiate between siblings) until the age of 12. Then, they all go through a naming process, where they are assigned names based on their personality/potential for greatness/etc. I'm thinking that this would create jealousy of people with "better" names, disappointment if you don't get the name you think you deserve, incredulity if you are given a name you don't think you deserve, etc. This also raises questions concerning whether people are bound by their perception of themselves/others' perception of them or if they can overcome the limitations that others perceive in them (their name) and become greater than anyone expects.
• Reflection
• This idea is still really fuzzy right now but I'm thinking of a kingdom where there are no mirrors/shiny metal objects/etc by decree of the queen. I'm trying to work with the concept that the people in this kingdom are the dark and cruel side of humanity, but their reflections are their good sides; they don't know this good side exists because there is nowhere for them to see their reflection. The reflection is then not simply a mirror image but a mirror person if that makes sense. Also the queen and a few others don't have a reflection because they are just evil. Which implies that there are mirror people without people in the kingdom because they are only good. I don't know where I'm going with this yet, but I'll work on it.

What I'm working on - June 2013

I've decided that at least for the summer, I will try to crank out at least 1,000 words per week. I'm not promising lovely 1,000 word short stories - in fact, this is probably going to be raw randomness that comes into my head. The point is that hopefully if I keep on writing randomness, something worth working on will come up and then I can flesh that out into an actual story.

We will see how this actually pans out.

At the moment, I am working on a story involving people from my floor at UCLA. It started out with me sleep talking, and now I'm trying to explain the gibberish that my subconscious spews when I am asleep. It's quite entertaining actually! What started out as gibberish is turning more into a tongue-in-cheek representation of our dynamic and wonderfully insane floor :) I probably won't post that story on the blog because it will have so many inside jokes that it won't make any sense to anyone else reading it.

I'm also tossing around a couple of ideas around in my head, which I will post about later.

Flash fiction: All bets are off

The prompt was to write a humorous 200 word story (or less) that involved invisible ink. Enjoy!

Flash fiction: Coffee Grounds

This is my most recent story. It's more of an exercise or a sketch than a full fledged story - the rules were to write a 200 word story about any topic of your choice and then shorten it to 150 words or less (a 25% reduction!). Anyways, here it is:

200 word version:

"Have you considered my offer?" Trisha took a sip of her coffee and replaced it on the counter top, staring expectantly at the young woman across from her. The wide teeth-baring smile that stretched across her face began to lose its glamour as her eyes hardened.

"I have," Leslie responded. "Good. Then we can start with the paperwork right away." Trisha bent to retrieve a large leather purse and began rifling through it.

"I didn't say that I had accepted." Trisha froze, glanced up. "Why, Leslie dear, you can't possibly expect me to believe -"

"I'm afraid my daughter is not for sale."

 "Goodness! This isn't a sale, it's an adoption! Think of the poor child, and you without any means to support her. We at the Mulligan Corporation are just what your child needs. We can give her everything she needs and more - all we ask is that she participate in a few of our...projects. Tell me, Leslie, what can you give her that we can't?"

Leslie stood up. "I can be a mother to her." She walked out of the cafe, leaving Trisha with a frozen smile and the taste of bitter coffee grounds in her mouth.

150 word version: 

"Have you considered my offer?" Trisha sipped her coffee, replaced it on the counter. She stared at the young woman across from her, her teeth-baring smile losing its glamour with each second.

"I have," Leslie responded. "Good. We can begin the paperwork immediately." Trisha bent to retrieve her leather purse and began rifling through it.

"I didn't say I've accepted." Trisha froze. "Leslie dear, you can't possibly expect-"

"My daughter is not for sale." "A sale! It's an adoption! We at the Mulligan Corporation are just what she needs. We can give her everything she needs - all we ask is that she participate in a few of our...projects. Tell me, Leslie, what can you give her that we can't?"

Leslie stood up. "I can be a mother to her." She walked out, leaving Trisha with a frozen smile and the taste of bitter coffee grounds in her mouth.

Short story: Converging on a Red Balloon

This story is told three times, each time from a different perspective. As the title suggests, the common thread between them is a little girl and a bunch of balloons.

One instant she was right beside me, her pudgy little fingers clenching my own. The next, the pressure vanished and I was left alone, staring across the sea of rapidly moving people. My heart starts pumping wildly, and I turn my head frantically in all directions, seeing everything and nothing at the same time.

“Have you seen – “ I call out, as another indifferent shopper brushes past me. They all just keep moving, without a glance edgewise. Some stop to stare at this frantic father, shake their heads, and move on with their lives.

Short Story: Hall of Mirrors

Disclaimer - this short story is the longest one I've written, clocking in at 2,952 words. It's about what happens when you are forced to live in a world of nightmares, and whether you will ever be able to wake up.

Hall of Mirrors

She has never been afraid of the dark. After all, it is all she has ever known.

For twelve of her seventeen years, she has been in this world of shadow, where her fantasies and memories swirl together until she can no longer tell what is real and what isn't. Sometimes words come to her consciousness that she doesn't quite recognize. Sunshine. Birdsong. Laughter. They brush at the edges of her memory, weave themselves into her dreams. They are words that she once knew the meaning of, but now those meanings have slipped away. These words are no longer part of her world.
 Her world is this world of shadow, the maze of her own mind.

***