Writing in Character

I think the toughest thing a writer needs to do is to write as another person. It is a well-known fact that most writers trying out a first-person narrative for the first time always stumble into an autobiographical character. Always. It is the easiest thing to do, and not having to worry about the character’s tone, conviction, or consistency leaves the field wide open to concentrate on other stuff like plots and tale twists.

But then, if you’re a self-respecting writer with pretensions, or a successful one who has to write a second book with a different voice, or both, you’re stuck! Because you come upon that dreadfully unempathetic exercise of writing a narrative that belongs to a completely fictitious character. Most writers descend to more desperate tricks now. Their better halves, alter egos, close friends and family, all become foils that this narrating character wears. In these familiar shadows, the writer plunges his character’s tale, hoping that his view of his significant others is deep enough to make for a consistent character.

So far, so good. But there are only so many significant others. And so many more tales. And some tales need some really twisted characters to narrate, the type who wouldn’t feature in a self-respecting author’s friends-and-family calling group. Not unless said character had come to life, clawing his way up through a metaphorical grave to become rotting-flesh-and-trailing-blood, come to this world to wreak his revenge on an uncaring author. No wait. That idea has already been done. And we’re not talking about that kind of stuff here anyway. So, where was I? Twisted characters, yes!

So you need this borderline psychotic character, with an anticipatory insanity plea if you ever saw one, working his way (or her way, if that’s your kink) through an ever-deteriorating perspective, downward spiraling all the way to unnamable acts of despicable horror. Which friend or family member are you going to base this one on? Right!

This is where the writer enters the true unknown. Complete creation. Become someone and speak as him (or her, yes, I haven’t forgotten you). Live a life as you figure out how your character would feel in so-and-so circumstances and how your character would react. Making that difficult choice between a gas-powered chainsaw or a double-edged axe. What does your character really feel like hefting while giving way to all that incredibly raw angst?

Tough call. That’s what separates the big boys from the little ones, the contenders from the pretenders, the writers from the wannabes. Live your characters through in your head and you will tell a tale worthy of them. Or you might as well give your unfortunate psychotic a letter opener. A plastic one. With a lace-decorated handle. She wouldn’t be able to handle anything else. (Or he wouldn’t, sure! Everyone has an opinion!)

Cogito Ergo Finito

On Whimsy

It has been a while since I’ve succumbed to the seductive call of my oldest and most faithful mistress. She calls every once in a while, as persistent as a wooing adolescent with cratered cheeks and the eternal-hope springing breast. She has much more grace though, and her technique is more akin to that of an erudite and accomplished Madame. Her whispered words used to send a hot flush up my cheeks. She paints images no decent man should ever see. She used to croon to me, teasing me, taunting me. She still does, the words always the same.

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

Memories come back. Memories of deliciously irresponsible escapes from the ennui of everyday eventuality. Memories of breathlessly reckless acts that derailed the careful plans of years and their predictable tomorrows. Memories of her, always whispering, always leading me on a merry chase away from everything else, away from everyone else.

Whimsy. She always comes back. It doesn’t matter where I am, what I do, or how settled in my groove (rut!) I am. She always has a spiel, and it is always intoxicatingly intriguing and attractive. She does not try to reason, though. Never! She advocates against it! She does not promise happy tomorrows for everafter or even a moment’s gratification that is somehow worth a lifetime. There is nothing guaranteed but the act of indulging in her, in Whimsy. Everything that follows is delightful chaos.

The clock ticks and as grey flecks my hair and crows sinks their claws around my eyes, her trips become more poignant. It is more difficult now to just give in. it is more difficult now to turn her away. As my age nears her immortal appearance, our relationship matures. Her words are the same, but they make me smile now and not blush. Her tricks are still clever and completely unanticipated. But they make me applaud at the illusion; I’m a spectator, not a victim. I’m an outsider, not one of her lovers anymore. And still, when she leans forward, her wanton perfume filling me up with the lust to live outside the boundaries of what is acceptable and right, when she brushes those lips against my reluctant ears and whispers…

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

I wonder. I can’t help but wonder.

Cogito Ergo Finito

Poetic License Revoked

Many a time I’ve found myself at a complete loss

With a piece of prose labeled delectable and divine

Critics ooh and aah even as the writer weaves up a mystery

In a piece that is neither a whodunit nor a what’s-the-corpse-wearing

Nay, the convolutedness of the prose goes deeper than that

Its devious machinations are a plot unto themselves

The goal of its damning complexity seems merely to perplex

And belittle the reader perspiring his way to sophistication

Every twisted metaphor contrives meanings profound and obscure

Or it might not be a metaphor even, just delusions of authorship all along

A roaring lion in pink pyjamas set the fondue on fire on a nocturnal jaunt

See what I just did?

With a bit more finesse and bare-faced pretension

I could have passed that piece of twaddle as literature

Just like I toss aside meter and rhythm

And call this assortment of rambling raving rants

Poetry

Cogito Ergo Finito

The Wordscapist

I do not exist
I was who I was told I was
I was who I was expected to be
I was… Was I?
No!
I am who I want to be
I am a myth, a story, a ghost
I am flux that can be shaped anyhow
I am me, I am you, I am anyone
Words capture the form
Fleeting though it is
In these ephemeral scapes
I exist
I am
The Wordscapist
Everything you say is true… somewhere. How artful your truth is (no, there are no lies) and what you make of it determines how real your wordscapes are.

You shape your reality; consciously, through actions, and unconsciously, through means you do not realise, far less understand. There are some though, who know more, do more, say more. They use words. They weave reality with words. Wordsmiths.

It is part gift and part rigour. It is half discovered and half tutored. It must be absorbed and harnessed. Somewhere between the lore of magic and the abstractions of sub-atomic resonance, lies the art of weaving wordscapes. It is a powerful art, one that binds and one that destroys. And yet, it is not infinite. Its boundaries define it as much as they limit it.

There is one who can weave beyond these boundaries… the Wordscapist.

Reaching the pinnacle is a journey, a tale of becoming, realising. Power comes in reasonably, and at times frustratingly, small increments. He didn’t have that luxury. Power came as a tornado, brought on by insanity and sheer chance, sweeping him up and throwing him into a melee of warmongers. A con artiste suddenly found himself the genuine article and then had to live up to the reputation. The world would have to wait while the one man with the power to destroy it waged a personal war to save himself.

It is a world made of words. The written, the spoken, and even the thought… all words, little bits that define reality. It is a world that you and I live in, today, now. It is all going to change soon. Buckle up. Hang on. And yes, careful what you say. Everything you say is true… becomes true… somewhere.
Cogito Ergo Finito

The Death of a Story

Someone has to die for it to be a good story. But what if I do not want to kill anyone. What if the characters I create are not meant to be sacrificed at the altar of the story’s supposed greatness. What’s the way out?

Why not kill the story itself? Let me build this story’s end within itself. Let’s brew a murder that will achieve sweet fulfilment in the very inevitability of every story’s destiny; the end.

For every murder, there has to be a plot. So does every story need one. In this strange pun, let’s weave in the swirls and twirls of the happenings that will lead to this story’s end. Let’s cook up a character who walks the pages, and slips between folds, who hides behind serifs, and seduces ellipses effortlessly. Let’s write up a character who is beyond the power of the author, of words, of the story itself. Let him be a shadow that needs no wall, no light, no being… just pure essence. Let him be the beginning of the end.

Feel the story quaver already? What next? For the plot to be executed, there has to be a motive. Why would the character want to do the story in? Perhaps the story plans to knock him off. Perhaps there’s glory and power in bringing down the world that limits him and threatens to knock him off with a heavy exclamation. Perhaps the character is a sequel killer, lurking in the twists of many a story, responsible in secret for many an untimely finale. No. Our character goes beyond such petty clichés. His motive is art in itself. The sheer poetic justice of doing unto the doer what is due to him. Doesn’t make sense? Wait, dear reader. The end will reveal more than the inevitable chalk outline.

The story does not give in so easily. It resorts to its most dastardly trick, the twisted tale. It ushers in a series of events that cripples the character, challenges his very essence. It changes the rules, gives birth to deadly new predators, and even shatters the fourth wall. As the debris comes crashing down, I shudder at the implication. Has my perfect murderer been mowed down by the sheer scale of events, by the complete disintegration of the world around him?

I realize I’m not alone in my horrified fascination. The story watches too, gasping at the damage it has wreaked on itself in its hunger to root out its doom. I quell my distaste at sharing a moment with my adversary as I wait for the dust to settle. It eventually does. I see a chasm has opened up. And on the edge is a pair of hands that hang on doggedly. A powerful heave of metaphorical shoulders reveals my character hoisting himself up. Wiping streaks of tattered sub-plots from his grim visage, he pulls out a board, and plugs it in right over the chasm. PLOT HOLE, the board announces. The story and I gasp, horror and wonder melded together in one sound. The story overreached and laid itself open in its quest to vanquish its hunter. Alas! Its end was written within itself. And right then and there, everything vanishes into the void. Not even a measly Fin remains.

I burst into applause, that quickly peters out. I see him standing in front of the void. He is not done cleaning up the mess. The story is done with. The author remains. No, I cannot...
Cogito Ergo Finito

The Fight

There is hope, they say. Things will change. For the better. Hang in there. Wait. Have faith.

Listen carefully, and you can hear the clang of empty words, the whisper of inanity, the snicker of well-meaning nothingness.

There is hope…

For every you that is battered, there’s a you that fight backs. For every you that falls, there is a you who struggles back up. For every you that breaks down and cries, there is a you who lets out a defiant scream and carries on.

What’s keeping you going? Hope? Faith? Momentum?

It doesn’t matter. Find peace in the exhaustion brought on by the end of the day, and greet the beginning of the next day for the bloody struggle it might well be. All that matters is that you’re still fighting. If you fall tomorrow, you will be remembered for the fight. For your defiance. For your spirit. . Because, it was a good fight.

Redemption? There is none. There might be a bonus for you, as much controlled by chance as anything else. If there is Someone watching and He or She has a plan, it’s too damn ineffable for you to figure out what to do to get it right. Don’t weaken yourself with hope. You will only crane your neck to catch sight of wisps, setting yourself up for the next sucker punch.

There is hope… Sure, hiding in a box filled with the nastiest company this side of Harlem. Things will change… You bet they will. For the better… Definitely. Someone will benefit, even if it is only the undertaker.
What is definite is that there is a fight on. You’re not lucky enough to be a spectator. You’re one of the bloodied pieces of meat swinging it out in the ring. So glove up, brace yourself, and let loose. Irrespective of the outcome, know that I’ll be cheering for you. Somewhere in between my bouts.Cogito Ergo Finito

Grolshynch Bluesowen

Grolshynch Bluesowen was a name spoken in a pristine moment of insanity. Names have power. So does insanity. It was inevitable that Grolshynch became a real person, warping into reality with no attempt at coherence. And with a name like that, he was a frightful person. A sad, frightful person. Why sad, you ask? Read on.

With a snarl for a whisper and sheer terror in the most benign looks, there was nothing salvageable in his character or redeemable in his nature. Grolshynch was one of nature’s bad guys. He had never hurt a soul or carried off a woman. But he did not need to. His destiny was to be the villain, the monster, the beast. He came into being like an action figure, with a clichéd profile sketch sealing his existence.

What did he look like, this Grolshynch? Did he have bloodshot eyes with the fires of hell glowing in them? Did his diabolic smile reveal sharp canines that seemed to grow even as you watched? Nothing of the sort. Grolshynch didn’t have an appearance. The man that spawned him had not bothered with visuals, merely a name and an intent. Grolshynch lurked so well that you would never catch sight of him. And if you did, what you would see was anyone’s guess. But it would be sure to stop your heart. Imagine, a sight that went with a name and personality such as that, springing at you out of the shadows.

What did Grolshynch do? When he was not lurking, that is. Say, on a Sunday morning. Did he read the newspaper on the pot? How did like his eggs?

Do you really want to know? Do you care? Wouldn’t that spoil it for you? Giving a Caliban like him a life, human traits. How could you justify the delicious terror that you would otherwise feel when you whispered his name? Let’s say he used an ultra-soft toothbrush because he had sensitive gums. Wouldn’t that just destroy the entire concept of Grolshynch forever and ever? Would you rather not have his shoving a rusty wicked-looking pick into his void-like mouth to dislodge that shard of rotting bone left over from his last meal, a meal you would rather not imagine?

What’s this rambling piece about? Who is Grolshynch Bluesowen? Grolshynch is a monster, more precisely, a social monster. With a personality that is a perfect match for society’s picture of a nightmare and origins lost in the mists of a twisted man’s insanity, he never did stand a choice.

By the way, he likes to read the Times on the pot. Especially when he has white bread the previous night. It constipates him. Meat, you ask? No way! Grolshynch is vegan. He can barely stand the whiff of milk, leave alone meat. So he doesn’t like eggs, any which way. And despite his sensitive gums, he has quite a neat set of teeth with regular canines. And once you get past his inevitable exterior, he’s quite a nice guy, actually.

What was that, you want to add him on Facebook?Cogito Ergo Finito

Flirting with Insanity

An experimental piece, written just to see if I can simulate paranoia. It's still too coherent. I'll give it another shot some time later.

The beginning was the end. The end is beginning. I’m playing with words. I’m delaying the inevitable. I cannot dally. I must make haste. I must escape. I cannot. But still, I must try. Like a terrified hare, I will terrify myself to death as I streak through the jungle with the predator right behind me. But I will not be caught alive!

I am a seasoned sprinter. I dash for obscurity, I race towards anonymity. I make a mark and scrub violently to erase it. I cannot be caught in the act or the aftermath. I must not be located. I cannot be locked up. That would be the end of me. Run, I scream to myself!

I look around desperately, for cues, for messages, for signs. Never for help though. Every hand that reaches out seeks to grasp, clutch. They are all in it. They whisper, conspire, coordinate so that they can creep up on me. I won’t let them. I’ll be gone. Ha!

I have the jitters. I twitch incessantly as I drum my fingers and chew my nails to ragged bits. I clasp and clutch my fingers, trying to calm myself down. My breath is reduced to whoops and gasps. I haven’t even started the race yet, and still, adrenaline fills up my veins, stoking my body, preparing it.

I toss baggage out. Everything that cannot be carried must go. Everyone who will slow me down must be left behind. Chunks of objects, memories, and relationships go hurtling through my window as the room becomes bare. All that remains is what will accompany me on the run.

They are here. Time’s up! I dive out, landing hard. Blood trickles through abused skin, skin that stings as sweat starts pouring freely. Trivialities. I race through narrow alleys, my shoulders ramming into strangers, bits and pieces of outlying identity knocked off in the chaos.

My stomach knots itself up as my lungs scream for air. My legs are on fire as they pound the path, my hands reaching out for anything that will support, that will help me hold on and lunge forward. I can feel them. The chase is on. There isn’t much time now.

The beginning was the end. The end is beginning. I’m out of time. They are here. They will have me soon. I’ve been running forever. I can run only for so long. I only hope they do not disappoint me. I have been preparing for this all my life. I stop. I turn around, half tottering. I can hear them. A moment away. Their stench fills up my nostrils. I clench my fists. The running is done. It is time for the last stand.

I brace myself, take a deep breath, and launch myself at them with a scream! Moments later, it is over. The end. Peace.

Cogito Ergo Finito

I remember, You forgot

A random piece of verse, built on the title, which I believe is the name of a Persian poem and an Iranian game as well... That's what a dear Persian friend of mine tells me, at least. The words rang a bell, and the words flowed. The rest is a blog post...

It was a game at first
Hide and seek one day
Tag on another
We ran and we gasped
We laughed and we screamed
Life had stopped awhile
To watch us play
Our innocence freezing it
For a sliver of eternity
I remember, you forgot
Life moved on
And so did innocence
Games became more serious
As laughter trickled away
We went our separate ways
We passed each other
I turned back
You turned back
We missed each other
I remember, you forgot
We became characters
From demented sitcoms
You in a corporate comedy
Me in an angst-ridden drama
We played them for a bit
And then exchanged roles
We moved cities
We moved lives
We met, we said good bye
I remember, you forgot
Somewhere between midnight and dawn
I sit and write these words
I know tomorrow won’t be different
I know nothing will change
You will live your life
And I will live mine
We might meet, we will part
Nothing will change
Except for a promise that fades away
I remember, you forgot
Cogito Ergo Finito

Filing Time

Lay down your thoughts
On a slab of unrest
Worry not of what is to come
It is tagged, it is done
Slide home the baggage
And slam it closed
In the cold, dark recess
It will rest until called
Let it join the others
The ones that scurry and scratch
Asking to be let out
Begging, pleading, threatening
This one will wake up too
But it is safe for now
Inside, deep within
Where it belongs
Far, far away
From the light
From the life
And everything
That is to come

Cogito Ergo Finito