Gender and the Box

I don't know if it's ever taken me this long to figure something out before. It has taken me five months and one day to realize why I've spent that long dabbling in slash--mainly reading but with some, albeit non-explicit, writing. I understand that this development is only an extension of what I started with Caryatid.

I write round male characters. I can only think of one or two round female characters--Felicity and Jane, I guess. Everyone else is male, but not in the strictly traditional sense. My men cry. They take things harder than they should. In a lot of ways, the characters in the Rodin trilogy should just be considered neuter. I know how odd that sounds. But now I know why I did it.


I've never been quite comfortable in the female stereotype. Women are supposed to be overly emotional, touchy-feeling, and too talkative. I am overly unemotional, have proxemics issues, and sulk. I'm a misanthropic bitch, not a people person. I don't into the socially assigned gender roles. I don't feel comfortable writing about either myself or the norm. I need a middle ground. I found it in mildly effeminate men.

Slash is my protest against the box. Oh, you know what box I mean; it's the box I talk about all the time. Society's box. The universe's box. The box I don't believe exists unless we let it hold us. I've been subconsciously using my male characters to do this for years. I guess I figure that if my men cry, maybe it's okay if I do, too. 

On that note, I should probably come clean. Oh, screw probably, I just feel like it. If I haven't already hinted enough, e is slash. AtGoh was developing bi storylines before I put it aside. The Glorious Struggle will also be slash. We'll just have to see where I go after November 30. Maybe I'll be able to write a strong female character then.

Going back to e, I finished Ch. 2 on Saturday afternoon and Ch. 3 this morning at approximately 2 am. I am now working on Ch. 4. I shall be done with Ch. 8, the halfway mark, by the end of the month.

"Don't let the stars run down."

Isaac Asimov.

Have I let my stars run down? Today is the eighth anniversary of the day that inspired me to write my first two novels. That day has filled many of my nights with inexplicable tears. That day gave me a cause, a cause to which I swore I would give me life. That day tore me apart and put me back together in its own image. That day was the Mark Adams to my Ralph Myers. I grieved. I hallucinated in novel form. I played both the prettiest trills and saddest elegies. I said I would never forget--could never forget.

And yet, today, I almost forgot. I was awake for two hours before I suddenly sat bolt straight with the knowledge of the date. I almost forgot. And I almost didn't care. Correction: I really didn't care.

I don't know if I do, now. I don't know if I care more or less than I can say. My priorities have expanded so much in the past year. I don't know how or why. I just know that I have moved back to square one, where I wonder if I can seriously live in this country for the rest of my life. My once beloved has been raped, and not by Henry Erikson. It's too hideous to watch. Especially when I see that I don't love her. I don't know if I ever really did. Was it infatuation?

Oh, these metaphors are in bad taste. My point is that I have no desire to write about Henry Erikson anymore. I have no desire to wear the bracelet I made in eighth grade. I desire now to cry more over what I don't feel than what I do. The black bile is fading away. I'm all phlegm--all logic. I'm sitting here telling myself that it's enough when it very clearly isn't. I've had this conversation before. I'll have it again. I won't ever find an answer that I like. That won't stop me searching.

But today, there is one singular question on my mind. I'll ask it again:

If I've let my stars run down, is there any way to reverse entropy?

Running Amok

Sometimes, I find English class really inspiring. It gives me new ways to procrastinate. Today, my teacher proposed a simple question. If you were a writer, how many rejections could you take? I said I wouldn't have a limit. Then I thought about it and realized that I have no empirical evidence. However, I do have a way to test it.

Today, after an hour or two of research, I submitted my wonderful second-person narrative "Amok" to a literary magazine called Vulcan. Yes, I absolutely love how fitting the names are. It wasn't really intentional. If I believed in such things, I would call it serendipity. Or fate. Either way, we'll see in a few weeks. I feel pretty good about the whole thing. But I must admit, a rejection would be, from an anthropological or psychological perspective, fascinating. 

Other random notes: My fanfic story is going well. I found a loose story line for The Glorious Struggle, or my NaNoWriMo project-to-be.

I am also loving this new layout. Change is good. To an extent. I think I've outgrown the depressing nature of Scribe.

Laundry List

Oh my, I seem to have forgotten about this lovely little blog. Unfortunately, I somehow managed to do quite a bit of writing. Here is a list of my high literary accomplishments since July 21:

-Rewrote Chapter 2 of Caryatid
-Finished Prologue of AtGoH
-Wrote Chapter 1 of AtGoH
-Finished "Amok"
-Finished "Running Ad Astra"
-Wrote a fanfic short story
-Came up with brilliantly convoluted story line for fanfic novel
-Outlined aforementioned 20-chapter fanfic novel, which we shall hereby call e
-Wrote Prologue of e
-Wrote Chapter 1 of e
-Started Chapter 2 of e
-Failed at crackfic application essays
-Added a disaster to add-a-disaster
-Decided to do NaNoWriMo!

There is my August laundry list. I must admit that I am quite proud of it--most of it. All of the fiction above not related to the Rodin trilogy is available online in various locations, one of which I will not name here.

I suppose the question now comes to, how do I feel? The answer is that I haven't let myself think about that until now, this moment, as these keys fly beneath my fingers and the tears well up in my eyes. Oh, yes, now I am thinking about it. I am thinking, not feeling. Because how do I feel? Oh fuck it all to hell. I don't feel anymore. I don't let myself. I'm not quite crying. That would be admitting emotion. I'm not. I'm simply admitting that I haven't cried in a bit too long.

I'm going to go work on Chapter 2 of e. I can write that safely, without all these sensations. This? This blog? Oh, it doesn't feel so very lovely at the moment.