Angst, shmangst.
I used to write fluff.
No, really, I did. I started out this writing gig for real in early 2003 with a massively fluffy story. Only one of the chapters derailed into angst, and of all the things in that story, the angst chapter is both the one with the most depth and the one that feels the most bolted-on.
I just finished (yet again) and sent out the modified "Genie, No Bottle" to a few beta readers, with apologies for those of you who've been waiting so patiently for me to get myself and my silly story figured out. And what happened to that story? The thing it needed was a little bitter to go with the sweet.
Angst, my friends. Just a soupçon for piquance, but angst nonetheless.
I'm not a comedienne, but I play one here in the blogosphere. What is it about the angst that's become so addictive? Why can I write humor in essays or posts, but find it nearly impossible to include in a story? What happened to the writing?
Somewhere along the line, fluff got harder to write. I do think good fluff (and I mean good fluff, not just tossed out words) takes something of the skill required to write humor or parody well. And while the fluff got harder, the angst got easier. All the stories I dream up these days have these THEMES. Infidelity. Abuse. Dishonesty and control.
Maybe it's just that I really enjoy the compulsive over-analysis that comes with angsty stories. (And I can hear my husband now: What, YOU? Overanalyze something? Not YOU, surely. With the attendant eyeroll, the kind you can hear the orbs rolling from 10 feet away.) I'm a sucker for characters with deep, dark motivations.
Maybe I'm working out unresolved issues from my terrible past as a happy child.
At any rate, here I am, feeling edgy about my fluff because it's angst that it needed. That just seems wrong, and yet right at the same time. I've posted before that the finest humor covers deeply familiar ground, and maybe I'll go further and say that the things that make us laugh the loudest are also the most painful things.
I wonder if some day the angst and fluff will merge and become a real novel?
The mind reels. Hahahaha!
Next in the hopper, a story about a woman who breaks free from an abusive relationship by stealing a truck.
Angst and nothing but.
Yet...even angst needs a little humor to relieve the tension. Perhaps a soupçon for piquance, to correct the seasonings, as it were.
Have a lovely Wednesday in your part of the world.
No, really, I did. I started out this writing gig for real in early 2003 with a massively fluffy story. Only one of the chapters derailed into angst, and of all the things in that story, the angst chapter is both the one with the most depth and the one that feels the most bolted-on.
I just finished (yet again) and sent out the modified "Genie, No Bottle" to a few beta readers, with apologies for those of you who've been waiting so patiently for me to get myself and my silly story figured out. And what happened to that story? The thing it needed was a little bitter to go with the sweet.
Angst, my friends. Just a soupçon for piquance, but angst nonetheless.
I'm not a comedienne, but I play one here in the blogosphere. What is it about the angst that's become so addictive? Why can I write humor in essays or posts, but find it nearly impossible to include in a story? What happened to the writing?
Somewhere along the line, fluff got harder to write. I do think good fluff (and I mean good fluff, not just tossed out words) takes something of the skill required to write humor or parody well. And while the fluff got harder, the angst got easier. All the stories I dream up these days have these THEMES. Infidelity. Abuse. Dishonesty and control.
Maybe it's just that I really enjoy the compulsive over-analysis that comes with angsty stories. (And I can hear my husband now: What, YOU? Overanalyze something? Not YOU, surely. With the attendant eyeroll, the kind you can hear the orbs rolling from 10 feet away.) I'm a sucker for characters with deep, dark motivations.
Maybe I'm working out unresolved issues from my terrible past as a happy child.
At any rate, here I am, feeling edgy about my fluff because it's angst that it needed. That just seems wrong, and yet right at the same time. I've posted before that the finest humor covers deeply familiar ground, and maybe I'll go further and say that the things that make us laugh the loudest are also the most painful things.
I wonder if some day the angst and fluff will merge and become a real novel?
The mind reels. Hahahaha!
Next in the hopper, a story about a woman who breaks free from an abusive relationship by stealing a truck.
Angst and nothing but.
Yet...even angst needs a little humor to relieve the tension. Perhaps a soupçon for piquance, to correct the seasonings, as it were.
Have a lovely Wednesday in your part of the world.
posted by Nina Merrill at 6:24 AM
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