Today, did some anatomy drawing, now working on one of the comic scripts. This arc was written before I did considerable development of the fey races and cosmology so it’s kind of a constant process of development, revision, writing, editing, brainstorming, development, writing, editing- a bit like kneading dough. 

Also why it takes years to get this stuff done.

Today, did some anatomy drawing, now working on one of the comic scripts. This arc was written before I did considerable development of the fey races and cosmology so it’s kind of a constant process of development, revision, writing, editing, brainstorming, development, writing, editing- a bit like kneading dough.

Also why it takes years to get this stuff done.

andythanfiction

Anonymous asked:

Having been watching your blog for about a year now, I was really surprised that a lot of the characters you talk about so intimately hardly appeared in DAYD at all. Are they huge characters in the short stories or the sequel novels? I guess I just don't understand why you'd only use them for like one line if you'd put that much work into them.

andythanfiction answered:

  1. Some of them are.  For example, Icarus Utterson is a big deal in the second novel but mentioned once in the first.  Justin isn’t even in the first, is minor in the second, but is one of the driving forces of the third.  

  2. Because it’s still an expanding universe, and a lot of them I just haven’t gotten to writing that much about yet 

  3. Because for it to function as intricately as it (hopefully) does and feel as real and three dimensional as it (hopefully) does, all the moving parts inform each other.  Morag may not be in DAYD much and Justin not at all, but Ernie and Susan are, and his history with Morag informs how Ernie feels about Susan, and his and Hannah’s history with Justin inform how they relate to the Muggle world and to a lot of feelings about class and duty.  Augusta’s exploits with Alastor Moody in the early days of the Cold War and his later relationship with her son Frank inform how she raises Neville, even what his middle name is.  Even if DAYD never tells us specifically that Mike was from a family of Healers and on that track, that he’s effectively the medic influences how Mike is deployed on the field and the choices Neville makes.  Etc. etc. etc.

  4. Because if your “background” people are still people, the reader can just feel it somehow.

  5. Because having to make all the stories work in and around and through each other and decide who met when and butterflying choices makes you think about how the universe works, both in story and out of it, and that creates an understanding of it as a culture and a community and a web of humanity that allows you to write it breathing.  It also gives a sense of weight to your protagonist’s actions and reminds you they don’t operate in a vacuum, which changes how you write them.  It’s a totally different experience to tell the story of one person that has other characters poofed in and out of existence to progress that story vs to follow one thread through a tapestry.  

  6. On the same note, it enriches your story if you’re following everyone’s arcs.  DAYD has a real sense of time not just because we watch Neville grow and change as a character, but because the Colin and Lavender and Hannah and Ernie and everyone else from chapter 10 or 18 are not the ones from chapter 1 or 2, and every time we touch base with them, you can connect the dots and see a clear arc for them as well…which means grocking their stories and how their heads work  Again, your protagonist isn’t existing in a vacuum.      

    PS: One more thing: It gives you great opportunities for plot twists, too, because if everyone on the chessboard is coming at the game from a different set of experiences and you know those, it’s a lot easier to realize “oh, the choice they would make in this situation would really shake up the board.”  Even if they’re a “throwaway” character…like Pansy Parkinson having a crush-related shitfit which her little sister overhears. 

totes

this is part of why I’m half rewriting a book I’ve already written- because I have a growing sense of the world it took place in. and it’s inevitable that if you wrote a trilogy straight through without altering the beginning, you’ll wish you had by the time you’re done.

She went down beyond the mountains and disappeared between the crease of sky and land, like a great eyelid folding shut. No one knows what happened out in the Black Hills, but I imagine she lies buried in a rusty coffin under the stars. And on nights when the desert crickets sing her tune, one day she will rise again. On that day, there will is no telling the kind of vengeance she’ll demand of us. Fair is fair.

She rubbed the skin off your headstone of a sternum and painted a sad picture of herself in your eyes.
I love you, they said, meaning nothing more than cricket song and the thirsty moon over a spot of bloody ground. Those weren’t the nothings we knew: no place no home no song. We heard that voice and followed.

I know what you were asking us, even if you don’t. Lover, why must you deceive me with those eyes; lie with laughing; obfuscate the obvious—Everything is already written. You are you, I am I, unyieldingly ourselves, blindly certain only of ourselves, giving way to the inevitable: we two will die. Time is laid out before us, clean and bare, whole. It fools us into thinking we are free. Time, erotic in its blank submission, a body that needs you to fulfill its desires, and write your life story on its flesh. We must act, we must fight, we must scuttle in the dirt to appease that body. Life demands a performance. But we have foresight. Unlike those pill bugs you once told me of, your first memory in the garden dirt to your knees and elbows, the insects squirming about you. The only difference between their struggle and our own: I’ve never seen a pill bug give up. So don’t deceive me with those lips and hands. With that smile that hasn’t changed since you were four because it always—always!—got you what you wanted. That is the great lie, that in losing ourselves in one another we are free.

They say when she fell from Heaven she wore a crown of jagged stars that slit the skies throat. They say say loved them all, in the secret corner of their shallow sleep. Like her grave, all nameless, all loveless. Strangers, at the last. They say a lot of things. They’re all lies. Everything is already written.

Party At The World’s End, text in progress.