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22/2/12 23:16![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
owlectomyI am a fickle and fluttery thing when it comes to my literary tastes, so I tend to have a big roster of kinds of stories that I'd like to write. Not story ideas, alas, but story-types.
Before I loved fantasy and science fiction, I loved boy-and-his-dog stories. I loved Jim Kjelgaard. A boy and his Irish Setter (only, not his, because his family doesn't have that kind of money...) wandering around the wilderness having Adventures! How I wanted to be wandering around the wilderness having Adventures. I loved dog books even before then, because I loved dogs and I loved books, but I probably went through my Jim Kjelgaard phase when I moved from Montreal. It was a harsh transition, going from a place where I could walk down to the depanneur or the children's bookstore more or less whenever I wanted to, to a place where there was no concept of "walking distance." Walking to the depanneur might not seem like much of an Adventure, but it's an independence that I missed.
Come to think of it, it's no coincidence that I first got into fantasy through Anne McCaffrey, all those people bonded with their dragons and having exciting adventures.
So I have always wanted to write a person-and-their-animal story. And I have always wanted to write science fiction, if only I could just be cut some slack with the science, not because I actually believe that FTL travel or whatnot is possible but because I'd rather not let that impossibility get in the way of telling an interesting story.
I want to write a Girl-And-Her-Space-Whale story. No, more than that: I have an idea for a Girl-And-Her-Space-Whale story, or at least the beginnings of an idea.
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I am reading Annie Dillard's book on writing. It is about 65% brilliant and 35% hilariously pretentious, sometimes both at the same time, like when she talks about how long it takes to write a "serious novel" -- I roll my eyes, but am comforted, though I know what the chances are that she would think I had any intention of ever writing a serious novel. I may excerpt some of the brilliant parts when I get around to it. The hilariously pretentious parts mostly go:
I was writing a book and living in a rickety unheated cabin in Puget Sound. Chopping wood! Observations about nature. Sometimes writing makes you feel bad. It sure was a rickety unheated cabin.
Before I loved fantasy and science fiction, I loved boy-and-his-dog stories. I loved Jim Kjelgaard. A boy and his Irish Setter (only, not his, because his family doesn't have that kind of money...) wandering around the wilderness having Adventures! How I wanted to be wandering around the wilderness having Adventures. I loved dog books even before then, because I loved dogs and I loved books, but I probably went through my Jim Kjelgaard phase when I moved from Montreal. It was a harsh transition, going from a place where I could walk down to the depanneur or the children's bookstore more or less whenever I wanted to, to a place where there was no concept of "walking distance." Walking to the depanneur might not seem like much of an Adventure, but it's an independence that I missed.
Come to think of it, it's no coincidence that I first got into fantasy through Anne McCaffrey, all those people bonded with their dragons and having exciting adventures.
So I have always wanted to write a person-and-their-animal story. And I have always wanted to write science fiction, if only I could just be cut some slack with the science, not because I actually believe that FTL travel or whatnot is possible but because I'd rather not let that impossibility get in the way of telling an interesting story.
I want to write a Girl-And-Her-Space-Whale story. No, more than that: I have an idea for a Girl-And-Her-Space-Whale story, or at least the beginnings of an idea.
-
I am reading Annie Dillard's book on writing. It is about 65% brilliant and 35% hilariously pretentious, sometimes both at the same time, like when she talks about how long it takes to write a "serious novel" -- I roll my eyes, but am comforted, though I know what the chances are that she would think I had any intention of ever writing a serious novel. I may excerpt some of the brilliant parts when I get around to it. The hilariously pretentious parts mostly go:
I was writing a book and living in a rickety unheated cabin in Puget Sound. Chopping wood! Observations about nature. Sometimes writing makes you feel bad. It sure was a rickety unheated cabin.