I just tossed out two chapters I'd written for OT and completely reworked a section where Jake sees two men having sex and nearly falls apart, emotionally. Digging into Jake's mind...or mind-melding, for the Trekkie in you...is making it easier for me to understand his sudden changes. There's one character he likes then doesn't like then feels sorry for then decides to use to get even with someone else. He reacts to each moment, and shifts his plans accordingly.
The fact is, Jake's in over his head but he's not drowning without a fight. And he's already drawn some serious blood. At the rate things are going, I'll need to do a half-dozen rewrites to make the story consistent. And believable. I hope.
"I hope." Obviously I do not have the confidence in my work that Jake has in himself. He prowls like an alley cat sure of its terrain and daring anybody to mess with it. I've seen cats like that -- scarred and ready to spit at an instant. I'm more of a neutered kitteh sitting in a window gazing out on the world in ways that are faux-certain. Let a garbage truck come rumbling by and I'm -- SNAP -- under the bed.
I'm far too aware of my limitations, thanks to my upbringing, so I'm not sure where Jake's self-certainty comes from. Maybe it's a small aspect of my DNA. Maybe it's from my sort-of God complex about writing a book instead of dealing with a screenplay. I don't know. I just know I trust Jake more than I do myself...even when he fucks with me. That can't be healthy...or can it?
Or am I a budding Sybil?
The fact is, Jake's in over his head but he's not drowning without a fight. And he's already drawn some serious blood. At the rate things are going, I'll need to do a half-dozen rewrites to make the story consistent. And believable. I hope.
"I hope." Obviously I do not have the confidence in my work that Jake has in himself. He prowls like an alley cat sure of its terrain and daring anybody to mess with it. I've seen cats like that -- scarred and ready to spit at an instant. I'm more of a neutered kitteh sitting in a window gazing out on the world in ways that are faux-certain. Let a garbage truck come rumbling by and I'm -- SNAP -- under the bed.
I'm far too aware of my limitations, thanks to my upbringing, so I'm not sure where Jake's self-certainty comes from. Maybe it's a small aspect of my DNA. Maybe it's from my sort-of God complex about writing a book instead of dealing with a screenplay. I don't know. I just know I trust Jake more than I do myself...even when he fucks with me. That can't be healthy...or can it?
Or am I a budding Sybil?
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