Here is a little bit of a spark of creativity I had around two weeks ago after watching some clips from the Sin City movie and thought, "Gee, it would be cool if I could write something like that." So I did, and what I wrote probably doesn't make any sense to you right now.
After that spark of inspiration, I've gotten around to jotting down some ideas for an extremely complex narrative that has something to do with what I wrote that day, here it is:
The room is black and white and completely square. The whitest part of the room is the single light blub dangling from the ceiling, right center of the black and white room. Technically, this is the brightest part of the room, but for the sake of a graphical novel setting, we’ll reduce the colors to simply black and white and all the gray areas in between. The blackest part of the room are the dark corners of the room, which, for some reason of trick lighting, aren’t illuminated by the bare light bulb even though nothing really obscured them from the light source. The second blackest part of the room is the suave young man with the shiny white sunglasses sitting comfortably, or as comfortably as he can in an old, five-dollar plastic lawn chair (this is indoors; the lawn chair is not in its correct setting). His entire form, shrouded in pitch black (this is despite him sitting right under the light of the bare light bulb) except the glowing white lenses of his sunglasses, is relaxed, leaned into the backrest of the plastic lawn chair, his heads pillowing the back of his head of neatly trimmed black hair. The lighting in the room is so ridiculous and defying of the laws of science that nothing of this young man’s features (which are presumably handsome enough to charm members of both sexes) can be distinguished under the darn lighting; he is simply a shadow of himself, his form only slightly blacker than his background, one of the four walls of the room.
After that spark of inspiration, I've gotten around to jotting down some ideas for an extremely complex narrative that has something to do with what I wrote that day, here it is:
The room is black and white and completely square. The whitest part of the room is the single light blub dangling from the ceiling, right center of the black and white room. Technically, this is the brightest part of the room, but for the sake of a graphical novel setting, we’ll reduce the colors to simply black and white and all the gray areas in between. The blackest part of the room are the dark corners of the room, which, for some reason of trick lighting, aren’t illuminated by the bare light bulb even though nothing really obscured them from the light source. The second blackest part of the room is the suave young man with the shiny white sunglasses sitting comfortably, or as comfortably as he can in an old, five-dollar plastic lawn chair (this is indoors; the lawn chair is not in its correct setting). His entire form, shrouded in pitch black (this is despite him sitting right under the light of the bare light bulb) except the glowing white lenses of his sunglasses, is relaxed, leaned into the backrest of the plastic lawn chair, his heads pillowing the back of his head of neatly trimmed black hair. The lighting in the room is so ridiculous and defying of the laws of science that nothing of this young man’s features (which are presumably handsome enough to charm members of both sexes) can be distinguished under the darn lighting; he is simply a shadow of himself, his form only slightly blacker than his background, one of the four walls of the room.
For Stanton, he is having a lot of trouble trying to separate the shadow of the young man from the shadow of the background, since he is shortsighted. Stanton is also a young man, albeit a less handsome looking one, and somehow that warranted him the favor of the room’s lighting, unfortunately. Since his form is not completely shrouded in blackness, he can actually be described; he has quite a mean face, narrow beady eyes, a buzz-cut, and no small quantity of knife/glass/fingernail scars all across his visage. The only damper on this mean street-fighter’s face has to the explosion of acne stretching diagonally from Stanton’s right temple to his left cheek, concentrated around his nose area which made the face extremely undesirable for any parts of the body of anyone else to touch. Even hookers didn’t want to kiss Stanton’s face unless he pays them a bonus. People either get acne or they get freckles, rarely both; Stanton always envied people who get freckles, freckles can be attractive, acne, however, cannot.
I've always wanted to write something in the style of Catch-22, a book I read and admired greatly for the density of its narrative and its endlessly broad vocabulary. I'm no Joseph Heller, and I'll never be Joseph Heller, but I've finally been inspired with an idea that has enough characters to write a story that will make even my own head swim (exactly what Catch-22 did). If you want to see more on this story, or if you have suggestions about where I can take this story to, by all means tell me. Thanks!
G!
I've always wanted to write something in the style of Catch-22, a book I read and admired greatly for the density of its narrative and its endlessly broad vocabulary. I'm no Joseph Heller, and I'll never be Joseph Heller, but I've finally been inspired with an idea that has enough characters to write a story that will make even my own head swim (exactly what Catch-22 did). If you want to see more on this story, or if you have suggestions about where I can take this story to, by all means tell me. Thanks!
G!
very intriguing beginning...I'd like to see where this goes!
ReplyDelete