The Falsity of Originality

It’s time to write. I’ve thought out the scheme of things but not the specifics. I sit in front of a 10,000 word document. I hate sections of it but I dredge on. iTunes spins up on random shuffle. But is it really? My library is heavily favored towards my favorite band, Mastodon. Their entire discography to just a few scattered songs from varying other artists. Mastodon’s 'Iron Tusk' starts up. The bleating drum blasts roar through the headset. Heavy, pounding guitars charge forward. I want that in my novel. I want to write something that mirrors the sound. Something dire, disparaging something heavy. I'm focused now. Someone’s got to die. I'm going to kill a kid.

The fact that Mouse’s father was willing to risk his sons’ life shocked and overwhelmed Greystone. The boy skittered across the market to supply the militiamen. Bullets rattled the cargo shops. In his limited view he watched Mouse run nearly out of sight. Pressing his face against the surprisingly warm steel, he tried to see as far as he could to see who opposed the militia and watch Mouse.

Mouse was now stopped at a man pinned down by gunfire. In haste he tried to remove the ammo sling from his shoulder. As he flung it off his shoulder it got snagged on a piece of rebar jutting out of the concrete barricade. Attempting to free it, he stood up. Within an instant Mouse’s head jerked back and his body went limp; slumping over the man he was rearming. Blood splattered a dark red sheen against the light gray concrete of a crumbled overpass support column.

As this section worked out in my head, Metallica's ‘The Day That Never Ends’ was playing. There is a lyric that inspired me. "I'll splatter color on this grey." It struck a chord with me and I tend to meld lyrics into my writing rather frequently. I wanted a name for the boy that conveyed a sense of innocence and frailty. As a huge fan of Mass Effect, there is an interaction in the second game in which a young boy named Mouse crawls through the vents to avoid pursuers. The name seemed to fit perfectly and fit well in the given scenario.

I need another character. I need a shop keep. The guy that came into work earlier was a perfect model for a character. His overweight, disheveled frame is perfect for implanting the personality of a vendor in a war-torn, overpopulated city.

Finally making his way to the grocer, Greystone was met by a man cradling a disheveled assault rifle. He looked alien. Gravity, it seemed, must have been stronger at the entrance to his shop. What he lacked in height, he made up for in width. Blonde hair furled out from beneath a trucker hat which read something Greystone could only assume was French. It was stained, likely picked it out of a local garbage dump. Also, likely where the gray V-neck undershirt laden with burn marks and holes came from.

Looking over the gun wielding vendor he peered into the store. Rope lighting was fed through the entrance of the dimly lit insides and connected to a laboring generator chugging just outside. Pretending not to care about the gun pointed at his chest, Greystone continued to look over the man’s shoulders. Though given the circumstances, holding back a laugh at the vendors light brown beard seemed like a good decision. Obviously he preferred not to keep his natural hair color.

The television pulled me away from my writing as usual. The San Francisco Giants closer Brian Wilson is doing an interview. His dark, dark black beard oddly complements his mismatched hair color, almost entirely covered by his hat. The interviewer asks him if he'll shave the beard, to which he replies with disgust and horror after a long pause and dirty looks, "I'm not shaving it." I laugh and attempt to delve back in to the writing in front of me. I want a piece of that eccentricity in the character I'm molding in my story. So he too, will have an off colored beard.

The main character flees his apartment after he is pursued by agents. He stops to reflect while taking a breath and so too do I. The future, in my eyes is bleak. The outlook of the novel will inherently reflect this. My disdain for humanity is reflected by the ignorance of the future, contradictory belief systems and a general negative outlook on life. The page is the perfect podium for beliefs and ideology to shine through and I ramble through imagery and character development.

Every shop owner stood guard at the only entrance in to their shops. Every vendor was heavily armed. Awaiting Death to show up for a gun fight. Possessions were all they had and they were more than happy to kill for them, even if merely for exemplary purposes.

The shells of the crates were scarred heavily; pocked with the failed attempts to break in to the rusted stores. A long running gash on the side of a literature store seemed to be an attempt to enter with what Greystone could only attribute to a chainsaw. Hardly stealthy in an always bustling crowd.

The news constantly followed stories of fugitive ‘experienced’ or mass suicides, and bombings. The world, it seemed, was very different then he envisioned it just a few decades ago. Humanity faced dark times. A bead of sweat ran down from his forehead and into his eyebrow. Wiping his brow he caught a reflection of himself in a small puddle and he couldn’t help but smile. His face was still half shaven.

I wrote this after watching a television show in which the characters had to hurry. Conveniently everything they needed was easily accessible and found in a second. That’s not real. I always feel like movies and television shows never truly capture the essence of the mundane or ‘inconvenience’ for that matter. ‘Haste’ never seems to be portrayed properly to me. If you’re being pursued by federal agents, it’s likely they’ll show up at the unlikeliest and most unfavorable times. I wanted to capture this truth of life and so I had them show up while my main character was in the middle of shaving.

I have an unhealthy devotion to realism. Despite the fact that this is Science Fiction I feel compelled to write real people into real situations. Without truth or realism it is hard to really convince a reader to believe in a fictitious place or character. I want a hero, but I want a hero that is realistic. I want a severely flawed hero. I want to put him scenarios where he has to make conscious decisions that will directly force the reader to ask themselves as they read “would I do something about it if I were in his shoes, given the top level priorities and information the main character has? Would I risk myself, and the future to help one individual struggling at that moment? Would that make sense? Could I do that?”

He had to make a decision and fast. Quietly he inched along the wall, watching the figures manhandle the passed out girl. They pulled down her dirtied khakis and then began to have their way with her. A rising sense of disgust arose in Greystone.

The man behind her grabbed her hair and slipped his other hand around her limp body, wrapping his free hand around her chest. He lifted her off the ground and dragged the girl over to a broken shopping cart. The other men stood up and watched as he pushed her down bending her over the chopped up shopping cart. The steel frame holding the wheels was removed making it a stable ‘platform.’

The cart sat among assorted trash bags and rubble. The girl’s body slumped over the front of the cart, her bare bottom dangling over the edge. Her waist inched just over the edge of the cart, as she was supported solely by her abdomen and the thin ¼ inch steel cutting into her mid-section. He dropped his underwear and they nestled over his pants, with a faint jingle of his belt buckle. His bare ass tightened as he forced himself inside her.

You’re really just going to let this happen right in front of you? Greystone felt like a snake, slithering along the wall, escaping Eden after tricking Adam and Eve into eating from the Tree of Knowledge.

I attended a poetry reading for one of my classes. The poet reads a poem about a Nazi soldier that forces his dog to rape a Jewish woman, before killing her. It is an extremely powerful image and concept, but my mind is elsewhere. My mind is with my novel. My hero needs a sidekick. I realize he hasn't talked much. He needs someone to talk to along the way. The poet gets down on all fours, as the Jewish women would have. I think a young girl living on the streets is perfect on a number of levels; mainly though as a means to produce a lasting morally questioning moment for the character. The theme of killing one to save a thousand has always been an intriguing one for me. Would I be able to do it, would anyone be able to do it? She reads more and I'm listening intently while my mind churns. Then it hits me. This is what I need. This is a perfect way to introduce both the character and a moral dilemma. The girl is going to get raped. My hero will be forced to make a decision. Does he save the girl being raped, putting himself and the future of humanity in danger or does he ignore it and use the distraction to escape without incident, having only the mental trauma of leaving a preteen to get raped?

I want the reader and the main character to question their ethics after words. I want to incite the thoughts that flood through your head after making such a decision. I struggle with words trying to find a way that makes that haunt him, for better or for worse. The ambitions of my character directly conflicts with my logic and defies my common sense. In the same given scenario, I would never risk my own life just to get the future back on course. So I’m left with a question. Would my reader feel the same way?

Just as Greystone took a deep breath to make his move and escape out into the streets, one of the men acting as spotters saw him and began shouting. Immediately they sprinted towards Greystone, but the third man didn’t even budge. Greystone reached down into his pants, fumbling to grab the handle of his pistol firmly backing up slowly. As the men reached striking distance, he managed to get a handle on the pistol, pulling it out and held it in front of him with both hands as if he were holding a glass ball at arm’s length. The men hit an invisible wall and their arms jutted up immediately.

“Back the fuck up” Greystone demanded. The third man was now standing with his back turned to them buckled his belt. Before turning he zipped up his pants now back at his waist.

“I should kill you where you stand!” Greystone said making eye contact with the rapist. You two should leave, now!” The two men jumped at their opportunity and sprited out of the alley without looking back. “You, put your hands up. You are despicable…”

“Spare me your fucking lecture.” The rapist said coyly. Greystone was taken aback at his hubris while staring at the end of a pistol. It was actually unnerving. This meant he‘d stared down the barrel of a gun before. “Pull her pants up” He watched the man as he slowly pulled her pants up to her waist, making a note to slap her bare ass before pulling the pants up and nestling them over her buttocks. He turned to face Greystone with a wry grin.

The man began to inch his way towards the alleyway, Greystone followed him with the gun. He backpedaled as he lifted his hand up. The man squeezed his middle finger, ring finger, and pinky into his palm mocking a gun. With his makeshift gun he aimed at Greystone and then fired twice jerking his hand back; the recoil of invisible fire.

“I knew you weren’t going to do it.” Spinning he walked away at a brisker pace. Greystone had the gun aimed at the man’s back.

The trigger resisted his pull, but his will over-powered it.

Click.

The magazine was empty. Greystone just stood and watched as the rapist made off into the bustling streets. A soft spoken voice interrupted Greystone’s thoughts.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Please don’t thank me.” Greystone replied quietly. He stared down the alleyway being careful so as not to make eye contact with the girl. Please don’t thank me.

I wrote this section shortly after the poetry reading upon arriving home. I felt that placing the reader in this scenario would entice the reader to question their own actions, and respond either way. I felt that in ending it with Greystone actually attempting to do the right thing, though unsuccessfully was rewarding enough for those who were angry at his lack of action earlier.

I write to be original. I want to write something that is different, something never done before. I stumble when I come across something in my story that I’ve heard before or seen before. It stops me dead in my tracks. I want to tread new ground, explore new scenarios. But I have to stop and ask is that even possible? Can I as a writer truly pull off an original concept? Could I make an idea that has never been thought of before? With all these people in the world it becomes clear that the answer is no. It’s impossible to remain truly original. Inspiration is pulled from everywhere, be in intentionally or subconsciously. Instead, it’s really about creating something that I am proud of; something I feel holds a level of truth and realism. The thought that I could produce something in writing that might inspire someone to make a change is enough for me to continue writing.