#and who else to learn that from than actors on a stage thats compelling thats fascinating thats how you do life | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

donvex · 4 years

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writer zuko

so this post by @sokkatrans was talking about writer zuko (in comparison/addition to theater zuko) and i had some inspiration and ideas

zuko, as we all did, wrote poetry during his peak angsty middle school years

he switches to prose, at some point, because the poetry is genuinely awful. not really more than any other middle schoolers poetry, but that doesn’t make it consumable. but zuko also moves to prose because it's easier to hide that you're doing creative writing when its in paragraphs or long documents and hidden by tight grammar. not only is zuko's writing private, but keeping it so is imperative when living with ozai

he starts out with a lot of observatory stories. things he sees, things he goes through. its his own form of therapy in a way - no chance he'd ever be getting that anyway, so writing has to be almost as good

his home life gets worse. when his father takes his face to the stovetop, realism becomes a sickening thought. zuko can't even think about that, let alone write about it. so he takes to escapism. some of it is big, bold. most of his writings are about people that absolutely could exist, but dont. people who could be real, who only arent real because zuko has made them up, regular people who live fantastical lives. not necessarily good ones, but interesting ones. ones that feel important, in a way zuko doesn't in his own life.

(he doesn’t try and find any of his old writing, before the escapism. he has a feeling there’s no point.)

he doesn't share his writing with anyone, not even with his uncle when he eventually moves in with him. "why should i?" he'd say. "it's boring." there's nothing adventurous in his writing, nothing other people would care about. he writes about regular people who do regular things, and never take on more than their little piece of the whole big world.

iroh never breaks zuko’s trust. he notices zuko writes - and writes all the time - but never reads it, not even when it’s laying in an open journal on the table. he’ll close it and move it to the desk they’ve set up for zuko, because their place may be humble, but it’s important his nephew have his own space.

and living with iroh, zuko is allowed to take the classes he wants. he does try theater, and he likes it, of course he likes it. but he likes it most of all for the scripts, for the narrative, for the story. and even though he sticks with theater for a while, by the time he’s going to college for a degree, he knows thats not the part he wants in any play he finds. he likes the writing, and he doesn’t know if he could be a playwright, but he tries. and he’s good at it

because zuko doesn’t write grand big adventures that require money and sets and costumes to come to life on stage. zuko writes about people and about feelings and about living. zuko writes plays that are made to be brought to life by the actors, by the people portraying them, by the stories of anyone who can relate to these characters. zuko writes plays that are meant to speak to the audience, and to have the audience speak back. zuko writes plays that are introspective, and compelling, and they say something.

by the time he’s adopted into the gaang, he’s already well on his way to a literature degree. he’s good at analysis and dissecting books and comprehension, he’s good at communication and time management and critical thinking. but he doesn’t stop writing himself, and with a whole new support system he finally picks up that minor or that double major in playwriting and screenwriting. and he had plans of being a professor, maybe, and he thinks he’ll still follow through with it. that he needs something to ground him. something else to be his job, so that writing can still be for him.

but, when his friends finally get to see one of his plays picked up, one of his works really made into a production, and not just something put on my two acting majors in his school - they cry. and they laugh. and they applaud. they go through a spectrum of human emotions, and they gush about it afterwards, and zuko gets to maybe see his value as an artist more than he has before. good grades only go so far in self validation, especially when your entire high school life was devoted to unlearning that good grades were all that mattered - that being the best was all that matters.and zuko thinks, maybe he’ll still teach, but maybe he’ll do this more. for real. because the truth is his writing isn’t just for him.

it’s for his friends. it’s for every waitress he’s given a 30% tip too, because he could afford it. it’s for the people he passes on the street, the ones who bump into him and laugh from nervousness when they realize he can’t see them on his left side. it’s for the cashiers who help him bag his things, just because he was nice to them the way the old “loyal” customers are not. it’s for the people that don’t feel like their life is fantastical, or interesting, or important.

and zuko, through his writing, through everything he had to go through and endure and learn, can maybe show them that they’re all those things and more

#zuko #atla #the gaang #friendship #i hope this is okay #it just got really long so i made it into a separate post #wow i got really into this #on occassion the atla fandom lets me have the braincell #my writing

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create-ninety · 5 years

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Wednesday 20th February, ’19. 10am.

There’s nothing quite like going to a gig at a small venue in a trendy part of town to make you feel like a geriatric.

While I was getting ready for the event, I was wondering if I was going too casual – I was wearing a plain t-shirt with black jeans and an oversized floral blazer. Turns out I should have gone in what I normally wear as pyjamas! There were kids (I say kids, because while there were definitely a few ‘older’ people in the crowd, the majority looked like they were born this side of the century) wearing what I can only describe as their dorky mum’s clothes from the seventies. It was bizarre. Lucie and I stood to the side in a somewhat demure fashion by comparison, me sipping on non-alcoholic beer, and Lucie overheating from a temperature brought on by a nasty cold.

We both agreed that, if we were born when they were, it’s this kind of crowd we probably would have found ourselves in. Perhaps it’s because they were wearing exactly what we were wearing, once upon a time. I can imagine this isn’t a unique experience for people who find themselves looking over their shoulder at the next generation and wonder what the hell is going on.

The show itself was great – the band were amazing. I’ve seen them three times now and each time they’ve got better. The audience loved the performance and it was actually quite inspiring to see people passionate about their art in action. And it was obviously the kind of crowd that didn’t bat an eyelid that I was draped over completely over Lucie, which is always a plus.

When we got home, we lay awake talking about it the performers. I wondered what the process is that gets a person to the point where they feel confident enough to get on stage and perform in front of others. Essentially saying, “I am confident enough that my work is good enough to not only subject you to, but I am compelling enough to perform it in front of others.”

That’s a pretty brave thing, for anyone to do. To be inviting open criticism and to stand up and project vulnerability. I do, genuinely, marvel at musicians and stage actors who have to suspend what can only be described as ‘normal reality’ to sing, move about, and create a large amount of sound – something that in any other situation would be wildly inappropriate and strange. And yet there we all were, gathered around a stage, making noise for individuals who were inhabiting that space of vulnerability. I’ve decided that, for me, it’s actually less about hearing the music of the artists when I see the live show, and more about watching and observing the emotions that they’re going through, as they do it. And you can see it on their faces. The nerves, the little shakes, the awkward chatter between songs when the polished performance of practiced routine is paused.

Lucie pointed out to me that writing a novel isn’t so different to that.

In some ways, perhaps not, but by and large I think there are some key differences.

I think that if you’re a creative person by nature, then creativity has the opportunity to express itself in several key ways: as an actor, a musician, a visual artist, or a writer. Each of those could be called spheres with smaller subsets breaking off (stage actors vs film actors, painters vs photographers, poets vs fiction writers, and so on). I suppose it just depends what vehicle you ultimately are drawn to and prefer as your mode of expression. Because ultimately, the point of anything creative is fundamentally the same: it’s just that, expression. You are expressing something emotive, experiential, a message, something others might relate to. And each of those spheres give you the option to do it, but with completely different methods of execution.

When I was growing up I played with all of the different spheres and I can see them all, now, as different sizes and at varying distances from me. At certain points in my life I’ve actually valued them and explored them in different orders. Some have increased in resolution and texture while others have stayed smaller and smoother.

The smallest of my creative spheres, the one most under-developed and child-like, is visual art. I’m not bad at basic sketching or copying something. And I can stare at a piece of art and try and pull out its meaning. But when I was young, the pleasure I’d get from mixing paint or translating an emotion onto a canvas or something else just wasn’t very high for me. So I didn’t spend time doing it. There were moments where I’d develop a surge in interest (this still happens) – I’d go and buy watercolours and start painting for fun, or I’d be obsessed with sketching raccoons or something. But it’s always fleeting, and ultimately, not really something that I have been able to use as the best means of my expression.

I found a lot of joy in stage acting and performing when I was young, right up to my teenage years. I would include public speaking in this. I found it exciting. I liked playing characters with interesting stories, and I liked to turn different emotions on and off to create scenes with others. I liked finding mirrors of myself in characters, and ‘becoming them’, for a short time, was a small reprieve from myself. But sometimes it was hard to occupy the emotions of a character when my own were trying to take centre stage, so to speak. In my last year of high school when I was arguably involved in the most theatre I’d ever done – I was the lead role in my drama class’ final show, I was in a speech finals competition, I was sitting a speech and drama exam that had multiple theatrical components, I was in our school production, and in an improv team – I was stressed as hell. I realised, ultimately, I didn’t like standing up in front of others to be scrutinised as a version of myself that wasn’t me. I didn’t like that there was a ‘right way’ to act, and a ‘wrong way’. Because, well, there’s a director telling you what to do and how to do it. And so when I left school, I stopped any form of acting. I thought about joining a theatre company but I didn’t. I almost studied Theatre at uni, but I didn’t. It just wasn’t the creative vehicle for expression for me and I dropped it all together. I think, as a result, that acting is now my least valued and explored sphere.

Music, on the other hand, was something I discovered in my late teens. I’d tried piano earlier but didn’t like it, because I was taught classical, which to me was basically mathematics with your fingers. I wasn’t good at translating the written music to something that requires you to be so profoundly dextrous. Years later I would discover tab, and learn the general principles of music accidentally. I realised that chords are the foundation of all music, and that chords translate across all string and wind instruments, including the piano. Once I understood that, and once I was able to master basic dexterity and rhythm, music became the most wonderful tool of expression. I was able to write lyrics, write melodies, and then later on, piece them all together to make a song on my computer. I must have made hundreds. I did struggle to ‘finish’ one, though, and my desire to perform them never became overwhelming enough to take it to the next level. For me, it really was just means to express something. I liked the personal nature of it. I liked the different emotions that could be conveyed through the different sounds and instruments. Sharing the songs with anyone was always a profoundly terrifying experience: the music was an extension of myself, as if I had translated my own identity and ‘suffering’ into sound – and for others to hear it, and to judge it, would be for them to judge me. And so the music sphere for me has grown large, but it has stayed at the same size for some years now. I pick up the guitar when I’m feeling emotional. Or when I want to put music to a poem. And when I see musicians perform, I see love for the vehicle. I often dream about writing an album to compliment a film. I suppose that now, there is actually the option to actually produce music without having to perform at all – you can do it all digitally. But I don’t think that I love it enough to put it out there. There is so much music available. I don’t think that what I create would be contributing to anything other than my own creative expression. And so, it’s for that reason, while it’s fun to dream, I think – unless I suddenly have unlimited free time and money – that it’s something I’ll never take further than just tinkering around when I fancy.

Writing, for me, is the perfect mode of expression. It’s a completely internal process. With music there is this external component, which I think is ultimately what turns me off about it, but with writing, it can be done completely behind a veil. When it is released into the world, it’s consumed by a reader internally. You are not the work. The work is as separate from you as possible (perhaps in many ways like visual art). This is what appeals to me so deeply. That I get to have a personal, raw, emotive and transformative experience writing something and exploring it in a depth that has so many layers of meaning. And when someone reads it, the work becomes a personal experience for them. You are just a a vehicle for the expression. My physical form, my personal likes and dislikes and expressions, are not relevant to the ideas being put out into the world. And I love this. Writing also carries with it the highest possibility for profound connection: books take a long time to be read, and upon each separate reading, new meaning can be found and uncovered. The same can be said for all the spheres, absolutely – I’ve certainly spent hours listening to the same song and attached various meanings to it, and felt connections to musicians I’ve never met – but there is something unique about a narrative with a character who goes on a journey. I would argue that in a book you can still experience all five senses, but in an abstract way.

I don’t like the thought of who I am as a person getting in the way of the message. I want to place the art and the ideas at the centre of the experience. When you involve yourself – in a way that musicians and actors have to do – then you become consumable. And that is a scary concept for me. One could argue that the person performing is actually, themselves, part of the art - I would imagine this to be true - but I think this is what differentiates the spheres.

And, more than anything, writing is as automatic and as essential to me as breathing. Or eating. It’s just something that’s part of my day and necessary for normal functioning. For people who master the other spheres, you can see that they have this feeling about their own medium. I saw it on the faces of the performers last night. They live and breathe music. Their instruments are extensions of their identities that they have to exorcise. When I scroll through the Instagram profiles of visual artists, their dedication to the craft is demonstrated through the picture after picture after picture of their creations.

And, finally, I am now – perhaps like the musicians – confident enough to think that my work is good enough. I also think it’s now good enough for others. So yes, maybe I am more like the musicians than I think.

#personal #createninety #journal #feb2019 #february2019 #thoughts #contemplation #writer #author

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