#i also am as usual oscillating between 'i should be coping better' and 'i should be doing worse actually' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

diegoalvesisgod · 3 years

Text

I was tagged by @ibarbourou to do this... writing self-analysis, I guess.

Can you think of three images that are recurring elements in your writing? Are they symbolic of something? What do these images mean to you? Do you have any memories/connotations tied to them?

Long post ahead.

fire and warmth

This was the only one I didn’t have to think about, the one I consciously know is a recurring theme.

The image or fire, or anything that represents warmth or creates warmth, or the warmth in itself.

Paulo takes a deep breath and walks inside. The interior looks very different from the outside. It’s not scary at all. It reminds Paulo of a museum a little bit, but it’s warmer and cozier. There is a thick carpet on the floor in the large hallway, and patterned wallpaper on the walls. Fire is crackling somewhere.

(My Love Will Never Die)

He crosses the hall carefully, trying not to trip over anything. The storm outside intensifies, rain beating at the windows and lightnings illuminating the empty hall at least thrice before he reaches the door. The room he finds behind it is much smaller, and somehow also feels warmer. Whoever covered the furniture and took down the paintings before leaving this place most likely forgot about this room. The armchair in front of the large fireplace isn’t covered, there’s even a pelt in front of it, like whoever used to sit there liked to keep their feet warm. A small table to the side to put a glass of wine or a book on, a candleholder near the window, chairs in the corners. There’s still a pile of wood neatly lined up next to the fireplace, and he finds a tinderbox on the mantelpiece.

(let the darkness lead us into the light)

My grandfather was a concentration camp survivor. I was little when he died, but there are some things I remember him talking about to me, and this is one of them. Warmth means life. There is nothing if there’s not warmth, because if you’re cold, the only thing you can think of is warmth, the need to get warm, the lack of warmth. I deeply believe in the third generation trauma theory, and this may be one of the ways it manifests. I am able to cope with cold much better than most of my friends and family - what is cold for them isn’t cold for me, but I also subconsciously focus on things that represent warmth. I love blankets and candles and hot tea and fireplaces, I hoard sweaters, and when I was a little girl, I never wanted jackets, I wanted fur coats.

For me, warmth, or the lack thereof, sets the vibe and the atmosphere of the story. It determines if the story has potential to have a happy ending, if the characters are even able to experience something positive.

There’s fire burning in the giant fireplace, started by someone from their small entourage, but the stone has been cold for too long, and it only slowly lets the flames warm up the salty air. The shadows in the hall are long and tall, making everything seem monstrous.

“It doesn’t feel like home,” Viktor says, just because the words are burning on his tongue and he needs to spit them out, even if it means another bruise.

(Stars)

The vibe of the entire story is cold and crude, and for me, at the mention of fire, it changes for the better, it starts to get hopeful. It’s what starts the change, and it’s slow and perhaps an impossible task to completely warm it up, but it’s already less dark and desperate.

flowers/plants

I don’t use flowers or plants that often, but when I do, it’s always with intention.

Denis lingers for a while. He takes off the rye wreath and runs a hand through his hair.

“I just… wanted to say that I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Sorry for what?” Vasek asks.

“Just… you know… being… generally disappointing.”

(all hail the underdogs)

I picked rye as the symbol of love and fidelity, because that’s what their relationship is about. But for the scene between Denis and Taylor later on in the fic, I picked cattail:

Denis nods, and then realizes that he doesn’t have to look for anything. He’s already got it. He pulls out the cattail he had picked earlier, and puts some of the pollen on the wound.

“Here,” Taylor says, handing him a piece of cloth in which Denis recognizes the silvery fabric of the small parachutes that transport sponsors’ gifts to the arena. “Do you need help?”

Denis nods and holds his hand up to him. Taylor wraps the fabric around his palm a bit clumsily, and ties it firmly.

(all hail the underdogs)

Cattail symbolizes peace, mainly between two people who are fighting. It’s literally a symbol of this temporary treaty between them, and of a friendship that could be if it weren’t for the circumstances.

I used the comparison of two different flowers again in Where my dreams are made of gold.

Alessandro sits at the table and looks at the pile of leaves and blossoms. “What do you need all these flowers for?”

“The leaves. Green pigment,” Riccardo explains and tears another leaf off.

“Lily of the valley,” Alessandro smiles. “My favorite.”

Riccardo just stares at him. Are men even supposed to have favorite flowers? Does he have his favorite flower?

“Simple, innocent, fragile… but also deadly,” Alessandro says, picking up a flower and smelling it. “It’s said it sprang from Eve’s tears when she was leaving the Garden of Eden.”

Riccardo wants to say something about this flower not suiting Alessandro, since he knows from Giampaolo that it symbolizes humility in religious paintings, but holds his tongue. After all, who is he to tell anyone what flower they should like?

(Where my dreams are made of gold)

Alessandro’s favorite flower is lily of the valley - actually a very feminine flower, associated with purity, humility, chastity and sweetness. It’s not representing him as he is, but the values that he is looking for, the way he wishes he were.

Alessandro nods and looks at the paper in Riccardo’s lap, the sketches of blooms and branches.

“Magnolias,” Riccardo says. “My favorite flowers. They look beautiful up in the tree, but you can’t really take them down. They wither and rot if you do. Beautiful and delicate as long as you just look. If you touch them, they turn to death.”

(Where my dreams are made of gold)

On the same note, Riccardo likes magnolias - exactly for the reason he gives. They are beautiful up in the tree, but if you touch them, they turn ugly and die. They symbolize dignity and nobility - which are qualities that he is seeking. Just before he states this, he says about himself: “A kiss for money or a favor? Not like I haven’t done it myself, although I didn’t call it trade. But see, I’m no one to judge you.”

In this one, roses are kind of obvious, because it’s a Beauty and the Beast retelling, but here they also play into the whole crucifixion allegory, thorn crown and all that I created - which to this day I can’t believe I did in a piece I didn’t even intend as entirely serious.

The guards apparently didn’t keep the story to themselves, because among the jeers and laughter of the crowd slowly gathering on the square, he hears mentions of roses and the Beast almost as often as he hears himself being called a fool.

Someone pushes a flower crown made of roses on his head. He feels the thorns sink in his forehead, but the pain never reaches where it should. He can’t quite feel his body, nor see where he’s going, and he doesn’t think that he would be able to walk on his own, if it weren’t for the guards’ grip on his arms.

He stops when they tell him to, looks up to the wooden post and sniffles. This is the thing he feared the most all his life, and now he feels nothing. He raises his hands obediently and lets the guards close the iron rings around them, and he looks down at the crowd like they mean nothing. He doesn’t even feel like explaining anything to them, even if it could stop the jeering and curses and an occasional rose being thrown at him like it’s worth nothing. They would never understand.

(let the darkness lead us into the light)

In let's be winners by mistake, I used roses, but paper roses. On purpose - while they should symbolize love, they are not real. Andrey repeatedly gives Sascha paper roses, but he’s aware of his feelings not being reciprocated, and in this scene, where he already knows that Sascha is in love with someone else, he burns the rose to show him that love like that, with an “outsider”, cannot last and be real.

Sascha lifts his eyes to him for a moment, and when he lowers them again, Andrey is holding a red paper rose.

“We all have dreams,” he says and hands it to him. “But like everything that happens under the Big Top, they are not real.”

He runs his palm over the paper flower, and out of nowhere, it catches fire. Sascha drops it quickly, and watches the flames swallow the crepe paper.

“What… how do you do the things?” he breathes out.

“If I told you, it would no longer be magic,” Andrey smiles.

(let's be winners by mistake)

For me, flowers are a great way to establish a character, or a relationship. When I look at a person, I can usually associate a flower with them. I love flowers, and I’m very picky about them. There are flowers I can’t stand and would never bring them home, and then flowers I am attracted to. So I generally think of flowers just like I think of people.

liminal spaces

“The spatial dimension of liminality can include specific places, larger zones or areas, or entire countries and larger regions.Liminal places can range from borders and frontiers to no man's lands and disputed territories, to crossroads to perhaps airports, hotels, and bathrooms which are spaces people pass through but do not live in.”

I feel like I oscillate between establishing homes for the characters, and using liminal spaces a lot. I think I used these mainly in my old fics, but sometimes I still like to reach for them.

The motel he stops at is far from the city, and looks like it could be accidentally demolished any day, as it seems to be completely abandoned. But Paulo knows it’s still open, and barely anyone there cares who rents the rooms.

The room is far from nice, but as long as it has a bed and running water, it’s all they need.

Álvaro hasn’t said anything since Paulo picked him off the ground and cut the zip tie on his wrists. Paulo suspects that he concentrates on staying conscious. At least whenever he peeked at him from the driver’s seat, Álvaro’s lips and hands were shaking, and by the time they get into the tiny bathroom, he is barely able to stand. Paulo peels off his shirt and the torn jeans, and almost gasps. Álvaro’s body is colored in bruises, none of them dangerous, but all with the purpose of hurting. But Álvaro doesn’t complain, save for an occasional hiss, almost like he takes it as his penance.

Paulo helps him into the bathtub and lets him sit down. Then he reaches for the shower, an old thing that sprays water everywhere, and starts to wash him, not really touching him, just letting the hot streams run over his body. He then scrubs the dirt and blood out of Álvaro’s hair with the hotel soap and tries to dry him as gently as possible with the scratchy towels.

(No Rest For The Wicked)

I am big about the vibe of buildings. As much as I don’t think of myself as of a spiritual person, sensitive to whatever supernatural may exist in this world, and I have trouble perceiving human emotions, I can feel buildings. That’s my quirk. I have a whole theory of buildings, and my own terminology - for example, I know that old houses built of stone are grounded - they have a stable energy, and if I spend some time inside, I just feel very calm, relaxed and at peace.

I often go to liminal spaces when there’s a transition in the story.

The sky is pale pink interwoven with blue veins, and they both shake from cold and fatigue. They can see the border from here. Ander leans over the car, soaking in the warmth from the engine.

A car’s headlights blink from somewhere behind the border. Andoni grabs his bag. Ander watches him silently.

You could go with me, Andoni says then.

Ander shakes his head slightly. He can’t go anywhere. Your war is over. I still have a lot of battles to fight.

(Hold My Hand When This Ends)

Same here:

He looks like a ghost.

Not that Simon believes in ghosts, but at night the road becomes a strange place, almost like he can cross the line between this world and some alternate space anytime. Sometimes, when he stops for a cup of coffee at a gas station this late, and he’s the only one sitting there, he feels like he’s all alone in the world, like the whole population was wiped out during some catastrophe or epidemics and he’s the only miraculous survivor.

But although he knows that the person he’s seeing is real, has to be real, what is he supposed to think of a boy walking down the side of the road dressed only in jeans and a white sweatshirt when Simon is sure - and the red digits on his car stereo temperature display confirm it - it’s freezing cold outside?

(like all good kids from broken homes)

The whole fic is basically about liminal spaces - it’s about that moment of transition, and there’s basically no plot needed, the liminal spaces do all the magic.

The room is small and simple, with the obligatory double bed, because paradoxically one’s not expected to sleep alone in a place like this, but it’s at least warm and relatively clean. Viktor looks around like a trapped animal, and it takes him some time to relax at least enough to let go of his backpack and kick off the wet trainers.

“I think a hot shower will do you good,” Simon says, nodding towards the tiny bathroom.

For the first time, Viktor’s lips curl in a smile. “Will you feed me, too, and tuck me in bed?”

(like all good kids from broken homes)

Liminal spaces are something I personally love, because they have a special energy, time is very altered there, and they feel like a half-step, like a portal to something new. (The best liminal spaces are the F1 and Ibis budget hotels in France. Their lobby at about 1 AM can take your mind to very interesting places. Gas stations in the middle of the night come closely second.)

#writing

9 notes · View notes