as a writer i gotta say I think you're pretty brave for reading and encouraging people to analyze your character! I personally would be reading all these submissions and be going 'oh no oh no they all have such high expectations and think its so deep but its not going to live up to what they're hoping for'
Well, even if the cake doesn't turn out to be as big as they expect, they'll still enjoy the taste of it ',:)
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*carefully picks you up and peeks into your conch snail shell*
Ehm... Sorry to bother, but... Could we, maybe, possibly... see Vasco's wife and her lover pictured by your hand? Sorry again, thank you for listening. Take care.
*delicately lays you back into the water to prevent any stress or dehydration*
Unfortunately I don't have her lover figured out yet, but I think Ludovica looks something like this:
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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Actually, the last time I went to pick up gummies at the dispensary it was like 9:30pm and I went in and immediately this unimaginably peppy ass blonde sorority girl wearing all pink they had giving out samples went "OMG HI WELCOME IN <3 HOW ARE YOU TONIGHT!?" and I swear to god that level of pure extroversion hitting my poor, unprepared, exhausted stoner brain damn near reduced me to dust. Like that can't be allowed. Do you know what kind of people show up at the dispensary half an hour before close? She's gonna kill someone.
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the long way down job is such an important turning point in eliot & parker’s relationship bc they’d both been viewing the things they have in common as fairly negative: they’ve both been told that they’re cold and ruthless and dangerous and they know those things are true. so when they’ve recognised themselves in each other, it’s been a sense of "the thing that’s wrong with me is a lot like the thing that’s wrong with you". and there’s comfort in that, in a way. but now eliot gets parker to see that maybe those aren’t all negative traits, they’re just… traits. neutral. it doesn’t make them bad or good, it makes them who they are. and now when they see themselves reflected in each other, it’s not a reminder that they’re wrong and bad - it’s kinship, it’s familiarity, it’s belonging.
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oh my god. it just hit me. the time they met in eden, the first time in crowley's mind, he asked aziraphale a question and instead of smiting him or ignoring him, he answered. for the first time in his demonic existence, someone answered a question for him without any thought, like he deserved to hear the answer. no wonder he immediately fell in love huh
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