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trinityofoneSullivan: I want this picture to be a...document. I want to hold a mirror up to life. I want this to be a picture of dignity...a true canvas of the suffering of humanity.
LeBrand: But with a little sex in it.
Sullivan: But with a little sex in it.
So there's been a general sort of "WTF?" reaction to the story I posted yesterday, Horses Over the Hill. And I would just like to take this time to officially say: I completely understand. And also, mea culpa? Because it was a muddled mess, and dude, I feel stupid now. 'Cause it didn't have to be that way.
Several people have asked to see the original version of the story, the one that I threw out at the last minute yet can't seem to stop talking about. ;-) The truth is, the bulk of that version is the same as the one I posted; the only major differences are that the beginning omits the few lines about the Wraith and General Landry (there's never any mention of a possible promotion), and the ending. The ending is very different. So, in the interests of fair comparison and, er, beating a dead horse, I'm going to post the original conclusion here.
************
John is reading War and Peace...
“It didn’t always used to be so bad,” he said. “Things. Between you and me.”
He glanced up. His father was standing closer, a lot closer than he’d been just a moment before, and it should have been creepy, that he had moved without John seeing, without John sensing it. It was okay, though. John didn’t mind.
“Was it,” he asked the mattress, “me? Was it my fault?”
Eyes swerved slowly upward. Just as slowly, his father shook his head.
“But you think--but you thought it was.”
Nothing. He would take that as a yes.
“I couldn’t have known,” John said, feeling the old rage building, trying to slam it down. Too late: the book slipped from between his fingertips, almost casual, like it had been dropped, right up until the moment its spine cracked against the wall. “How could I have known that you’d die? Before--” He sat back down, and that was the first he realized that he’d stood at all. “Before I could make it right?”
And he needed his father to be able to talk to him, to tell him that he was sorry, too; that he had wanted, as much as John had--as much as John still did want that reunion that never was. But his father was as mute as a corpse whose mouth had been stitched shut with glistening thread, and the rest was silence. Nothing but dead air.
John didn’t know what he wanted most, to scream or to cry, and since he’d trained himself pretty well out of both, he settled not too uncomfortably into doing nothing, just sitting on the edge of his bed and staring up at the solid set of his father’s jaw. Not really solid though, is it? he thought, and then the little voice he sometimes heard in the back of his head, the one that sounded kind of like McKay, that little voice sat up straight and said, Oh. Well, duh.
He stood, stood facing his father. They were the same height, so close that someone could probably have erected a level bridge between their two heads, shock of black hair and shock of grey, without too much trouble at all. John was surprised without really being surprised that he’d never noticed it.
An easy fit, then. Or else a very tight squeeze.
He shook out his shoulders, tensed and untensed his hands. “I hope this will satisfy you,” he said. “I hope this will make you happy.”
Then he sucked in a breath. And he stepped--
--in, Johnny, my son “You are not my son” my boy, it’s a boy, Anne, just like his father he looks just like his father, hold on tight now, I’ve got you How do you...? someday I’ll teach you promise? promise “Get out.” black mark, that’s what they said not possible John, you’ll do well there John, make me proud, Johnny I’m sorry please listen not my fault “you’ve shamed me” hold it by the seams, yes just like that now let go Air Force like you, Dad must be some mistake, Johnny I’m sorry your mother disobeyed orders, you heard me passed the test 100% so tall looks just like his old man and I would do it again in a heartbeat someone call 911 I think he’s having a I’m so sorry, Johnny, Johnny, my son, forgive me get out--
--through.
He swayed on his feet, the room spinning then straightening, the world taking a moment to realign itself. His skin felt like it was on fire, alive with a thousand thousand burning pinpricks, as if he’d let his entire body fall asleep like a dead limb. It ached without really hurting, but his hands... His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He was alone.
He wasn’t alone. “Dad?” he said to the empty room, and it was no more forthcoming than before. But, “It’s okay,” he said. “We’re okay.”
The silence wasn’t consoling or disconcerting. It just was.
But John...John was more than a little sick of silence.
He knocked gently on Rodney’s door. No reason to think he would still be there--if there was anyone who could get away with working on Christmas, it was Rodney--but John thought maybe, just maybe...
The door slid open like a sigh, and there he was, crooked mouth and stubborn chin, fury and relief and anxious hands, waiting for him. And John finally felt his own fingers relax, because he knew that despite everything; in spite of it all, John knew that Rodney would always take him in.
*************
Looking at that now, I don't think it's really that bad. I mean, it's melodramatic and I still don't really believe it--it's too easy--but mostly, if I slowed it down a bit, made it less rushed? It wouldn't be that awful. (Okay, it still wouldn't explain certain things like why Rodney could see the ghost, but let's just leave that for now, shall we? Please?)
I don't know if I made the right decision yesterday. Probably it would have been better if I had spent the morning making what I had better, rather than trying to completely re-do it. But there are three things that I find really interesting about this whole experience, and they're really the reason I'm still talking about this. (Well, that and the fact that I'm embarrassed about having posted a subpar story, and I'm trying to distract you. Is it working?)
1. That I didn't really change very much, yet what I did change managed to alter the entire mood, and indeed, meaning of the story. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the emotional difference between ending one and ending two is pretty extreme, right? And yet the middle sections are honestly exactly the same. I'm not saying that either version of the story is good, but I do think it's kind of cool how changing one thing can make you read a whole bunch of other things in completely different ways. Something to think about for the future.
2. There's a difference between what is a satisfying story for a writer and a satisfying story for a reader. Or there can be. I would say that ideally, there isn't. But I am beginning to think--and again, please correct me if I'm wrong--that the first version of the story would have been a lot more satisfying for a lot of readers. It's less confusing, for one thing. (I honestly didn't mean for the ending of the version I posted to be that ambiguous; for those who are still wondering: John resigns! He chooses Rodney! Um, yay?) The original version is also more up. Sometimes that's important. I'm starting to get the feeling that I should have written Hey Hey in the Hayloft, and instead I wrote O Brother, Where Art Thou? Hey, we all gotta learn that lesson some time--at least I didn't have to get thrown in jail.
3. Hard work does not always pay off. In general, this is not a good lesson to learn, but for a writer, maybe it is. I puttered away at "Horses" for weeks, and it was never--forgive the pun--smooth riding. I think that shows in the final result. On the other hand, I wrote "We Have Lingered" in less than two hours. It literally poured out of me, and it was a joy to write from start to finish. I think that shows in the final result, too. This is not to say that I, or any writer, should never work at anything, poking it and prodding it and keeping it going, because if that were true, then nobody would ever write anything of length. (Although in fairness, I think I should at this point admit that I wrote both "Dæmonology" and "Something Wicked" in a day [um, not the same day]. Sometimes it just flows, man. I live for days like that.) But sometimes when something's not working, there's a reason, and I need to learn to recognize that.
I'd love to hear what people think about any or all of this. I feel a little better having talked about it, although I still have some major guilt for having posted something that I wasn't fully proud of, especially because it was for a challenge. (I also do appreciate the people who said nice things about the story. You are very nice, and you kept me from death-by-too-much-*headdesk*) So in the interest of giving back to a fandom that's been really good to me, I'm going tototally rip-off ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eliade and propose that I write ficlets for the first ten people (nine, if svmadelyn wants one--she deserves a boon) who comment with scenarios/prompts/what have you. My only restrictions are: SGA, John or Rodney or some combination thereof. Oh, and no horses.
Sullivan: There's a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that that's all some people have? It isn't much, but it's better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan.
LeBrand: But with a little sex in it.
Sullivan: But with a little sex in it.
So there's been a general sort of "WTF?" reaction to the story I posted yesterday, Horses Over the Hill. And I would just like to take this time to officially say: I completely understand. And also, mea culpa? Because it was a muddled mess, and dude, I feel stupid now. 'Cause it didn't have to be that way.
Several people have asked to see the original version of the story, the one that I threw out at the last minute yet can't seem to stop talking about. ;-) The truth is, the bulk of that version is the same as the one I posted; the only major differences are that the beginning omits the few lines about the Wraith and General Landry (there's never any mention of a possible promotion), and the ending. The ending is very different. So, in the interests of fair comparison and, er, beating a dead horse, I'm going to post the original conclusion here.
************
John is reading War and Peace...
“It didn’t always used to be so bad,” he said. “Things. Between you and me.”
He glanced up. His father was standing closer, a lot closer than he’d been just a moment before, and it should have been creepy, that he had moved without John seeing, without John sensing it. It was okay, though. John didn’t mind.
“Was it,” he asked the mattress, “me? Was it my fault?”
Eyes swerved slowly upward. Just as slowly, his father shook his head.
“But you think--but you thought it was.”
Nothing. He would take that as a yes.
“I couldn’t have known,” John said, feeling the old rage building, trying to slam it down. Too late: the book slipped from between his fingertips, almost casual, like it had been dropped, right up until the moment its spine cracked against the wall. “How could I have known that you’d die? Before--” He sat back down, and that was the first he realized that he’d stood at all. “Before I could make it right?”
And he needed his father to be able to talk to him, to tell him that he was sorry, too; that he had wanted, as much as John had--as much as John still did want that reunion that never was. But his father was as mute as a corpse whose mouth had been stitched shut with glistening thread, and the rest was silence. Nothing but dead air.
John didn’t know what he wanted most, to scream or to cry, and since he’d trained himself pretty well out of both, he settled not too uncomfortably into doing nothing, just sitting on the edge of his bed and staring up at the solid set of his father’s jaw. Not really solid though, is it? he thought, and then the little voice he sometimes heard in the back of his head, the one that sounded kind of like McKay, that little voice sat up straight and said, Oh. Well, duh.
He stood, stood facing his father. They were the same height, so close that someone could probably have erected a level bridge between their two heads, shock of black hair and shock of grey, without too much trouble at all. John was surprised without really being surprised that he’d never noticed it.
An easy fit, then. Or else a very tight squeeze.
He shook out his shoulders, tensed and untensed his hands. “I hope this will satisfy you,” he said. “I hope this will make you happy.”
Then he sucked in a breath. And he stepped--
--in, Johnny, my son “You are not my son” my boy, it’s a boy, Anne, just like his father he looks just like his father, hold on tight now, I’ve got you How do you...? someday I’ll teach you promise? promise “Get out.” black mark, that’s what they said not possible John, you’ll do well there John, make me proud, Johnny I’m sorry please listen not my fault “you’ve shamed me” hold it by the seams, yes just like that now let go Air Force like you, Dad must be some mistake, Johnny I’m sorry your mother disobeyed orders, you heard me passed the test 100% so tall looks just like his old man and I would do it again in a heartbeat someone call 911 I think he’s having a I’m so sorry, Johnny, Johnny, my son, forgive me get out--
--through.
He swayed on his feet, the room spinning then straightening, the world taking a moment to realign itself. His skin felt like it was on fire, alive with a thousand thousand burning pinpricks, as if he’d let his entire body fall asleep like a dead limb. It ached without really hurting, but his hands... His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He was alone.
He wasn’t alone. “Dad?” he said to the empty room, and it was no more forthcoming than before. But, “It’s okay,” he said. “We’re okay.”
The silence wasn’t consoling or disconcerting. It just was.
But John...John was more than a little sick of silence.
He knocked gently on Rodney’s door. No reason to think he would still be there--if there was anyone who could get away with working on Christmas, it was Rodney--but John thought maybe, just maybe...
The door slid open like a sigh, and there he was, crooked mouth and stubborn chin, fury and relief and anxious hands, waiting for him. And John finally felt his own fingers relax, because he knew that despite everything; in spite of it all, John knew that Rodney would always take him in.
*************
Looking at that now, I don't think it's really that bad. I mean, it's melodramatic and I still don't really believe it--it's too easy--but mostly, if I slowed it down a bit, made it less rushed? It wouldn't be that awful. (Okay, it still wouldn't explain certain things like why Rodney could see the ghost, but let's just leave that for now, shall we? Please?)
I don't know if I made the right decision yesterday. Probably it would have been better if I had spent the morning making what I had better, rather than trying to completely re-do it. But there are three things that I find really interesting about this whole experience, and they're really the reason I'm still talking about this. (Well, that and the fact that I'm embarrassed about having posted a subpar story, and I'm trying to distract you. Is it working?)
1. That I didn't really change very much, yet what I did change managed to alter the entire mood, and indeed, meaning of the story. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the emotional difference between ending one and ending two is pretty extreme, right? And yet the middle sections are honestly exactly the same. I'm not saying that either version of the story is good, but I do think it's kind of cool how changing one thing can make you read a whole bunch of other things in completely different ways. Something to think about for the future.
2. There's a difference between what is a satisfying story for a writer and a satisfying story for a reader. Or there can be. I would say that ideally, there isn't. But I am beginning to think--and again, please correct me if I'm wrong--that the first version of the story would have been a lot more satisfying for a lot of readers. It's less confusing, for one thing. (I honestly didn't mean for the ending of the version I posted to be that ambiguous; for those who are still wondering: John resigns! He chooses Rodney! Um, yay?) The original version is also more up. Sometimes that's important. I'm starting to get the feeling that I should have written Hey Hey in the Hayloft, and instead I wrote O Brother, Where Art Thou? Hey, we all gotta learn that lesson some time--at least I didn't have to get thrown in jail.
3. Hard work does not always pay off. In general, this is not a good lesson to learn, but for a writer, maybe it is. I puttered away at "Horses" for weeks, and it was never--forgive the pun--smooth riding. I think that shows in the final result. On the other hand, I wrote "We Have Lingered" in less than two hours. It literally poured out of me, and it was a joy to write from start to finish. I think that shows in the final result, too. This is not to say that I, or any writer, should never work at anything, poking it and prodding it and keeping it going, because if that were true, then nobody would ever write anything of length. (Although in fairness, I think I should at this point admit that I wrote both "Dæmonology" and "Something Wicked" in a day [um, not the same day]. Sometimes it just flows, man. I live for days like that.) But sometimes when something's not working, there's a reason, and I need to learn to recognize that.
I'd love to hear what people think about any or all of this. I feel a little better having talked about it, although I still have some major guilt for having posted something that I wasn't fully proud of, especially because it was for a challenge. (I also do appreciate the people who said nice things about the story. You are very nice, and you kept me from death-by-too-much-*headdesk*) So in the interest of giving back to a fandom that's been really good to me, I'm going to
eliade andsvmadelyn wants one--she deserves a boon) who comment with scenarios/prompts/what have you. My only restrictions are: SGA, John or Rodney or some combination thereof. Oh, and no horses.Sullivan: There's a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that that's all some people have? It isn't much, but it's better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-17 06:05 pm (UTC)*clutches fic to my bosom protectively*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-18 05:22 pm (UTC)I agree that the ending I first posted was the way to go, but I do think there were still a lot of things that were too confusing about the story. The same thing could be said about "Inhibited" to a lesser extent--I'm all for making readers work a little, but when I get that many WTF? reactions, I think I really need to step back and remind myself that it's fanfiction, and that I'm wrong to have delusions of Faulkner or something. I shall save that for my novel! [/pretentious snooty voice]
I'm still really glad that you liked it, though. *instigates big three-way hug: you, me, and the fic nobody loves*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-18 06:33 pm (UTC)*gropes your fic inappropriately*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-18 07:15 pm (UTC)I am really looking forward to your commentary. (And I should really do some myself since I promised, huh?)