Now That I Study Politics, All I Can Think About Is The Theories Applying To What She’s Saying. I Should

I’m a cis-gender man which basically means that, when I was born, the doctor went “It’s a boy!” and when I was old enough to understand I agreed with him.

The thing is, I don’t know why I feel like a man.  I was teased and bullied for it a lot when I was little.  I’ve never had stereotypically American male interests.  I never cared about sports or cars or guns.  I was more interested in music and cooking and the arts.  I’ve always been emotionally in tune and sensitive, even when I did my best to suppress my emotions to survive a childhood of abuse from other children.

It’s not physical either.  I don’t feel like a man because I have a penis or a beard.  If you put my brain in a robot body or any other body, my essence would still feel male (I assume).  I literally can’t imagine what being any other gender would feel like, since I feel so acutely male.

I think that’s why the concept of being transgender always made sense to me.  I’m a man.  I don’t have any bloody clue why I feel like a man, but I don’t feel that it’s tied to my body or my interests or the way that I’ve been treated.  I feel like a man because of something beyond that.  Something ephemeral.  So, why couldn’t others feel the same?  Why couldn’t a person who’s been misidentified as a girl feel like a boy for the exact same nebulous reasons that I do?

And, since gender really doesn’t make any sense to me anyway, why couldn’t there also be people who feel as if they don’t have one?  Or who flow across genders like a ship on a map?

Are there people out there whose sense of their own gender is inseparable from their physical form?  If you put those people into robot bodies or, simply, other physically different bodies, would their gender identity also swap?  If so, why?  Are they actually more lost in their gender identity than I am and they need to hone in on the physical in order to anchor themselves?

Why do people feel like they are the gender that they are?

It's been a rough few days on the run

I realise S8 is out now but some of their scenes together queerbated that much that I don’t think it matters.

After S7 (read from right to left)

Some very interesting writing tips, taken from a beloved studio. Less telling than I’d have thought about the studio itself though.

These rules were originally tweeted by Emma Coats, Pixar’s Story Artist. 

You admire a character for trying more than for their successes.

You gotta keep in mind what’s interesting to you as an audience, not what’s fun to do as a writer. They can be very different.

Trying for theme is important, but you won’t see what the story is actually about til you’re at the end of it. Now rewrite.

Once upon a time there was ___. Every day, ___. One day ___. Because of that, ___. Because of that, ___. Until finally ___.

Simplify. Focus. Combine characters. Hop over detours. You’ll feel like you’re losing valuable stuff but it sets you free.

What is your character good at, comfortable with? Throw the polar opposite at them. Challenge them. How do they deal?

Come up with your ending before you figure out your middle. Seriously. Endings are hard, get yours working up front.

Finish your story, let go even if it’s not perfect. In an ideal world you have both, but move on. Do better next time.

When you’re stuck, make a list of what WOULDN’T happen next. Lots of times the material to get you unstuck will show up.

Pull apart the stories you like. What you like in them is a part of you; you’ve got to recognize it before you can use it.

Putting it on paper lets you start fixing it. If it stays in your head, a perfect idea, you’ll never share it with anyone.

Discount the 1st thing that comes to mind. And the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th – get the obvious out of the way. Surprise yourself.

Give your characters opinions. Passive/malleable might seem likable to you as you write, but it’s poison to the audience.

Why must you tell THIS story? What’s the belief burning within you that your story feeds off of? That’s the heart of it.

If you were your character, in this situation, how would you feel? Honesty lends credibility to unbelievable situations.

What are the stakes? Give us reason to root for the character. What happens if they don’t succeed? Stack the odds against.

No work is ever wasted. If it’s not working, let go and move on – it’ll come back around to be useful later.

You have to know yourself: the difference between doing your best & fussing. Story is testing, not refining.

Coincidences to get characters into trouble are great; coincidences to get them out of it are cheating.

Exercise: take the building blocks of a movie you dislike. How d’you rearrange them into what you DO like?

You gotta identify with your situation/characters, can’t just write ‘cool’. What would make YOU act that way?

What’s the essence of your story? Most economical telling of it? If you know that, you can build out from there.

Sources: [1] [2]

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Featured Spaceship

My favourite spaceship: the Ancient (both in age and the name of its creators) ship Destiny. A ship that travelled across galaxies for millions of years, searching for meaning in the universe, until Syfy cancelled the show it was on. Such a beautiful design, and well thought out too.

Road help.

Just a magpie who found herself some new shiny toys!

Bonus: These are for you!

An English Boy thinking of the Nation from which he got his Name

A poem I wrote recently after starting to study Irish history:

I sit in class,

And learn of a past

That in many ways once was mine.

Though generations divorced, is it not natural to pine?

For a heritage too vast to grasp.

At home are pictures of a land unfamiliar:

Of faces, green spaces and castles.

And though their meaning escapes me,

And the memories long left me,

I know they mean much more.

In my mind's ear I hear fiddles,

But all I comprehend are riddles.

To follow is a rite of passage

From which I could only scavenge:

A path left but unearnt.

The waves of the coast call to me,

They beckon me back to the quay.

Again I hesitate to follow,

My connection only being hollow,

But now I have a chance to see.

To see revolutions rise and quickly fall,

The mistreatment and the brawls,

And the poets dreaming of a free home.

They tell stories of white horses- across the fields they roam;

A return to a culture stolen.

To discover the rural lands once more,

To grasp the many wars,

To comprehend the intricacies and allegiances.

The negotiations that devolved into grievances,

And the retaliations spun into tales of yore.

One image stands out in the mist:

A memorial of cold stone.

This one belongs to my grandfather, but I know of many more:

O'Connell; Parnell; Struck down by hearts broken, by causes lost.

The Banshees’ howls echoing around them.

I may not grasp the history, the language or the myths.

My blood may not be Irish like those before me,

But I have the chance to learn, to reconnect.

I know what I am:

An English boy thinking of the nation from which he got his name.