blood like scales

22/1/19

i can really write. anything. elegant characters, nasty characters, vibrant characters that you just smile at. when you write you can do anything. make characters that people love and who others hate but ultimately everyone is just a web of messy intersecting shaky paths. 

i can make the kinds of characters that i love and honestly i should stop feeling bad about embellishing them and focusing on them because hello who’s stopping me. what would i be stopped for. i can make all the nasty, stinky, lovely bastards i’d like, and i can breathe life into these pieces of shit with all the love and adoration they deserve. 

shining smiling character who’ll kill you internally five times and applaud other people for saying the prolonged obscene rants they wish they could without tarnishing their own image. characters who frown and grouse but on the inside they feel anything but; selfish characters that have never minded anyone else suddenly having their collar grabbed into a plan, and they pull it off. stupid fool characters that are so sensitive and generous.

     a side-character, except if i ever make a protagonist and finish a book i feel that i’m going to somehow like sona even better because he’s in the sidelines and you might miss him but as soon as you read his story, you’ll go back to the main one and you’ll see flashes of him and you’ll feel like something’s missing. because like. hey. where’s sona.

     iconic good boy who has things settled and seems like he’s coolheaded/rational but he’s really quite impulsive, personal, unobtrusive until someone’s hiding something that will hurt themselves. really actually fierce under the surface, and most of it is spent maintaining a solid, quiet, deep love with his husband. i still don’t know who his husband is, but they’re in love, and when they whisper to each other the protagonist looks away just in time. they’re incredibly low key but still tender. it’s uncomfortable because it’s like sona’s his calm, collected mentor figure, who again isn’t nearly as distinguished when you get Into His Head; he’s nowhere near messy, he works at his problems and he may so be the nice one but he’ll pull out a gun and shoot point blank if he has to. he just doesn’t feel the necessity to tell everyone what his problems are, what he’s thinking. communicates well, though. you just come to trust him. quite easily frustrated, but he’s used to tempering it.

     keeps his eyes forward. doesn’t linger on the past. contemplative, tidy. supportive. he’s the one at the side you don’t remember when you first meet because he’s smiling, and while you remember the ones that are nice to you sometimes it’s your clashes that strike you the most. his sequel will be a whole love story from the very beginning.

          rialto.

     i want to actually, really, honestly write out rialto. iron him out. just have a character that’s like him because there’s almost no one that’s so distinct to me - someone pretty but he doesn’t need it, someone intelligent and suspicious but listless because he just doesn’t want to get into trouble and he splays and sprawls and laughs meanly behind his hand but while he’s strong; absolutely strong, indubitably strong, he can snap bones; there’s delicacy in actually learning how to section out his own beliefs and what other people teach him, learning to depend on people. to unwind, because he’ll seem like he does but in reality he’s never let go of control for longer than a minute.

     and i can’t describe him without making him seem like one whole big gary stu and mayhaps he is you know. he’s shitty and dirty and he’s so luxurious but actually riches mean nothing to him at all. he doesn’t have compassion, but he has empathy so strong he’ll roll up his sleeves and take things on. he pretends not to care, and he’ll try hard not to care, but he won’t shy from leaping into big messes just to make sure whoever he does care about won’t get into Larger Mess. he’s learning, and he’s dishonest and vague but he swears to himself he won’t lie anymore when the sun is looking him in the eyes, holding his hands. maybe this is all just some elaborate fanfic i want to write, but so what if it is. maybe the sun can be roland. 

     she has nothing against the pretty people that can tangle a hundred necks around their little fingers, but she won’t have the lies. she hates pretence. why she’s allergic to magazines. nothing quite makes her angry, but gigi’s in a state of perpetual discontent - general arrogance, floating spite that gives her a snap that’s tiresome to deal with; but, as she’d say without the lick of a smile, not the slightest bit more than what everything else puts her through.