Me and Vladimir Propp

The fog from Whistler settled over my little peninsula this morning. It feels like it never became light today. The day didn't wake up properly.

Apparently it's very Swedish, or Scandinavian, to talk about the weather, so I'll step out of my native comfort zone, open the box and write about what I really came here to write about (I apologize for the rant in advance, bear with me):

Vladimir Propp. Heard of him? Since this is a creative writing site, although fan-fiction is sadly over-represented, I suppose some of you have. He was a Russian professor of literature during the late 19th century and he figured out that most Russian folktales follow the same pattern, or plot. He came up with 31 steps or scenes which were included in the stories or tales. Some movies, i.e. Silence of the Lambs and the Devil Wears Prada, follow these steps, and also the much loved book series about the boy who lived (initials H.P. if that hint was too subtle for you).

I take a creative Writing Class at my school for our IC - Individual Choice. So far we've written two short stories, one free versed poem as well as a bound poem (I chose sonnet). It's been going well, the stories have sort of poured out of my head two days before the dead line and my grades have been good, no writer's block or anything.

Until now. When we're writing a short story (short and short, minimum seven pages), based on Vladimir Propp's literature model. And so the words don't get to float whichever way they want anymore. I have to get these 31 scenes into my story, which leaves little room for anything else. Writer's block feels like I imagine a depression to feel like. It's like that Silverstein lyric, from a song which I can't remember which one it is because I haven't listened to Silverstein in a really long time (try two years): And this February weather has me hating everyone.

It would be much easier to write this story if it was April. Or March. I could do with late March. I went swimming in the ocean in March last year. A spur of the moment thing, really. I was out for a run and came down to the beach. Overcast day, no one around. So I thought, hey, maybe the water's nice (I didn't really think so. More like, the water's probably freezing, but why the hell not? It's a pride thing to be the first one to bathe in the ocean.), and took of my (sweaty) clothes and went in. It was freezing. Satisfying. I was a little cold on the way home because it was windy like it always is but I still kept a smile on my face because I had bathed in the ocean, and better yet, I had bathed in the ocean before any of my family members had.

... See? See what I do? I can't even keep on the subject here, where I get to choose it myself. I really should be writing on my story. I really should. But rules about how I am supposed to write MY story makes me angrier than I thought literature could do. The words just don't have any flow anymore, because I have to look at an alien piece of paper every five minutes to make sure I stuff in all the scenes. But, let's say I make it. I finish the story, my parents read it, applaud me saying wow, you've done a great job Honeypie, how you've fought for this story to be finished lalala. I'm still not going to like it. I'm not going to nod and say yeah, I did a good job. Because I don't write like that. My style is to try and write in original, unique ways that makes you feel special and I can't do that with Vladimir Propp looking over my shoulder.

But I will make one last attempt. The I'll dramatically burst through the classroom door and cry out fail me! to my teacher, and there will be drama, and fear and fake tears and babies will scream out for their death wish and the fluffy white rabbits will die but everything will be okay, in the end.

Right, one last attempt. And isn't it funny how it's called Whistler Mountain?