http://www.theromanticrealist.com/

Hope to see you there!

With best wishes,
The Romantic Realist

I am itching and yearning to start writing. There’s one problem, though: Before I can start writing, however, I have to address a very fatal flaw. I have just discovered a fundamental problem with the world I have been actively creating for nearly six years. It’s a huge problem, and fixing it will require a full rewrite of the nearly 30,000 words I have thus far. Not fixing it will make my world fully unbelievable and therefore make my work useless.

That problem is this: My world is a utopia. And I mean that in the WORST possible way: it’s too sickeningly perfect. A real, functional society could never even aspire to become anything like this.

The government’s perfect and uncorrupted (that’s a huge problem since my MC is the prince), everyone has a nice job and a happy family and a big house, and everyone agrees with every decision the government makes. There are no poor and destitute people, there’s no corruption, there’s no unemployment, there are no slums, there are no rebels, and there’s too little crime. The big obstacle in changing all of this is breaking my mental restraints: After working on this world for five years, it’s become so solid and “real” (in a non-deluded, sane way) that I have to reframe my perception of my world before I can change my world itself.

To fix this, I essentially have to rework my entire frame of mind concerning this world that I’ve been thinking about for so long that it’s almost real to me. I need to add corruption, destitution, deceit, and problems.

I’d like to give a HUGE thanks to “djmills,” who gave me the following suggestion on Holly’s site:

You only saw the world through the eyes of the Prince. Now create a character from the slums and show all that the Prince doesn’t know about his own city (world).

That’s on the docket for tomorrow.

In the immortal words of Holly Lisle, “onward.”

I am a linguist. That has huge, world-changing implications on my life. I read something and focus on every word with equal weight, measuring out all the possible meanings and deciding which one the writer most meant to convey. When I write, I pick the best and most precise words for the job, place my punctuation meticulously, arrange my words in the perfect order, and phrase everything with painstaking attention to acoustics and meaning. It’s just like composing: selecting the perfect chords, adding the right dynamics and articulations, choosing the best chord progressions, and phrasing everything for the most impact.

As a musician, I translate music into words.

As a composer, I write the words in the language of music.

As a linguist, I hear the music in words.

As a writer, I write words with the music of language.

There’s a reason both notebook paper and music staves are lined.

Brian L. Cansler

1 Jul ’09

(5 i still have not forgotten the rush of everyday life

that accompanied your love.

how could i?

everything was so vibrant, so vivacious, so…

spark!!.

-2- you are half of my best decision (us)

and the victim of my worst regret (why’d i leave you?)

9) your last footprints were not left in the sand:

you left them on my heart.

i still think of you all the time.

why? i dunno. i miss you, i guess.

every day my heart stops and wonders

where’d al the sunshine go?

every day i stop and wonder

do you still think of me?

ever? always? never?

con l’amore ed i baci che non vuoi,

il tuo ragazzo

1 July ’09

But for me, it’s the pulse. Even in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight, there’s still an indomitable pulse that courses through everything it touches. The beat of the waves on the shore at night, the swaying of the boats upon the tides, even the tides themselves—it all uses the same cryptic pulse, all over the world, that we can hear but can’t repeat, that we can understand but can’t translate. It’s an echo of our own human language.

Plus, I’m going away to a large university in less than two months. UNC-Chapel Hill will have 18,000 other girls whom I may want to date, and I hate the idea of going in tied down to someone I’m not as in love with as before.

I did love L’Incantatrice at one point, but it was a brief, intense bloom that came to fruition far too soon by its own nature. It was a ravaging infatuation, and although that’s very different from love, it has its own value. I have discovered at long last exactly the kind of girl I’m looking for—and that is not her.

At the cast party for Cinderella, I saw her standing alone. Why was a beautiful, social girl like her alone at a party? I have no clue. She says she’s a loner, but that doesn’t explain why she was standing alone and very removed at a party full of her friends. Of course, I stopped to talk to her just to be sure she was okay. Social people don’t separate themselves because they’re happy, of course, so I was concerned.

We embarked on this tremendous conversation about music. She told me all about her use of linguistics in her singing. She told me about her theory that everything has a colour; every composer has a colour, and each song has a colour, and each measure within a song has a colour. It’s a beautiful theory, and now I’ve even noticed myself using it, too.

Two hours. Two hours of constant, intelligent, fascinating conversation with this girl I essentially knew nothing about. I am the band geek called in from another school to play in Cinderella’s orchestra at her school; she is the lead in the play, the best vocalist in the county, the best actress in the school, popular, and absolutely gorgeous. What an unlikely match! (Interestingly enough, Erinn is involved with the male lead. L’Incantatrice and the male lead used to date.)

I’ve never had a conversation like that before with anyone. When I walked away, I was completely enamored with this mysterious beauty. Then, Erinn and the two leads stood outside our cars talking about all sorts of random nonsense. When we got in the car, Erinn turns to me and says, “You are so in love with her.” Duh. Apparently, I can’t hide it.

The next day, two performances. During both, I can’t take my eyes off of L’Incantatrice. She winks at me during both, and I melt every time. That night, the four of us have a sushi-and-sparkling-cider picnic at 11p on a blanket in the parking lot of Lowe’s Foods. I got home around 1a, and she called around 1:30a. We talked until…

Noon. We did not sleep; we engaged in nearly 11 hours of constant conversation. Talk about amazing.

That night, we spoke again. She called around 10p (keep in mind that I have had no sleep) and we talk until about 4a. Six more hours, each as beautiful as the first 11. We admitted to ourselves that we love each other already. Call us crazy, but it’s true.

She called this morning before school. We talked for half an hour then. We had a lunch date, but it was cancelled. She visited both before and after work, and it was lovely. She is an amazing kisser.

I’ve never, EVER felt anything like this before. I’m content, bubbly, ecstatic, in love. It’s amazing. These emotions built up so fast and haven’t come down yet. It’s like shaking a soda without the bubbles going away. It’s like a red and a blue coming together and colliding, but instead of purple, they create a magnificent explosion of millions and millions of colours. It’s like love at first sight, but even more…There is no such thing as love at first sight. Lust at first sight? Sure! But not love. However, L’Incantatrice and I just clicked. Perfectly. We couldn’t be a better match, and I love her with a new, renewed passion and energy. She is my perfect complement.

This flood of emotion has made life beautiful. I have been enchanted.

And I’m not talking about the campus, believe it or not. I love the whole university, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Right now, I’m talking about this building: this solitary Starbucks right here, three hours from home. And maybe a bit more than that–every cafe is the same, essentially. I can be alone here. I can think. My favourite place used to be in the arms of a woman I love. Even after we broke up, I still longed for that place, but the longing hurt.

But here, in this cafe, I can forget everything I don’t love about life and the world. I can face it, confront it, and tear it down. It’s only here, where I am sitting alone in the very last table at the very back, typing on my Mac while sipping a venti chai with hazelnut and whip and listening to the soothing acoustic music from the speaker above my head, while watching couples flirt and friends practice Mandarin Chinese across the table, it’s only here that I can really appreciate life. Outside the walls of a cafe, my pain over losing both the woman I love and (yet again) my best friend, my discontent with my current life, my trepidation for the future, all of it rushes at me at the most unexpected times, and I crumble on the inside. In here, in this fortress, I can stare back with steel eyes. I can see things here that I can’t see anywhere else. I can see that everyone else is suffering too, on the inside. I don’t feel so alone or so weak.

This atmosphere, to me, is the essence of life. It’s a place of everyday commerce. It’s a place of friendship. It’s a place of ordinary conversations. It’s a place of fellowship–and that’s one of the qualities that attracts me the most. Some people here can afford a $5 cup of coffee every morning; some people here can’t. The point is that these people are electing to be happy, to be content, to be in this bustling room with strangers all for a simple cup of delicious coffee.

In a cafe, we do something we don’t do anywhere else. At a standard restaurant, you eat boring food while you separate your party from everyone else with tables too far apart. There’s an old saying that I see repeated in literature often: “If you’re breaking bread, you’re not breaking heads.” Something like that. It means that when people (or characters in a literary work) eat together, it’s a sign of truce and fellowship, of acceptance and tolerance. Of friendship. At a cafe, it’s so different. The tables are small and close together–almost cramped. You eat expensive coffees that get more expensive with every drop of exotic syrup and every leaf of rare tea used to make your drink. You can eat delectable baked treats until you explode. And you do all of this as a group, as a community. Strangers aren’t afraid to speak with each other here. There’s a sense of–very nearly–unity.

This is what I imagine Italy is like. In all the movies, it’s a romantic place with thrills at every corner, a classic, unique culture that can’t be experienced anywhere else. It’s a place that’s busy beyond belief, yet there’s an air of relaxed nonchalance that makes life pleasant. Italy’s a beautiful country full of beautiful people speaking a beautiful language and preparing beautiful food in beautiful buildings. Is that what it’s really like? I have no clue. But I have every intention of finding out.