Although this tends to suggest writing for a particulair vein
of writing i suspect that it could be somewhat emulated for anime writers
with a perchance for the gothic style (I prefer to say "Byronic" except
most "goths" today do not have sex with sheep or dope up on laudinum)
I suppose to make it more topical I should prefice it more with something
applied....
o.k...then - an introduction.
Ranma - a modern Prometheus?
It was a dark and stormy night.
Genma and Soun raised the covered form of the well-muscled young man
towards the elements.
For the last few days Ranma had lain like the dead after a nigh week-long
bout of solid training while fasting on water and bread (and pork buns,
and manju and and sorba noodles and potstickers and.....)
There was a terrible flash which made the two mens hair stand upon it's
ends which was almost thereafter followed by a crash of thunder.
They quickly lowered the pallet down from the hole in the roof (Akane had
done that earlier that week)
The covered form stirred.
"I've done it! I, an artist of Indescriminate Grappling have created the
ultimate fighter!"
Genma laughed adding another exclamation to his second sentence for even
more emphisis and the whole of the dojo was rocked with thunder.
The sodden sheet was pulled off by an angry young red-haired girl.
Onna-Ranma lept to her feet and flattened her sire with one punch.
"You jerk, You coudda killed me!" She yelled quickly getting away from
the pallet which still danced with a nimbus of static energy.
Genma slammed into the wall and slid down slowly.
"Geeze, I've heard of crazy cures old man but druggin me and then zappin
me in a storm... that's gotta be the crazyest!"
The rooms' door slid open with a *BANG* causing it's occupents (except for
the unconcious Genma) to turn.
"What are you three DOOING!" Akane yelled. "You're making more noise than
the storm. I can't sleep"
She had been woken by all of the shouting and had rushed into the room
without even stopping to remove the gree cream of the nite-mask that
Nabiki had suggested to her.
"And, if Aknae needs anything it's breauty sleep" Onna-Ranma added
helpfuilly. "Gack!" She pointed to the enraged pj-clad figure.
"The moster walks!"
Ranma fell next to her father.
It was a dark and stormy night.
Robyn.
___________________________________________________________________________
Nene Nene Nene Nene Nene Nene Nene Nene Nene
I met a Lady in the Meads,
Full beautiful, a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light
And her eyes were wild.
J.Keats
________________________________________________________________________
Agent Of Chaos. Robyn, Duke of Amber. Unicorn Knight
****************************************************************************
---------- Forwarded message ----------
Date: Sat, 22 Nov 1997 08:38:00 -0800
From: Lisa Mail <duo@bond.net>
To: yu104479@yorku.ca
Cc: vbezjak@nonline.net, lozinski@golden.net, jab@golden.net,
bdmartin@orbitor.ica.net, DKIRKWOO@flemingc.on.ca, cecomm@interlog.com,
giark@hicksville.dyn.ml.org, charlest@atcon.com,
bmartin@fareastone.com.tw
Subject: How To Be A Romantic Poet
This is something I've been saving for months, but just never had the
time to actually type in here to send to y'all...It's fairly lengthy, so
if you don't have time to read it now, mark it for later and enjoy.
This was orginally published in Civilization (Feb/March 97), and
reprinted in the August issue of Utne Reader...Enjoy...
-Lisa :)
HOW TO BE A ROMANTIC POET IN FOUR STEPS
O reader! Does a drowsy numbness pain your senses? Does the sight of a
ruined abbey send you into dizzy raptures? If so, you may be ready to
take your place among the immortal poets of the Romantic era. Just
follow these simple instructions, and become a permanent fixture on the
English 101 syllabus.
1. MIEN AND DEMEANOR:
First, look the part. One thing the Romantics had in common was hair,
and lots of it--masses of glossy curls, preferably raven-hued. Wear an
open-necked shirt in all weather; this will both expose your shapely
throat -and- help you to catch a wasting ailment (see Step 4). If you
have a tendency toward fat, emulate Lord Byron: When he found himself
exceeding the limits of poetic girth, he played cricket wearing seven
waistcoats and a greatcoat until he was once again suitably ethereal.
Get an early start. As a teenager, Shelley was already sleeping with
pistol and poison under his pillow, and writing poems about nuns with
"half-eaten eyeballs." Suicide must always be an option. "I should,
many a good day, have blown my brains out," reflected Byron, "but for
the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my mother-in-law."
2. DISSIPATION AND LOVE
Youthful exploits can fall into two categories: athletics or
expulsions. Either swim or walk a notable distance (Byron, Keats) or get
kicked out of school for a scurrilous publication. (Shelley for 'The
Necessity of Atheism'; Southey for 'The Flagellant', a protest against
flogging) Later, ingest large quantities of controlled substances.
Coleridge chose opium; Byron preferred to quaff claret from the skull of
a medieval monk.
In matters of the heart, you must be either a conspicuous failure or a
conspicuous success. Keats was too short (barely five ft) to find love,
which induced a professionally useful melancholy. Byrons amours, on the
other, ran the gamut from his Calvinist Bible teacher to an Italian
countess to a Cambridge choirboy to his own half-sister. He left broken
hearts and illegitimate children in his wake, which scandalized England
and boosted sales.
3. YOU AND YOUR MUSE
Before sitting down to write, get in the proper mood. When Byron
composed 'Childe Harold', he was "half mad...between metaphysics,
mountains, lakes, love unextinguishable, thoughts unutterable, and the
nightmare of my own delinquencies." Imitate the masters: The best line
in all Romantic poetry is Shelley's "Swiftly walk o'er the western wave,
Spirit of Night!" He socks you right in the gut with and Unexpected
Initial Adverb, the wins points for the Use of the Word O'er, Reference
to the West, Maritime Synecdoche, Direct Address of a Spirit, and
Gratuitous Capitalization. In just nine words, Percy earns a perfect
score.
4. EXPIRATION
A Romantic poet doesn't die, he Expires. This involves ceasing to
breathe amid suitable theatrics. One popular escape route is a wasting
illness like Keats' consumption, which will give you plenty of time to
travel to Italy, compose your epitaph, savor the guilt of the women
who've spurned you, watch your cheek grow wan, and so on. For a quicker
departure, drown in the Gulf of Spezia, as Shelley did, or perish for
the cause of Greek liberty, as Byron did. Thomas Love Peacock
distinguished himself by dying after a house-fire, when he stood among
his beloved books, shouting, "By the immortal gods, I WILL NOT MOVE!!!"
-That- was grand exit.
WARNING: Model yourself on Keats, Byron, Coleridge -- but not
Wordsworth. The poor guy made a promising start, but before long he'd
moved in with his sister, gone bald, become a Tory, acquired a Scottish
terrier, and begun writing sonnets in praise of capital punishment. He
died full of honours, at a ripe old age -- of a common cold. O sorry
fate!
(-authored by Adam Goodheart)