This is of course a how-to lecture which will work quite well when
considering fanfic writing of similair nature.
 I can just see it now....
        Shinji's "Ode to my Eva"

Date: Sat, 22 Nov 1997 08:38:00 -0800
From: Lisa Mail <duo@bond.net>
To: yu104479@yorku.ca

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)