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Actually thanks for bringing it back, Ciarconn. This topic fascinates me. And I have definitely lived that thing of PCs crashing just about any powerful story. Keep cool. Stalk your PC. Don't fret. Smile. Be amused. Look happy. Start again piece by piece. Even if walls come tumbling down. If you have to re-write everything back it will boost things even more. Sharp Magick. This is my stand.
My experiences and after-thoughts on the hyper-sigil matter are as follows.
I used to write a lot of chapters for to-be-novels, portraying characters and situations of my immediate life. This was long before I went fully into Magick, but still while I was already over-aware of coincidences and weird "quantic" occurrences. Of course, lots of permeatings took place between my writings and my waking life and, oh, my dreaming life also. And by the way, my life was quite an amusing mess at that time.
Years later, being the now and present times, I think that the hyper-sigil starts working through the very craft of the writing (which in my opinion works as a magick ritual).
I mean, first you come with the magickal intention, then you design the plot, then you start writing it as a story or as a novel or whatever. At some point, you are going to pay a lot of attention to strictly literary matters, so that you go for the literary richness of the text, and you start paying attention to the length of sentences, adjectives, the order and repetition of words, so that the whole thing will look fresh and nice for publishing under the eyes of an editor, an eventual reader and the crappy literary critics we all have read from.
So, at this stage, you may literally blew the plot out of your mind while becoming obssessed in finding "the precise word", the tempo, the glittering perceptions that only the writer can convey to the reader so to blast him full into the literary experience. And you re-read the whole thing one time and another, changing articles, adjectives, commas, periods, tiny details. And I think that is how the thing is charged and creates momentum.
Then the sun rises, the exhausted writer drops the pen, stretches out a bit, closes his dictionary, goes out for a walk, and starts bumping right into his story, one, two, three irrelevant details, three passing thoughts, three particular observations, he sees friends shaking hands, flowers blooming, and a dead canary on the street, right at his feet, with that same peculiar stiffness his covert-self-detective had noticed in the dead corpse of the prostitute abandoned on the alley, the opened eyes staring blankly at an indifferent void they had never heard about. All of this, of course, if he is aware of it.
I hope your magick rocks. |
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