Friday, December 7, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
NaNoWriMo: 10 Days Left!
Well, friends, I'm at 42,000 words and feeling pretty good.
Of course, I could be writing now, instead of blogging or screwing around on the Internet. But we know how that goes.
My outline has truly contributed to my lovely word count, I feel. However, there are times I've....diverged from it. I refer back to said outline pretty frequently, but there are times I think of something better. Or that makes more sense. So at least two of my chapters weren't outlined because I'd veered in a slightly different direction from the initial plan. Is it a better one? Yeah, maybe. Nothing's set in stone when it's only a Word document on your computer.
There are times I feel like my "writing" folder is the Island of Misfit toys, where things once loved have gone, that nobody will recover. But, things don't need to stay that way, and once I've polished book 1 of this maybe trilogy (because duology is just so awkward to say), hopefully I'll be regaling you folks with the trials and tribulations of agent submissions.
Of course, I could be writing now, instead of blogging or screwing around on the Internet. But we know how that goes.
My outline has truly contributed to my lovely word count, I feel. However, there are times I've....diverged from it. I refer back to said outline pretty frequently, but there are times I think of something better. Or that makes more sense. So at least two of my chapters weren't outlined because I'd veered in a slightly different direction from the initial plan. Is it a better one? Yeah, maybe. Nothing's set in stone when it's only a Word document on your computer.
There are times I feel like my "writing" folder is the Island of Misfit toys, where things once loved have gone, that nobody will recover. But, things don't need to stay that way, and once I've polished book 1 of this maybe trilogy (because duology is just so awkward to say), hopefully I'll be regaling you folks with the trials and tribulations of agent submissions.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
How to make your readers care
I wish I had the answer for my title. It would be great if I had a magic solution for how to make readers care; I mean, they should care because somebody wrote it in the first place, right? Well. I don't always care when I pick up a book.
So, how do writers make me care? What engages me? What makes me wrinkle my nose and put a book down? Good questions to consider, when putting pen to paper. Or fingers to keyboard. When you put out a short story, or a novel, or a blog, it's your message in a bottle.
Imagine you're sending out your S.O.S. What makes people care? What makes them want to know what happens next? What makes them like your characters, or what makes the character interesting enough that people what to know what happens to them? I don't think characters should necessarily be "likeable". You might not want to be friends with certain people. They might not like the same things you like. Or people close to them might have a nasty habit of getting hurt. But damn, are they interesting, and you want to know what's going on in their lives.
For whatever reason, my writing classes in my various levels of schooling had some holes in them. Nobody talked about "filtering", nobody much mentioned "showing, not telling", nobody said anything about "negative negative form", or "passive voice". Sometimes I fall into these things (As reflected by my very first post on the "Show Your Work" portion of the Absolute Write message board.
What I know about writing is mostly from reading. What I need to do, certainly, is practice my writing more, and that's been going pretty well this year, with a novel and two short stories completed, on the eve of yet another NaNoWriMo. I'm gearing up for a midnight start, as I've done in almost every year I've participated.
Are you ready?
So, how do writers make me care? What engages me? What makes me wrinkle my nose and put a book down? Good questions to consider, when putting pen to paper. Or fingers to keyboard. When you put out a short story, or a novel, or a blog, it's your message in a bottle.
Imagine you're sending out your S.O.S. What makes people care? What makes them want to know what happens next? What makes them like your characters, or what makes the character interesting enough that people what to know what happens to them? I don't think characters should necessarily be "likeable". You might not want to be friends with certain people. They might not like the same things you like. Or people close to them might have a nasty habit of getting hurt. But damn, are they interesting, and you want to know what's going on in their lives.
For whatever reason, my writing classes in my various levels of schooling had some holes in them. Nobody talked about "filtering", nobody much mentioned "showing, not telling", nobody said anything about "negative negative form", or "passive voice". Sometimes I fall into these things (As reflected by my very first post on the "Show Your Work" portion of the Absolute Write message board.
What I know about writing is mostly from reading. What I need to do, certainly, is practice my writing more, and that's been going pretty well this year, with a novel and two short stories completed, on the eve of yet another NaNoWriMo. I'm gearing up for a midnight start, as I've done in almost every year I've participated.
Are you ready?
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Train of Thought
Occasionally, people react to my thoughts and habits in a way that surprises me, but also really makes me laugh. Not too long ago, I already posted one conversation along those lines. I've had a few others since, with varying people.
One day at work:
I turned to a coworker and said "Did you know that if you Google Maps search the Nevada Test Site, you can look at the bomb craters?" I think this is very cool, by the way, in a chilling sort of way. A testament to an era of nuclear testing that was probably not the best of plans.
My coworker looked at me, glanced at the screen, and said "What is wrong with you?"
The other day when friends were over:
Friend: You know, most people have light bathroom reading. You have On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War. And oh yeah, the book that the movie Shooter was based on.
Me: There are some National Geographics in there as well.
Other friend: Bathroom reading is proportionate to IQ.
Upon receipt of an order of Chinese food:
Me: You know, take out bags don't seem nearly as happy anymore. I mean, look at that smiley face. It's really just kind of meh.
My fiancé : The shit you come up with. Takeout bags not happy anymore.
Me: *laughing*
Another day at work:
Coworker, scanning books to see what people they go to: Jen, you might be taking your character things too far.
The book? Never Suck a Dead Man's Hand.
One day at work:
I turned to a coworker and said "Did you know that if you Google Maps search the Nevada Test Site, you can look at the bomb craters?" I think this is very cool, by the way, in a chilling sort of way. A testament to an era of nuclear testing that was probably not the best of plans.
My coworker looked at me, glanced at the screen, and said "What is wrong with you?"
The other day when friends were over:
Friend: You know, most people have light bathroom reading. You have On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War. And oh yeah, the book that the movie Shooter was based on.
Me: There are some National Geographics in there as well.
Other friend: Bathroom reading is proportionate to IQ.
Upon receipt of an order of Chinese food:
Me: You know, take out bags don't seem nearly as happy anymore. I mean, look at that smiley face. It's really just kind of meh.
My fiancé : The shit you come up with. Takeout bags not happy anymore.
Me: *laughing*
Another day at work:
Coworker, scanning books to see what people they go to: Jen, you might be taking your character things too far.
The book? Never Suck a Dead Man's Hand.
Friday, September 14, 2012
It's All In How You say It
Though I think that writing in dialect is typically something best left up to the likes of Mark Twain and Toni Morrison, I do occasionally think about the way people say things.
Accents fascinate me, though the range of ones that I can imitate is limited. Irish, sure, but not such that would fool anybody from Ireland. Same with Southern. Once upon a time, I had a CD given to me by a friend that was theatre material, coaching you how to appropriately do a British accent. I was all right with that for awhile, when I still knew where the CD was. I also managed a "pirate" accent for a little while, after watching the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie far too many times (if there is such a thing, though the first is the best of the series I feel.
But anyway. When I'm reading a novel or a short story, somebody has to really hit that voice right if they're going to try and write it in dialect. I'm not talking about the occasional "ain't". I mean full on shortening of words, anastrophe, whole nine. It can be garish and irritating, or it can be pitch perfect. I'm not sure where the balance is, really, and mostly avoid it. That isn't to say my characters are always grammatically correct; I do still try to phrase things the way people say them. I just don't do spelling gymnastics in an effort to make you understand how they're saying what they're saying.
The way people say different words definitely interests me. Sometimes I hear it in a different way and keep that with me in my mind, turning it over like a found coin. Sometimes I hear a way that's familiar, and I realize that's how I've heard it, or say it myself, but hadn't become aware until I heard if from a stranger's mouth.
Do you enunciate "twenty"? Or do you say "twenny"? Do you say "pocketbook" (if you even use the word "pocketbook") or do you say "pockabook"?
Of course, there are funny ones. "Fiddy" instead of "fifty". "Ermahgerd" instead of "Oh My God".
Accents fascinate me, though the range of ones that I can imitate is limited. Irish, sure, but not such that would fool anybody from Ireland. Same with Southern. Once upon a time, I had a CD given to me by a friend that was theatre material, coaching you how to appropriately do a British accent. I was all right with that for awhile, when I still knew where the CD was. I also managed a "pirate" accent for a little while, after watching the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie far too many times (if there is such a thing, though the first is the best of the series I feel.
But anyway. When I'm reading a novel or a short story, somebody has to really hit that voice right if they're going to try and write it in dialect. I'm not talking about the occasional "ain't". I mean full on shortening of words, anastrophe, whole nine. It can be garish and irritating, or it can be pitch perfect. I'm not sure where the balance is, really, and mostly avoid it. That isn't to say my characters are always grammatically correct; I do still try to phrase things the way people say them. I just don't do spelling gymnastics in an effort to make you understand how they're saying what they're saying.
The way people say different words definitely interests me. Sometimes I hear it in a different way and keep that with me in my mind, turning it over like a found coin. Sometimes I hear a way that's familiar, and I realize that's how I've heard it, or say it myself, but hadn't become aware until I heard if from a stranger's mouth.
Do you enunciate "twenty"? Or do you say "twenny"? Do you say "pocketbook" (if you even use the word "pocketbook") or do you say "pockabook"?
Of course, there are funny ones. "Fiddy" instead of "fifty". "Ermahgerd" instead of "Oh My God".
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
I Remember
I remember September 11. Of course I do.
Have I commemorated September 11? No, I don't think I have.
Or maybe I have. I didn't post, repost, or share any memes on Facebook. I'm not sure that's the way to go. I read articles about the Search and Rescue teams that were there. I looked at pictures of the dogs from those teams who are still alive. I read a book by one of the forensic anthropologists who worked there, for weeks, to identify the dead.
September 11 was not a personal tragedy for me. I was very lucky; I didn't know anybody who died. As an American, it unsettled me, it scared me, it made me wonder how the world would be. It's made air travel horrible. Through war, it's killed a lot more people than those who died on that date. It polarized a presidency, and it was such an affront, such an unspeakable thing, that even now people have a very visceral reaction to its mention. You can still buy the t-shirt, though.
September 11 (which I never call 9/11, by the by. I'm not morally against it; it's just the way my brain settled) is something like my generation's Pearl Harbor, JFK. I can still remember the surreal footage of my life, how I found out, when I first saw those smoking towers against a blue sky, on a small television atop somebody's dorm fridge. It's impossible to forget.
I'm not really sure what factors have to come together to instantly crystallize an imagine in your mind, full sensory, to be played and paused like a film of your life. Some memories are more vivid than others; frequently the bad ones, I think? Is it the adrenaline dump? Is it the certainty of inexorable change?
Have I commemorated September 11? No, I don't think I have.
Or maybe I have. I didn't post, repost, or share any memes on Facebook. I'm not sure that's the way to go. I read articles about the Search and Rescue teams that were there. I looked at pictures of the dogs from those teams who are still alive. I read a book by one of the forensic anthropologists who worked there, for weeks, to identify the dead.
September 11 was not a personal tragedy for me. I was very lucky; I didn't know anybody who died. As an American, it unsettled me, it scared me, it made me wonder how the world would be. It's made air travel horrible. Through war, it's killed a lot more people than those who died on that date. It polarized a presidency, and it was such an affront, such an unspeakable thing, that even now people have a very visceral reaction to its mention. You can still buy the t-shirt, though.
September 11 (which I never call 9/11, by the by. I'm not morally against it; it's just the way my brain settled) is something like my generation's Pearl Harbor, JFK. I can still remember the surreal footage of my life, how I found out, when I first saw those smoking towers against a blue sky, on a small television atop somebody's dorm fridge. It's impossible to forget.
I'm not really sure what factors have to come together to instantly crystallize an imagine in your mind, full sensory, to be played and paused like a film of your life. Some memories are more vivid than others; frequently the bad ones, I think? Is it the adrenaline dump? Is it the certainty of inexorable change?
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
The Curse of Imagination
I spend a lot of time dwelling in my imagination.
It's where I go when a certain thing (word, phrase, scent, scene) catches my fancy. It's where I go before I fall asleep. It's where I go when I write. It's where I go when I sit down of an evening to roll dice with friends.
As a writer, and a role player, one strives to render the tactile mental. How do you describe the feel of the rain? The smell of dinner cooking? The washer banging on the spin cycle? How do you describe the tightening of your belly when you hear somebody scream outside, only to realize it's just a drunk college student, but now your scalp is tingling and your eyes see too much and you have to wait for the adrenaline to wear off before you can go back to bed?
When you get it right, when you're so immersed in your head-words that the reality before you fades at the edges and gets hazy with your imagining, it's magical. This immersion leaves you feeling dazed when it's time to be done, wake up, turn the computer off, put the dice back in the bag. It leaves you with imaginary scents, and colors. It leaves you looking at things that you don't recognize, but feel as though you ought.
The problem, though. Sometimes there are situations you hear about, in the news mostly, and reactions are of shock, visceral and wordless. You think "oh no" you think "I'm sorry" and so many people say "I just can't imagine...."
When you are a dreamer, you can imagine. It doesn't render the unspeakable any more understandable, it doesn't make you better. It certainly helps lend to the truth of your dreams, dimension to your song. It is an empathy that can't be taught, and indeed you might not even know you have it until you get that twist in your stomach one day when you hear of a tragedy that isn't yours, not really. Until you imagine somebody's last moments as though a dream, or vision, or well rendered film.
It's where I go when a certain thing (word, phrase, scent, scene) catches my fancy. It's where I go before I fall asleep. It's where I go when I write. It's where I go when I sit down of an evening to roll dice with friends.
As a writer, and a role player, one strives to render the tactile mental. How do you describe the feel of the rain? The smell of dinner cooking? The washer banging on the spin cycle? How do you describe the tightening of your belly when you hear somebody scream outside, only to realize it's just a drunk college student, but now your scalp is tingling and your eyes see too much and you have to wait for the adrenaline to wear off before you can go back to bed?
When you get it right, when you're so immersed in your head-words that the reality before you fades at the edges and gets hazy with your imagining, it's magical. This immersion leaves you feeling dazed when it's time to be done, wake up, turn the computer off, put the dice back in the bag. It leaves you with imaginary scents, and colors. It leaves you looking at things that you don't recognize, but feel as though you ought.
The problem, though. Sometimes there are situations you hear about, in the news mostly, and reactions are of shock, visceral and wordless. You think "oh no" you think "I'm sorry" and so many people say "I just can't imagine...."
When you are a dreamer, you can imagine. It doesn't render the unspeakable any more understandable, it doesn't make you better. It certainly helps lend to the truth of your dreams, dimension to your song. It is an empathy that can't be taught, and indeed you might not even know you have it until you get that twist in your stomach one day when you hear of a tragedy that isn't yours, not really. Until you imagine somebody's last moments as though a dream, or vision, or well rendered film.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Writing outside your box
We all have a type of story we like.
I tend to write male protagonists, or female ones that lack feminine personality qualities. Mostly because I lack many of those qualities; girly girls irritate me, frequently, I don't get them in any kind of nuanced or detailed way.
But, occasionally, it's good to write something that you don't know. To step outside of the box or the cave or the secret fairy forest that you go to when you're in your creative space, trying to work your magic. Just out of college, I wrote a few short stories that were deliberate "chick in chain mail with big sword" fantasy, with a slightly hapless male sidekick. No romance involved, just hero --> problem --> solution style. Those didn't get me published either, of course, but they got me the first (and only, if I remember aright) personalized rejection I've had to date.
Now, with everybody in a frenzy over Fifty Shades of Grey and its sequels, I've wondered about why people latched onto it. In fact, my coworker and I have a game we play. When one of the books comes across the desk (and no patrons are within earshot) we open it at random and read a couple of sentences aloud. Romance, you may have guessed, is not my genre. Erotica isn't either. However, I got the idea for a story that I could make fit into that genre.
The idea is kind of cheesy, has a mythology attachment, and will have a somewhat girly girl main character, her flamboyant gay friend, glitz and glamor and sex. I don't really write sex; we'll see how this goes. If it goes; it might still just be an amusing idea.
It's hard to think outside your box. Even when I wrote chick in chainmail fantasy, it was still writing that I tried to make as solid as possible. I tried to build something that I would want out of such a genre piece. Maybe that would be the key to breaking down this wall too, who knows?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
I tend to write male protagonists, or female ones that lack feminine personality qualities. Mostly because I lack many of those qualities; girly girls irritate me, frequently, I don't get them in any kind of nuanced or detailed way.
But, occasionally, it's good to write something that you don't know. To step outside of the box or the cave or the secret fairy forest that you go to when you're in your creative space, trying to work your magic. Just out of college, I wrote a few short stories that were deliberate "chick in chain mail with big sword" fantasy, with a slightly hapless male sidekick. No romance involved, just hero --> problem --> solution style. Those didn't get me published either, of course, but they got me the first (and only, if I remember aright) personalized rejection I've had to date.
Now, with everybody in a frenzy over Fifty Shades of Grey and its sequels, I've wondered about why people latched onto it. In fact, my coworker and I have a game we play. When one of the books comes across the desk (and no patrons are within earshot) we open it at random and read a couple of sentences aloud. Romance, you may have guessed, is not my genre. Erotica isn't either. However, I got the idea for a story that I could make fit into that genre.
The idea is kind of cheesy, has a mythology attachment, and will have a somewhat girly girl main character, her flamboyant gay friend, glitz and glamor and sex. I don't really write sex; we'll see how this goes. If it goes; it might still just be an amusing idea.
It's hard to think outside your box. Even when I wrote chick in chainmail fantasy, it was still writing that I tried to make as solid as possible. I tried to build something that I would want out of such a genre piece. Maybe that would be the key to breaking down this wall too, who knows?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Stung
I was stung by a wasp while walking Elka today.
At least I think it was a wasp. I felt the sharp pain on the inside of my right bicep and of course slapped it, then stomped on whatever the crumply corpse was that fell to the sidewalk. I'm not allergic to anything that I've encountered yet (Thank God), so I wasn't overly concerned. Just irritated, and now slightly hurting.
It was on the return trip, so we had less than a mile to go. I tried not to think about my exercise heightened heartbeat pumping poison around. Not allergic, remember! I checked the swelling once in awhile. Yup, looks like a wasp sting. No stinger left in the skin, either, which seemed like a decent tipoff. I wonder where the little fuck came from; I heard no buzzing, saw no nest, and there was only the one. At least it was me and not the dog.
Once home, I did what any good citizen of the Internet would do and consulted WebMd (well, I consulted The Google, and felt WebMd was my best bet.) Remove the stinger; check. Wash the site with cold water; check. Make a paste with baking soda to draw out the poison.
"Draw out the poison?" Doesn't that seem a big like an old wives' tale? Or like what they say in Old wives' tales? Really, though, I'm of the firm belief that baking soda is magical fairy dust. It does amazing things when I use it to clean my stove, or the rare occasions I have a burned pan! Really, WebMD said "baking soda or meat tenderizer", but I know from jellyfish experience that whoever slipped the meat tenderizer in there is an advocate of Satan. It makes whatever pain you felt from the initial sting multiply, and also burn. But, which are you more likely to have on a beach vacation, baking soda or meat tenderizer? Yeah.
So after the baking soda paste, and putting some ice on it, it looks pretty much exactly the way it did in the first place. Maybe it hurts less? Maybe the swelling is lower? I probably could've just left it alone too and had similar outcomes.
At least I think it was a wasp. I felt the sharp pain on the inside of my right bicep and of course slapped it, then stomped on whatever the crumply corpse was that fell to the sidewalk. I'm not allergic to anything that I've encountered yet (Thank God), so I wasn't overly concerned. Just irritated, and now slightly hurting.
It was on the return trip, so we had less than a mile to go. I tried not to think about my exercise heightened heartbeat pumping poison around. Not allergic, remember! I checked the swelling once in awhile. Yup, looks like a wasp sting. No stinger left in the skin, either, which seemed like a decent tipoff. I wonder where the little fuck came from; I heard no buzzing, saw no nest, and there was only the one. At least it was me and not the dog.
Once home, I did what any good citizen of the Internet would do and consulted WebMd (well, I consulted The Google, and felt WebMd was my best bet.) Remove the stinger; check. Wash the site with cold water; check. Make a paste with baking soda to draw out the poison.
"Draw out the poison?" Doesn't that seem a big like an old wives' tale? Or like what they say in Old wives' tales? Really, though, I'm of the firm belief that baking soda is magical fairy dust. It does amazing things when I use it to clean my stove, or the rare occasions I have a burned pan! Really, WebMD said "baking soda or meat tenderizer", but I know from jellyfish experience that whoever slipped the meat tenderizer in there is an advocate of Satan. It makes whatever pain you felt from the initial sting multiply, and also burn. But, which are you more likely to have on a beach vacation, baking soda or meat tenderizer? Yeah.
So after the baking soda paste, and putting some ice on it, it looks pretty much exactly the way it did in the first place. Maybe it hurts less? Maybe the swelling is lower? I probably could've just left it alone too and had similar outcomes.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Prey on their fear
Fear is an interesting thing.
Everybody has different fears. Not everybody is afraid of death (or not everybody admits it). Not everybody is afraid of sharks. Not everybody is afraid of getting struck by lightning.
Not everybody is afraid of getting cancer from smoking, despite what anti-tobacco wants to do. In Australia, they've passed a law that no brand names will be on cigarettes, only the horrible pictures of diseased organs. In the United States, the court said "yeah, no, you won't be doing that diseased organ thing." Really, we've known for many years what cigarettes can do. Do they do it to everybody? No. But there's always the chance.
Not everybody is afraid of The Bomb. Frankly, not everybody even knows to anymore. I was alive during the Cold War, sure, but not really aware of it. I was alive when the Berlin Wall came down (and recently bought a piece of it at Salvation Army for $5!) but didn't know. I know now what Duck and Cover is; I know now what happened at Chernobyl (well, as much as any non-Soviet civilian might). I've watched nuclear test footage, I waited at the edge of my couch when the Fukushima reactor was going up. I'm nervous about Iran and North Korea having The Bomb; I don't understand how people can think that The Bomb Isn't a Big Deal. Japan certainly hasn't forgotten it. I've watched enough anime to know that.
Not everybody is afraid of monsters, per se, but many people know and are fascinated by man become monster (serial killers, spree killers, kidnappers, terrorists). Not everybody is afraid of "nature" as such, but there are certainly enough Natural Disaster movies that made a bajillion dollars (The Day After Tomorrow, The Perfect Storm) that it still works.
A story that makes people afraid, either of the situation itself or for what happens to the characters, is a good one. If you can evoke that sympathy from your audience, you've succeeded either in some small way, or in a major one. Good writing is visceral, and makes a certain mindset happen. It dazes the reader when they look away from the page, because they've been transported by your words.
Everybody has different fears. Not everybody is afraid of death (or not everybody admits it). Not everybody is afraid of sharks. Not everybody is afraid of getting struck by lightning.
Not everybody is afraid of getting cancer from smoking, despite what anti-tobacco wants to do. In Australia, they've passed a law that no brand names will be on cigarettes, only the horrible pictures of diseased organs. In the United States, the court said "yeah, no, you won't be doing that diseased organ thing." Really, we've known for many years what cigarettes can do. Do they do it to everybody? No. But there's always the chance.
Not everybody is afraid of The Bomb. Frankly, not everybody even knows to anymore. I was alive during the Cold War, sure, but not really aware of it. I was alive when the Berlin Wall came down (and recently bought a piece of it at Salvation Army for $5!) but didn't know. I know now what Duck and Cover is; I know now what happened at Chernobyl (well, as much as any non-Soviet civilian might). I've watched nuclear test footage, I waited at the edge of my couch when the Fukushima reactor was going up. I'm nervous about Iran and North Korea having The Bomb; I don't understand how people can think that The Bomb Isn't a Big Deal. Japan certainly hasn't forgotten it. I've watched enough anime to know that.
Not everybody is afraid of monsters, per se, but many people know and are fascinated by man become monster (serial killers, spree killers, kidnappers, terrorists). Not everybody is afraid of "nature" as such, but there are certainly enough Natural Disaster movies that made a bajillion dollars (The Day After Tomorrow, The Perfect Storm) that it still works.
A story that makes people afraid, either of the situation itself or for what happens to the characters, is a good one. If you can evoke that sympathy from your audience, you've succeeded either in some small way, or in a major one. Good writing is visceral, and makes a certain mindset happen. It dazes the reader when they look away from the page, because they've been transported by your words.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Use of the word "That"
So, not only have I been remiss in blogging here, but I sort of dropped off the face of Absolute Write as well. That's all right, they probably don't miss me. Not because I've made myself a nuisance there; more because I haven't made a name for myself there yet either. No big.
But, one thing I keep in mind when I write, or think about writing or revising, is a thing that the Absolute Write-rs really try to hammer home when people are all "LOL, I have a first draft I just finished, will somebody read it for me?" is a very simple trick, really: look for instances in which you use the word "that". You can probably remove them safely, leaving the meanings of your sentences intact.
I'd never heard this before, and it boggled and intrigued me. I of course went to the anthology which I'm editing and hit "Find", and typed "that". Then I read every sentence which continued the word "that", and damn if they weren't right. Most of them, I could remove. Some I left intact, because really, that's how people talk. They say "that" all the time, sometimes twice in a row. I kind of like a colloquial voice, depending. It's once reason I enjoyed Stephen King for as long as I did, I think; the writing is very easy to read, which might draw you in.
I haven't tried counting the "that"s in published books I have laying around. I wonder if there will be fewer in fiction versus non fiction? Fewer in a classic versus a contemporary work? It's an interesting thing to have brought to your attention.
But, one thing I keep in mind when I write, or think about writing or revising, is a thing that the Absolute Write-rs really try to hammer home when people are all "LOL, I have a first draft I just finished, will somebody read it for me?" is a very simple trick, really: look for instances in which you use the word "that". You can probably remove them safely, leaving the meanings of your sentences intact.
I'd never heard this before, and it boggled and intrigued me. I of course went to the anthology which I'm editing and hit "Find", and typed "that". Then I read every sentence which continued the word "that", and damn if they weren't right. Most of them, I could remove. Some I left intact, because really, that's how people talk. They say "that" all the time, sometimes twice in a row. I kind of like a colloquial voice, depending. It's once reason I enjoyed Stephen King for as long as I did, I think; the writing is very easy to read, which might draw you in.
I haven't tried counting the "that"s in published books I have laying around. I wonder if there will be fewer in fiction versus non fiction? Fewer in a classic versus a contemporary work? It's an interesting thing to have brought to your attention.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Things that happened since I posted here last
So, since I posted here last (July 11, if you're keeping track!)
I turned 30 (I'm rather ambivalent about this, and that topic will be a post in and of itself. I promise.)
There was a fight in the library gazebo (no, it didn't involve me really in any way. but it was certainly an event!)
I totally forgot about the August CampNaNoWriMo Until like, August 4. So, another fail. November will be better, right? Right.
I watched the movie Chronicle. Which was freaking awesome. I recommend it, definitely.
I rewatched original Fantasia. Elka watched it with me, at least the beginning part, which is mostly shapes and colors.
I've worked on editing a short story anthology that I intend to publish through Amazon.
I made pancakes on my own from scratch for the first time. I'm not typically a pancakes kind of gal. I'd made pancakes before in the past, but mostly as the flipper, without having a hand in the rest of the process.
I turned 30 (I'm rather ambivalent about this, and that topic will be a post in and of itself. I promise.)
There was a fight in the library gazebo (no, it didn't involve me really in any way. but it was certainly an event!)
I totally forgot about the August CampNaNoWriMo Until like, August 4. So, another fail. November will be better, right? Right.
I watched the movie Chronicle. Which was freaking awesome. I recommend it, definitely.
I rewatched original Fantasia. Elka watched it with me, at least the beginning part, which is mostly shapes and colors.
I've worked on editing a short story anthology that I intend to publish through Amazon.
I made pancakes on my own from scratch for the first time. I'm not typically a pancakes kind of gal. I'd made pancakes before in the past, but mostly as the flipper, without having a hand in the rest of the process.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Camp NaNoWriMo 2012: Maybe August Will be Better?
So, I failed June's Camp NaNo, as one might have guessed. I should've updated before now but, there it is.
The problem I had with NaNo this time around was that I already had a body of work I was writing on. So, to interrupt those projects, to do a NaNo, just wasn't happening. I tried, I did, but only got a little ways in and stopped. I didn't outline or really prepare in any way because 1. I'm typically a pantser and 2. I was writing a different novel, and short stories. So it got to a point where I was guilty if I worked on my original works in progress, and I was guilty if I got involved with the NaNo, so I said screw it and wrote part of my dog training book instead.
Will I try again in August? If the mood takes me, yeah. National Novel Writing Month, whatever the month, is a fun exercise and can really get things going. But, since things were already going, I just kind of messed with the mojo.
Hope everybody's having a happy summer! Keep writing, but it's okay to take breaks too!
The problem I had with NaNo this time around was that I already had a body of work I was writing on. So, to interrupt those projects, to do a NaNo, just wasn't happening. I tried, I did, but only got a little ways in and stopped. I didn't outline or really prepare in any way because 1. I'm typically a pantser and 2. I was writing a different novel, and short stories. So it got to a point where I was guilty if I worked on my original works in progress, and I was guilty if I got involved with the NaNo, so I said screw it and wrote part of my dog training book instead.
Will I try again in August? If the mood takes me, yeah. National Novel Writing Month, whatever the month, is a fun exercise and can really get things going. But, since things were already going, I just kind of messed with the mojo.
Hope everybody's having a happy summer! Keep writing, but it's okay to take breaks too!
Friday, June 22, 2012
No, your library isn't trying to screw you
I'm surprised sometimes at the level of suspicion that some people have.
At my library, the overdue fine for books is 25 cents a day. That is per item, per day. Maximum of $5 for a book. No limit on book checkouts, they go for 3 weeks with no renewals if nobody else is waiting for them. And oh yes, we, the library, did have to pay money in order to get those books from Magical Book Land and place them on our shelves for you, the public, to check out. We, the library, also have to Pay Money for electricity, light bulbs, Internet, computers, printers, paper, phone, and natural gas. We also have to Pay Money for gasoline to put in the tractor that mows the grass and plows the snow and performs other groundskeeping duties.
Sometimes, people take out a lot of books. And they...forget about them. Not for a long time, maybe a week. Not so bad, right? Sometimes fines total out at $3, sometimes $10, that kind of thing. I've seen far larger, and far smaller as well. It's funny, because sometimes somebody will ride me like a rented mule over a seventy five cent fine (that's 3 days, mind you. 3 days. Pocket change. You could find it in the parking lot), and another person will have a fine of $240 for a bajillion late books and just ask me serenely who they make the check out to.
And oh, the comments we get.
"Oh, I guess I'd better just start buying my books. It'll be cheaper." We hear this one a lot. Daily, in fact. That $25.00 hardcover latest James Patterson would have been cheaper to buy than your $1.25 fine? Really?
"I'm paying taxes for this place!" Yeah, so am I. About $120 a year. I own my house in town, you see. Do you know how many books I could buy, new, for $120 a year? Let's be generous and say twelve, at a mix of paperbacks and hardcovers. You know how many books I read a year? Around 100. Sometimes more. Oh yeah, we have DVDs too. One week, no renewal, $1 a day if they're late. You can take 5 at a time. 5 DVDs, depending, is $120. You got your money's worth, I assure you. I've sometimes considered offering people the cash in exchange for a notarized statement saying they won't come back.
"It must be nice to sit around and read all day!" Yeah, it must be nice. Because I don't. I check books out, check books in. I turn the computer monitor back on for people (is it really that hard, not to touch a computer monitor?) I answer the phone and then do Google searches for people for directions, or phone numbers, or to spell words. Or to tell them celebrity birthdates and parents' names. I clean your greasy fingerprints off of CDs and DVDs. I clean mystery crud off of CD and DVD cases. Yeah, we have books on CD as well. They're $120 each for a library copy. Limit of six. Like a book, though, it's three weeks, two renewals, 25 cents a day overdue fine.
"Don't you have a grace period?" Yeah. You checked out your book for a week and have a two week grace period. Seriously. If you can't finish five books in three weeks...don't take five books. If you can't finish one book in 9 weeks (that's what one checkout plus two renewals equals) then maybe you should, in fact, buy it.
"Why can't I take my laptop bag/giant purse/suitcase/duffel bag with me through the library?" Well, people are scumbags and steal our stuff. So, because books and things cost money and not candy, we lose a lot of money yearly from people stealing. So we need to politely treat people with large bags like scumbags who might steal from us. No, we don't want to check your stuff when you're done. Yes, I know your laptop bag contains your laptop and that's why you came here.
At my library, the overdue fine for books is 25 cents a day. That is per item, per day. Maximum of $5 for a book. No limit on book checkouts, they go for 3 weeks with no renewals if nobody else is waiting for them. And oh yes, we, the library, did have to pay money in order to get those books from Magical Book Land and place them on our shelves for you, the public, to check out. We, the library, also have to Pay Money for electricity, light bulbs, Internet, computers, printers, paper, phone, and natural gas. We also have to Pay Money for gasoline to put in the tractor that mows the grass and plows the snow and performs other groundskeeping duties.
Sometimes, people take out a lot of books. And they...forget about them. Not for a long time, maybe a week. Not so bad, right? Sometimes fines total out at $3, sometimes $10, that kind of thing. I've seen far larger, and far smaller as well. It's funny, because sometimes somebody will ride me like a rented mule over a seventy five cent fine (that's 3 days, mind you. 3 days. Pocket change. You could find it in the parking lot), and another person will have a fine of $240 for a bajillion late books and just ask me serenely who they make the check out to.
And oh, the comments we get.
"Oh, I guess I'd better just start buying my books. It'll be cheaper." We hear this one a lot. Daily, in fact. That $25.00 hardcover latest James Patterson would have been cheaper to buy than your $1.25 fine? Really?
"I'm paying taxes for this place!" Yeah, so am I. About $120 a year. I own my house in town, you see. Do you know how many books I could buy, new, for $120 a year? Let's be generous and say twelve, at a mix of paperbacks and hardcovers. You know how many books I read a year? Around 100. Sometimes more. Oh yeah, we have DVDs too. One week, no renewal, $1 a day if they're late. You can take 5 at a time. 5 DVDs, depending, is $120. You got your money's worth, I assure you. I've sometimes considered offering people the cash in exchange for a notarized statement saying they won't come back.
"It must be nice to sit around and read all day!" Yeah, it must be nice. Because I don't. I check books out, check books in. I turn the computer monitor back on for people (is it really that hard, not to touch a computer monitor?) I answer the phone and then do Google searches for people for directions, or phone numbers, or to spell words. Or to tell them celebrity birthdates and parents' names. I clean your greasy fingerprints off of CDs and DVDs. I clean mystery crud off of CD and DVD cases. Yeah, we have books on CD as well. They're $120 each for a library copy. Limit of six. Like a book, though, it's three weeks, two renewals, 25 cents a day overdue fine.
"Don't you have a grace period?" Yeah. You checked out your book for a week and have a two week grace period. Seriously. If you can't finish five books in three weeks...don't take five books. If you can't finish one book in 9 weeks (that's what one checkout plus two renewals equals) then maybe you should, in fact, buy it.
"Why can't I take my laptop bag/giant purse/suitcase/duffel bag with me through the library?" Well, people are scumbags and steal our stuff. So, because books and things cost money and not candy, we lose a lot of money yearly from people stealing. So we need to politely treat people with large bags like scumbags who might steal from us. No, we don't want to check your stuff when you're done. Yes, I know your laptop bag contains your laptop and that's why you came here.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Wait....it DOES look like candy
I confess, when I saw a whole bunch of articles about kids getting sick after eating laundry detergent, my first thoughts were not really kind. First and foremost, I wondered why these peoples' 2-year-olds had the time to get away, get into the detergent, and consume it. I also hadn't seen them yet, and wondered what had made them so mistakable for candy. In my day, detergent did not look like candy.
However. Exhibit A:
Remember the original Willy Wonka movie, with Gene Wilder? I'm using that one as the example, as i have not seen the Johnny Depp one. Remember the everlasting gobstoppers the kids were given? Remember what they looked like? Remember how fucking disappointed you were when you got a "real" box of gobstoppers and they were just marble sized balls? These detergent pods look like your magical movie candy dreams come true. Seriously, what the hell? Why is detergent more exciting looking than candy?
However. Exhibit A:
Friday, May 25, 2012
Someday never comes
Sometimes I read a lot. Sometimes it takes me a long time to get through a book.
Sometimes I don't write for months. Others, I have a project going that I really focus on and really make headway with. Sometimes it's multiple projects.
Right now in the rubrick, I'm in the "not really reading, writing a lot" portion. I started a werewolf novel in April that's coming to its climax. I started a new writing project involving horror short stories. With June coming up, I'm trying to get myself to actually outline my CampNaNoWriMo novel.
I know I'm doing a space scifi thing. I know that the main characters are two sisters, and that there's at least one dude (no, this is not going to be a love triangle). I know some aesthetics of the space world that I'm operating with, and even though it's in space, it'll be on a smaller, character driven scale. But story? Eh, I've got an idea of the conflict. I think.
So, I need an outline, or else I'll be dead in the water at 10k words.
In NaNo lingo, I'm typically what's known as a "pantser", i.e. I write by the seat of my pants. I also typically have a story arc in mind, though, a culminating event, how I want things to shake out, that kind of thing. I wish I knew that already, this time. I'd really like for this to work out, and I'm always up for a NaNo!
Sometimes I don't write for months. Others, I have a project going that I really focus on and really make headway with. Sometimes it's multiple projects.
Right now in the rubrick, I'm in the "not really reading, writing a lot" portion. I started a werewolf novel in April that's coming to its climax. I started a new writing project involving horror short stories. With June coming up, I'm trying to get myself to actually outline my CampNaNoWriMo novel.
I know I'm doing a space scifi thing. I know that the main characters are two sisters, and that there's at least one dude (no, this is not going to be a love triangle). I know some aesthetics of the space world that I'm operating with, and even though it's in space, it'll be on a smaller, character driven scale. But story? Eh, I've got an idea of the conflict. I think.
So, I need an outline, or else I'll be dead in the water at 10k words.
In NaNo lingo, I'm typically what's known as a "pantser", i.e. I write by the seat of my pants. I also typically have a story arc in mind, though, a culminating event, how I want things to shake out, that kind of thing. I wish I knew that already, this time. I'd really like for this to work out, and I'm always up for a NaNo!
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Goodbye, Maurice Sendak. We'll miss you.
Maurice Sendak died this morning. He was 83. On one hand, I think "Well, 83 is a good run." But, seeing as how I'm apprehensive about 30 and beyond, I could see how 83 would not be enough. He had complications from a stroke, according to the New York Times.
Without reserve, I can say that Sendak's books are splendid. His illustrations are amazing, and the stories more than just fluff to keep your five year old occupied. There's a depth to them that makes some adults uncomfortable, and that kids seem to love, because for once, somebody's taking them seriously.
Maurice Sendak apparently lived alone after his partner of fifty years died, but for a German Shepherd. His most recent one that I've seen mentioned is named Herman, after Herman Melville, and I'm pretty sure most, if not all, of his German Shepherds came from the Monks of New Skete.
I do hope that wherever is is Sendak has gone, he's still able to do the things he loves, with whoever he misses that has gone before. Because that's what Heaven ought to be, right?
Without reserve, I can say that Sendak's books are splendid. His illustrations are amazing, and the stories more than just fluff to keep your five year old occupied. There's a depth to them that makes some adults uncomfortable, and that kids seem to love, because for once, somebody's taking them seriously.
Maurice Sendak apparently lived alone after his partner of fifty years died, but for a German Shepherd. His most recent one that I've seen mentioned is named Herman, after Herman Melville, and I'm pretty sure most, if not all, of his German Shepherds came from the Monks of New Skete.
I do hope that wherever is is Sendak has gone, he's still able to do the things he loves, with whoever he misses that has gone before. Because that's what Heaven ought to be, right?
Monday, May 7, 2012
Character Questionnaire
How well do you know your characters?
It's a simple question, and a complicated one.
When you're writing a story, it's sometimes the case that secondary and tertiary characters are really on there for the interactions that they have with your main character(s). Your main character is there for that particular arc of story that you're telling.
So, do you think about them otherwise?
Do you know what their comfort food is? Their fear when they woke up in the middle of the night at age 3? What's in their fridge? Do they have a fridge?
Most recently, while playing Mage this past winter, my fiance had each of the player's fill out a questionnaire as our characters. It was a stroke of brilliance, really. It was fun to do, and really put you in that person's head. The things that happen "off stage" are still important, be it in a book or in a game.
All these little things that we do, they make us who we are. Our characters would do them too. If we let them.
It's a simple question, and a complicated one.
When you're writing a story, it's sometimes the case that secondary and tertiary characters are really on there for the interactions that they have with your main character(s). Your main character is there for that particular arc of story that you're telling.
So, do you think about them otherwise?
Do you know what their comfort food is? Their fear when they woke up in the middle of the night at age 3? What's in their fridge? Do they have a fridge?
Most recently, while playing Mage this past winter, my fiance had each of the player's fill out a questionnaire as our characters. It was a stroke of brilliance, really. It was fun to do, and really put you in that person's head. The things that happen "off stage" are still important, be it in a book or in a game.
All these little things that we do, they make us who we are. Our characters would do them too. If we let them.
Friday, May 4, 2012
This Book Will Change Your Life
Occasionally, somebody will refer to a book and sigh, "that book changed my life." I nod, like I know what they're talking about, but I really tend to be thinking "...really?"
Frequently, I've read the book as well. Life of Pi? Didn't change my life. Neither did The Kite Runner, though it made me profoundly frustrated and angry. The Help? Nope.
Maybe The Fountainhead did, to a small degree, but maybe I don't want to make declarations like that here.
Maybe life-changing ability isn't what I read books for. Maybe, because I also write books, I don't look at them as mystical tomes that hold profound answers. I love to read, anybody who knows me will be able to attest to that (and if they aren't able, I guess they don't know me), but maybe what I want to get out of a book isn't what others seek.
I look for entertainment in books. When I open a book, I certainly do want it to take me away for a little while. Books are education, books are thought exercises, books are fantasy, books are time travel. American Gods, by Neil Gaiman, contained things I'd never thought of before. I'm looking forward to reading the anniversary edition, which I've brought home from the library yet again. Did American Gods change my life? Not more than The Fountainhead, anyway.
So really, I do feel that a book's job is to create an immersive world that I go and visit for a little while. No more, no less, though really, that's a pretty tall order. A book that I continue to think about after I've closed it, that's a good book. The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings both take place in a complete world of Tolkein's creation. They have been, and will continue to be, popular for just that reason. The movies have only added to that, and with The Hobbit releasing trailers, will continue to.
Tabletop fantasy role playing games indeed owe a profound debt to Tolkein (well, and war gamers), because the world he created still has such a profound effect on the fantasy worlds that are created today. Indeed, "traditional fantasy" makes one think of elves, and orcs, and goblins, swords and sorcery. Urban fantasy frequently has these elements as well.
So yeah. The book that changed my life? Well, it's a few I guess, but one of them was referred to as The Player's Handbook, and was 3rd edition Dungeons and Dragons, published by Wizards of the Coast. Before I had friends who had that book, and others, I didn't know. I didn't know that, other than in theatre, people came together to tell a story together, acting out characters who have no scripts but very certainly have specific roles. I didn't know about White Wolf either, publishers of The World of Darkness, old and new.
Gaming can be better than workshopping. Gaming can fuel the fire to write, within those consensual worlds, and in others of your creation. It can make you push your boundaries and test the edges of trust, and make you think hard about the decisions that you're willing to make. As a writer, it's been a blessing to me, and a good game is equivalent to a good book.
D&D, unfortunately, moved to other editions, and 4th edition is where Wizards of the Coast and my gaming group parted ways. We're partial to Pathfinder, now, by Paizo publishing. It maintains that spirit of the game, the traditions of orcs and elves and goblins, and wizards with staves casting spells.
Frequently, I've read the book as well. Life of Pi? Didn't change my life. Neither did The Kite Runner, though it made me profoundly frustrated and angry. The Help? Nope.
Maybe The Fountainhead did, to a small degree, but maybe I don't want to make declarations like that here.
Maybe life-changing ability isn't what I read books for. Maybe, because I also write books, I don't look at them as mystical tomes that hold profound answers. I love to read, anybody who knows me will be able to attest to that (and if they aren't able, I guess they don't know me), but maybe what I want to get out of a book isn't what others seek.
I look for entertainment in books. When I open a book, I certainly do want it to take me away for a little while. Books are education, books are thought exercises, books are fantasy, books are time travel. American Gods, by Neil Gaiman, contained things I'd never thought of before. I'm looking forward to reading the anniversary edition, which I've brought home from the library yet again. Did American Gods change my life? Not more than The Fountainhead, anyway.
So really, I do feel that a book's job is to create an immersive world that I go and visit for a little while. No more, no less, though really, that's a pretty tall order. A book that I continue to think about after I've closed it, that's a good book. The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings both take place in a complete world of Tolkein's creation. They have been, and will continue to be, popular for just that reason. The movies have only added to that, and with The Hobbit releasing trailers, will continue to.
Tabletop fantasy role playing games indeed owe a profound debt to Tolkein (well, and war gamers), because the world he created still has such a profound effect on the fantasy worlds that are created today. Indeed, "traditional fantasy" makes one think of elves, and orcs, and goblins, swords and sorcery. Urban fantasy frequently has these elements as well.
So yeah. The book that changed my life? Well, it's a few I guess, but one of them was referred to as The Player's Handbook, and was 3rd edition Dungeons and Dragons, published by Wizards of the Coast. Before I had friends who had that book, and others, I didn't know. I didn't know that, other than in theatre, people came together to tell a story together, acting out characters who have no scripts but very certainly have specific roles. I didn't know about White Wolf either, publishers of The World of Darkness, old and new.
Gaming can be better than workshopping. Gaming can fuel the fire to write, within those consensual worlds, and in others of your creation. It can make you push your boundaries and test the edges of trust, and make you think hard about the decisions that you're willing to make. As a writer, it's been a blessing to me, and a good game is equivalent to a good book.
D&D, unfortunately, moved to other editions, and 4th edition is where Wizards of the Coast and my gaming group parted ways. We're partial to Pathfinder, now, by Paizo publishing. It maintains that spirit of the game, the traditions of orcs and elves and goblins, and wizards with staves casting spells.
Monday, April 30, 2012
I was stealth evangelized by a twelve year old
So, at the library the other day, I helped a younger patron, a boy I'd say was twelve or so. He finished his transaction, efficiently and politely (which is more than I can say for some adults I deal with, certainly), adjusted his HUGE backpack, and rested his hand on the counter briefly. Then he looked at me and said "That's for you" and left.
I looked at the counter, and thought "did that kid just give me ten dollars?", a "lol wut?" moment if ever there was one. Then I picked it up. It was a Billion Dollar Bill.
I was amused, and then confused, as I examined the item further. One of the little seals on the front says "Thou shalt not covet". Ooh, he got me. I wanted money. Then I turned it over. Apparently, I'm going to hell.
I looked at the counter, and thought "did that kid just give me ten dollars?", a "lol wut?" moment if ever there was one. Then I picked it up. It was a Billion Dollar Bill.
I was amused, and then confused, as I examined the item further. One of the little seals on the front says "Thou shalt not covet". Ooh, he got me. I wanted money. Then I turned it over. Apparently, I'm going to hell.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
So Much Depends on the Weather
"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."
"It was raining iced pitchforks."
"To the Red county and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth."
"It was a dark and stormy night" is an oft-quoted trope; Snoopy uses it when he fancies being an author. I used it when I wrote my very first novel in fifth grade, The Chent Mansion Murders ( it was only four chapters long), and I'm not sure where I'd heard of it to begin with. From Snoopy, I guess. I'd never seen the rest of that sentence until I'd used The Google to see what it was actually from, which is a novel called Paul Clifford, published in 1830 by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, neither of which I'd heard of, other than in the context of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, which is an annual contest in which people are invited to write "the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels." I'm sorry to say that we missed this year's deadline; it was April 15. I also don't know what it says about me that I just spent ten or so minutes reading last year's winners. If one can properly be said to "win" such a thing.
The second sentence is in the video game Max Payne, delivered in the noir toned, gravel bottomed voice of our narrator.
The third is the opening sentence to The Grapes of Wrath.
I've heard it said that when writing fiction, one should avoid writing about the weather. I'm sure this is one of those rules that one might break; after all, characters in a story are not operating in a formless void, typically. Weather, if you aren't being too heavy handed or purple about it, can be a deft way of setting a tone and transporting the reader into the headspace you require them in order to receive the story you're dishing out.
Kind of funny that all three quotes I picked involved rain, but pretty much everybody knows how they feel when it rains. If it's windy and rainy, you have a way of feeling. If it's sleeting, that's a whole 'nother misery. If it's a gentle rain, well that's something too. It smells different outside, when it's raining. It taps at your windows, when it's raining. You might get a headache, when it's raining.
Now look at the first line from George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four: "It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." We've all lived through days like that in April; the clocks striking thirteen, though? That pulls you in. Does it mean that something is off in the order of things? Well, if you've read Nineteen Eighty-Four, it's pretty off. If you haven't read Nineteen Eighty-Four, why are you even on the Internet, unless you're going to go get a copy of it right now. Seriously. Get it and read it. You can't talk about dystopia without it (is it ironic that Google's spell check doesn't recognize "dystopia"? Maybe.)
In The Stranger by Albert Camus, our narrator ultimately shot a man because of the sun. That's simplifying things, but also not. You should probably read that book, too. Its first line doesn't have to do with the weather: "Maman died today."
Purple prose, though, that can a bad scene. You know what I mean; it's really unavoidable, if you're in the habit of reading. You've read it in this entry already, in fact: that opening line of Paul Clifford might be considered purple prose. It's overdone, and unnaturally flowery, and has made "it was a dark and stormy night" the very definition of a cliché.
Ultimately, blue skies or not, blighted lands or fertile, setting matters, and so does the weather in it. The weather needn't be a character unto itself, and probably ought not be, but I don't think it's instantly bad writing in order to include it.
"It was raining iced pitchforks."
"To the Red county and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth."
"It was a dark and stormy night" is an oft-quoted trope; Snoopy uses it when he fancies being an author. I used it when I wrote my very first novel in fifth grade, The Chent Mansion Murders ( it was only four chapters long), and I'm not sure where I'd heard of it to begin with. From Snoopy, I guess. I'd never seen the rest of that sentence until I'd used The Google to see what it was actually from, which is a novel called Paul Clifford, published in 1830 by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, neither of which I'd heard of, other than in the context of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, which is an annual contest in which people are invited to write "the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels." I'm sorry to say that we missed this year's deadline; it was April 15. I also don't know what it says about me that I just spent ten or so minutes reading last year's winners. If one can properly be said to "win" such a thing.
The second sentence is in the video game Max Payne, delivered in the noir toned, gravel bottomed voice of our narrator.
The third is the opening sentence to The Grapes of Wrath.
I've heard it said that when writing fiction, one should avoid writing about the weather. I'm sure this is one of those rules that one might break; after all, characters in a story are not operating in a formless void, typically. Weather, if you aren't being too heavy handed or purple about it, can be a deft way of setting a tone and transporting the reader into the headspace you require them in order to receive the story you're dishing out.
Kind of funny that all three quotes I picked involved rain, but pretty much everybody knows how they feel when it rains. If it's windy and rainy, you have a way of feeling. If it's sleeting, that's a whole 'nother misery. If it's a gentle rain, well that's something too. It smells different outside, when it's raining. It taps at your windows, when it's raining. You might get a headache, when it's raining.
Now look at the first line from George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four: "It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." We've all lived through days like that in April; the clocks striking thirteen, though? That pulls you in. Does it mean that something is off in the order of things? Well, if you've read Nineteen Eighty-Four, it's pretty off. If you haven't read Nineteen Eighty-Four, why are you even on the Internet, unless you're going to go get a copy of it right now. Seriously. Get it and read it. You can't talk about dystopia without it (is it ironic that Google's spell check doesn't recognize "dystopia"? Maybe.)
In The Stranger by Albert Camus, our narrator ultimately shot a man because of the sun. That's simplifying things, but also not. You should probably read that book, too. Its first line doesn't have to do with the weather: "Maman died today."
Purple prose, though, that can a bad scene. You know what I mean; it's really unavoidable, if you're in the habit of reading. You've read it in this entry already, in fact: that opening line of Paul Clifford might be considered purple prose. It's overdone, and unnaturally flowery, and has made "it was a dark and stormy night" the very definition of a cliché.
Ultimately, blue skies or not, blighted lands or fertile, setting matters, and so does the weather in it. The weather needn't be a character unto itself, and probably ought not be, but I don't think it's instantly bad writing in order to include it.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Singular Sensation
Sometimes, when writing, you want to shed normal descriptions. You want to describe something as it's never been described before, while leaving no doubt whatsoever as to what that something is.
In your day to day life, you catalog senses, feelings, experiences, trying to shelve them like rare antiquities, squirreled away to relate later, in different lights.
My soap, bought on vacation and jealously guarded, used slice by slice from the main bar, had sharp edges this morning. The patchouli scent of it dulled the sharpness and made me want more.
I got a new kind of gum, hard white pillows in a plastic tray, foil backed like pills. When I bit them, the shells cracked and there was a tiny drop of liquid inside. It was how I imagined biting an insect to be; crack the carapace, liquid hitting the tongue.
Black ink on my fingers, fading purple with repeated scrubbings, nails dirty, then grey, then pale.
A papercut, too shallow to bleed my dry skin, edges of the loose skin white like a flower petal.
Purple prose is to be avoided, but sometimes, you just need to skate that line. You need to think of your words and roll them on your tongue, like somebody sampling a wine. Too much and it's too dense, too sweet. Too little, and everything is bones.
In your day to day life, you catalog senses, feelings, experiences, trying to shelve them like rare antiquities, squirreled away to relate later, in different lights.
My soap, bought on vacation and jealously guarded, used slice by slice from the main bar, had sharp edges this morning. The patchouli scent of it dulled the sharpness and made me want more.
I got a new kind of gum, hard white pillows in a plastic tray, foil backed like pills. When I bit them, the shells cracked and there was a tiny drop of liquid inside. It was how I imagined biting an insect to be; crack the carapace, liquid hitting the tongue.
Black ink on my fingers, fading purple with repeated scrubbings, nails dirty, then grey, then pale.
A papercut, too shallow to bleed my dry skin, edges of the loose skin white like a flower petal.
Purple prose is to be avoided, but sometimes, you just need to skate that line. You need to think of your words and roll them on your tongue, like somebody sampling a wine. Too much and it's too dense, too sweet. Too little, and everything is bones.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Library insanity 3
A patron walked into the library around 6 or 7 in the evening. She came to the desk, looking a little nervous. This nervousness is a normal state for some of our more....interesting...patrons, but this one is normally friendly and confident.
"There's a timer outside", she said. "In the gazebo."
"Time like...on a bomb?" I asked suavely.
"Yeah, you can hear it ticking." She walked over and opened the door. Indeed, you can hear it ticking.
"Modern bombs don't tick," I said (so rarely can I apply this quote in everyday conversation. Most times, nobody even gets it. But that's all right. I know.)
"Should I touch it?" She asked. I weighed the options, quickly. My coworker was out of the room. We aren't allowed to leave the desk unattended. Did I really want to go closer to a potential bomb. Would it really be a bomb? That seemed kind of ridiculous. Luckily, the male patron by the DVDs had started paying attention.
"Oh, that's mine," he said, a little defensively. We both looked at him. "It's for my pot roast."
Oh. Of course.
"There's a timer outside", she said. "In the gazebo."
"Time like...on a bomb?" I asked suavely.
"Yeah, you can hear it ticking." She walked over and opened the door. Indeed, you can hear it ticking.
"Modern bombs don't tick," I said (so rarely can I apply this quote in everyday conversation. Most times, nobody even gets it. But that's all right. I know.)
"Should I touch it?" She asked. I weighed the options, quickly. My coworker was out of the room. We aren't allowed to leave the desk unattended. Did I really want to go closer to a potential bomb. Would it really be a bomb? That seemed kind of ridiculous. Luckily, the male patron by the DVDs had started paying attention.
"Oh, that's mine," he said, a little defensively. We both looked at him. "It's for my pot roast."
Oh. Of course.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Why I Don't Write Poetry
I mentioned in The Order of Things that I don't much like poetry.
Since that day, just last month, Adrienne Rich passed away. I was sorry to hear that she had passed; she's a poet whose work I really like. She had a lot of impact on a lot of lives, and was willing to be a strong women when others would not or could not. I don't know anything about her politics; I only know some of her poems. And they are very good.
But, poetry. I don't much write poetry either. I wrote a couple of poems in college, and they are very much college poems. Not because they're about drinking or frats or what have you, but because of the quality of writing. Little that I wrote in college may see the light of day in its college form; I'm not sure if any of it hasn't been re-edited at this point, if not entirely rewritten.
I can be casual with my words. I can be braggy in conversation, using words I know that perhaps others won't. I like feeling smart. Sorry.
With poetry, though, every word matters. Syllables and sentences run into each other and away with each other, and with good poetry, poetry that I like that that others have published, and that I'm happy has seen the light of day, that poetry has layers of meaning. There are the words. Then there are the references they're making. Then there is the new thing that they all make together. Then there is the place you take those things, and make it something new for you.
I don't write poems like that. Can I? Maybe. It would be very hard, and undoubtedly worth it, but words of such weight aren't how my stories tend to speak to me. Not that fiction is "easy" either, but it's not as hard. Easy and hard aren't even the words I mean, they're layman's translations for gut feelings and visceral reactions. Poetry is evocative of different things for me than fiction, a different place in my brain where Ginsberg smokes (did Ginsberg smoke?) and Eliot prays (preys?) and Anne Sexton is more than a little mad (crazy, that is, not angry).
The starting line of a poem is like a reverse fishing lure: it bobs on the surface, waiting for you to strike and catch yourself, and then it pulls you down with it.
"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The Muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedius argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question....
Oh, do not ask "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit."
~The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T. S. Eliot
Since that day, just last month, Adrienne Rich passed away. I was sorry to hear that she had passed; she's a poet whose work I really like. She had a lot of impact on a lot of lives, and was willing to be a strong women when others would not or could not. I don't know anything about her politics; I only know some of her poems. And they are very good.
But, poetry. I don't much write poetry either. I wrote a couple of poems in college, and they are very much college poems. Not because they're about drinking or frats or what have you, but because of the quality of writing. Little that I wrote in college may see the light of day in its college form; I'm not sure if any of it hasn't been re-edited at this point, if not entirely rewritten.
I can be casual with my words. I can be braggy in conversation, using words I know that perhaps others won't. I like feeling smart. Sorry.
With poetry, though, every word matters. Syllables and sentences run into each other and away with each other, and with good poetry, poetry that I like that that others have published, and that I'm happy has seen the light of day, that poetry has layers of meaning. There are the words. Then there are the references they're making. Then there is the new thing that they all make together. Then there is the place you take those things, and make it something new for you.
I don't write poems like that. Can I? Maybe. It would be very hard, and undoubtedly worth it, but words of such weight aren't how my stories tend to speak to me. Not that fiction is "easy" either, but it's not as hard. Easy and hard aren't even the words I mean, they're layman's translations for gut feelings and visceral reactions. Poetry is evocative of different things for me than fiction, a different place in my brain where Ginsberg smokes (did Ginsberg smoke?) and Eliot prays (preys?) and Anne Sexton is more than a little mad (crazy, that is, not angry).
The starting line of a poem is like a reverse fishing lure: it bobs on the surface, waiting for you to strike and catch yourself, and then it pulls you down with it.
"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The Muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedius argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question....
Oh, do not ask "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit."
~The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T. S. Eliot
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Book Review: Up, by Patricia Ellis Herr
Up: a Mother and Daughter's Peakbagging Adventure might seem like an odd book for me to have chosen. Really, it kind of is. I don't have little kids. There aren't dogs in it. I'm not from New Hampshire. I'm not into hiking up mountains. I mean, I'm not against hiking up mountains, it just isn't a burning passion for me.
The book happened into my hands at the library, as books so frequently will. You see, when we get new books, they come to use from what is essentially our book warehouse, and then they go upstairs to the offices to be processed and barcoded. Then they come down on a delightful little cart and a piece of paper gets slapped on there that says "new books!" and the staff get to look at them before sending them to their waiting patrons, or putting them on the shelf. Up did not have any waiting patrons, and it had a compelling, easy to read style, and a good hook at the beginning. I took it home and devoured it.
Up is about Herr and her daughter, Alex, and their hiking. Or "peakbagging", as they apparently call taking a trail to the peak of a mountain. The general plan was doing "four thousand footers", which is apparently doable, round trip, in a day. Even with a five year old. Yup, that's right. Herr's daughter, Alex, was five and a half when they started their peakbagging shenanigans.
Alex is a smart and dynamic little girl. She and her little sister, Sage, are home schooled by Herr (she doesn't go into the reasoning, but before having children, she was PhD candidate, and apparently her husband works at MIT, so it's not like they don't have the chops), and encouraged to be inquisitive and active and make their own decisions. Which extended to this level of hiking.
The book was a brief and digestible pleasure to read. The environments they spend their time in are beautiful and sometimes less than forgiving, but no real tragedies befall them. Herr is in fact a smart woman, and a smart mom, and there are no times at which I was smacking my forehead and yelling "Don't go in there!" at the book. Her husband sort of takes a backseat in the book, but he's obviously a good man, and has significant influence on their daughters. The girls are...well...little kids. But also smart and lovely. I'm sure they're going to grow into fantastic adults.
The book happened into my hands at the library, as books so frequently will. You see, when we get new books, they come to use from what is essentially our book warehouse, and then they go upstairs to the offices to be processed and barcoded. Then they come down on a delightful little cart and a piece of paper gets slapped on there that says "new books!" and the staff get to look at them before sending them to their waiting patrons, or putting them on the shelf. Up did not have any waiting patrons, and it had a compelling, easy to read style, and a good hook at the beginning. I took it home and devoured it.
Up is about Herr and her daughter, Alex, and their hiking. Or "peakbagging", as they apparently call taking a trail to the peak of a mountain. The general plan was doing "four thousand footers", which is apparently doable, round trip, in a day. Even with a five year old. Yup, that's right. Herr's daughter, Alex, was five and a half when they started their peakbagging shenanigans.
Alex is a smart and dynamic little girl. She and her little sister, Sage, are home schooled by Herr (she doesn't go into the reasoning, but before having children, she was PhD candidate, and apparently her husband works at MIT, so it's not like they don't have the chops), and encouraged to be inquisitive and active and make their own decisions. Which extended to this level of hiking.
The book was a brief and digestible pleasure to read. The environments they spend their time in are beautiful and sometimes less than forgiving, but no real tragedies befall them. Herr is in fact a smart woman, and a smart mom, and there are no times at which I was smacking my forehead and yelling "Don't go in there!" at the book. Her husband sort of takes a backseat in the book, but he's obviously a good man, and has significant influence on their daughters. The girls are...well...little kids. But also smart and lovely. I'm sure they're going to grow into fantastic adults.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
The Devil's in the Details
Remember in school, when they taught you to write a first draft, and then a second one, and so on? Maybe they had you do an outline first?
Yeah, I hated that.
Yeah, I hated that.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Credit Where Credit is Due
The Internet is great.
You can meet up with people you never would have heard of. You can look up anything you can think of. You can read books and stories and articles that would not come to your hometown on their own.
The Internet is kind of like the Wild West, though. There are laws, sure, and there are things like the FBI cybercrimes unit that tries to protect people from scamming, and phishing, and other frauds. There are vigilantes who use the Internet as their playground, and sometimes do what could be considered good, and other times do what could be considered illegal and bad.
On the Internet, you can be whoever you want. You can say whatever you want. Some people use that to bully, or to be one of the above mentioned fraudsters. Some people use it to plagiarize and pirate. Because of this, it can be hard to find out where something came from.
Years ago, I found a picture I liked, loved really. I have no idea who the artist is, when it was created, the origin, the medium, nothing. It's on wallpaper web sites, and people use it for avatars on message boards (guilty of that in at least one location, sorry). Today, I found out about TinEye, which is an image search site that allows one to find instances of an image across the Internet.
I'll put it here now. If you know who the artist is, or where it came from, I'd appreciate you sharing that with me!
You can meet up with people you never would have heard of. You can look up anything you can think of. You can read books and stories and articles that would not come to your hometown on their own.
The Internet is kind of like the Wild West, though. There are laws, sure, and there are things like the FBI cybercrimes unit that tries to protect people from scamming, and phishing, and other frauds. There are vigilantes who use the Internet as their playground, and sometimes do what could be considered good, and other times do what could be considered illegal and bad.
On the Internet, you can be whoever you want. You can say whatever you want. Some people use that to bully, or to be one of the above mentioned fraudsters. Some people use it to plagiarize and pirate. Because of this, it can be hard to find out where something came from.
Years ago, I found a picture I liked, loved really. I have no idea who the artist is, when it was created, the origin, the medium, nothing. It's on wallpaper web sites, and people use it for avatars on message boards (guilty of that in at least one location, sorry). Today, I found out about TinEye, which is an image search site that allows one to find instances of an image across the Internet.
I'll put it here now. If you know who the artist is, or where it came from, I'd appreciate you sharing that with me!
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Do you have a community?
So, I finally joined an online writing forum, at Absolute Write. There are a lot of people on there!
Some have been writing for a very long time. Some have been writing for a few weeks. Everybody has an opinion, but isn't that the way that goes?
In a way, the forum itself is a bit like Doberman Talk, but for writing. There are questions and criteria that the seasoned members have for whether an agent or publisher is legitimate, and the kinds of things we as writers should be looking at in contracts. There are discussions about grammar, and plot, and a suggestion to post your work or your queries for critiques. There are writing prompts and "off topic" forums (though is anything off topic, when you're a writer?)
Other than a few college classes, and two workshops since, I've never really been a part of a writer's community. I don't have people that I regularly share and swap work with. I have friends that will happily read my stories, but nobody that I get down to brass tacks with in quite the same way. I can get pretty thorny over critiques, but if you knew the critiques I had to deal with in college, I think you would have felt the same way. Nobody wants to read their story and have one of the only comments be "What does this word mean?" Everybody has a different vocabulary, I get that, but writers? I hold them to a higher standard. Especially if you're supposed to be offering criticism. I have a story somewhere (begging for rewrite) involving a mermaid and a fisherman's son, and the deals made. The comment I got? "This made me think of The Little Mermaid." Meaning, the Disney film. I could have cheerfully killed that peer reviewer with bare hands, especially because her story was about her first car, which was not bad idea in and of itself. But it was bad.
So, I've got hopes for this. They have a minimum post limit before you can share your work, which I agree with. They foster community, give and take. We'll see how it goes.
Some have been writing for a very long time. Some have been writing for a few weeks. Everybody has an opinion, but isn't that the way that goes?
In a way, the forum itself is a bit like Doberman Talk, but for writing. There are questions and criteria that the seasoned members have for whether an agent or publisher is legitimate, and the kinds of things we as writers should be looking at in contracts. There are discussions about grammar, and plot, and a suggestion to post your work or your queries for critiques. There are writing prompts and "off topic" forums (though is anything off topic, when you're a writer?)
Other than a few college classes, and two workshops since, I've never really been a part of a writer's community. I don't have people that I regularly share and swap work with. I have friends that will happily read my stories, but nobody that I get down to brass tacks with in quite the same way. I can get pretty thorny over critiques, but if you knew the critiques I had to deal with in college, I think you would have felt the same way. Nobody wants to read their story and have one of the only comments be "What does this word mean?" Everybody has a different vocabulary, I get that, but writers? I hold them to a higher standard. Especially if you're supposed to be offering criticism. I have a story somewhere (begging for rewrite) involving a mermaid and a fisherman's son, and the deals made. The comment I got? "This made me think of The Little Mermaid." Meaning, the Disney film. I could have cheerfully killed that peer reviewer with bare hands, especially because her story was about her first car, which was not bad idea in and of itself. But it was bad.
So, I've got hopes for this. They have a minimum post limit before you can share your work, which I agree with. They foster community, give and take. We'll see how it goes.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Think You're a Judge of Character?
People make assumptions.
Whether we want to or not, when we see a person, we make decisions about them immediately. These are based on our own experiences, and things that we hear and read. A complete stranger might remind us of somebody who plagued us in high school, and we react with visceral dislike. A different stranger might remind us of a beloved grandparent, and we receive them warmly.
Sometimes, our suspicions might protect us from harm. Sometimes our sympathies are what harm us. I found this quiz online, which I think is both funny, to a degree, and pertinent. It shows how much, or how little, we can tell by just looking at a person: Programming Language Inventor or Serial Killer?
We can play on these assumptions while writing. When we establish a character, there are things that writers might do in order to sway the reader one way or another when thinking about them. If Mrs. Danvers was plump and had red hair (as opposed to skeletal and yellowing), would we have regarded her with as much dread? If Atticus Finch was a foul mouthed drinker, would we have trusted and respected him? Every author, when writing, has a way he or she feels a character should be read.
Whether we want to or not, when we see a person, we make decisions about them immediately. These are based on our own experiences, and things that we hear and read. A complete stranger might remind us of somebody who plagued us in high school, and we react with visceral dislike. A different stranger might remind us of a beloved grandparent, and we receive them warmly.
Sometimes, our suspicions might protect us from harm. Sometimes our sympathies are what harm us. I found this quiz online, which I think is both funny, to a degree, and pertinent. It shows how much, or how little, we can tell by just looking at a person: Programming Language Inventor or Serial Killer?
We can play on these assumptions while writing. When we establish a character, there are things that writers might do in order to sway the reader one way or another when thinking about them. If Mrs. Danvers was plump and had red hair (as opposed to skeletal and yellowing), would we have regarded her with as much dread? If Atticus Finch was a foul mouthed drinker, would we have trusted and respected him? Every author, when writing, has a way he or she feels a character should be read.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Make a Wish
Superstitions are an interesting thing to me.
Perhaps because I'm American, most of them no longer seem to have ties to their original culture. The number thirteen, black cats, green cars, ringing ears...where did all of it come from? A lot of it is luck based: picking up a coin that's heads up, rabbits feet, four leaf clovers. Luck itself is an interesting concept, especially in that both good luck and bad luck are a consideration. And the notion that things come in threes. Unlucky things: stepping on a crack, seeing a bride on her wedding day, breaking a mirror.
Perhaps because I'm American, most of them no longer seem to have ties to their original culture. The number thirteen, black cats, green cars, ringing ears...where did all of it come from? A lot of it is luck based: picking up a coin that's heads up, rabbits feet, four leaf clovers. Luck itself is an interesting concept, especially in that both good luck and bad luck are a consideration. And the notion that things come in threes. Unlucky things: stepping on a crack, seeing a bride on her wedding day, breaking a mirror.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Weird Things
Sometimes I see weird things that I don't take pictures of. I still think about them, though.
Like that stray scrap of rope on the asphalt in the Wal Mart parking lot. I know it was probably for the cinderblock that held down the cart corral. But was it?
Like the park bench that somebody wrote "Bleeding Sassafras" on in Sharpie. Did they bemoan the fact that a tree was cut down to build the bench, and thus bled? Band name? Sexual position (oh God I hope not)?
I won't even detail the things that we sometimes find in library books, and left on the shelves. Some things are best unsaid (and unseen).
I was once driving down the highway and saw a minivan pulled up just after an exit. Two Hasidim were standing there, seemingly a father and son, side curls blowing in the highway breeze, white shirts bright. The son had a suitcase at his feet. His father was talking to him seriously.
Another highway one: a metal chair between two bushes on a slight hill, overlooking the Eastbound lanes.
Like that stray scrap of rope on the asphalt in the Wal Mart parking lot. I know it was probably for the cinderblock that held down the cart corral. But was it?
Like the park bench that somebody wrote "Bleeding Sassafras" on in Sharpie. Did they bemoan the fact that a tree was cut down to build the bench, and thus bled? Band name? Sexual position (oh God I hope not)?
I won't even detail the things that we sometimes find in library books, and left on the shelves. Some things are best unsaid (and unseen).
I was once driving down the highway and saw a minivan pulled up just after an exit. Two Hasidim were standing there, seemingly a father and son, side curls blowing in the highway breeze, white shirts bright. The son had a suitcase at his feet. His father was talking to him seriously.
Another highway one: a metal chair between two bushes on a slight hill, overlooking the Eastbound lanes.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
More Library Insanity
Another snapshot of my day at the library:
Soon after opening on Saturday morning, the phone rang. When we answer the phone, we say the name of the library. The patron on the other end launched into her story without preamble: "I have a wooden end table that we keep a humidifier on and after awhile we moved the humidifier and I guess it leaked at some point because now there are white rings on the table that are the size of the humidifier. What do I do about that?"
I took a moment. "You do know you called the library, right?"
"Yes. I called the bus station first and he gave me the number."
Right. Of course. So I put the patron on hold and consulted the Google, because really, what else was I going to do? I mean, I'm sure there's a Reader's Digest "How to clean anything" style of volume that we have, but sometimes, you look for the fast answer, which will theoretically the most up to date.
Apparently, you can take a hot iron, and a clean t-shirt, and iron for a few seconds at a time to get rid of the white rings. See. You learned something. I did too. The bus station doesn't know how to fix your end table; the library does.
Soon after opening on Saturday morning, the phone rang. When we answer the phone, we say the name of the library. The patron on the other end launched into her story without preamble: "I have a wooden end table that we keep a humidifier on and after awhile we moved the humidifier and I guess it leaked at some point because now there are white rings on the table that are the size of the humidifier. What do I do about that?"
I took a moment. "You do know you called the library, right?"
"Yes. I called the bus station first and he gave me the number."
Right. Of course. So I put the patron on hold and consulted the Google, because really, what else was I going to do? I mean, I'm sure there's a Reader's Digest "How to clean anything" style of volume that we have, but sometimes, you look for the fast answer, which will theoretically the most up to date.
Apparently, you can take a hot iron, and a clean t-shirt, and iron for a few seconds at a time to get rid of the white rings. See. You learned something. I did too. The bus station doesn't know how to fix your end table; the library does.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Happy Birthday, Dad. I miss you.
Sailing to Byzantium
William Butler Yeats
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
-Those dying generations-at their gong,
The salmon-falls, the mackeral-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For ever tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificense;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing on God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
William Butler Yeats
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
-Those dying generations-at their gong,
The salmon-falls, the mackeral-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For ever tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificense;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing on God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
Friday, March 2, 2012
In the News, March 2 2012
Silence Gun: http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/technology-blog/weird-gun-future-attacks-words-not-people-193050045.html
Debris from the Japanese tsunami to join Great Pacific Garbage Patch: http://www.csmonitor.com/World/Latest-News-Wires/2012/0229/Debris-from-tsunami-to-reach-West-Coast-join-Great-Pacific-Garbage-Patch
Radical Camera Lets You Pick What's Blurry and What's Not: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970203753704577253382656074346.html (kind of wouldn't mind one of these, I think, after a version or two)
Animals Being Dicks: http://animalsbeingdicks.com/ (not news, I now, but funny.)
Debris from the Japanese tsunami to join Great Pacific Garbage Patch: http://www.csmonitor.com/World/Latest-News-Wires/2012/0229/Debris-from-tsunami-to-reach-West-Coast-join-Great-Pacific-Garbage-Patch
Radical Camera Lets You Pick What's Blurry and What's Not: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970203753704577253382656074346.html (kind of wouldn't mind one of these, I think, after a version or two)
Animals Being Dicks: http://animalsbeingdicks.com/ (not news, I now, but funny.)
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Book Review: The Glass Demon, by Helen Grant
I see a lot of books at the library. Some good, some bad, some really bad. Fortunately (or not?) I'm getting pretty good at spotting the really bad ones, regardless of their position on the NY Times Best Seller list. Some, I truly never heard of until a patron requested them from another library and they passed through my hands.
Sometimes, those "accidental" books are really good. The Glass Demon, by Helen Grant, is one of those for me.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Library Insanity: 2 Vignettes
The library can be busier some days than others. Also more sane than others. These three stories are all from the same day. The picture from the week prior, of one of the library puppets, discarded corpse like on the floor of the children's room.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Blogging block?
You may have noticed, I don't update here very often.
Well, sometimes I do. I've been doing pretty well since, say, Wednesday. Not daily, but I don't know that I want this to be a daily blog. Maybe thrice a week is a good benchmark? Or four times, if Wordless Wednesday is cheating. Which it might be.
Sometimes, I just don't know what I want to postulate on. Is writing important to me? Hell yeah. Is writing about writing important to me? Less so.
Well, sometimes I do. I've been doing pretty well since, say, Wednesday. Not daily, but I don't know that I want this to be a daily blog. Maybe thrice a week is a good benchmark? Or four times, if Wordless Wednesday is cheating. Which it might be.
Sometimes, I just don't know what I want to postulate on. Is writing important to me? Hell yeah. Is writing about writing important to me? Less so.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
God gives you one face, but you paint another on top of it
I'm a different person online than I am in person.
Really, I'm kind of a different person when I talk about writing than I am when I talk about dogs.
I'm a different person when I sit down at a gaming table (and, depending on the day, the variance in the person I set out to be increases as well).
I'm a different person at work from when I'm at home.
I'm a different person with my family than with my friends.
I'm a different person alone at Wal-Mart than walking Elka (my Doberman) at the park.
All of these people are me. Any one of them are me.
So, who are all of these people?
Which one of these is the person the stories come from?
Or is it all of them?
Really, I'm kind of a different person when I talk about writing than I am when I talk about dogs.
I'm a different person when I sit down at a gaming table (and, depending on the day, the variance in the person I set out to be increases as well).
I'm a different person at work from when I'm at home.
I'm a different person with my family than with my friends.
I'm a different person alone at Wal-Mart than walking Elka (my Doberman) at the park.
All of these people are me. Any one of them are me.
So, who are all of these people?
Which one of these is the person the stories come from?
Or is it all of them?
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
Literary tattoos
I don't have any tattoos. Yet.
I've seen quite a lot of bad tattoos. Quite a lot of good ones. I like looking online at various pages listing them. I don't want a tattoo that somebody else has. I want a tattoo for me, that's mine. I haven't settled on a design yet that I love for long enough to actually go through with it.
Then, I saw a post on Neil Gaiman's blog: literary tattoos. Is there a reason I hadn't thought of this before? I hadn't seen one before, anyway. So, duh. Of course getting a quote would make fantastic sense. Of course, now the problem is what quote? Contrariwise.org is (or rather, was...they haven't updated in a year or more) a blog of literary tattoos. It's cool to see the ink people have gotten, and the quotes people have gotten. It's amazing how many Kurt Vonnegut "Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt" tattoos you'll see, with web search. How many The Giving Tree tattoos. The Lorax. Shakespeare, of course, and while I dearly love the Bard, none of his words are my words.
In The Order of Things I talked about my poetry preferences, citing Adrienne Rich specifically. A poem of hers, Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law, has great imagery and a few really good lines in it, notably, "A thinking woman sleeps with monsters". I'd just heard of a website, StrayTats.com, where you can create a fake tattoo (or multiples), and decided I'd try it out.
In the end, forearm is not the place for that tattoo for me. But, I still really like the quote.
Really, anything from Ginsberg's "Howl" would be lovely; also, too long. Just "Howl" from the cover of the collection wouldn't be bad, but a single word is too easily misconstrued. I don't want it to be looked at as though I'm wearing a wolf t-shirt, after all.
Maybe one day, when I have something published, I'll pick a phrase or word from that, so that it is mine. But for now, I'm still looking. Or, still rowing, if I want to quote Anne Sexton, and frequently I do.
I've seen quite a lot of bad tattoos. Quite a lot of good ones. I like looking online at various pages listing them. I don't want a tattoo that somebody else has. I want a tattoo for me, that's mine. I haven't settled on a design yet that I love for long enough to actually go through with it.
Then, I saw a post on Neil Gaiman's blog: literary tattoos. Is there a reason I hadn't thought of this before? I hadn't seen one before, anyway. So, duh. Of course getting a quote would make fantastic sense. Of course, now the problem is what quote? Contrariwise.org is (or rather, was...they haven't updated in a year or more) a blog of literary tattoos. It's cool to see the ink people have gotten, and the quotes people have gotten. It's amazing how many Kurt Vonnegut "Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt" tattoos you'll see, with web search. How many The Giving Tree tattoos. The Lorax. Shakespeare, of course, and while I dearly love the Bard, none of his words are my words.
In The Order of Things I talked about my poetry preferences, citing Adrienne Rich specifically. A poem of hers, Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law, has great imagery and a few really good lines in it, notably, "A thinking woman sleeps with monsters". I'd just heard of a website, StrayTats.com, where you can create a fake tattoo (or multiples), and decided I'd try it out.
Really, anything from Ginsberg's "Howl" would be lovely; also, too long. Just "Howl" from the cover of the collection wouldn't be bad, but a single word is too easily misconstrued. I don't want it to be looked at as though I'm wearing a wolf t-shirt, after all.
Maybe one day, when I have something published, I'll pick a phrase or word from that, so that it is mine. But for now, I'm still looking. Or, still rowing, if I want to quote Anne Sexton, and frequently I do.
What is it with people and rocks?
Headed to Salvation Army on a break from work, I glanced through a wrought iron fence I'd looked through before, and saw something I hadn't seen before: a few rocks, stacked up. I continued on my way but, amused, I took a picture on my way back. It's either artsy or crappy, I'm not sure which; I took it with my cell phone, forgive me.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Thoughts While Doing Dishes
I need to start washing pans the night I cooked. I'm so lazy.
Of course, if you wash them while they're still warm, you can warp them. This cast iron baking dish is always warm for so long, that's why I wait.
Crap, I just put soap in the cast iron baking dish. No, it's enameled, that doesn't matter. The cast iron is encapsulated, I don't need to worry about seasoning. Man, that mac and cheese was good. I love this peppermint castille soap. I should get the bigger bottle next time.
This thing is heavy and bigger than the sink. That's another reason I put off washing it. Ah well. It's still lighter than the dog. And that mac and cheese was good.
Oh look, the neighbor's boyfriend's labby dog. Off leash. And next to the road. I really hope nobody runs a stop sign right as he decides the road is AWESOME. That would ruin my life. Oh, the dude's right there. Good. And now they're out of the road. I wish they'd stop doing that.
Of course, if you wash them while they're still warm, you can warp them. This cast iron baking dish is always warm for so long, that's why I wait.
Crap, I just put soap in the cast iron baking dish. No, it's enameled, that doesn't matter. The cast iron is encapsulated, I don't need to worry about seasoning. Man, that mac and cheese was good. I love this peppermint castille soap. I should get the bigger bottle next time.
This thing is heavy and bigger than the sink. That's another reason I put off washing it. Ah well. It's still lighter than the dog. And that mac and cheese was good.
Oh look, the neighbor's boyfriend's labby dog. Off leash. And next to the road. I really hope nobody runs a stop sign right as he decides the road is AWESOME. That would ruin my life. Oh, the dude's right there. Good. And now they're out of the road. I wish they'd stop doing that.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Fun with CAPTCHA
Before I started my dog blog over at The Elka Almanac, I was frequently a CAPTCHA failer. I had to listen to the audio, or try over and over until, by some miracle of the Internet, I got it. A lot of comments require the CAPTCHA completion to know that you're a person, though, and I've gotten much "better" at it, if such a thing could be considered a viable skill. Really, it is a viable skill; leaving comments and suchlike is instrumental in the "social network" (see what I did there?) that brings traffic to blog, shares info about contests and upcoming publications, and gives you cred in the field of your choosing.
(image from Wikipedia)
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
In the News: January 31, 2012
Jail for Man Who Attacked Police with Light Sabers: Oh, is this rich story fodder. Mythos? Psychotic break? Passion for Star Wars and fury against the Dark Side?
In Classic vs. Modern Violins, Beauty is in the Ear of the Beholder: the New York Times has had several articles on this lately...also pertaining to cellos, which Stradivari also made. Even as not-a-classical-musician, I've heard of Stradivarius instruments, and understood them to be considered important. This kind of iconoclastic debate is interesting.
London's Big Ben is Leaning and Parliament Sinking: considering what I've read of various cities where portions of them sank (Seattle, Venice...), it's interesting to see if this is true, how bad it gets, and how London will react.
TSA Confiscates Cupcake; Frosting a Risk: it would take a damn dedicated terrorist to frost a cupcake with C4 (or whatever), thereby (in my opinion) wasting it. Interestingly, my Aunt Alicia once brought a Key Lime Pie on carry-on from Tampa and it was fine (And delicious). This was in 2008.
In Classic vs. Modern Violins, Beauty is in the Ear of the Beholder: the New York Times has had several articles on this lately...also pertaining to cellos, which Stradivari also made. Even as not-a-classical-musician, I've heard of Stradivarius instruments, and understood them to be considered important. This kind of iconoclastic debate is interesting.
London's Big Ben is Leaning and Parliament Sinking: considering what I've read of various cities where portions of them sank (Seattle, Venice...), it's interesting to see if this is true, how bad it gets, and how London will react.
TSA Confiscates Cupcake; Frosting a Risk: it would take a damn dedicated terrorist to frost a cupcake with C4 (or whatever), thereby (in my opinion) wasting it. Interestingly, my Aunt Alicia once brought a Key Lime Pie on carry-on from Tampa and it was fine (And delicious). This was in 2008.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Who Do You Write For?
When you write, do you imagine somebody reading the words over your shoulder? Or, do you imagine your words printed, on a magazine page or in your very own book, in the hands of housewives and students and commuters? Or, perhaps sadly, do you think only of your writing in the context of the electronic files, unread, on your computer?
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Links for Thought
Remember how, back in October, I posted about my "favorite" ruined city? Well, for your viewing pleasure, I found a website with varying lists of abandoned places, complete with pictures: 8 Abandoned Theme Parks Abroad "Open" for Exploration is a good starting point.
In further followup to that blog post, you can watch the full documentary of Radioactive Wolves, streamed from the PBS website.
Not that I'm saying you should go exploring in these places (especially Chernobyl), but you can wear a rad gas mask while doing so. Also, have you heard of the video game, Stalker: Shadow over Chernobyl, and its sequel? There's a Russian novel called Roadside Picnic that was written back in 1971 about "Zones" that "Stalkers" went into in order to salvage things. Here's the Wikipedia article for further detail, which also describes the somewhat odd title.
In further followup to that blog post, you can watch the full documentary of Radioactive Wolves, streamed from the PBS website.
Not that I'm saying you should go exploring in these places (especially Chernobyl), but you can wear a rad gas mask while doing so. Also, have you heard of the video game, Stalker: Shadow over Chernobyl, and its sequel? There's a Russian novel called Roadside Picnic that was written back in 1971 about "Zones" that "Stalkers" went into in order to salvage things. Here's the Wikipedia article for further detail, which also describes the somewhat odd title.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Entry for Blog Hop Contest!
Daniel Swensen, at Surly Muse, among others, is having a blog hop contest! The photo that was the writing prompt was really freaking cool and I just had to do it. I need yet another copy of Stephen King's On Writing like a need a hole in the head (I was up to 3 or 4 and think I'm down to 2 or 3, after giving one to a coworker who had none), but that's obviously assuming I place. Plus, I'm a sucker for writing prompts!
Winners will be announced February 7th.
Write a piece of flash fiction, poem, or song (300 words or less) using the photo [below] as your inspiration. Post it on your blog anytime between now and when the link closes. Every eligible entry will qualify for a chance to win one of the prizes listed below. Links will close for submissions January 30th. Lillie, Angie, Angela and I will then read, debate, and decide on five winners for the following:
1st: Fifty page critique by Lillie McFerrin
2nd: Twenty-Five page critique edit by Angie Richmond
3rd: Fifteen page critique by Angela Goff
4th: Ten page critique by Daniel Swensen
5th: A copy of Steven King’s On WritingWinners will be announced February 7th.
There was a light in the forest.
No really.
Some hunters found it first, but nobody went to check on it. Truth be told, hunters were known to see a lot of things, be it brought on by buck fever or Budweiser. But no, the local Boy Scout troop found it as well, and that lent credibility.
Authorities trudged out to the scene, far from any road. They were trailed, conspicuously, by members of the press, and kids skipping school. Most of town, really. They all saw the light, yellow beams filtered through the dark branches. Then the pale flowers, gathered in the glow of a single bare bulb, hung in the middle of the clearing.
The mayor, some town board members and the sheriff stood and stared up, necks craned. Other than being in the middle of the woods, it was just like any other lightbulb they'd encountered in their lives. It didn't make any noise. It didn't burn white hot. It seemed kind of comfortable, really, a nice light in a formerly dark place.
It seemed safe, so they let people come and see. Everybody stared at the light until they saw bright floating spots when they looked away, peering through the trees as though perhaps there would be more, some kind of renovation that Mother Nature was in the middle of. No animals came.
After a month of front page headlines, and then the national tabloids, and a few newscasts, the light became commonplace. There was talk of merchandising it some way, maybe changing the team mascot from the desultory Knight to the mysteriously charged Lightbulb, but the student council voted it down.
As the months passed, the visitors tapered off. The snow fell, and people moved on to other things. Unseen, the light went out.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Book Review: The Millennium Trilogy, by Stieg Larsson
In the past week or so, I've read the three books in Stieg Larsson's "Millennium Trilogy" (called so because of Millennium Magazine, which features prominently in the narrative, not because it has anything to do with Lance Henriksen, but maybe he's Swedish as well?) I'd actually tried, years ago, to read the first book The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, with no success. I was bored out of my skull on page 20, and that's far beyond where I normally cut off my precious attention. But, so many people of all stripes are reading the books, there are the Swedish movies, and now the first American remake has come out...so I tried again.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Found it! Friday
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Warts and All
Sometimes, you read a book or story in which one of the main characters is somebody others flock to. Visionary, charismatic, a real champion of a cause, or maybe just really fun to be around. We see it in Atlas Shrugged, with John Galt (well, when we eventually see John Galt). We see it in Stranger in a Strange Land, with Valentine Michael Smith. There is a fine line between a character who is supposed to be a strong, idealistic, individualistic leader, and a total Mary Sue (or Gary Stu, for the male version).
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
A Different Language
I was a reader before I was a writer.
When I was little, I loved to be read to. My grandmother got me a beautiful edition of Rudyard Kipling's Just So Stories, perhaps because it was Kipling and because it was beautiful, but she didn't think that at that age (4? 5?) I'd have the fortitude to sit through an entire story before bedtime.
She was incorrect.
When I was little, I loved to be read to. My grandmother got me a beautiful edition of Rudyard Kipling's Just So Stories, perhaps because it was Kipling and because it was beautiful, but she didn't think that at that age (4? 5?) I'd have the fortitude to sit through an entire story before bedtime.
She was incorrect.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Déjà vu: When a book you're reading is a book you've read before
A lot of people are excited for the Hunger Games movie to come out. I confess, I do have an interest; I think they picked a good Katniss, and I think that the action and story flow will translate well to the screen.
However.
A few years back, 1999, a book came out in Japan and was subsequently translated to English. It was called Battle Royale, and was written by Koushun Takami. Battle Royale takes place in a fictional totalitarian state. Every year, a class of high school students is chosen to be taken to a location for "The Program", given weapons, and kill each other. There is one winner. If the students decline to kill one another, there is a time limit for nobody dying, and then they're all killed remotely and there is no winner. Pretty similar, n'est-ce pas?
However.
A few years back, 1999, a book came out in Japan and was subsequently translated to English. It was called Battle Royale, and was written by Koushun Takami. Battle Royale takes place in a fictional totalitarian state. Every year, a class of high school students is chosen to be taken to a location for "The Program", given weapons, and kill each other. There is one winner. If the students decline to kill one another, there is a time limit for nobody dying, and then they're all killed remotely and there is no winner. Pretty similar, n'est-ce pas?
