Is finally upon us. I can't wait for this semester to be done. Apparently I'm a senior at State. I think this will be a multi-year condition, unfortunately. At least I know it's almost done, thank the Hanukkah Zombie.
I gave a 30 minute talk yesterday about the history of the Arab-Israeli conflict. This was moderately interesting and effective, and my professor "enjoyed it very much" and thanked me for it twice. Extra credit? One can only hope.
Officially on a fiction hiatus until this semester is over. Barring lightning strikes, of course.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The path is Clarion
So registration for Clarion started on the first. The page is a bit weird to navigate, and the formatting has to be in PDF or .Doc, but otherwise the process went relatively painlessly.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Al Dente
So. Let's just say that after Peter Pan left Neverland he started spending more time in the regular world. During this time there was no one left to defend Neverland. The pirates and the lost boys fall into chaos without a strong leadership and they begin skirmishing. Then the Others arrive.
And the arms dealer, who pits faction against faction selling modern weapons of destruction in exchange for dreams and memories.
Tinkerbell has lost faith that Pan will return, and a new cult of Pirates and the Lost Boys led by Mr. Smee await the return of Captain Hook, the only man who can return a semblance of order to a tribe of the Lost and a new crew of bloodthirsty pirates led by Israel Hands.
Let's just say it's the end of the world, and this time the villain is the only one who can save The Neverland.
And the arms dealer, who pits faction against faction selling modern weapons of destruction in exchange for dreams and memories.
Tinkerbell has lost faith that Pan will return, and a new cult of Pirates and the Lost Boys led by Mr. Smee await the return of Captain Hook, the only man who can return a semblance of order to a tribe of the Lost and a new crew of bloodthirsty pirates led by Israel Hands.
Let's just say it's the end of the world, and this time the villain is the only one who can save The Neverland.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Wacky world of Fractals
Last night I medicated and decided to watch something educational on the internets. Being a science fiction fan I was looking for a documentary on a favorite author, in this case Arthur C. Clarke, when I happened upon a documentary about Fractal Geometry that he'd hosted in the early nineties.
I think that were I not medicated I wouldn't have been as into it as I was, but nonetheless its an interesting subject. Emphasis is placed on the M-Set, which is a formula that produces infinitely complex patterns. An interesting idea, that there is some way to very abstrusely model infinity with computers. I'm not a math guy, so I will take Clarke's word for it.
I think that were I not medicated I wouldn't have been as into it as I was, but nonetheless its an interesting subject. Emphasis is placed on the M-Set, which is a formula that produces infinitely complex patterns. An interesting idea, that there is some way to very abstrusely model infinity with computers. I'm not a math guy, so I will take Clarke's word for it.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Sgt. Pepper
Started working on some existentialist rant about the self as it relates to language and decided to include it into the novel rough draft. That is continuing to evolve at a very slow pace, but that's fine. If this is going to be something I pour everything into I can afford to wait until it's right.
It's the night before thanksgiving. I've got two pigeons marinating in apple juice concentrate and cinnamon, cranberries ready to get made into a pie and a sauce, I went ahead and baked some yams that will go into a sweet potato casserole, and then there's the stuffing. All in all not a bad little feast if all goes according to plan. First Thanksgiving I've ever prepared, let's hope it works.
It's the night before thanksgiving. I've got two pigeons marinating in apple juice concentrate and cinnamon, cranberries ready to get made into a pie and a sauce, I went ahead and baked some yams that will go into a sweet potato casserole, and then there's the stuffing. All in all not a bad little feast if all goes according to plan. First Thanksgiving I've ever prepared, let's hope it works.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Unacceptable
The delay between last post and this one. Though granted my current readership extends to one person I knew in college.
Neurotransmitters seem to have normalized to some extent, and this is good enough for now. Depression is a relatively insidious monster that creeps up on you in small increments and in the passage of normal day to day it is very difficult to tell that you are slowly being swallowed by it. At least in my recent experience.
And I'm off for a week. Now it's time to get some writing done... or play a lot of Tetris .
Neurotransmitters seem to have normalized to some extent, and this is good enough for now. Depression is a relatively insidious monster that creeps up on you in small increments and in the passage of normal day to day it is very difficult to tell that you are slowly being swallowed by it. At least in my recent experience.
And I'm off for a week. Now it's time to get some writing done... or play a lot of Tetris .
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
I started reading On Stranger Tides and not only because Johnny Depp will be in the movie adaption latest Pirates of the Caribbean sequel.
This has been a fun read so far, and speaks to me black heart in a language it can well understand.
Very little writing done, neurotransmitters are readjusting. Please stand by.
This has been a fun read so far, and speaks to me black heart in a language it can well understand.
Very little writing done, neurotransmitters are readjusting. Please stand by.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Short writing
Today at boingboing.net there's a contest for 100 word "found in space" themed stories. Grand prize is a 700 dollar computer.
here's my entry. or entreaty, as it were.
Albuquerque
City Limits
Elev 5000
The green and white metal sign floated through the void, rotating at intervals. It was scratched and pitted but the writing remained legible. A metal stake was still screwed into the opposite side.
The ship approached and idled long enough to catalogue the sign. The researches took a photon-impression and recreated it in a digital fashion within the ship’s biological computer bank. They thought to one another on the purpose of the object. A small psychic debate began.
The ship slid away into the blackness, and the sign continued to slowly spin through empty space.
here's my entry. or entreaty, as it were.
Albuquerque
City Limits
Elev 5000
The green and white metal sign floated through the void, rotating at intervals. It was scratched and pitted but the writing remained legible. A metal stake was still screwed into the opposite side.
The ship approached and idled long enough to catalogue the sign. The researches took a photon-impression and recreated it in a digital fashion within the ship’s biological computer bank. They thought to one another on the purpose of the object. A small psychic debate began.
The ship slid away into the blackness, and the sign continued to slowly spin through empty space.
Friday, November 13, 2009
The End of the Universe
The end of the universe came suddenly.
Neither a bang
nor a whimper.
The Man sat in the bus terminal as all reality crumpled itself neatly into a ball, and then deposited itself promptly in the omniscient trashcan. Beyond the dimly-lit overhang of the terminal was nothing, in all of its splendor.
The terminal was open on three sides, with a wall behind his seat, and an overhanging roof. The whole area of the terminal was much wider side to side than it was long.
The floor was the kind of indeterminately colored tile that refused to show dirt easily, and the light was the kind of soft zombie-light that was neither too harsh nor too soft. Perfect for reading, napping, or waiting.
And for all The Man could tell, THIS was all that was left. All the light. All the floor. All the waiting.
Outside was hard for The Man to describe
No light.
No dark.
It wasn't black
And it wasn't white.
But looking at it, The Man knew it for what it was. Absence. There was no way to mistake it. It was a wholly alien lack. It was the field in which space occupied, but bereft of space. It was uniform in its unimaginable emptiness. But The Man knew it when he saw it. As all things that live will recognize the end. Terminus, the inevitable cease of existence. But had any creature great or small ever witnessed a thing like this?
The Man's palms began to sweat. He looked around wildly in the flickering fluorescent lighting. Against all logic the lights were on. He hurriedly walked to the water fountain by the bulletin board announcing missing persons and the best rates to New Mexico.
The water flowed. It was cold, but tasted flat. The fountain had condensation around its drinking aperture. There was gum stuck in the drain, causing the water to pool before slowly making its way down the pipe.
Where did the water come from?
Where did it go?
The Man walked to the edge of the tile floor, onto what remained of the sidewalk and blacktop beyond the overhang. He stared into the emptiness. The impression was without depth. When he expected to stare into a bottomless pit, his experience was closer to staring at a wall his nose was pressed against. There was nothing to focus on. No sense of space.
He couldn't stand there for very long. And he didn't.
*
Someone had said something in the between of wakefulness and sleep.
The Man was reasonably sure it was important. He opened his eyes and brushed off his newspaper blanket. Someone had fixed the vending machines again. He didn't need to get up and inspect them to know that they'd been restocked.
Or at least, that was the first hypothesis.
What bothered The Man more than the isolation and the seeming tractlessness of time was the fact that he hadn't passed a bowel movement.
Not once.
And while his suit was understandably dirty, there was no ring around the collar. The general filth one would expect one's body to shed onto cotton after going days or weeks (how long had it been?) without a change of clothing was noticeably absent. The oil-stain on his knees was still there - from when he'd reached under the vending machine searching for loose change.
The Man didn't get hungry. He broke open the vending machines and ate every morning more out of routine than anything else. Once he had punctured a water-pipe while banging on it with a loosened tile, and managed to take an impromptu shower.
He gazed at that pipe now. He'd never have guessed it had ever been disturbed. Whoever came in here while he was sleeping certainly did a good job of repairing whatever he damaged. Cobwebs were returned, nicks and scratches in the glass were there.
One day The Man just carved his name into the wall with a pen. Then he took a nap. His name was noticeably absent when he awoke.
The antihypothesis was much less comforting, and The Man did not spend much time on it.
The Man walked up and down the terminal. Empty benches standing like monuments to the dead. Or lost. Or maybe he was lost. Maybe he was dead? The Man wasn't sure.
Sometimes he would speak loud enough for him to hear himself babble and warble and ramble on about nothing. And sometimes he would scream. He did not like the sound of his scream echoing back at him.
The world looked grayer to him every day.
The Man noticed that the emptiness was coming closer almost by accident.
The yellow line that indicated no one was supposed to stand beyond that space when the bus arrived had, he was relatively sure, been at the edge of the drop off to nothingness. But today it was gone.
The Man remembered what happened when he'd thrown a pocket full of loose change at the void.
He could see the coins shimmering in that horrible, ceaseless light
and then they were gone.
They never struck anything.
They never passed beyond the concrete.
They were just gone.
The Man sat at the bench and stared at his shadow beneath him. He knew he would have to take the plunge.
If he didn't walk into it, sooner or later it would come for him.
The Man shuddered. Imagining a small island in the stream of nothing. A bench atop a small patch of concrete. He sitting there with his legs pulled up as the world slowly melted into nothing....
He couldn't do that.
Better to meet the inevitable, The Man decided. He took up his coat and straightened it as best he could. He looked longingly at the empty exit lane that indicated the way out that was no way out at all. The Man strode forward to meet the audient void.
He stared long into the abyss.
And then he stepped forward
The bench he’d sat in remained warm for a long time.
Copyright 2008. All rights reserved.
Neither a bang
nor a whimper.
The Man sat in the bus terminal as all reality crumpled itself neatly into a ball, and then deposited itself promptly in the omniscient trashcan. Beyond the dimly-lit overhang of the terminal was nothing, in all of its splendor.
The terminal was open on three sides, with a wall behind his seat, and an overhanging roof. The whole area of the terminal was much wider side to side than it was long.
The floor was the kind of indeterminately colored tile that refused to show dirt easily, and the light was the kind of soft zombie-light that was neither too harsh nor too soft. Perfect for reading, napping, or waiting.
And for all The Man could tell, THIS was all that was left. All the light. All the floor. All the waiting.
Outside was hard for The Man to describe
No light.
No dark.
It wasn't black
And it wasn't white.
But looking at it, The Man knew it for what it was. Absence. There was no way to mistake it. It was a wholly alien lack. It was the field in which space occupied, but bereft of space. It was uniform in its unimaginable emptiness. But The Man knew it when he saw it. As all things that live will recognize the end. Terminus, the inevitable cease of existence. But had any creature great or small ever witnessed a thing like this?
The Man's palms began to sweat. He looked around wildly in the flickering fluorescent lighting. Against all logic the lights were on. He hurriedly walked to the water fountain by the bulletin board announcing missing persons and the best rates to New Mexico.
The water flowed. It was cold, but tasted flat. The fountain had condensation around its drinking aperture. There was gum stuck in the drain, causing the water to pool before slowly making its way down the pipe.
Where did the water come from?
Where did it go?
The Man walked to the edge of the tile floor, onto what remained of the sidewalk and blacktop beyond the overhang. He stared into the emptiness. The impression was without depth. When he expected to stare into a bottomless pit, his experience was closer to staring at a wall his nose was pressed against. There was nothing to focus on. No sense of space.
He couldn't stand there for very long. And he didn't.
*
Someone had said something in the between of wakefulness and sleep.
The Man was reasonably sure it was important. He opened his eyes and brushed off his newspaper blanket. Someone had fixed the vending machines again. He didn't need to get up and inspect them to know that they'd been restocked.
Or at least, that was the first hypothesis.
What bothered The Man more than the isolation and the seeming tractlessness of time was the fact that he hadn't passed a bowel movement.
Not once.
And while his suit was understandably dirty, there was no ring around the collar. The general filth one would expect one's body to shed onto cotton after going days or weeks (how long had it been?) without a change of clothing was noticeably absent. The oil-stain on his knees was still there - from when he'd reached under the vending machine searching for loose change.
The Man didn't get hungry. He broke open the vending machines and ate every morning more out of routine than anything else. Once he had punctured a water-pipe while banging on it with a loosened tile, and managed to take an impromptu shower.
He gazed at that pipe now. He'd never have guessed it had ever been disturbed. Whoever came in here while he was sleeping certainly did a good job of repairing whatever he damaged. Cobwebs were returned, nicks and scratches in the glass were there.
One day The Man just carved his name into the wall with a pen. Then he took a nap. His name was noticeably absent when he awoke.
The antihypothesis was much less comforting, and The Man did not spend much time on it.
The Man walked up and down the terminal. Empty benches standing like monuments to the dead. Or lost. Or maybe he was lost. Maybe he was dead? The Man wasn't sure.
Sometimes he would speak loud enough for him to hear himself babble and warble and ramble on about nothing. And sometimes he would scream. He did not like the sound of his scream echoing back at him.
The world looked grayer to him every day.
The Man noticed that the emptiness was coming closer almost by accident.
The yellow line that indicated no one was supposed to stand beyond that space when the bus arrived had, he was relatively sure, been at the edge of the drop off to nothingness. But today it was gone.
The Man remembered what happened when he'd thrown a pocket full of loose change at the void.
He could see the coins shimmering in that horrible, ceaseless light
and then they were gone.
They never struck anything.
They never passed beyond the concrete.
They were just gone.
The Man sat at the bench and stared at his shadow beneath him. He knew he would have to take the plunge.
If he didn't walk into it, sooner or later it would come for him.
The Man shuddered. Imagining a small island in the stream of nothing. A bench atop a small patch of concrete. He sitting there with his legs pulled up as the world slowly melted into nothing....
He couldn't do that.
Better to meet the inevitable, The Man decided. He took up his coat and straightened it as best he could. He looked longingly at the empty exit lane that indicated the way out that was no way out at all. The Man strode forward to meet the audient void.
He stared long into the abyss.
And then he stepped forward
The bench he’d sat in remained warm for a long time.
Copyright 2008. All rights reserved.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Burned fingers and writing
Yesterday I burned my middle and ring finger of my left hand whilst making waffles. It turns out the metal parts are best to be avoided when the red light is on.
2000 words dedicated strictly to the novel today. Most of this was in sequence, but the last five hundred or so was strictly jump around and may not necessarily end up in the same place when all is said and done.
The idea is to draw on life experience and tell a fictional story. The idea isn't fully formed yet, so I hesitate to concern myself overly much with the finished product. We'll see what we see when we see it, until then...
2000 words dedicated strictly to the novel today. Most of this was in sequence, but the last five hundred or so was strictly jump around and may not necessarily end up in the same place when all is said and done.
The idea is to draw on life experience and tell a fictional story. The idea isn't fully formed yet, so I hesitate to concern myself overly much with the finished product. We'll see what we see when we see it, until then...
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Happy Birthday!
A second birthday was today. It's been three years since my discharge, and I can't tell you what happened to the time. Married, divorced, and moved across the country two and a half times. Sounds like an exciting existence, but nothing could have been further from the truth (or Furthur, if you would).
So we come to it. Three years older and finally something beginning to show for it. I have never been so hopeful on an anniversary as I am on this one, in spite of the depression that's been plaguing my academic excursions. Nothing is certain, but I get the feeling that everything is going to be all right.
So we come to it. Three years older and finally something beginning to show for it. I have never been so hopeful on an anniversary as I am on this one, in spite of the depression that's been plaguing my academic excursions. Nothing is certain, but I get the feeling that everything is going to be all right.
Scrambled Egg Pizza
Buy a pre-done pizza to put things on. Use salsa liberally or hot sauce less liberally and coat the pizza crust. Place in oven and allow to warm.
Scramble some eggs with lots of cheese and whatever else you want on your pizza. Scramble to desired consistency. Then remove crust and combine. Serves 1-3 persons.
Scramble some eggs with lots of cheese and whatever else you want on your pizza. Scramble to desired consistency. Then remove crust and combine. Serves 1-3 persons.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Today.
Today is the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall that separated East Germany from the West. For many this day in history signals the end of hostilities between the two nuclear equipped superpowers: one was the Soviet Union and the other remains The United States.
I was very young when the wall came down. I can recall one year in school a map clearly demarcating a separation of Germany, and then suddenly Germany was one country. I failed to grasp the importance of this event at the time, but I do remember one thing: Hope.
An end to the cold war was regarded by some as the possible end of history - as famously stated by political economist Francis Fukuyama. There was an idea that the war was finally over. All war. Of course, we know that isn't the case today.
The Nineties, ostensibly a peaceful and prosperous time for an America riding the wake of the "victory" over the Soviets saw an unprecedented degree of genocidal conflicts fought for the purpose of "ethnic cleansing" in regions such as Kosovo, Rwanda, and Bangladesh to name a few.
Today, we live in a world that is increasingly polarized between the East and the West, or so it seems to me. When Samuel Huntington proposed a Clash of Civilizations to replace the War of Ideas between Capitalism and Communism few would have imagined the scope of the conflict we find ourselves in today.
And this is the world we live in. No longer divided between Communism and Capitalism - freedom and tyranny as many Americans saw it, we live in a world of conflicting cultures brought together in an increasingly interconnected world network. Grievances can now be aired across state boundaries without regard for geographic proximity. And the wars rage on around the world.
And now: Perspective.
It's also Carl Sagan's Birthday.
I was very young when the wall came down. I can recall one year in school a map clearly demarcating a separation of Germany, and then suddenly Germany was one country. I failed to grasp the importance of this event at the time, but I do remember one thing: Hope.
An end to the cold war was regarded by some as the possible end of history - as famously stated by political economist Francis Fukuyama. There was an idea that the war was finally over. All war. Of course, we know that isn't the case today.
The Nineties, ostensibly a peaceful and prosperous time for an America riding the wake of the "victory" over the Soviets saw an unprecedented degree of genocidal conflicts fought for the purpose of "ethnic cleansing" in regions such as Kosovo, Rwanda, and Bangladesh to name a few.
Today, we live in a world that is increasingly polarized between the East and the West, or so it seems to me. When Samuel Huntington proposed a Clash of Civilizations to replace the War of Ideas between Capitalism and Communism few would have imagined the scope of the conflict we find ourselves in today.
And this is the world we live in. No longer divided between Communism and Capitalism - freedom and tyranny as many Americans saw it, we live in a world of conflicting cultures brought together in an increasingly interconnected world network. Grievances can now be aired across state boundaries without regard for geographic proximity. And the wars rage on around the world.
And now: Perspective.
It's also Carl Sagan's Birthday.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Season of Cruelty
It had been a cruel season.
The sun had not come on time. The clouds, spewing frozen runoff that was neither snow nor rain, hung in the sky as the fields sat untended. The animals died, and so did the children.
The Priest danced until his feet bled and his knees swelled. He tranced and he prayed and he fasted and sang. And then one day he did not wake up. His body was dragged to the edge of the village and left. The ground was frozen through and digging was impossible. There was no spare wood to burn his body.
No one was ever able to offer much of an explanation. The old man named Victor raised his hands to the heavens and cursed the gods of man.
It is a cruel season. He said.
And he attempted to ignite the dead tree limbs they had collected with the old lighter he'd received as a present after returning from the war. He rallied the villagers for a time and spoke of the passage of time, the changing of the seasons and the movements of the stars. And for a time they listened.
But they continued to grow hungry, and soon they turned even on the old man named Victor.
And the season did pass, in time. And Victor was dead when the clouds broke. He was in the earth when the land warmed, but he was cold. The villagers did their best to repair the damage to their crops. It was a futile endeavor. People were starving.
They were simple people, unused to prolonged privation of the basic necessities. Victor would have shaken his head and bayed them patience. But the old man was dead, as previously mentioned.
So they started eating each other.
It continues
Today I posted a draft for "Code of Conduct" in the private place. Or last night, maybe.
It's up to about 4000 words, which makes me happy. I started working on something as a tide-over project but all momentum has ceased after 300 words or so. Listening to the Weepies. Little else to report.
It's up to about 4000 words, which makes me happy. I started working on something as a tide-over project but all momentum has ceased after 300 words or so. Listening to the Weepies. Little else to report.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Ditching School to Write
I'd never recommend this path to anyone.
But my efforts were rewarded with a 3300 word rough draft that is only going to get fatter. This one is tentatively called "Code of Conduct" and we'll see where it goes in the next few days and/or weeks.
But my efforts were rewarded with a 3300 word rough draft that is only going to get fatter. This one is tentatively called "Code of Conduct" and we'll see where it goes in the next few days and/or weeks.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Rejection and Rookie Mistakes
Just got my first rejection for "A Brief Interview with Death" (though the story has grown significantly since initial send in, I have no one to blame but myself for that) from Clarkesworld . Which is a real shame, they look like a great pub.
Then I got the advice to submit further stories in Standard Manuscript Format (SMF) . Call me an idiot, but I've never heard of this before. Le sigh.
I must be new at this.
Then I got the advice to submit further stories in Standard Manuscript Format (SMF) . Call me an idiot, but I've never heard of this before. Le sigh.
I must be new at this.
If this doesn't do it for you
When the average recruit joins the military, the expectation may or may not follow along these lines:
When in fact, this is what you get:
When in fact, this is what you get:
Halloween And Curfew Hours from U.S. Army Fort Huachuca on Vimeo.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Intoxicated crazy people writing
Here is a rough transcription of an idea I had while not operating on quite the same plane of reality as normal. Enjoy!
What if things were separated into hot and cold? Like, it's much more difficult to cool things than heat them, economically in regard to energy output into the process. So that there was this cult that believed that heating was the natural order of things, laws of thermodynamics being observed. And there was this other cult that believed cooling was better, as it was more complicated a process.
Clearly a metaphor for the (har har) Cold War.
What if things were separated into hot and cold? Like, it's much more difficult to cool things than heat them, economically in regard to energy output into the process. So that there was this cult that believed that heating was the natural order of things, laws of thermodynamics being observed. And there was this other cult that believed cooling was better, as it was more complicated a process.
Clearly a metaphor for the (har har) Cold War.
Evolved
The Weezer Snuggy.
Wow.
Just.
Wow.
Artistic integrity in this bold new future of tomorrow's dreams is all about endorsing the right product.
Epic Win.
Wow.
Just.
Wow.
Artistic integrity in this bold new future of tomorrow's dreams is all about endorsing the right product.
Epic Win.
Hurry Up, Before it's Gone!
Yeehaw!
Just pumped up Brief Interview with Death to 2500, added a bit more character development and attempted to give the thing a bit more weight. I think I have my first Clarion application story
I think that I am a proficient writer, if I may be honest, speaking from the heart, as the Macho Man Randy Savage was wont to say.
I am a proficient writer, but I am a subpar story teller. Or so I believe. I have identified a weakness, now it's time to work.
I think that I am a proficient writer, if I may be honest, speaking from the heart, as the Macho Man Randy Savage was wont to say.
I am a proficient writer, but I am a subpar story teller. Or so I believe. I have identified a weakness, now it's time to work.
Clarion, Ho!
Stop me if you've heard this one:
The Clarion workshop is beginning to take new applications starting in December. Successful application requires two 2500 or more word stories representing the best stuff you've got. And fifty bucks. Assuming acceptance it's then another four thousand plus for the program (housing provided for and not optional).
Oh good.
Clarion is, for those outside of the know the super selective (only 18 selectees!) writing workshop held at UCSD during the summer months and taught by real SF writers. There's another workshop, Clarion West in Seattle which apparently has better parties. No idea beyond what the interwebs tell me.
Looks like it's time to get to writing.
The Clarion workshop is beginning to take new applications starting in December. Successful application requires two 2500 or more word stories representing the best stuff you've got. And fifty bucks. Assuming acceptance it's then another four thousand plus for the program (housing provided for and not optional).
Oh good.
Clarion is, for those outside of the know the super selective (only 18 selectees!) writing workshop held at UCSD during the summer months and taught by real SF writers. There's another workshop, Clarion West in Seattle which apparently has better parties. No idea beyond what the interwebs tell me.
Looks like it's time to get to writing.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Reading List for November:
Well, I started with "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" by Milan Kundara. I got a gift card to Amazon for my birthday (Thanks sis) and ordered Infinite Jest and On Stranger Tides two books I have been itching to get into for some time now.
I have to say that lately I've almost felt guilty about buying new books, and unfortunately its for the most dippy liberal reasons: the fucking trees. But I had a GIFT CARD! That should say something about the depth of my concern for mother Gaia. Beyond those three I haven't put too much thought into November's reads. I should have finished Drowning Girls in China by now for class - but I think I have the gist of it, so the paper will materialize some time in the next few days - assuming the magic gnomes that do my homework show up on time.
I have to say that lately I've almost felt guilty about buying new books, and unfortunately its for the most dippy liberal reasons: the fucking trees. But I had a GIFT CARD! That should say something about the depth of my concern for mother Gaia. Beyond those three I haven't put too much thought into November's reads. I should have finished Drowning Girls in China by now for class - but I think I have the gist of it, so the paper will materialize some time in the next few days - assuming the magic gnomes that do my homework show up on time.
And they're off!
Good luck to everyone competing in nanowrimo. I hang my head and mumble maybe next year, maybe next year
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Happy Halloween
Today I turn 27. I'm as old as Kurt Cobain was when he shot himself, when Jimmy Hendrix choked on his own vomit, and the rest of that club.
I have traditionally gotten very depressed on my birthday, but today is not so bad. Granted, I haven't left the house yet. So. The battle continues.
I have traditionally gotten very depressed on my birthday, but today is not so bad. Granted, I haven't left the house yet. So. The battle continues.
Submit!
I finished "A Brief Interview with Death" the other day. By finished I mean pumped it up to exactly 2000 words, which is still a bit on the light side for a short story, but I think it works well enough as a quick piece of fluff you can tear through, chuckle at, and remember later in the dark hours of the morning when you should be asleep but instead are up blogging.
And speaking of submitting it turns out Playboy has this thing for college students. The deadline is in February, and I went ahead and read the 2007 story. I have a feeling there are issues of masculinity that must be addressed when writing for this, the ultimate gentleman's magazine. The story wheels in the brain begin to spin.
And speaking of submitting it turns out Playboy has this thing for college students. The deadline is in February, and I went ahead and read the 2007 story. I have a feeling there are issues of masculinity that must be addressed when writing for this, the ultimate gentleman's magazine. The story wheels in the brain begin to spin.
Monday, October 26, 2009
October Stories Pt Deux
Ok, so I just wrote the first October Story rough draft, which is tentatively titled "A Brief Interview with Death". Right now it's just around 1500 words, and there is plenty of room to go. I've been refining the dialog as it's one of THOSE stories where it all occurs in the talking. I manage to reference the seventh seal twice, once in movie form, and once a bit more literally. It's not mind-shatteringly brilliant, but it's going to be a good October story, and I'm happy with that.
Now if only I could tap into brilliance like THIS.
Now if only I could tap into brilliance like THIS.
October Stories
I had wanted to write a good short story to post here on Halloween. I love October. I love Fall. This is the time when people pretend to stop being rational and begin to believe in magic again. By the time Christmas hits it will all be over, and we will be stuck in the nihilistic wasteland of modern life - waiting until next year.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
What is truth?
“Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
The goal of some fiction writers is to tell a story.
Some fiction writers endeavor for the truth.
How do you tell the truth when you are essentially lying? Does the writer believe that he or she can grasp those gossamer strands of impression and weave them into something that is not only coherent, but also suitably written? Does the writer expect to discover some indivisible unit of the essential human experience? Should probably not think about it.
What is truth? Pontius Pilate supposedly posed the question famously to his wife. It sounds like a dramatically delivered line in a work of fiction. And maybe it was. All the world is a stage, the old Englishman's cliche'.
Gimme some truth John Hurt. You beautiful, beautiful man.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
The goal of some fiction writers is to tell a story.
Some fiction writers endeavor for the truth.
How do you tell the truth when you are essentially lying? Does the writer believe that he or she can grasp those gossamer strands of impression and weave them into something that is not only coherent, but also suitably written? Does the writer expect to discover some indivisible unit of the essential human experience? Should probably not think about it.
What is truth? Pontius Pilate supposedly posed the question famously to his wife. It sounds like a dramatically delivered line in a work of fiction. And maybe it was. All the world is a stage, the old Englishman's cliche'.
Gimme some truth John Hurt. You beautiful, beautiful man.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Drainage!
I managed a paltry 600 words that I'm hoping will end up as the beginning of something big. Unfortunately it took eight hours to come up with that 600 words. When Hemingway said "use the pain", he apparently neglected to mention that in order to tap into it you have to stand at the tenuous precipice and stare into the void that is one's life.
So For the first time I've tried writing from experience in a very personal way. It's unbelievably difficult for me, and I've been putting it off for some time now. It's a draining experience, hence the video. I feel like I'm using myself up to do it, but I'm happy with the result right now. It's not finished, but I think it's some of the most honest writing I've ever done. 600 paltry words, but they mean a lot at this point.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
God, I love yesterday's tomorrow.
I would have liked to see pneumatic people-tubes.
What an awesome guy.
From the Dust Returned
H1N1 be damned, I think I was just gang-banged by a bacterium and a virus working in tandem. Thank you.
Did you know that Ray Bradbury is still alive? I didn't until recently. By recently I mean 2007, but it still surprises the hell out of me.
here's something he has to say on the subject of writing!
Did you know that Ray Bradbury is still alive? I didn't until recently. By recently I mean 2007, but it still surprises the hell out of me.
here's something he has to say on the subject of writing!
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Hemingway's 4 Rules of Writing
Hemingway has been my favorite writer as far back as my drop out in 2001. I'd bought a copy of The Sun Also Rises at a used book sale on campus a week before I left. I brought the book with me. I'd thought about writing before reading that book, but Papa Hem is the guy who pushed me over the edge. The prose, the characters, the scenery and the masculine bullshit triggered some chemicals in my brain that began bubbling and cooking. The rest is history. Here are his rules, as he was wont to impart on his many youthful "mice".
1. Use Short Sentences
2. Use Short First Paragraphs
3. Use Vigorous English
4. Never Have Only Four Rules
These were also, according to legend, the rules for writing at the Kansas City Star, where Hem cut his teeth writing when he was very young.
1. Use Short Sentences
2. Use Short First Paragraphs
3. Use Vigorous English
4. Never Have Only Four Rules
These were also, according to legend, the rules for writing at the Kansas City Star, where Hem cut his teeth writing when he was very young.
Monday, October 12, 2009
And Another Thing...
This is news to me, but it seems that the author of Artemis Fowl was tasked with writing a final Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy book. Making that officially part 6 of 3. I feel the same way I do about this as I did about the Blade Runner sequels. I am not knocking on the author, and I'm not going on a diatribe about the pollution of one man's "art", because that's not how I feel. I just have no interest in this kind of thing beyond the fact that it happened. I wouldn't say I'd never pick it up in a library if I saw it, but I'm not spending money on it at this juncture. I hope things work out for Dent Arthur Dent and Co.
Friday, October 9, 2009
A World Without Nuclear Weapons
It's five minutes to midnight.
It's been that way since 2007, when the minute hand was advanced by two minutes. I was in Iraq, so that's my excuse for being late to this information.
The Nobel Peace prize award once again brings nuclear nonproliferation and disarmament into the the public consciousness - where it will sit for five minutes, cause some consternation, and then be dumped for John and Kate +8 late breaking news.
There are currently 9 countries in the world that possess or are believed to posses nuclear strike capabilities, in no particular order: Russia, The US, France, Pakistan, India, UK, China, North Korea, and maybe Israel. I can see why some Hawks yearn for the good old days.
Unfortunately, the world we live in is no closer to being rid of nuclear weapons than the world of the 1950s.
How do you unlearn something? How do you unknow the secrets of the universe? A world without nuclear weapons is a fast fading dream, mankind may just have to live in the shadow of the mushroom cloud, as we have been as a species for over fifty years. In the timeline of our history, that isn't very long - and chances are we have some way yet to go...
But I think that if you stretch the timeline out long enough, destruction is assured.
It's been that way since 2007, when the minute hand was advanced by two minutes. I was in Iraq, so that's my excuse for being late to this information.
The Nobel Peace prize award once again brings nuclear nonproliferation and disarmament into the the public consciousness - where it will sit for five minutes, cause some consternation, and then be dumped for John and Kate +8 late breaking news.
There are currently 9 countries in the world that possess or are believed to posses nuclear strike capabilities, in no particular order: Russia, The US, France, Pakistan, India, UK, China, North Korea, and maybe Israel. I can see why some Hawks yearn for the good old days.
Unfortunately, the world we live in is no closer to being rid of nuclear weapons than the world of the 1950s.
How do you unlearn something? How do you unknow the secrets of the universe? A world without nuclear weapons is a fast fading dream, mankind may just have to live in the shadow of the mushroom cloud, as we have been as a species for over fifty years. In the timeline of our history, that isn't very long - and chances are we have some way yet to go...
But I think that if you stretch the timeline out long enough, destruction is assured.
Robert Heinlein's Rules of Writing
I found this and having given where credit is due, I think it's worth reposting (not riposting) these here.
1. You must write.
Maybe this is a no-brainer, but since starting this blog I've found that the amount of writing I've done about writing has actually decreased, and my production has gone up. Sometimes the best you can do is slam your fingers into a keyboard and watch the wordcount for the day increase one at a time - and other times it's truly the inspired stuff you wanted to write in the first place. Write. Write some more. Then Write a bit after that.
2. You must finish what you write.
Now this is the tough part. I tend to write very short and concise scenes. I don't know why I got into the habit of doing this, but now my habit is to write something in very lean prose, have something weird happen, and that's the end of it. The scenes conclude, but it's not really over - and that's easy. It is a pain in the ass following up on something and continuing to work within its continuity in the hopes of creating a decent and coherent narrative. But, if you want to be a writer, you had damn well better finish what you write.
3. You must refrain from rewriting, except to editorial order.
I'm assuming he's talking about to excess. There comes a point when you've done the work, written the thing - and now its time to submit it. I was very lucky that my first published thing required no rewriting. It was short enough and weird enough that it stood on its own well enough.
4. You must put the work on the market.
Rejection letters have become slightly monotonous, and I'm still only starting out. Putting something out there for the would-be publisher to read is a bit intimidating. I guess the best thing to do is bite the bullet and do it - and don't take it personally until they accept something.
5. You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.
I've been shopping one story around for five months now, and I am seriously considering taking it and rewriting it or doing something to make it more palatable. Heinlein sez don't. I am but an egg.
1. You must write.
Maybe this is a no-brainer, but since starting this blog I've found that the amount of writing I've done about writing has actually decreased, and my production has gone up. Sometimes the best you can do is slam your fingers into a keyboard and watch the wordcount for the day increase one at a time - and other times it's truly the inspired stuff you wanted to write in the first place. Write. Write some more. Then Write a bit after that.
2. You must finish what you write.
Now this is the tough part. I tend to write very short and concise scenes. I don't know why I got into the habit of doing this, but now my habit is to write something in very lean prose, have something weird happen, and that's the end of it. The scenes conclude, but it's not really over - and that's easy. It is a pain in the ass following up on something and continuing to work within its continuity in the hopes of creating a decent and coherent narrative. But, if you want to be a writer, you had damn well better finish what you write.
3. You must refrain from rewriting, except to editorial order.
I'm assuming he's talking about to excess. There comes a point when you've done the work, written the thing - and now its time to submit it. I was very lucky that my first published thing required no rewriting. It was short enough and weird enough that it stood on its own well enough.
4. You must put the work on the market.
Rejection letters have become slightly monotonous, and I'm still only starting out. Putting something out there for the would-be publisher to read is a bit intimidating. I guess the best thing to do is bite the bullet and do it - and don't take it personally until they accept something.
5. You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.
I've been shopping one story around for five months now, and I am seriously considering taking it and rewriting it or doing something to make it more palatable. Heinlein sez don't. I am but an egg.
I think it's started...
I didn't want to start on the novel until this summer, but I just started something big. The sheer mass of it is hidden, and I'm 500 words in... but I can feel it. This one might the be one. AND It's got a killer opening line.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
I heart college.
I recently watched Dreams With Sharp Teeth which is a documentary about a writer named Harlan Ellison. Here he is talking about college students and Dachau with trademarked abrasiveness.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
My two cents.
I didn't want to say anything about the god damned war, but then we watched MSNBC for two hours. So here's what i got:
It does not matter how effective your Counter Insurgency (COIN) forces are, you can't polish a turd. I was never in Afghanistan, I spent my three tours in Iraq - so this is NOT an opinion informed by personal experience. This is an opinion expressed by someone who HAS conducted COIN operations for nineteen months, trained for said operations over a four year period, and studied COIN in a scholastic manner for two years.
The Karzai government stretches credibility here in the US, I cannot imagine what the Afghan people think about its legitimacy.
If the government of Afghanistan is not legitimate, is not seen as legitimate abroad, and is not accepted by the Afghan people as legitimate it. will. fail. The United States cannot prop it up and make it a cogent alternative to the Taliban and Al Qaeda.
Do it right, pour troops in troops to secure the country, unfuck the government by rebooting from whole cloth, and be prepared for ten more god damned years in that hellhole -- or get the fuck out and lets stop this fucking nightmare.
Those are the only two options I believe will work. Anything else is waffling and sinking deeper into this quagmire.
It does not matter how effective your Counter Insurgency (COIN) forces are, you can't polish a turd. I was never in Afghanistan, I spent my three tours in Iraq - so this is NOT an opinion informed by personal experience. This is an opinion expressed by someone who HAS conducted COIN operations for nineteen months, trained for said operations over a four year period, and studied COIN in a scholastic manner for two years.
The Karzai government stretches credibility here in the US, I cannot imagine what the Afghan people think about its legitimacy.
If the government of Afghanistan is not legitimate, is not seen as legitimate abroad, and is not accepted by the Afghan people as legitimate it. will. fail. The United States cannot prop it up and make it a cogent alternative to the Taliban and Al Qaeda.
Do it right, pour troops in troops to secure the country, unfuck the government by rebooting from whole cloth, and be prepared for ten more god damned years in that hellhole -- or get the fuck out and lets stop this fucking nightmare.
Those are the only two options I believe will work. Anything else is waffling and sinking deeper into this quagmire.
Judgement
So I saw this article over at the most popular blog in the world. My initial reaction was to mentally groan "Noooooooo", and I had to stop myself. This is interesting, bear with me.
Come November it'll be three years since I was discharged. That's a year shy of the length of my enlistment, har har. It surprises me when I catch how much my worldview is still shaped by that experience. Like the idea of Carl Sagan baked out of his mind staring through a telescope and jotting down whatever came into his head.
What's so wrong with that?
Of course, in the military, drug use is strictly verboten with extreme prejudice. Popping positive on a pee test is liable enough to land you in brig, which is to say prison - military style. Despite its posturing, the US military is about as socially progressive as the Puritans who landed on Plymouth Rock. But I lived under this kind of absolute black and white for a long time. We all became the silent judges when someone in the platoon or company or battalion was found guilty of the egregious sin of trying to find a momentary escape from the monotonous horror of day to day existence then. We all judged, and we all forgot ourselves.
Come November it'll be three years since I was discharged. That's a year shy of the length of my enlistment, har har. It surprises me when I catch how much my worldview is still shaped by that experience. Like the idea of Carl Sagan baked out of his mind staring through a telescope and jotting down whatever came into his head.
What's so wrong with that?
Of course, in the military, drug use is strictly verboten with extreme prejudice. Popping positive on a pee test is liable enough to land you in brig, which is to say prison - military style. Despite its posturing, the US military is about as socially progressive as the Puritans who landed on Plymouth Rock. But I lived under this kind of absolute black and white for a long time. We all became the silent judges when someone in the platoon or company or battalion was found guilty of the egregious sin of trying to find a momentary escape from the monotonous horror of day to day existence then. We all judged, and we all forgot ourselves.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Nanowrimo idea!
I'm not participating in this year's National Novel Writing Month competition, but my Dad is. What does that say about me? Lazy, busy, and extra lazy. That hasn't stopped me from coming up with a great idea for Nanowrimo :
The Bobbyssey.
Being the account of the only surviving sailor with whom Odysseus set sail from Troy.
This being inspired by late-night watchings of Clash of the Gods on the television.
The Bobbyssey.
Being the account of the only surviving sailor with whom Odysseus set sail from Troy.
This being inspired by late-night watchings of Clash of the Gods on the television.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Another Rejection!
Just got another rejection for submission via email. I'm only sad that it's not as easy to pin an email to the wall. I could print it out, but that would be stupid.
Questions
I was talking with a friend last night, and we started discussing motivation. The Who, What, When, Where, Why questions so familiar to journalists are equally useful to a writer in the predawn hours of writing.
Asking Who your characters are is a no brainer. But the next question to ask is What does that character want? Our literary traditions are based around conflict, and conflict arises when something is sought and met with resistance. What does the protagonist want? What does the antagonist want? Where do they have to go to get what they want? Why do they want it? Some questions to stir the pot.
Asking Who your characters are is a no brainer. But the next question to ask is What does that character want? Our literary traditions are based around conflict, and conflict arises when something is sought and met with resistance. What does the protagonist want? What does the antagonist want? Where do they have to go to get what they want? Why do they want it? Some questions to stir the pot.
Guerrilla
The Small wars Journal is running a competition that will pay up to three thousand dollars. The topics manage to be both vague and binding. I just finished about 1500 words dedicated to my experience during my second deployment. The plan is to vomit as much information as I can, and use that as a basis for comparing ineffectual operations and how things could be done differently. I have a feeling that this is an exercise in futility as I was not an officer. There's an old saying in the military, "Stay in your lane". I am going to have to skirt the very edge of that lane to do this effectively.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
What's in a name?
I started writing a short today about a guy who happens to have the surname "Hitler". Doing the kind of cursory research a lazy writer is wont to do before embarking on a project of this magnitude, I saw this.
It's interesting to think that there must have been OTHER Hitlers beyond der fuhrer. Did these guys and gals change their name after the war to avoid violent reprisals from the rest of the world? Were there enclaves that welcomed The Hitlers? Was there a club of Hitlers and former Hitlers? What did they talk about?
These questions will likely go unanswered.
It's interesting to think that there must have been OTHER Hitlers beyond der fuhrer. Did these guys and gals change their name after the war to avoid violent reprisals from the rest of the world? Were there enclaves that welcomed The Hitlers? Was there a club of Hitlers and former Hitlers? What did they talk about?
These questions will likely go unanswered.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Inspiration III
There are times when the blank computer screen is a daunting foe. Like now, for instance. It becomes much easier to write about writing than it is to actually write. This is my own fault at this point -accustomed as I am to writing extremely short (under 2000 words) stories. I have found this to be a fun if slightly masturbatorial experience, and so I endeavor for a higher word count. Right there. The brick wall comes up and everything seems hopeless. I've already committed more words on my opinion of writing today than I have on actually writing something.
So I will turn to a third point of inspiration: Handwriting.
I have found it useful in the past to pull out an unused notebook and a mechanical pencil and start writing. Sometimes I start with one word over and over and over again. Sometimes I fill a page with that, sometimes more than one. But then something weird starts to happen around the five hundredth time I've written the same word (besides hand cramp). Words start to flow. And sometimes they are rather clever, and I'm amazed that I had that in me. Sometimes they are not, and it's just a dull exercise. Either way, there is production where once there was nothing. And that's worth something? I guess.
So I will turn to a third point of inspiration: Handwriting.
I have found it useful in the past to pull out an unused notebook and a mechanical pencil and start writing. Sometimes I start with one word over and over and over again. Sometimes I fill a page with that, sometimes more than one. But then something weird starts to happen around the five hundredth time I've written the same word (besides hand cramp). Words start to flow. And sometimes they are rather clever, and I'm amazed that I had that in me. Sometimes they are not, and it's just a dull exercise. Either way, there is production where once there was nothing. And that's worth something? I guess.
Inspiration II - Characters.
Inspiration can come from a lot of places. Characters are essential to story-telling. Some believe that the story comes from strong characters - and some believe that characters compliment a pregenerated plot. I've written both ways, and I don't have a preference at this point.
A writer should get a good handle on the major characters of a story, and will probably know more about those characters than the reader ever will from reading the story.
That's ok.
Using a set of well-rounded characters that you can understand will make for believable interactions and conversations. For the dialog alone, it's worth doing a little leg work and figuring out who these people really are.
But... what's the easiest way to create a complete history for an imaginary person? I direct you to the dark and mysterious world of Dungeons and Dragons.
Character Creation is a much-discussed topic in the role playing community. The stereotype of the shirtless barbarian murdering hordes of monsters and stealing their shit is by no means inaccurate, but it doesn't apply across the board. Sometimes playing a character is as much fun as winning hordes of treasure and having sex with decapitated orc heads.
Either way, next time you consider writing a story, try building your characters first, and working around THEM. Might be interesting.
A writer should get a good handle on the major characters of a story, and will probably know more about those characters than the reader ever will from reading the story.
That's ok.
Using a set of well-rounded characters that you can understand will make for believable interactions and conversations. For the dialog alone, it's worth doing a little leg work and figuring out who these people really are.
But... what's the easiest way to create a complete history for an imaginary person? I direct you to the dark and mysterious world of Dungeons and Dragons.
Character Creation is a much-discussed topic in the role playing community. The stereotype of the shirtless barbarian murdering hordes of monsters and stealing their shit is by no means inaccurate, but it doesn't apply across the board. Sometimes playing a character is as much fun as winning hordes of treasure and having sex with decapitated orc heads.
Either way, next time you consider writing a story, try building your characters first, and working around THEM. Might be interesting.
Inspiration
Inspiration is something that is not coming in droves today, so I will try and write about it. Last time I talked about the Muses a little, now I think it's important to talk about where these ideas come from... as opposed to the sheer will to write (which comes from inside and no one can give to you). Here's a video by one of my favorite authors when I was young - I remember reading this guy's stuff when I was much younger. The Cyborg Harpy Trilogy was one of those book series that showed me what I wanted to do when I grow up.
Ok, that was a joke.
Ok, that was a joke.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
October
The tilt of the globe allows for less sunlight to penetrate the atmosphere. It is the dying time for the world, and we have come to accept that. In ancient cultures the gods seemed to shirk away in this season of death, and man was left to fend for himself in the growing cold and the lengthening darkness. Persephone has taken her long voyage down into the darkness amongst the lost.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Musing on Muses.
I wrote to Andrew Carroll the other day, and as he is patient enough to put up with me, he wrote me back. The conversation is less important, for the purpose of this post, than a comment he made about the muses.
I think that all artists in some way shape or form acknowledge The Muse (use capital letters!) when working. On occasion, divine inspiration slaps you across the face and you sit down and it's almost as much fun as having sex on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland. Most of the time fun isn't a word that many people would use. Rewarding? Sure. But it's not always easy to sit down and grapple with that blank page - or blank screen if you'd prefer.
I've heard of writers who go so far as to perform elaborate rituals in order to capture the attention of The Muse. This reminds me a bit of those athletes who will do something weird before going out and performing their best. It's always the same kind of thing, usually only a second or two before the required action is performed. The swimmer who runs his left hand (fingers tight, thumb along the forefinger!) over his swim cap from his eyebrow to the crown of his head - or the sprinter who jumps up and down three times like a Masai Warrior.
But is that the truth of it? Are we, as artists, vulnerable to this kind of crazy superstition? Yeah, artist. I said it. Wanna fight about it? All seriousness aside - I think this might be a recurring theme.
I think that all artists in some way shape or form acknowledge The Muse (use capital letters!) when working. On occasion, divine inspiration slaps you across the face and you sit down and it's almost as much fun as having sex on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland. Most of the time fun isn't a word that many people would use. Rewarding? Sure. But it's not always easy to sit down and grapple with that blank page - or blank screen if you'd prefer.
I've heard of writers who go so far as to perform elaborate rituals in order to capture the attention of The Muse. This reminds me a bit of those athletes who will do something weird before going out and performing their best. It's always the same kind of thing, usually only a second or two before the required action is performed. The swimmer who runs his left hand (fingers tight, thumb along the forefinger!) over his swim cap from his eyebrow to the crown of his head - or the sprinter who jumps up and down three times like a Masai Warrior.
But is that the truth of it? Are we, as artists, vulnerable to this kind of crazy superstition? Yeah, artist. I said it. Wanna fight about it? All seriousness aside - I think this might be a recurring theme.
Monday, September 28, 2009
On a mote of dust
Science fiction as a genre tends to sit in the backseat of the literary canon, and is often made to wear a special helmet so it doesn't hurt itself - presumably whilst licking the windows. As a writer who gravitated toward science writing and science fiction in particular, I can honestly say that the reputation SF has received is not entirely without warrant.
There's the cliched argument for the constant relevancy of SF as new breakthroughs occur guided by the auspices of the great writers and talking heads of days past. Gene Roddenberry is often brought up, and that makes me sad. He wasn't even a very good writer, and as far as I know he was never a scientist. He was, however, a pilot. Ok.
Then there are guys like Carl Sagan. I was too young and too far from English Speaking TV to ever catch Cosmos when I was younger. But I imagine I would have liked it a lot. Here is something he might have gotten a kick out of.
There's the cliched argument for the constant relevancy of SF as new breakthroughs occur guided by the auspices of the great writers and talking heads of days past. Gene Roddenberry is often brought up, and that makes me sad. He wasn't even a very good writer, and as far as I know he was never a scientist. He was, however, a pilot. Ok.
Then there are guys like Carl Sagan. I was too young and too far from English Speaking TV to ever catch Cosmos when I was younger. But I imagine I would have liked it a lot. Here is something he might have gotten a kick out of.
Dirty Secrets
So there i was. Seventeen and just beginning to seriously consider putting words on paper in college. Unfortunately, I'd also just discovered comic books that didn't involve guys dressed up in spandex. This was an ill-fated affair, to say the least.
In my enthusiasm for the newly discovered medium, I decided the best way to express myself and my bubbling appreciation was through fan fiction. Alas. It's true.
What is worse still? This fan fiction was published on a web-site! Worse still yet moreso?
It's still there.
I can look at this semi-objectively now and see that my excitement was much greater than my skill in the craft. It's an embarrassing reminder of how far I have come as a writer - and it lets me laugh at myself.
Surely, there is nothing wrong with that.
In my enthusiasm for the newly discovered medium, I decided the best way to express myself and my bubbling appreciation was through fan fiction. Alas. It's true.
What is worse still? This fan fiction was published on a web-site! Worse still yet moreso?
It's still there.
I can look at this semi-objectively now and see that my excitement was much greater than my skill in the craft. It's an embarrassing reminder of how far I have come as a writer - and it lets me laugh at myself.
Surely, there is nothing wrong with that.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Counting Electric Sheep
I ran into this documentary on Philip Dick, the author of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, Valis, and the short story "The Minority Report" among many, many others. If you are unfamiliar, I'd recommend starting with his short stories. Philip Dick wrote hyperreal Science Fiction - and is generally loved and hated in equal measure. Here's part 1.
On Criticism
"Everyone's a critic" is the kind of cliched thing the hack writer mumbles to himself as he swallows another mouthful of Johnny Walker Black only to vomit it up in short order all over his typewriter. With the establishment of the "Comments" section, suddenly everyone can, and most do criticize the work of others.
Often this criticism is insightful, helpful, and tacit. Other times it's worthless. And more often it seems a comments section becomes a breeding ground for trolls who enjoy making people cry. Not the topic, but still.
Pages like Amazon and Goodreads make critics of us all as we jot our experiences, thoughts, and opinions for all the world to see. I'm as guilty of that as anyone, as I was a top 100 reviewer for a month (my first month, oddly enough).
With all this energy dedicated to critique, has this become the form of creative expression of choice for the average net denizen?
Often this criticism is insightful, helpful, and tacit. Other times it's worthless. And more often it seems a comments section becomes a breeding ground for trolls who enjoy making people cry. Not the topic, but still.
Pages like Amazon and Goodreads make critics of us all as we jot our experiences, thoughts, and opinions for all the world to see. I'm as guilty of that as anyone, as I was a top 100 reviewer for a month (my first month, oddly enough).
With all this energy dedicated to critique, has this become the form of creative expression of choice for the average net denizen?
I take it all back.
So in a moment of weakness I sent Neil Gaiman a message via his website. Less than a week later I got a very short response, but a response nonetheless. Well shit. Now I feel only slightly bad for leaving less than drooling reviews of his works on goodreads. Sorry Neil.
Rejection Slips
The other day I received a rejection slip from another magazine called Strange Horizons for something I'd sent in. Being too dumb to quit, I immediately sent it out to another publisher. Strange Horizons was then sent another story for consideration. Might as well.
I'm not concerned about the quality of the work on a mechanical level. Though it might be too short - that having been an issue until recently. There is little else to do but keep on writing, and we'll see what we see in a month or two.
I'm not concerned about the quality of the work on a mechanical level. Though it might be too short - that having been an issue until recently. There is little else to do but keep on writing, and we'll see what we see in a month or two.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Adieu Mr. Hughes, Adieu
John Hughes died a few days ago, and I only now decided to make mention. I was a late comer to his iconic movies. Though I might have been thrilled by "Uncle Buck" and "Home Alone" in my single and early double digit years, I was fully 15 or 16 when I finally saw "The Breakfast Club" and "Ferris Bueller's Day Off". So it goes.
Monday, August 10, 2009
On Writing
The protagonist awoke/incorporated/turned on early on the day the story started. He/she/it ran through the minutia of beginning a day in the life/function of someone/thing a story is going to follow. Perhaps the protagonist went to work, but then again, perhaps not. Chances are - there is something exceptional about this individual/mass/group that led he/she/it to become the focal of a story.
Some writers believe that anything can be imagined can happen. Robert Heinlein talked at length about this in person and in some of his longer and more boring stories. He called this the “Many Worlds Theory”. I, the writer of this story, believe that is naïve. But Robert Heinlein has written many more books than I have, and is infinitely more popular; so that should tell you, the reader, something about naiveté and what my opinion is worth.
The protagonist had a goal that he/she/it wanted to achieve. And in order to do that the protagonist was going to have to come into conflict with something. This is simply the way it works. Don’t question it – it won’t do you any good. Our protagonist, let’s call him/her/it pro from now on, would have to face a challenge from an external source or an internal source.
Depending on what this story is about, pro might have to do battle with him/her/itself in some way, overcoming some inner demon or weakness on the hero’s journey. On the other hand, there may be an antagonist, someone who will most aid in the development of the character of pro. Then again, pro may be battling the intangible, like nature or society. Maybe pro wants to build a fire under a snowy tree – or maybe he/she/it wants to save a world addicted to a drug that keeps it docile and easy to control. You don’t know, do you?
It’s ok, I don’t really know, either. I have no answers to give you, I’m just telling the story. So: Pro sets out on the hero’s journey. That long and embittered march of character development designed to accomplish an end and create meaningful change. Pro wouldn’t be the protagonist, after all, unless he/she/it was the one character in the story to undergo the most drastic change.
The antagonist may be a villain. Like Snidely Whiplash or Darth Vader. Either of these two kinds of villains will essentially have a neon sign pointing at their head screaming ANTAGONIST. This is effective, but not very creative. All you have to do to make a character like that is flip your protagonist upside down. Alternatively, you can make a friendly character the antagonist. Like Gandalf in The Hobbit. In this case this character is literally the one who facilitates the most change in your protagonist. He may be adversarial at times, but ultimately what he’s doing isn’t going to directly hinder your protagonist on his journey.
I am only telling you this because I don’t want us to misunderstand one another. I’m going to tell you a lie about something that never happened. But there may be truth inside that lie. That’s what Hemingway liked to believe. I am not so sure anymore, myself. I think that truth is very difficult to get at. It’s much easier to tell you lies and entertain you that way. I’m not a very good writer, so this is the game we will play. I will try and fool you into thinking I am not a bad writer, and you will continue to read this gripping story about a protagonist with no name and no capitalization.
The protagonist begins the journey far from home. Because that’s what Odysseus did, and that is the story that everyone bases everything else on. They should probably do it on Gilgamesh, but you see, the Greeks were white people in our understanding, and the ancients Babylonians were brown. This is intimidating to the legions of white writers to think that the game was created by brown people that are known for suicide bombings in this country (which is called the US of A). But perhaps I am over explaining myself? I am not sure.
Pro (capitalized here because it is the first word of the sentence) also has a flaw that will get him/her/it into trouble. Maybe pro carouses too much with the opposite sex/input type, or maybe pro likes to imbibe something hazardous, like whiskey or drain cleaner. Every story is, in the end, the protagonist overcoming his/her/its own demons and developing into the kind of person we all want to be… or they die. Or fail. One could write a whole book using just tabs and if/thens with three or fewer options, like a choose your own adventure, but with fewer pictures.
Once pro gets what he/she/it is looking for, it’s all downhill from there. The goal may not actually be achieved, but you can bet your britches the climax has occurred. This is the highest point in the action where everything boils over to a head. This can be violent, emotional, or exciting – or none of those things, or some, or all. This is what some might call the magic of writing. If, for my climax, I want a penis-shaped pineal gland to burst from pro’s forehead/plate then I can do that, as long as I can tie it in with what has happened before. This might be confusing, but don’t worry.
The action definitely troughs after that. Things wind down, the battle is over, and life begins to move on. The conclusive issue arrives when it damn well pleases, and the story ends. Some might say that no story really ends, the writer just gets tired of telling it. Obviously they were a much better story teller than I am now, because I can’t wait for this to be over.
Pro has overcome the jaunty symmetry thrown in his/her/its path and has come out on top, or has died. Other characters may mourn the loss or hold pro up over what passes for their heads. As the story concludes, pro begins to wonder what to do with the rest of his/her/its existence, and if a sequel is to be set up, this is the time to do it. There will be no sequel, however. Pro has walked the path and has come out the other end burned and singed. He/She/It has conquered the demons needed conquering, and lost to the ones that were greater than him/her/itself. Such is life, and such is the stuff of fiction.
Some writers believe that anything can be imagined can happen. Robert Heinlein talked at length about this in person and in some of his longer and more boring stories. He called this the “Many Worlds Theory”. I, the writer of this story, believe that is naïve. But Robert Heinlein has written many more books than I have, and is infinitely more popular; so that should tell you, the reader, something about naiveté and what my opinion is worth.
The protagonist had a goal that he/she/it wanted to achieve. And in order to do that the protagonist was going to have to come into conflict with something. This is simply the way it works. Don’t question it – it won’t do you any good. Our protagonist, let’s call him/her/it pro from now on, would have to face a challenge from an external source or an internal source.
Depending on what this story is about, pro might have to do battle with him/her/itself in some way, overcoming some inner demon or weakness on the hero’s journey. On the other hand, there may be an antagonist, someone who will most aid in the development of the character of pro. Then again, pro may be battling the intangible, like nature or society. Maybe pro wants to build a fire under a snowy tree – or maybe he/she/it wants to save a world addicted to a drug that keeps it docile and easy to control. You don’t know, do you?
It’s ok, I don’t really know, either. I have no answers to give you, I’m just telling the story. So: Pro sets out on the hero’s journey. That long and embittered march of character development designed to accomplish an end and create meaningful change. Pro wouldn’t be the protagonist, after all, unless he/she/it was the one character in the story to undergo the most drastic change.
The antagonist may be a villain. Like Snidely Whiplash or Darth Vader. Either of these two kinds of villains will essentially have a neon sign pointing at their head screaming ANTAGONIST. This is effective, but not very creative. All you have to do to make a character like that is flip your protagonist upside down. Alternatively, you can make a friendly character the antagonist. Like Gandalf in The Hobbit. In this case this character is literally the one who facilitates the most change in your protagonist. He may be adversarial at times, but ultimately what he’s doing isn’t going to directly hinder your protagonist on his journey.
I am only telling you this because I don’t want us to misunderstand one another. I’m going to tell you a lie about something that never happened. But there may be truth inside that lie. That’s what Hemingway liked to believe. I am not so sure anymore, myself. I think that truth is very difficult to get at. It’s much easier to tell you lies and entertain you that way. I’m not a very good writer, so this is the game we will play. I will try and fool you into thinking I am not a bad writer, and you will continue to read this gripping story about a protagonist with no name and no capitalization.
The protagonist begins the journey far from home. Because that’s what Odysseus did, and that is the story that everyone bases everything else on. They should probably do it on Gilgamesh, but you see, the Greeks were white people in our understanding, and the ancients Babylonians were brown. This is intimidating to the legions of white writers to think that the game was created by brown people that are known for suicide bombings in this country (which is called the US of A). But perhaps I am over explaining myself? I am not sure.
Pro (capitalized here because it is the first word of the sentence) also has a flaw that will get him/her/it into trouble. Maybe pro carouses too much with the opposite sex/input type, or maybe pro likes to imbibe something hazardous, like whiskey or drain cleaner. Every story is, in the end, the protagonist overcoming his/her/its own demons and developing into the kind of person we all want to be… or they die. Or fail. One could write a whole book using just tabs and if/thens with three or fewer options, like a choose your own adventure, but with fewer pictures.
Once pro gets what he/she/it is looking for, it’s all downhill from there. The goal may not actually be achieved, but you can bet your britches the climax has occurred. This is the highest point in the action where everything boils over to a head. This can be violent, emotional, or exciting – or none of those things, or some, or all. This is what some might call the magic of writing. If, for my climax, I want a penis-shaped pineal gland to burst from pro’s forehead/plate then I can do that, as long as I can tie it in with what has happened before. This might be confusing, but don’t worry.
The action definitely troughs after that. Things wind down, the battle is over, and life begins to move on. The conclusive issue arrives when it damn well pleases, and the story ends. Some might say that no story really ends, the writer just gets tired of telling it. Obviously they were a much better story teller than I am now, because I can’t wait for this to be over.
Pro has overcome the jaunty symmetry thrown in his/her/its path and has come out on top, or has died. Other characters may mourn the loss or hold pro up over what passes for their heads. As the story concludes, pro begins to wonder what to do with the rest of his/her/its existence, and if a sequel is to be set up, this is the time to do it. There will be no sequel, however. Pro has walked the path and has come out the other end burned and singed. He/She/It has conquered the demons needed conquering, and lost to the ones that were greater than him/her/itself. Such is life, and such is the stuff of fiction.
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