from a place of wrath and tears
So, I'm back, dearest digiblips, from a wonderful long trip in the underbelly of the world *shrug* what can I say, I fell off the edge. Very super short update?
- even if it's still spring, it's actually summer. fleas and ticks, and pollen, and it's a jungle out there
- reading, reading, reading like a maniac
- still no government in poor old Belgium, while politicians are still at it, beating the zombified horses
- the world remains a scary place, even if Al Qaeda lost its sugar daddy: North Africa and the Middle East are on fire, causing bewilderment in Europe, while the massive emigration movement causes cracks upon the cracks the banking crisis left; the Big One or his little brother caused a nuclear disaster in Japan, just in time for Chernobyl's anniversary; and it's okay to shoot bad people if it's in another country than your own; God's own vacuum doing overtime during a super tornado outbreak, and it's not even 2012!
- I quit the job, because that certainly was not working for me
- fencing-wise, I've been engaging my medial shin muscle in excessive amounts of eccentric muscle activity, and now I've got periostitic shin splints, yay!
- I got tired of getting lost with the car when I don't have my flesh-and-bones tomtom along and bought a GPS. I changed the voice settings (the default chic and smart Flemish or Dutch "named" voices are annoying, sounding too much like *I* am the idiot). Now it talks like a robot woman with half a brain, and who can't decide whether she's from Holland or France. Which is just poifect to my Belgian senses!
Oh, and while I haven't been talking much to the Cow Watcher, I've got this funny feeling he's decided the solution to the Barynn (monster) trilogy is actually simple: make it FOUR books *headdesk*
*mumbles* and I wasn't even working on B *headdesk*
Subscribe To
Posts
All Comments
Showing posts with label cow watching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cow watching. Show all posts
nameless child (sonogram)
Been reading up on stuff (1000+ posts that need sorting out in my demonfeeder), and upon flipping through Whatever came upon a post interesting enough to want to click through to the comment (this post which is a blog-to-blog discussion), Cow Watcher snatched a thought here:
See how that works, where with all the crossing and linking possible, between computers, information, platforms, programs, whatever, in the end the thing that is our master remains time. No matter what we invent to help us link, we remain linear creatures and must make linear decisions. Will there come a day where we can develop split personalities for every moment we have to spin off our digital self into old parts of the digital world, or will we develop a sense, a social ritual or handshake to indicate we're visitors from the future and that at the same time allows us to instalink to it. A rollerdex of spinoff blips or something. Am I making sense? I don't mean developing some sort of digital agent to do the job for us (because it's a SF idea and besides I'm already using that idea). Usually, when we humans change the world (as the abstract place the world is after processing by our brain), it's by using old tools. Tools we know, inside and out, and use on new problems. In the same way the first ever smiley (click for archeological reference) changed the language we use to communicate, turning us into embryonic Bester* machines.
Anyways, sense or not digiblips, into the New Project container it goes with other thoughts on digiblippery and networking. Note to self: the baby still needs a name.
On the topic of instalinking and moving from one world/workspace/headspace to the next, my mind finds tabs mightily difficult to sort out the last few days. It happens once in a while, and I don't know how to fix it. At work I was totally lost between the running programs/groups in the taskbar and Excel tabs, always flipping the wrong things to the surface. It's not even a "clickspaces being in the same area" thing, since the Firefox tabs are currently also annoying the crap out of my digital-spatial senses. Like working in a cramped office on a cluttered desk. It only exists in digispace and yet it is so cluttered I can never seem to find the right piece of paper and I'm muttering to myself about "where did I see/put that thing?".
Why is my mind so confused? Is it working on stuff and not communicating, or is it the yello-boogers' influence (sinusitis yay!)?
* I don't mean something made by Bester Machine Enterprise Co.,Lt from Japan, which makes "printers machinery for cup noodles, ice cream, pudding etc." whatever that actually might be. What I meant was actually the way in which reading Bester (specifically Golem100) teaches your mind to think differently about the tools we use to express language, the ink on paper, the characters defined after centuries of convention. And suddenly a semi-colon is not just punctuation but a reduced image of a set of winking eyes, and math and language are not so different...
#23 by Doc Rocketscience on December 29, 2010 - 1:22 pmJohn, as a result of this I just read the original post from 2006 for the first time. I have some questions. I note that comments are still open there.Would you prefer that I contribute to that (albeit quite dusty) discussion, or this?
#24 by John Scalzi on December 29, 2010 - 1:23 pmEither is fine but if you want people interested in that particular essay to see them, it’s probably better to put them there rather than here.
See how that works, where with all the crossing and linking possible, between computers, information, platforms, programs, whatever, in the end the thing that is our master remains time. No matter what we invent to help us link, we remain linear creatures and must make linear decisions. Will there come a day where we can develop split personalities for every moment we have to spin off our digital self into old parts of the digital world, or will we develop a sense, a social ritual or handshake to indicate we're visitors from the future and that at the same time allows us to instalink to it. A rollerdex of spinoff blips or something. Am I making sense? I don't mean developing some sort of digital agent to do the job for us (because it's a SF idea and besides I'm already using that idea). Usually, when we humans change the world (as the abstract place the world is after processing by our brain), it's by using old tools. Tools we know, inside and out, and use on new problems. In the same way the first ever smiley (click for archeological reference) changed the language we use to communicate, turning us into embryonic Bester* machines.
Anyways, sense or not digiblips, into the New Project container it goes with other thoughts on digiblippery and networking. Note to self: the baby still needs a name.
On the topic of instalinking and moving from one world/workspace/headspace to the next, my mind finds tabs mightily difficult to sort out the last few days. It happens once in a while, and I don't know how to fix it. At work I was totally lost between the running programs/groups in the taskbar and Excel tabs, always flipping the wrong things to the surface. It's not even a "clickspaces being in the same area" thing, since the Firefox tabs are currently also annoying the crap out of my digital-spatial senses. Like working in a cramped office on a cluttered desk. It only exists in digispace and yet it is so cluttered I can never seem to find the right piece of paper and I'm muttering to myself about "where did I see/put that thing?".
Why is my mind so confused? Is it working on stuff and not communicating, or is it the yello-boogers' influence (sinusitis yay!)?
* I don't mean something made by Bester Machine Enterprise Co.,Lt from Japan, which makes "printers machinery for cup noodles, ice cream, pudding etc." whatever that actually might be. What I meant was actually the way in which reading Bester (specifically Golem100) teaches your mind to think differently about the tools we use to express language, the ink on paper, the characters defined after centuries of convention. And suddenly a semi-colon is not just punctuation but a reduced image of a set of winking eyes, and math and language are not so different...
from Alfred Bester's Golem100
whirligig
One that went down some rapids. That's how I feel. Things been moving fast, all things, in all directions, but things are finally looking up. Short and quick update:
I haz work, 18h in 4 days. Transport to and from work is the absolute epitome of what makes Belgium Belgium, which means for what is basically about 35km in distance I can go by car (1h30 drive in morning traffic if it goes well) or public transport: 2 buses, or 2 trains, or 1 or 2 trains and a bus, or 3 trains, all combinations averaging in principle on 1h, which I can live with if not for the fact that the 2nd train is ALWAYS late, and the either/or choice means the season ticket becomes expensive in case I don't use the bus, and I don't want to use the bus anyways.
See, I'm a "cured" car-sickness person. As a kid, mom or dad always put some anti-emetic in me, and it was no silly ritual. I remember being yanked out of the car at high speed and being held over the gutter so I could safely puke my guts out. Nowadays I only get carsick 1% of the time, and I can on good days even read! Buses tend to have a lower success rate, because of the being packed, usually too hot and smelly, the weird turning motions, not to mention speed bumps and roundabouts.
But trains I've solidly conquered. Only in 0.0001% of the time I might get a queasy stomach, so I prefer the train for transport any day: at least I can write and read without having to take drugs. And if I'm going to lose time by being shuttled from one place to another like cattle, I prefer to do something useful at the time, and somehow trying very hard not to blow chunks in the driver's neck is not what I deem useful. The driver might have another opinion of course.
Anyways, the train route to and from work is something that belongs in Alice's dreamworld or a Brazil bureaucracy: coming and going ain't the same. Even the hour makes a difference in at what station I have to make the connection with the second train. And then considering that with every passing year trains are riding less punctual, you can imagine that this shifting world needs some adapting to before I can slog the laptop along.
But! Cow Watcher has been busy, and with rewriting Barynn 1 no less, and also kicking around some new ideas.The incubator is running at full speed, digiblips, and this is good news!
Anyways, meanwhile I had to content myself with books that other people wrote. I finished Palmer's Red Claw (*love*), struggled through Charlie Stross' Atrocity Archives (struggle was my own head's fault: shifting world, getting up at silly hours to go to work, getting head filled with new important information about what job entails, waiting long time for trains that may or may not come, and then being just the halfbreed nerd that gets stalled on the technobabble because I know too little or too much), breezed through Daniel Abraham's Shadow and Betrayal in 4 days so much did I love it. I'm considering what to pick for the train tomorrow, but I think reading 600-some pages in 4 days has sprained my reading muscle. I'll see what entices me come morning.
Oh, and we're having a polar week, snow included. And guess who once again forgot to buy salt to ice-proof the pavement and bicycle lane in front of the house, mm? Tomorrow morning is going to be interesting indeed...
I haz work, 18h in 4 days. Transport to and from work is the absolute epitome of what makes Belgium Belgium, which means for what is basically about 35km in distance I can go by car (1h30 drive in morning traffic if it goes well) or public transport: 2 buses, or 2 trains, or 1 or 2 trains and a bus, or 3 trains, all combinations averaging in principle on 1h, which I can live with if not for the fact that the 2nd train is ALWAYS late, and the either/or choice means the season ticket becomes expensive in case I don't use the bus, and I don't want to use the bus anyways.
See, I'm a "cured" car-sickness person. As a kid, mom or dad always put some anti-emetic in me, and it was no silly ritual. I remember being yanked out of the car at high speed and being held over the gutter so I could safely puke my guts out. Nowadays I only get carsick 1% of the time, and I can on good days even read! Buses tend to have a lower success rate, because of the being packed, usually too hot and smelly, the weird turning motions, not to mention speed bumps and roundabouts.
But trains I've solidly conquered. Only in 0.0001% of the time I might get a queasy stomach, so I prefer the train for transport any day: at least I can write and read without having to take drugs. And if I'm going to lose time by being shuttled from one place to another like cattle, I prefer to do something useful at the time, and somehow trying very hard not to blow chunks in the driver's neck is not what I deem useful. The driver might have another opinion of course.
Anyways, the train route to and from work is something that belongs in Alice's dreamworld or a Brazil bureaucracy: coming and going ain't the same. Even the hour makes a difference in at what station I have to make the connection with the second train. And then considering that with every passing year trains are riding less punctual, you can imagine that this shifting world needs some adapting to before I can slog the laptop along.
But! Cow Watcher has been busy, and with rewriting Barynn 1 no less, and also kicking around some new ideas.The incubator is running at full speed, digiblips, and this is good news!
Anyways, meanwhile I had to content myself with books that other people wrote. I finished Palmer's Red Claw (*love*), struggled through Charlie Stross' Atrocity Archives (struggle was my own head's fault: shifting world, getting up at silly hours to go to work, getting head filled with new important information about what job entails, waiting long time for trains that may or may not come, and then being just the halfbreed nerd that gets stalled on the technobabble because I know too little or too much), breezed through Daniel Abraham's Shadow and Betrayal in 4 days so much did I love it. I'm considering what to pick for the train tomorrow, but I think reading 600-some pages in 4 days has sprained my reading muscle. I'll see what entices me come morning.
Oh, and we're having a polar week, snow included. And guess who once again forgot to buy salt to ice-proof the pavement and bicycle lane in front of the house, mm? Tomorrow morning is going to be interesting indeed...
flux continued
this week running around to get what's needed done to get this job which already had me running around for the last two weeks. Yes, a job! Ain't that cool?
And of course, now also running around to get the stuff done I kept postponing since the life of the jobless stretched out into infinity and well who cares when this or that trash finally gets brought to the recycling center? Well it doesn't stretch into infinity, not really, so...
And this weekend we're off to Paris to see some World Championship class Fencing, which means some more flux, as I'll need to plan the packing carefully.
I've got this feeling this month, even if it's only just starting, is going to be over in a blink of an eye.
But the good news/job prospect has Cow Watcher singing with joy. I mean seriously, soon there will be trains again, and cows, and no way to avoid writing.
Meanwhile I've finished reading Bacigalupi's The Windup Girl, currently into Palmer's Red Claw.
And of course, now also running around to get the stuff done I kept postponing since the life of the jobless stretched out into infinity and well who cares when this or that trash finally gets brought to the recycling center? Well it doesn't stretch into infinity, not really, so...
And this weekend we're off to Paris to see some World Championship class Fencing, which means some more flux, as I'll need to plan the packing carefully.
I've got this feeling this month, even if it's only just starting, is going to be over in a blink of an eye.
But the good news/job prospect has Cow Watcher singing with joy. I mean seriously, soon there will be trains again, and cows, and no way to avoid writing.
Meanwhile I've finished reading Bacigalupi's The Windup Girl, currently into Palmer's Red Claw.
Digiworld abuzz and other thoughts
Oh no! It's the end of an era, like a death of the party, the community is dying!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
What's all this talk about death of an era? Don't you silly digiblips know that if you hang around long enough in cyberspace everything comes back, even when it's supposed to be dead?
First I believed this was because in this new millennium even retro is retro-recycled. We do retro so well we're remaking shit before it's made!
Then I thought, maybe it's because the community keeps bits alive like zombie raising necromancers.
But now I understand: cyberspace's got a hell of an echo.
NB: I'm sorta reacting to this and this and this and this ...
Anyways, there's been some hissyfitting over some dude (no offense) writing an article on fantasy and postmodernism, with all sorts of people (also no offense) commenting whilst trying to be so much wiser than the previous blogue(r) about the value of the article and postmodernism.
Seriously? Are you kidding me? Here I thought we were safely moving away from that old dead horse and entering the newer, though obviously not quite so imaginative, era of post-postmodernism. But maybe this *is* post-postmodernism at work: everybody's so stuck in/on postmodernism that the only way forward is to keep reinventing what it means to be postmodern. Ad infinitum. Fire up that retro-recycler dudes.
The way I see it, six decades and counting is a whole lot of time to react to modernism. The only place where postmodernism isn't dead is in philosophy, any kind of taste in philosophy. All the rest is resisting and rehashing what came before, which is a natural mechanism in any kind of movement, in any kind of creative act, whether it is in body and mind postmodern or not. Just like modernism reacted to what came before. I, for one, am done flogging a dead horse over and over again. Let's just skip the whole P-mod and move on.
What's all this talk about death of an era? Don't you silly digiblips know that if you hang around long enough in cyberspace everything comes back, even when it's supposed to be dead?
First I believed this was because in this new millennium even retro is retro-recycled. We do retro so well we're remaking shit before it's made!
Then I thought, maybe it's because the community keeps bits alive like zombie raising necromancers.
But now I understand: cyberspace's got a hell of an echo.
NB: I'm sorta reacting to this and this and this and this ...
Interjection of random silliness: whenever I click through to Larry's blog I think of Gonads & Strife. And my mind associates this with the death of an era, and somehow quite fittingly, the fall of two towers. Maybe one day, I'll talk about that. Gonads & Strife forever, man.
Anyways, there's been some hissyfitting over some dude (no offense) writing an article on fantasy and postmodernism, with all sorts of people (also no offense) commenting whilst trying to be so much wiser than the previous blogue(r) about the value of the article and postmodernism.
Seriously? Are you kidding me? Here I thought we were safely moving away from that old dead horse and entering the newer, though obviously not quite so imaginative, era of post-postmodernism. But maybe this *is* post-postmodernism at work: everybody's so stuck in/on postmodernism that the only way forward is to keep reinventing what it means to be postmodern. Ad infinitum. Fire up that retro-recycler dudes.
The way I see it, six decades and counting is a whole lot of time to react to modernism. The only place where postmodernism isn't dead is in philosophy, any kind of taste in philosophy. All the rest is resisting and rehashing what came before, which is a natural mechanism in any kind of movement, in any kind of creative act, whether it is in body and mind postmodern or not. Just like modernism reacted to what came before. I, for one, am done flogging a dead horse over and over again. Let's just skip the whole P-mod and move on.
So anyways. Here I am thinking about that Bruce Sterling quote on cyberspace cuz it came up in a convo with the hubby yesterday ("Cyberspace is the 'place' where a telephone conversation appears to occur. Not inside your actual phone, the plastic device on your desk. Not inside the other person's phone, in some other city. The place between the phones.").
And I'm thinking of how people are always so surprised when people die in train stations or other busy transit nodes without anybody noticing; it doesn't surprise me, train stations are perfect for spies to meet, thieves to earn their living, terrorists to plant bombs: not because there are too many people packed upon each other for any one to notice something strange, but because there are too many people on automatic pilot zooming through this non-place, this haven of anonymity.
And then I'm thinking maybe it's not so much the anonymity, but the fact that a train station has to the people in the daily commute transit as much no real physical existence as cyberspace. It's that place where mind does one thing, while meat somewhere else does something else. That place where strangers meet, spend daily hours together for months on end, and then suddenly the "community" falls apart as all participants walk away, as if they were living in some collective hallucination. Very faerie adventure like. It's a weird fractured and fractalised reality. X-nay on the P-mod, 'kay?
And whereas in faerie-tales there would be a source, or a lady of the lake, or a burning bush marking the border of the here and the other place, there's no tollbooth except for the simple everyday items, like a keyboard or a ticket dispenser. Not sure if things would be different if there were things like ladies of the chips and stuff. Like nine sisters.
And this makes me want to watch Avalon again for the nth time, but I loaned out the DVD and I can't recall to whom. Ain't the real physical world a bitch like that?
Sonogram
I've been reading up on networking and computer models for social studies, ending up in some weird corners of philosophy and science history, all to feed Cow Watcher the fodder it needs to create some order from the chaos of dungeon crawlers.
Meanwhile, in between the menial jobs of the jobless housewife, I've put some thought in characters for this new project. No great hurry with it, I'm just reading stuff, gathering ideas, grabbing some balls Cow Watcher tosses me. I've come to some short notes on possible characters; there's this man, and there's this woman. I'm jotting down some ideas on *what* they are and how they fit into *non-existent plot*(1), and then all of a sudden in walks a real character. Not quite sure if I like him (a goddamned misanthrope if ever there was one), but his voice and attitude tell me he's important. Which makes me wonder if I'll be able to stand him long enough to be the main character.
And so the realization follows that I'll be changing POV in this project, switching from the Misanthrope/Mover&Shaker, to the two who actually live the plot. Not quite sure yet how I'm going to swing that, cuz problem is: Misanthrope is definitely "I", while the two others are "he" and "she". Ack!
Well, that's a problem to be solved later. Or not. Rules exist to be broken or some such nonsense.
So, the excitement is definitely on!
Now I have to make up a real working title; since it was quite embryonic I dubbed this project "embryo", but hey, I can see hands and feet forming: this thing needs a new name asap.
(1) Now, if you try to work like that in Excel you'll get the circular reference error: by fitting these stick-men characters into a non-existing plot, the plot emerges. I love it when a plan comes together!
Meanwhile, in between the menial jobs of the jobless housewife, I've put some thought in characters for this new project. No great hurry with it, I'm just reading stuff, gathering ideas, grabbing some balls Cow Watcher tosses me. I've come to some short notes on possible characters; there's this man, and there's this woman. I'm jotting down some ideas on *what* they are and how they fit into *non-existent plot*(1), and then all of a sudden in walks a real character. Not quite sure if I like him (a goddamned misanthrope if ever there was one), but his voice and attitude tell me he's important. Which makes me wonder if I'll be able to stand him long enough to be the main character.
And so the realization follows that I'll be changing POV in this project, switching from the Misanthrope/Mover&Shaker, to the two who actually live the plot. Not quite sure yet how I'm going to swing that, cuz problem is: Misanthrope is definitely "I", while the two others are "he" and "she". Ack!
Well, that's a problem to be solved later. Or not. Rules exist to be broken or some such nonsense.
So, the excitement is definitely on!
Now I have to make up a real working title; since it was quite embryonic I dubbed this project "embryo", but hey, I can see hands and feet forming: this thing needs a new name asap.
(1) Now, if you try to work like that in Excel you'll get the circular reference error: by fitting these stick-men characters into a non-existing plot, the plot emerges. I love it when a plan comes together!
ooOOOOoooOOOooo
Came across an article on cyberposses, which led me to look up some things I've been storing for later, which lead me to look up some more recent articles and papers on identity theft, social network behavior, viral memes, and so on and so forth. Think Cow Watcher is readying to launch some balls on the digital bliphood story thingie. So excited.
Rejection Rant
And then some; the subject is the nth iteration of the Famous Rejections, and the repeated remarks/comments they get. It started out as some thoughtful responses, I swear.
Rejections build character?
Serious *snort* now!
I'm not averse to character building. I suspect that forced revisions and editing (AIIEE MUTILATION OY SHARP KNIVES CARVING THE FLESH FROM MY SOUL!) will be far more character building than an impersonal note from either editor or agent. I frown upon the idea that being denied something that you want and know you should have because you are worthy should be seen as character building, how the hell did those people ever get past their fifth birthday? That ever first no I had to swallow as a toddler prepared me well enough for: no, nyet, nope, nada, nix, nougat-balls, and just because, you figure it out.
It doesn't help finding it not fair (oy Calimero) that my genius is denied; it's not like I can wait until mommy leaves the house and sneak into the cupboard and take the cookie I so deserve.
An explanation would help making me bristle less at the no--we all have that same child still with us, and as everybody knows, some children are louder or more stubborn than others; I must confess to having a very headstrong and petulant child within, but I cope nowadays without pouting and stomping my feet and crying in public. But my character was built enough way back when to deal with an unexplained nope (mind you, not until I figured out that mommy notices cookies disappearing and it would do me no good ignoring that no). I'd like an explanation, but I can live without. But without explanation you don't have anything to build whatever with.
Now, if an agent would send me some flaring remark (what kind of drivel is this, you idiot, with which you disturb my most exalted thoughts?) I might not be happier, but at least I'd have something I could call character building.
I look at the digital stack of impersonal form rejections (stack, pfeh, let's not be overly dramatic: I only have like 9 or 10); I accept why these must be such, though I'm not fully convinced by the arguments (see later). But since I don't have to do that work, who am I to object? No is a no, and stomping my foot ain't gonna get me cookies.
Now, said digital stack of rejections first and foremost remind me I'm a storyteller, nay storyfinder. I can't look at them and not have Cow Watcher award those impersonal words voices, give them faces, and have them speak in a certain tone. When another incarnation of the List popped up on the Rejectionist's blog, I commented that at least those rejections are personal. My digital impersonal stack simply make me feel like a leper trying to sell skin lotion. Thank you but no thank you and have a nice day! Leper moves away from door, with difficulty negotiating the two small steps to the path, then the flagstones towards the street. Before reaching the next door, arm drops off... Oh no, whispers the lady in the next house, Quickly children, hide behind the couch. It's that leper from last year again!
But honestly, I was looking for a short explanation of my feelings when making that comment. What the stack really does is make me feel like a girl scout making her cookie-selling rounds and getting met by kindly smiling faces and a chipper: "Sorry! Not today!" and "Oh how awfully sorry, but I can't."
Brave Girl Scout will not be persuaded by a little adversity like that, but after wandering through many streets, she grows weary with the chipper folk. More and more she has to bite down on a slightly evil grin so as not to blurt out "You're awfully sorry, I know. Bye!" as soon as the door opens.
Surely there are better ways to use/lose time, she feels. It's such a lovely day, and if nobody wants these cookies, what's she trying to prove? But no, she's committed, she's hard working, she'll do this, the right way. So she soldiers on, no matter that her feet hurt.
But Girl Scout is also mere human, and hence prone to petulant inner monologue. She knows slinging cookies through people's front windows will not help the sales, but wouldn't it at least make her feel better? Her fingers are starting to hurt from knocking on doors and pressing doorbells, and pain is hard to bear if you cannot see its reason.
Being somewhat paranoid of nature, Girl Scouts ends up wondering if those chipper folk are all too kind to mention they bought cookies from another Girl Scout, and well, lovely as the cookies are, people have to think about health and diet and money these days. What she would not give for someone to say: "Oh no chocolate, I can't have any says the doc." At least then she would know that the cookie-selling-route-snatching-bitch-that-spoiled-her-day is only a figment of her dark side.
Another recurring remark/sentiment is the one that states it's a rite of passage. I find that one even more disturbing. At least a tribal rite of passage has rules for the ceremony that are clear, or I should say, that clearly state what they're about. In preparation for your rite you won't be told you need to show courage during your test, and then dropped unprepared into a pit with a hungry lion. No, you'll be well warned that you'll have to fight a hungry lion to show courage. To say those two things are the same would be showing a lack of intelligence, or of common sense.
A comment in Bransford's post on the list mentioned that every failure is a step towards success:
Well... Crap on the Holy Cow. If only someone would have told me that years ago...
Bransford gives his reasons for finding fault with such lists; I'm slightly disappointed that all remarks and comments in whatever blog on the subject so rarely point out that comparing those rejections with current ones is comparing apples with pears. Why will nobody of our shepherds say out loud: those rejections have nothing to do with how the business is run nowadays. Why not slap down comments like "rite of passage" and "character building" like the fluff they are? Instead their silence only reconfirms the mantra: queries are the pain you must suffer, the ablutions you must do before being deemed worthy to the inner circle of the craft. So, write some more, it's good for your character, it's good for your soul.
You know, carrots are also good for you, but I'm no donkey, and I know when I'm strung along.
Those dear shepherds of the wannabe-writer masses pussyfoot about while they'll write page after page of detailed and thoughtful advice on queries. However, they won't say that the business has changed over the years, that their business has changed along with it, and that while they would love to find the next great artist writer they won't get his books sold. Perhaps even worse, that while they would love to find the next great artist writer, they no longer look for him.
Craft, they mutter, you must learn the craft. But it's not craft, it's not the potter forging beautiful dishes. The publishing industry is about factories copying the design and cranking out as many they can. Nay, it's not craft you must learn, it's industry. It's neither good or bad, but it is what it is and I feel more should be said about it.
Craft? Piffle. And this does not come from my frustration as querying wannabe-writer, but as reader. There's good stuff being written, but in the field of SF/Fantasy I haven't seen the likes of great storytelling like LeGuin's, or Zelazny's yet. Doubt we'll ever see something like him again and this makes me sad; I'll steer clear of questioning they would have broken through nowadays (which is like trying to argue whether aliens will like us or kill us when they come). No, honestly, I'd rather buy and read the next Zelazny than get my own stuff published. The system isn't broken because you need to rack up piles of form rejections, the system is broken because it fails to mention time and again it's first and foremost about selling copy nowadays, and less and less and even less chances are taken. It's sensible, logical, but not quite talked about as much as how it is about style and voice and craft.
It's not about writing, and it's not about craft, but about whether you can carry a platform. Will you go out and talk and do things having nothing to do with writing, and everything with selling? Will you humor fans? Do you understand what makes this business tick? Will your title sell enough within a short amount of time (and too short an amount of time to make a success of most of those writers mentioned in those lists), to make it worth it? I was just about wondering whether it might come to big boops being assets in getting published, but then this happened making it all too clear what the industry is about. Oh laugh at it, mock it, sure, but me, I'm laughing green, because I understand quite well who this particular joke is on, and illustrates so well why I'd better give up now. It's not about writing, it's about the person. And instead of giving me hope and courage, strengthen me in the idea that I simply must have an agent, simply must have an editor, simply must have a publisher, to do this the right way, they make me question if this is the right way. I'd like to get famous and rich overnight just like the next person, or whatever approximation I could ever dream of befalling me, but I'm not sure I want to pay the price. I just want to tell my stories, whether the world will buy them in masses, or not buy them at all. Just like proving courage and being chucked to lions or doing it the other way around, there's a difference between editing geared to making a manuscript into a better novel, or into a more salable novel. It is what it is, but is it what I want?
One of those things that makes me bristle when the shepherds speak of queries is the advice to personalize. I get that when thanking people when you do get published, you name the people that have helped you, whether they were paid for it or not. It's only polite, and makes perfectly sense. Just like writing a story is more than stringing words into sentences, jobs done with heart and good effort are more than something you can pay for with money.
I also understand the need to get a name right, the genre, and perhaps the preferences too. But why should I agonize over personalizing what should be an objective polite request to a stranger, while the addressed is perfectly aware that whatever I say is just a sugar-coating ploy. Something small, like "I like your blog!" or "loved that book you sold" in my weird head always get said in that immortalized tone of: I can see Russia from my house! Surely such fake sentiment will not help my book getting published? Couldn't we just go all out then and turn this show into America's Next Bestselling Author?
Another test of my character then perhaps: can I lie and fake interest in their person even if they promise their response (being 90% to 99% of the time the negative kind) will be an impersonal form rejection?
It annoys me and then some. I'm not a great people's person. Especially when strangers are involved. I pick and fuss over my words, lay awake at night wondering about certain glances, certain expressions I noticed. I HATE making telephone calls if it's my business, but I'll call to wherever if my job demands it, no problem, and I'll be polite and outgoing and not such a bad people's person but it's mostly FAKE. Why do I need to pretend to like strangers if they do not show me the courtesy they expect from me? N.B.: only a third of my rejections use my name in the response. And that simple little effort, an objective polite courtesy asked and returned, makes me feel less like a leper or a Girl Scout who can't get rid of her sodden cookies.
So all in all I'm wondering hard and deep now, reminded of the promise I made myself over Dreams of Cold Stone. I'll wait till summer and then we'll see...
Rejections build character!
Rejections build character?
Serious *snort* now!
I'm not averse to character building. I suspect that forced revisions and editing (AIIEE MUTILATION OY SHARP KNIVES CARVING THE FLESH FROM MY SOUL!) will be far more character building than an impersonal note from either editor or agent. I frown upon the idea that being denied something that you want and know you should have because you are worthy should be seen as character building, how the hell did those people ever get past their fifth birthday? That ever first no I had to swallow as a toddler prepared me well enough for: no, nyet, nope, nada, nix, nougat-balls, and just because, you figure it out.
It doesn't help finding it not fair (oy Calimero) that my genius is denied; it's not like I can wait until mommy leaves the house and sneak into the cupboard and take the cookie I so deserve.
An explanation would help making me bristle less at the no--we all have that same child still with us, and as everybody knows, some children are louder or more stubborn than others; I must confess to having a very headstrong and petulant child within, but I cope nowadays without pouting and stomping my feet and crying in public. But my character was built enough way back when to deal with an unexplained nope (mind you, not until I figured out that mommy notices cookies disappearing and it would do me no good ignoring that no). I'd like an explanation, but I can live without. But without explanation you don't have anything to build whatever with.
Now, if an agent would send me some flaring remark (what kind of drivel is this, you idiot, with which you disturb my most exalted thoughts?) I might not be happier, but at least I'd have something I could call character building.
I look at the digital stack of impersonal form rejections (stack, pfeh, let's not be overly dramatic: I only have like 9 or 10); I accept why these must be such, though I'm not fully convinced by the arguments (see later). But since I don't have to do that work, who am I to object? No is a no, and stomping my foot ain't gonna get me cookies.
Now, said digital stack of rejections first and foremost remind me I'm a storyteller, nay storyfinder. I can't look at them and not have Cow Watcher award those impersonal words voices, give them faces, and have them speak in a certain tone. When another incarnation of the List popped up on the Rejectionist's blog, I commented that at least those rejections are personal. My digital impersonal stack simply make me feel like a leper trying to sell skin lotion. Thank you but no thank you and have a nice day! Leper moves away from door, with difficulty negotiating the two small steps to the path, then the flagstones towards the street. Before reaching the next door, arm drops off... Oh no, whispers the lady in the next house, Quickly children, hide behind the couch. It's that leper from last year again!
But honestly, I was looking for a short explanation of my feelings when making that comment. What the stack really does is make me feel like a girl scout making her cookie-selling rounds and getting met by kindly smiling faces and a chipper: "Sorry! Not today!" and "Oh how awfully sorry, but I can't."
Brave Girl Scout will not be persuaded by a little adversity like that, but after wandering through many streets, she grows weary with the chipper folk. More and more she has to bite down on a slightly evil grin so as not to blurt out "You're awfully sorry, I know. Bye!" as soon as the door opens.
Surely there are better ways to use/lose time, she feels. It's such a lovely day, and if nobody wants these cookies, what's she trying to prove? But no, she's committed, she's hard working, she'll do this, the right way. So she soldiers on, no matter that her feet hurt.
But Girl Scout is also mere human, and hence prone to petulant inner monologue. She knows slinging cookies through people's front windows will not help the sales, but wouldn't it at least make her feel better? Her fingers are starting to hurt from knocking on doors and pressing doorbells, and pain is hard to bear if you cannot see its reason.
Being somewhat paranoid of nature, Girl Scouts ends up wondering if those chipper folk are all too kind to mention they bought cookies from another Girl Scout, and well, lovely as the cookies are, people have to think about health and diet and money these days. What she would not give for someone to say: "Oh no chocolate, I can't have any says the doc." At least then she would know that the cookie-selling-route-snatching-bitch-that-spoiled-her-day is only a figment of her dark side.
Another recurring remark/sentiment is the one that states it's a rite of passage. I find that one even more disturbing. At least a tribal rite of passage has rules for the ceremony that are clear, or I should say, that clearly state what they're about. In preparation for your rite you won't be told you need to show courage during your test, and then dropped unprepared into a pit with a hungry lion. No, you'll be well warned that you'll have to fight a hungry lion to show courage. To say those two things are the same would be showing a lack of intelligence, or of common sense.
A comment in Bransford's post on the list mentioned that every failure is a step towards success:
a reminder each time, that you are a submitting writer ever one step closer to your goal.I'm not quite sure how to interpret that. Failure can teach you many things, but failure itself is not getting yourself any closer to whatever goal you've set. And without a teacher, a mentor, a direction or even a glimmer of an idea what causes the failure, how can you learn? Or should I cherish impersonal form rejections for another reason? Is this person perhaps hinting at the greatest secret in the publishing industry there is: might there be some wizard, some AI out there, that counts my form rejections, and if I reach the right number without blowing a fuse or letting slip a petulant remark, the doors of heaven will open and I will be taken up amongst the Angels of the Art?
Well... Crap on the Holy Cow. If only someone would have told me that years ago...
Bransford gives his reasons for finding fault with such lists; I'm slightly disappointed that all remarks and comments in whatever blog on the subject so rarely point out that comparing those rejections with current ones is comparing apples with pears. Why will nobody of our shepherds say out loud: those rejections have nothing to do with how the business is run nowadays. Why not slap down comments like "rite of passage" and "character building" like the fluff they are? Instead their silence only reconfirms the mantra: queries are the pain you must suffer, the ablutions you must do before being deemed worthy to the inner circle of the craft. So, write some more, it's good for your character, it's good for your soul.
You know, carrots are also good for you, but I'm no donkey, and I know when I'm strung along.
Those dear shepherds of the wannabe-writer masses pussyfoot about while they'll write page after page of detailed and thoughtful advice on queries. However, they won't say that the business has changed over the years, that their business has changed along with it, and that while they would love to find the next great artist writer they won't get his books sold. Perhaps even worse, that while they would love to find the next great artist writer, they no longer look for him.
Craft, they mutter, you must learn the craft. But it's not craft, it's not the potter forging beautiful dishes. The publishing industry is about factories copying the design and cranking out as many they can. Nay, it's not craft you must learn, it's industry. It's neither good or bad, but it is what it is and I feel more should be said about it.
Craft? Piffle. And this does not come from my frustration as querying wannabe-writer, but as reader. There's good stuff being written, but in the field of SF/Fantasy I haven't seen the likes of great storytelling like LeGuin's, or Zelazny's yet. Doubt we'll ever see something like him again and this makes me sad; I'll steer clear of questioning they would have broken through nowadays (which is like trying to argue whether aliens will like us or kill us when they come). No, honestly, I'd rather buy and read the next Zelazny than get my own stuff published. The system isn't broken because you need to rack up piles of form rejections, the system is broken because it fails to mention time and again it's first and foremost about selling copy nowadays, and less and less and even less chances are taken. It's sensible, logical, but not quite talked about as much as how it is about style and voice and craft.
It's not about writing, and it's not about craft, but about whether you can carry a platform. Will you go out and talk and do things having nothing to do with writing, and everything with selling? Will you humor fans? Do you understand what makes this business tick? Will your title sell enough within a short amount of time (and too short an amount of time to make a success of most of those writers mentioned in those lists), to make it worth it? I was just about wondering whether it might come to big boops being assets in getting published, but then this happened making it all too clear what the industry is about. Oh laugh at it, mock it, sure, but me, I'm laughing green, because I understand quite well who this particular joke is on, and illustrates so well why I'd better give up now. It's not about writing, it's about the person. And instead of giving me hope and courage, strengthen me in the idea that I simply must have an agent, simply must have an editor, simply must have a publisher, to do this the right way, they make me question if this is the right way. I'd like to get famous and rich overnight just like the next person, or whatever approximation I could ever dream of befalling me, but I'm not sure I want to pay the price. I just want to tell my stories, whether the world will buy them in masses, or not buy them at all. Just like proving courage and being chucked to lions or doing it the other way around, there's a difference between editing geared to making a manuscript into a better novel, or into a more salable novel. It is what it is, but is it what I want?
One of those things that makes me bristle when the shepherds speak of queries is the advice to personalize. I get that when thanking people when you do get published, you name the people that have helped you, whether they were paid for it or not. It's only polite, and makes perfectly sense. Just like writing a story is more than stringing words into sentences, jobs done with heart and good effort are more than something you can pay for with money.
I also understand the need to get a name right, the genre, and perhaps the preferences too. But why should I agonize over personalizing what should be an objective polite request to a stranger, while the addressed is perfectly aware that whatever I say is just a sugar-coating ploy. Something small, like "I like your blog!" or "loved that book you sold" in my weird head always get said in that immortalized tone of: I can see Russia from my house! Surely such fake sentiment will not help my book getting published? Couldn't we just go all out then and turn this show into America's Next Bestselling Author?
Another test of my character then perhaps: can I lie and fake interest in their person even if they promise their response (being 90% to 99% of the time the negative kind) will be an impersonal form rejection?
It annoys me and then some. I'm not a great people's person. Especially when strangers are involved. I pick and fuss over my words, lay awake at night wondering about certain glances, certain expressions I noticed. I HATE making telephone calls if it's my business, but I'll call to wherever if my job demands it, no problem, and I'll be polite and outgoing and not such a bad people's person but it's mostly FAKE. Why do I need to pretend to like strangers if they do not show me the courtesy they expect from me? N.B.: only a third of my rejections use my name in the response. And that simple little effort, an objective polite courtesy asked and returned, makes me feel less like a leper or a Girl Scout who can't get rid of her sodden cookies.
So all in all I'm wondering hard and deep now, reminded of the promise I made myself over Dreams of Cold Stone. I'll wait till summer and then we'll see...
Rant on order and queries
The part of query guidelines that always gets my brains turned inside out is when the demand is made to indicate the market. How am I supposed to know the market? I'm even loath to consider it part of my job as writer. When I can put a stamp on my manuscript, like "science fantasy" or something along those lines, I'm already humongously content with myself.
I don't wake up with the need to fill a certain niche, not even when it's a hot niche. I get ideas for stories, not ideas for things to sell. My brain soaks up words and then spits them out in some sort of order, mainly to the Cow Watcher's beat.
I know that this attitude (is it merely an attitude?) hurts my work's saleability tremendously, I know. It sucks. I get that a lot of writers have this ability or skill (or aptitude?) to take a story idea and then spin it in a totally different direction if that's where the market is going. I even picture it working like that for me in a handful of years. Okay, more like both handfuls with perhaps some help from the feet. See, there's a long list of projects I have been dragging along since ... ever, and I can't concentrate on new stuff until at least one of those dungeon-crawling monsters is out.
Why? Don't you know that every writer has The One that stays in the drawer for years but comes haunting? Or don't you get new ideas for new stories then?
That's the sad part: aaaaaall the time. But the Dungeon-Crawlers are vicious beasts, and Cow Watcher won't let me forget. Can't really blame the sucker, because CW and the DCs share the dark recesses. But whenever I seriously work on something new, it's like having John Cleese's BBC Announcer stuck in my head. "We interrupt this programme..." or "And now for something completely different." Come to think of it, a disproportionate amount of criticism voiced by the Inners sounds like Monty Python. Another favourite is the "Oh, get on with it already!"(1)
So, why can't I concentrate on new stuff? Simple: Cow Watcher won't let me be. Even at night I wake up with CW whispering to me: KILL KING MARGOR AND THAT SOLVES THAT NO?, or, THE HORSES COME ALIVE TO THE ROAR OF THUNDER (I know: wtf, right?), or, THE PROBLEM YOU HAVE WITH CYBERPUNK INVOLVING ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCES AND ALIENS IS THAT BOTH SERVE AS HOLY GRAIL AND NO STORY CAN HAVE 2 HOLY GRAILS (like, dude! Let me sleep already!),
And then there's those moments I really hate: WHY DOESN'T HE KILL HER WHEN HE HAS THE CHANCE?, with Cow Watcher laughing at little imbecile me, shaking its head and making me want to weep because it is sooooooo obvious a plot problem that undermines any inkling of logic, which I totally glossed over in the months if not years, the gazillion times I've gone over the draft to add, rewrite, reshuffle, and if I can't figure out a reason why Evil Guy doesn't kill the Heroine that one singular moment he can, I'll have to rewrite like 700 pages. And then I'm set for a night of no sleep and a lot of tossing about.
Most of those whispers get scribbled down by the light of my mobile or simply in the dark, and end up looking sort of looking like this:
And all my notes are like that. Some scribbled, some typed, some with little pictures or very expressive exclamation marks. Some not legible at all come morning (writing in the dark can do that), others don't make sense in first light (or ever). But they make sense to Cow Watcher, and I keep them about as talismans against the powers of the Master of the Dungeon-Crawlers.
No, order and categories get my brains twisted inside out alright. For years I've been trying to compile a Companion to the Barynn project, first to keep track of names and dates but then also of affiliations and alliances and historical background, and even there I break my teeth on categorization. I have a deep-rooted problem with categories. I understand why some people find them more important than others, going from economic ease to finding yourself at the short end of an -ism. But I don't *get* them. It's weird, because categories are simply a stronger form than labels, and I use labels all the time. It's like having all these little labels lying about, but all the boxes are missing. I guess that psych test test(2) that detected schizoid tendencies wasn't that far off the bat, hmm?
It works something like this:
Let's say, you have this nice box with 24 colour pencils and after using them with fervour and panache, you need to put them back into the box. And since parental units always complain about order and discipline, let's try to put them in some order (see, already compromising here and not saying: exactly as they were. We're not super-extra-rigid on discipline and order, okay?)
So, "easy" you think, right?
From white, over yellow, over orange, to red, purple, blue, to finally black. D'oh, where do I put my greens?
Okay, start over.
From white, to yellow, over orange to red, to brown, and... Green?
Zeus! Don't try this at home, you'll be at it all night!
The most helpful invention would be a 3D box for colour pencils. Multi-layered matrix of colours. Seriously, I would be drowning in my own tears.
(1) I blame the lonesome mornings spent at my father's, when everybody was still asleep and simply had to entertain myself (from somewhere 6am till 10am) with VCR or a commodore64. Lots of mornings were spent with the Holy Grail. Lots. Obviously too many lots.
(2) as in, helping out a friend's brother who was devising a test for his university thesis in psychology, so a test of a test
I don't wake up with the need to fill a certain niche, not even when it's a hot niche. I get ideas for stories, not ideas for things to sell. My brain soaks up words and then spits them out in some sort of order, mainly to the Cow Watcher's beat.
I know that this attitude (is it merely an attitude?) hurts my work's saleability tremendously, I know. It sucks. I get that a lot of writers have this ability or skill (or aptitude?) to take a story idea and then spin it in a totally different direction if that's where the market is going. I even picture it working like that for me in a handful of years. Okay, more like both handfuls with perhaps some help from the feet. See, there's a long list of projects I have been dragging along since ... ever, and I can't concentrate on new stuff until at least one of those dungeon-crawling monsters is out.
Why? Don't you know that every writer has The One that stays in the drawer for years but comes haunting? Or don't you get new ideas for new stories then?
That's the sad part: aaaaaall the time. But the Dungeon-Crawlers are vicious beasts, and Cow Watcher won't let me forget. Can't really blame the sucker, because CW and the DCs share the dark recesses. But whenever I seriously work on something new, it's like having John Cleese's BBC Announcer stuck in my head. "We interrupt this programme..." or "And now for something completely different." Come to think of it, a disproportionate amount of criticism voiced by the Inners sounds like Monty Python. Another favourite is the "Oh, get on with it already!"(1)
So, why can't I concentrate on new stuff? Simple: Cow Watcher won't let me be. Even at night I wake up with CW whispering to me: KILL KING MARGOR AND THAT SOLVES THAT NO?, or, THE HORSES COME ALIVE TO THE ROAR OF THUNDER (I know: wtf, right?), or, THE PROBLEM YOU HAVE WITH CYBERPUNK INVOLVING ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCES AND ALIENS IS THAT BOTH SERVE AS HOLY GRAIL AND NO STORY CAN HAVE 2 HOLY GRAILS (like, dude! Let me sleep already!),
And then there's those moments I really hate: WHY DOESN'T HE KILL HER WHEN HE HAS THE CHANCE?, with Cow Watcher laughing at little imbecile me, shaking its head and making me want to weep because it is sooooooo obvious a plot problem that undermines any inkling of logic, which I totally glossed over in the months if not years, the gazillion times I've gone over the draft to add, rewrite, reshuffle, and if I can't figure out a reason why Evil Guy doesn't kill the Heroine that one singular moment he can, I'll have to rewrite like 700 pages. And then I'm set for a night of no sleep and a lot of tossing about.
Most of those whispers get scribbled down by the light of my mobile or simply in the dark, and end up looking sort of looking like this:
And all my notes are like that. Some scribbled, some typed, some with little pictures or very expressive exclamation marks. Some not legible at all come morning (writing in the dark can do that), others don't make sense in first light (or ever). But they make sense to Cow Watcher, and I keep them about as talismans against the powers of the Master of the Dungeon-Crawlers.
No, order and categories get my brains twisted inside out alright. For years I've been trying to compile a Companion to the Barynn project, first to keep track of names and dates but then also of affiliations and alliances and historical background, and even there I break my teeth on categorization. I have a deep-rooted problem with categories. I understand why some people find them more important than others, going from economic ease to finding yourself at the short end of an -ism. But I don't *get* them. It's weird, because categories are simply a stronger form than labels, and I use labels all the time. It's like having all these little labels lying about, but all the boxes are missing. I guess that psych test test(2) that detected schizoid tendencies wasn't that far off the bat, hmm?
It works something like this:
Let's say, you have this nice box with 24 colour pencils and after using them with fervour and panache, you need to put them back into the box. And since parental units always complain about order and discipline, let's try to put them in some order (see, already compromising here and not saying: exactly as they were. We're not super-extra-rigid on discipline and order, okay?)
So, "easy" you think, right?
From white, over yellow, over orange, to red, purple, blue, to finally black. D'oh, where do I put my greens?
Okay, start over.
From white, to yellow, over orange to red, to brown, and... Green?
Zeus! Don't try this at home, you'll be at it all night!
The most helpful invention would be a 3D box for colour pencils. Multi-layered matrix of colours. Seriously, I would be drowning in my own tears.
(1) I blame the lonesome mornings spent at my father's, when everybody was still asleep and simply had to entertain myself (from somewhere 6am till 10am) with VCR or a commodore64. Lots of mornings were spent with the Holy Grail. Lots. Obviously too many lots.
(2) as in, helping out a friend's brother who was devising a test for his university thesis in psychology, so a test of a test
Who watches the Cow Watcher?
Well hello, didn't see that one coming: notes are made for tomorrow, when Tiger will be losing about 20 pages of bloated noodles: the juice will be recuperated for the next soup, and this broth just gets to keep the shitakes and the shrimp, all lean and yummie.
GREEN!
is the color of my envy when I read Juliette Wade's entry of today on how she manages plot complexity (and "jinx" please!), the sort that makes me snort and mutter: "sure, that how *you* do it," in the same tone I would mutter "Well, who wants a fire-engine red car without no fixed roof anyway". Not that I'm a car buff or anything, even if I'm not an idiot techwise. Cars are things with wheels that get you places, and that's sort of where it ends. Though, I do love my little Yaris, hm... Well, it's complex, in a lacking a penis way, I guess. Anyways, cars have nothing to do with Juliette Wade's entry.
I'm envious of people who can plot before they start. Or even those who plot while they write. Plotting is the territory of Cow Watcher, always nattering on no matter what I do. Like a thread on your pullover hanging loose: you know you should leave it well enough alone, but before you know it you have a ball of yarn and no pullover. With echoes of Bauhaus' In The Flat Field* playing on the background.
What she notes as point 1 (a written, pretty vague outline) and 2 (worldbuilding) happen inextricably while I'm writing. Quite annoying, because I have to try and figure out what goes where and why it would be better if X gets killed *after* Y makes a decision at the same time of typing words and words and some more words. In between I scribble something down; my writing notes are messy heaps of paper with post-its all over the place and little scraps of grocery bills I used to quickly note something down on while out of the house and not sensibly equipped for writing. This MO involves lots of Oooh! and Aaah! and Excellent! (with the requisite hand-wringing and evil grinning) from which I derive my basic writing pleasure, which is probably why I'm loathe to change it.
On the other hand, the complete clutter I end up with leads me to bouts of basic writing despair and lots of pouting at the computer screen.
But to tell the truth, I've always been a gall of clutter. Seriously, you should talk to my mother! Or the hubby, because things haven't changed that much. Most of the time when I lose things, after all these years of practice at clutter-free life, is when I'm forced to clean up the mess. As a kid, everything had its place in my disorder, and whatever you needed that was supposedly somewhere in my room (did you take the big kitchen scissors?), I could hand you within five seconds with a satisfied grin on my face. Untangling plotlines gives me the same weird fulfillment.
Cleaning up a plot (hey, I've come a long way to acknowledge that sometimes, yes, cleaning is a good thing!) is a somewhat delicate mission for me. Too much cleaning will confuse my sense of the storyline. How many times haven't I lost something after I cleaned up and put it in a very logical place! And, Cow Watcher makes it impossible to stick to an outline, and rewriting outline after outline without actually getting to the writing is ... silly. Silly silly si-ley. But it doesn't change the fact that it also makes me frumple my face and mutter in envy.
* where's the string that Theseus laid, find me out this labyrinth pla-ha-hace
I'm envious of people who can plot before they start. Or even those who plot while they write. Plotting is the territory of Cow Watcher, always nattering on no matter what I do. Like a thread on your pullover hanging loose: you know you should leave it well enough alone, but before you know it you have a ball of yarn and no pullover. With echoes of Bauhaus' In The Flat Field* playing on the background.
What she notes as point 1 (a written, pretty vague outline) and 2 (worldbuilding) happen inextricably while I'm writing. Quite annoying, because I have to try and figure out what goes where and why it would be better if X gets killed *after* Y makes a decision at the same time of typing words and words and some more words. In between I scribble something down; my writing notes are messy heaps of paper with post-its all over the place and little scraps of grocery bills I used to quickly note something down on while out of the house and not sensibly equipped for writing. This MO involves lots of Oooh! and Aaah! and Excellent! (with the requisite hand-wringing and evil grinning) from which I derive my basic writing pleasure, which is probably why I'm loathe to change it.
On the other hand, the complete clutter I end up with leads me to bouts of basic writing despair and lots of pouting at the computer screen.
But to tell the truth, I've always been a gall of clutter. Seriously, you should talk to my mother! Or the hubby, because things haven't changed that much. Most of the time when I lose things, after all these years of practice at clutter-free life, is when I'm forced to clean up the mess. As a kid, everything had its place in my disorder, and whatever you needed that was supposedly somewhere in my room (did you take the big kitchen scissors?), I could hand you within five seconds with a satisfied grin on my face. Untangling plotlines gives me the same weird fulfillment.
Cleaning up a plot (hey, I've come a long way to acknowledge that sometimes, yes, cleaning is a good thing!) is a somewhat delicate mission for me. Too much cleaning will confuse my sense of the storyline. How many times haven't I lost something after I cleaned up and put it in a very logical place! And, Cow Watcher makes it impossible to stick to an outline, and rewriting outline after outline without actually getting to the writing is ... silly. Silly silly si-ley. But it doesn't change the fact that it also makes me frumple my face and mutter in envy.
* where's the string that Theseus laid, find me out this labyrinth pla-ha-hace
I hate sockbooze + Holy Cow, wtf?
Because rewriting queries and synopses to fit the parameters makes me think about "what the hell is this novel about" and then I get all these crazy ideas about how to make it even better and surely I could do a rewrite of a couple of chapters to make sure this or that theme sparkles and dazzles* and--oh happenstance--also easier to write the flipping query/synopsis.
* sorry, been procrastinating by reading about Twilight during breakfast and seem to have picked up some bad habits. Meanwhile the Cow Watcher has snatched up some stuff from there and relayed pages and stored it with all the other scary behavior on the internet stuff.
And to think only this morning I was trying to figure out why a very special cow was suddenly at the center of my dream that was about a cool labyrinthine old house with huge garden the hubby's parents bought (because they have nothing else to do with their money) for us (because they love us bestest) and we threw this party (with a conspicuous amount of ex-colleagues of mine being present: wtf?) which was cool until it started to rain very hard (yes, even in dreams it is April) and the rain soaked through the roof (did I mention "old"?) which fucked up the beautiful interior (did I mention "cool"?) so we had to go out into the garden because the ceiling was all getting limp (don't you dare go Freud on me!) and the party was turning into a real deluged Ark-fest while I was still trying to figure out how to tell the in-laws we messed up the pretty gift (because, yea, in my dreams I am the goddess of wrath and weather, or something)(I blame Storm imprinting (* again) because I was such a geeky Xmen fan). Then, while I'm trying to get people to stop their end-of-the-world freak (of course I'm a natural leader, because... just coz, 'kay?), some of them told me there was this cow I had to save (ixnay on the Eud-Fray) and it was this almost like a holy cow so really, saving in order! And when I found it, it was long haired with long, almost straight horns, something like this but more slender and elegant and beautiful (perhaps it had weird powers like charm and glamor?). Okay, it also might have been a long haired horse with straight horns and an udder. Actually, didn't see much udder because of the long hair (love it when everything comes together like that). But there was also a second cow, just a regular one, the black-and-white variant and slow and fat and stupid as normal cows and not speaking telepathically (uh, that I did forget to mention, 'ey), and I nearly saved that one but that was the Wrong One and somehow a flash of Denis Leary (see quote here) passed through the dream at that moment and then it got really confusing with rain and cows and people and the in-laws about to visit.
So Holy Cow, WTF?
But the house was real nice (real real nice, sort of like wish-it-were-true nice, though I probably wouldn't fuck up a nice gift with a deluge in the real world). And the garden was real nice too, and I'm especially in love with the colors of the world in the deluge scenes, you know that sort of bluish twilighty predawn light that gives extra luminosity to pale colors? Love it. If the light hadn't been that extra special I probably would have decided that being awake would be a better idea.
Extra points for the art director and the director of photography. Seriously, gold stars all round.
* sorry, been procrastinating by reading about Twilight during breakfast and seem to have picked up some bad habits. Meanwhile the Cow Watcher has snatched up some stuff from there and relayed pages and stored it with all the other scary behavior on the internet stuff.
And to think only this morning I was trying to figure out why a very special cow was suddenly at the center of my dream that was about a cool labyrinthine old house with huge garden the hubby's parents bought (because they have nothing else to do with their money) for us (because they love us bestest) and we threw this party (with a conspicuous amount of ex-colleagues of mine being present: wtf?) which was cool until it started to rain very hard (yes, even in dreams it is April) and the rain soaked through the roof (did I mention "old"?) which fucked up the beautiful interior (did I mention "cool"?) so we had to go out into the garden because the ceiling was all getting limp (don't you dare go Freud on me!) and the party was turning into a real deluged Ark-fest while I was still trying to figure out how to tell the in-laws we messed up the pretty gift (because, yea, in my dreams I am the goddess of wrath and weather, or something)(I blame Storm imprinting (* again) because I was such a geeky Xmen fan). Then, while I'm trying to get people to stop their end-of-the-world freak (of course I'm a natural leader, because... just coz, 'kay?), some of them told me there was this cow I had to save (ixnay on the Eud-Fray) and it was this almost like a holy cow so really, saving in order! And when I found it, it was long haired with long, almost straight horns, something like this but more slender and elegant and beautiful (perhaps it had weird powers like charm and glamor?). Okay, it also might have been a long haired horse with straight horns and an udder. Actually, didn't see much udder because of the long hair (love it when everything comes together like that). But there was also a second cow, just a regular one, the black-and-white variant and slow and fat and stupid as normal cows and not speaking telepathically (uh, that I did forget to mention, 'ey), and I nearly saved that one but that was the Wrong One and somehow a flash of Denis Leary (see quote here) passed through the dream at that moment and then it got really confusing with rain and cows and people and the in-laws about to visit.
So Holy Cow, WTF?
But the house was real nice (real real nice, sort of like wish-it-were-true nice, though I probably wouldn't fuck up a nice gift with a deluge in the real world). And the garden was real nice too, and I'm especially in love with the colors of the world in the deluge scenes, you know that sort of bluish twilighty predawn light that gives extra luminosity to pale colors? Love it. If the light hadn't been that extra special I probably would have decided that being awake would be a better idea.
Extra points for the art director and the director of photography. Seriously, gold stars all round.
plea to the Easter Bunny
Between studying and working on fencing club related stuff I've had no time whatsoever to:
work in the garden
but hey, it's been crap weather since Friday, a week early according to the historical wisdom of farmers and old witches: "maartse buien en aprilse grillen" is a Flemish saying about the weather of this season, but both statements are translated by my Dutch to English dictionary as "April showers", which is wrong.
Here, in the ancient granary of Europe, the showers come in March ("bui" meaning "shower", while "gril"should be "whim"). Translation should read: "March showers and whimsical April".
March was not so wet this year though, but since Friday April has begun: nice blue skies suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a black cloud and a 10 second shower, which magically disappears while you cuddle under a dry roof, you go outside because the temp's all summery again and then suddenly a gust of wind picks up your garden furniture and drops it at the neighbor's. Weird weather, during which I like to walk outside, but not work in the garden.
do writerly things
Except trying to keep up to speed with some blogs. Cow-watcher doesn't mind though: Sunday it handed a me a page of here's-how-to-fix-the-mess-you-made-of-Barynn2 notes which I scribbled down on the backside of the course I was studying. I really want to look into it, but hey, study and club first.
create order
because order is really needed in this workroom. I've really got to make work of the Barynn Companion because if I can't keep track of whoiswho, how's my reader going to? There's little papers with snippets and remarks for other projects, and piles of books, fiction and non-fiction that simply won't fit into the library. Library needs expanding before I fall and break something.
Dear Mr. Easter Bunny, please bring me this thing called time, because I need it more than chocolate.
work in the garden
but hey, it's been crap weather since Friday, a week early according to the historical wisdom of farmers and old witches: "maartse buien en aprilse grillen" is a Flemish saying about the weather of this season, but both statements are translated by my Dutch to English dictionary as "April showers", which is wrong.
Here, in the ancient granary of Europe, the showers come in March ("bui" meaning "shower", while "gril"should be "whim"). Translation should read: "March showers and whimsical April".
March was not so wet this year though, but since Friday April has begun: nice blue skies suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a black cloud and a 10 second shower, which magically disappears while you cuddle under a dry roof, you go outside because the temp's all summery again and then suddenly a gust of wind picks up your garden furniture and drops it at the neighbor's. Weird weather, during which I like to walk outside, but not work in the garden.
do writerly things
Except trying to keep up to speed with some blogs. Cow-watcher doesn't mind though: Sunday it handed a me a page of here's-how-to-fix-the-mess-you-made-of-Barynn2 notes which I scribbled down on the backside of the course I was studying. I really want to look into it, but hey, study and club first.
create order
because order is really needed in this workroom. I've really got to make work of the Barynn Companion because if I can't keep track of whoiswho, how's my reader going to? There's little papers with snippets and remarks for other projects, and piles of books, fiction and non-fiction that simply won't fit into the library. Library needs expanding before I fall and break something.
Dear Mr. Easter Bunny, please bring me this thing called time, because I need it more than chocolate.
... continued
Or read some more blogs, of course.
Reader Request week coming up chez Whatever, and skimming through the list of previous years' topics, came across RR 2008 # 10: Meeting Authors (and Me). Remarks on the inequality of "knowing you, knowing me" between famous people and their fans resonating with yesterday's Angina Irretis post. Because it's not just famous people. It's you, it's me, right here, right now. It feels like whole parcels of pick-nick, but it are just crumbs.
Storing these remarks and feelings away in a dark cranny beneath the skull now, like yesterday's post, like flamewar PST, and other brushes I had with this "it looks real but it's just digital blips on the radar" thing called online life. See, Cow Watcher works with those little bits, creating a thing of beauty. I know it. I feel it. It hovers in the dark there, an unformed blob of wet clay, a painting under a dust cover, like a cat in a box with a bottle of poison. I can describe the outside of the box all I want, but I know nothing of what goes on inside without a peep. And Cow Watcher don't like me peeping.
Reader Request week coming up chez Whatever, and skimming through the list of previous years' topics, came across RR 2008 # 10: Meeting Authors (and Me). Remarks on the inequality of "knowing you, knowing me" between famous people and their fans resonating with yesterday's Angina Irretis post. Because it's not just famous people. It's you, it's me, right here, right now. It feels like whole parcels of pick-nick, but it are just crumbs.
Storing these remarks and feelings away in a dark cranny beneath the skull now, like yesterday's post, like flamewar PST, and other brushes I had with this "it looks real but it's just digital blips on the radar" thing called online life. See, Cow Watcher works with those little bits, creating a thing of beauty. I know it. I feel it. It hovers in the dark there, an unformed blob of wet clay, a painting under a dust cover, like a cat in a box with a bottle of poison. I can describe the outside of the box all I want, but I know nothing of what goes on inside without a peep. And Cow Watcher don't like me peeping.
In it for the money, or in it for the art?
Interesting article by Ursula Le Guin over at the Book View Cafe on the Axolotl Roadkill/Strobo incident of last month. I'm not sure which blog directed me to the New York Times article at the time, but seeing how little heated debate it has actually generated, except for articles that nearly dismiss the issues at hand (here and here for instance) in a sort of been there, done that tone. And I guess, if you look at the Axolotl Roadkill/Strobo incident from the plagiarism angle, it is just that clear and cut (hammer/nail anyone?). That's why I found it refreshing to see one of the real issues pointed out by Le Guin: literature is not information.
I've added my fist full of euros in the comments section. I swear it was just going to be two cents, but then I stumbled across the differences between the industries that are compared, and got sidetracked. I decided the main difference is the money involved, in the business end as well as the legal end of the matter. Can we trust the suits to defend our artistic value? Do we need to? Are we in this for the money or for the art?
While there are legal limits to what is and is not plagiarism in most countries, I remain by my conclusion that it is up to the writing community itself to come to a code of conduct.
But, the whole nature of the publishing business (i.e. copying your manuscript) adds another layer to the issue, I realized. Does "not complaining" about the violation equal you giving your copyright away? Would a publisher urge you to defend your copyright, or even do it for you, if your sales have been miserable and the media storm helps them sell copy? What if, after let's say the two years stipulated in the contract, the copyright is about to revert back to you? Would you be able to sue the publisher for devaluating your work? Hmm, let's find someone who can answer those questions...
Other news: yesterday the reading I've been doing this week has paid off, though you'd think tearing through a cyberpunk novel or two would urge me towards my own cyberpunk WIP. Ha! The cow-watching part of my mind moves in mysterious way. I'm itching to continue the work, but for now I'm gonna give Newton's Remix Project story another look and see what Cow Watch has done with the first two iterations.
I've added my fist full of euros in the comments section. I swear it was just going to be two cents, but then I stumbled across the differences between the industries that are compared, and got sidetracked. I decided the main difference is the money involved, in the business end as well as the legal end of the matter. Can we trust the suits to defend our artistic value? Do we need to? Are we in this for the money or for the art?
While there are legal limits to what is and is not plagiarism in most countries, I remain by my conclusion that it is up to the writing community itself to come to a code of conduct.
But, the whole nature of the publishing business (i.e. copying your manuscript) adds another layer to the issue, I realized. Does "not complaining" about the violation equal you giving your copyright away? Would a publisher urge you to defend your copyright, or even do it for you, if your sales have been miserable and the media storm helps them sell copy? What if, after let's say the two years stipulated in the contract, the copyright is about to revert back to you? Would you be able to sue the publisher for devaluating your work? Hmm, let's find someone who can answer those questions...
Other news: yesterday the reading I've been doing this week has paid off, though you'd think tearing through a cyberpunk novel or two would urge me towards my own cyberpunk WIP. Ha! The cow-watching part of my mind moves in mysterious way. I'm itching to continue the work, but for now I'm gonna give Newton's Remix Project story another look and see what Cow Watch has done with the first two iterations.
