I decided to continue with this series because I see so much bad writing out there, browsing through excerpts from fellow Nanowrimo competitors. Please read more advice here.
Continuing on:
Seven, to avoid the revisions your editor will give you anyway, proofread your own work for weaknesses. Look for passive tense (remember E-Prime from Part I?)
A good hint at finding where your work might need strengthened is to simply do a search for the word "There" at the beginning of sentences. Set your Find&Replace to match case, and see how many times you start a sentence with that weak word. Chances are, it will also be a passive phrase. Same for "It." I give a 90% chance that you will look at all the sentences beginning with "There" and "It" and think to yourself "What the hell was that about?" Explain "It."
"There was a loud noise. It woke me up." This weak line can easily be spruced up to "A crashing sound in the driveway set the neighbor's dogs barking and forced me away from sweet dreams of kissing Sue."
I also go through and replace "was" just by habit. Not 100% removal, as I would if I followed E-Prime, but enough to seek out weaknesses. "It was cold" is a sentence first graders learn. Write like you at least attended high school! "The frost bit my nose like an angry cat and decorated my windows with Winter's lacy undergarments." Wohoo, see how you can make things sound great? It's so easy.
Eight, and here's a tough one... keep dialog free and flowing. Unless your character is a vampire from the 12th century and speaks very formal for a reason, chances are your character will be an average joe who uses slang and incomplete sentences. "I couldn't make it to the store. Damn Walmart. Always open my ass."
In a creative writing class, my fellow students severely criticized me because one of my characters didn't cuss enough. I thought they were nutters (I rarely cuss) until I read through the story years later and realized they were right. For the girl's personality, her use of profanity should be extreme to an almost comical level. I still don't like cussing, but I invent characters who are not necessarily reflections of myself.
Nine, make your characters so distinct in their speech, either with phrases they overuse, accents, or just by the way they present their opinions, their tone of voice and manners, that during long dialog passages you can avoid "he said/she said." I hate those. Read Section Three for more. At the very least, get creative. Come on, how many of us talk so dull in our lives that we simply "say" something? We gasp, shout, vent, whisper, expound, yip, tattle, tantalize, leer, jeer, peer. Avoid "he said" by telling us what he did.
"Never!" John's words echoed through the empty hall.
"Sorry, mate," Bill shrugged casually.
"I will never give in to you." His hand swiped out so hard it broke the vase. "I thought you were my friend."
"Just a messanger, y'know."
"You'll have to fight me."
"Look, mate, I ain't fightin' no one."
"Fight! I know you can!"
"Eh, it ain't my choice, y'know."
"Fight me, you coward!"
"Coward what now? Mate, I'm just here to tell you, y'know. It ain't nuttin' personal."
"You're all bastards, every one of you. You're all alike."
"Maybe so, mate, but I don't wanna kill you."
"Coward!"
Can you tell John from Bill? Of course you can! Anger on one side, aloof nonchalance on the other, a bit of an accent, that's all it takes. Make me see your dialog like a movie in my head.
Ten, and for this I will use alliteration to emphasize my point ... ahem ... please, people, punctuate properly. Thank you, thank you!
Seriously, though, punctuation goes inside quotes. I can't tell you how many emails I get that say, "It's a joke", he said, "get it"?
OMG people, did you drop out of 3rd grade? If you write like this, please do not shoot yourself when your editor turns you down after skimming the first page. Then again, if you write that bad, maybe you should voluntarily cleanse the gene pool. I have a revolver under the bed for you to use!
The only time I can think of offhand (and it's bloody early, so don't kill me on this) is when you use quotes outside of dialog. Example: What did John mean by "It'll be exciting"?
Of course, ideally you should use italics, but that's all I can come up with. Otherwise, quote are like condoms, they wrap around to protect. You don't want to catch a communicative disease, you know.
Happy writing, and rewriting, and rewriting....
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Thanksgiving Idiot
I wasn't going to post about this, but I figured it's a good lesson to everyone out there. Learn from my idiocy!
Yesterday was Thanksgiving, and dinner was at my place. My hubby's uncle said he was coming at 4pm, and I know his family tends to eat early. Now, I learned a thing or two about etiquette, including how to set a formal table, how to fold napkins into interesting designs, and how to time all your cooking so that everything is hot and ready when your guests arrive. I turned off the stove, put everything on the table, and was ready to go two minutes before 4. Then Matt's uncle was an hour late. Then he decided he wasn't hungry and wanted to watch a movie. So we watched Fantastic 4 since he hadn't seen it. By the time it was over, it was 7:30 and dinner was icy. So I decided to toss it all in the stove and warm it real quick, that way it doesn't have that microwaved dryness about it (dry turkey, yuck!)
My logic was, the stove had been off 3.5 hours, it was cool (no heat when I opened it), so I just grabbed the casserole dishes and turkey pan and tossed them all in at once. No gloves, no mitts.
Folks, I don't care if that stove has been off all frickin' day, put a glove on!!!
Typical, I was in a hurry, and my hand hit the top grill of the stove. Ouch, hot, no pain, kept loading. It wasn't until I finished putting the dishes in there and started the stove up that I looked to see how bad the burn was.
Still no pain ... because there was no skin!
It looks a lot better today. Just to gross you all out and show you to always ALWAYS be careful, I should have snapped a picture of just how nasty that burn looked.
My index finger isn't too bad, some melted skin and a blister. My ring finger was spared injury by hitting the stove with my wedding ring (the stone was big enough to deflect it, don't worry, the ring is not damaged). However, my middle finger has a long gash like I got attacked by a Doberman, and about three centimeters of that is burned through the dermis, deep and white! That means 3rd degree. It's small, so I'm not going to the hospital unless it continues to be a problem, but you can see the different skin layers as the burn moves out. There was also a long section of melted skin that just fell off eventually. Yeah, nasty.
I ran cold water, but it didn't hurt, so idiot me figures I'll be fine, and I have a guest to entertain. I put Neosporin on it and a band-aid and just waved it off with a laugh. But then...
Y'know, I burned myself this bad once before. I should have known it was coming. Still, it's a shock when a part of your body which feels fine at the moment suddenly feels like it has been submerged into a vat of liquid metal. There I was, trying to keep conversation going and cut my turkey, when all my brain knows is the fires of Hell and they are concentrated into my left hand straight into my middle finger like I'm whoring Satan's mistress or something. I excused myself, hid an icepack in my lap napkin, and avoided anything I couldn't eat one-handed. Once dinner was over - almost crying by now - I ran to my bedroom, took the strongest painkiller I could find, and fell asleep with an icepack sitting on my hand unsuccessfully attempting to quench the flames.
Moral of the story: never assume a stove is cold. Always examine burns as soon as they happen. Even if there is no pain, keep that cold water running on it. And most important, entertaining your hubby's uncle is not as important as caring for a 3rd degree burn.
Thought for the day:
If your motto is "Live and Learn," prepare to have 911 on speed-dial.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving, and dinner was at my place. My hubby's uncle said he was coming at 4pm, and I know his family tends to eat early. Now, I learned a thing or two about etiquette, including how to set a formal table, how to fold napkins into interesting designs, and how to time all your cooking so that everything is hot and ready when your guests arrive. I turned off the stove, put everything on the table, and was ready to go two minutes before 4. Then Matt's uncle was an hour late. Then he decided he wasn't hungry and wanted to watch a movie. So we watched Fantastic 4 since he hadn't seen it. By the time it was over, it was 7:30 and dinner was icy. So I decided to toss it all in the stove and warm it real quick, that way it doesn't have that microwaved dryness about it (dry turkey, yuck!)
My logic was, the stove had been off 3.5 hours, it was cool (no heat when I opened it), so I just grabbed the casserole dishes and turkey pan and tossed them all in at once. No gloves, no mitts.
Folks, I don't care if that stove has been off all frickin' day, put a glove on!!!
Typical, I was in a hurry, and my hand hit the top grill of the stove. Ouch, hot, no pain, kept loading. It wasn't until I finished putting the dishes in there and started the stove up that I looked to see how bad the burn was.
Still no pain ... because there was no skin!
It looks a lot better today. Just to gross you all out and show you to always ALWAYS be careful, I should have snapped a picture of just how nasty that burn looked.
My index finger isn't too bad, some melted skin and a blister. My ring finger was spared injury by hitting the stove with my wedding ring (the stone was big enough to deflect it, don't worry, the ring is not damaged). However, my middle finger has a long gash like I got attacked by a Doberman, and about three centimeters of that is burned through the dermis, deep and white! That means 3rd degree. It's small, so I'm not going to the hospital unless it continues to be a problem, but you can see the different skin layers as the burn moves out. There was also a long section of melted skin that just fell off eventually. Yeah, nasty.
I ran cold water, but it didn't hurt, so idiot me figures I'll be fine, and I have a guest to entertain. I put Neosporin on it and a band-aid and just waved it off with a laugh. But then...
Y'know, I burned myself this bad once before. I should have known it was coming. Still, it's a shock when a part of your body which feels fine at the moment suddenly feels like it has been submerged into a vat of liquid metal. There I was, trying to keep conversation going and cut my turkey, when all my brain knows is the fires of Hell and they are concentrated into my left hand straight into my middle finger like I'm whoring Satan's mistress or something. I excused myself, hid an icepack in my lap napkin, and avoided anything I couldn't eat one-handed. Once dinner was over - almost crying by now - I ran to my bedroom, took the strongest painkiller I could find, and fell asleep with an icepack sitting on my hand unsuccessfully attempting to quench the flames.
Moral of the story: never assume a stove is cold. Always examine burns as soon as they happen. Even if there is no pain, keep that cold water running on it. And most important, entertaining your hubby's uncle is not as important as caring for a 3rd degree burn.
Thought for the day:
If your motto is "Live and Learn," prepare to have 911 on speed-dial.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Writing Advice for the Creatively Inept
People often ask what advice I can give them to help promote their writing career. The following assumes you know how to write. These are ways to take that short story or novel an clean it up.
One: beware the verb "to be." Learn to eradicate it whenever possible. Don't become anal about it, though. I mean, we don't want to exterminate "to be" from the English language. Just realize this world contains a plethora of descriptive verbs waiting for us writers to manipulate them like tools. Using "to be" tempts a writer to fall back into lazy styles: simple words, writing without thought, and the dreaded passive voice. The next thing you know, your work sounds like an eighth grader typed it up while using meth. Passive tense haunts me, and I constantly fight the urge.
How do you prevent this habit? By using something you probably never leaned in high school: E-Prime. It forces writers to really think about what words we use. Often, we write simply to get words out of our heads before the concept vanishes. In moments like that, we forget what we learned in school and go barbaric, chaotic. E-Prime forces us back into a study of words. Just try it. Take a short story or poem and go psycho with E-Prime. Give the proverbial birdie to Shakespeare's "to be or not to be." Be creative! I bet the weaknesses in your work will jump at you like monkeys at a banana-scented tourist.
Two, for god's sake, people, learn to establish and stick to a verb tense. I had a college professor who pointed this out to me rather harshly, in front of the whole class, then spent the rest of the night going over basic grammar because obviously none of us knew anything and we were all as juvenile as 2nd graders. You think middle school kids can be cruel, imagine a forum filled with college students glaring at you because you made some taboo mistake and now they ALL are paying by the most hideously boring class in the history of college-dom. I've never made the mistake again. Don't suddenly say "They went to the fair, but he forgets his glasses." Went implies past, they already visited that fair, like yesterday, or last century. Forgets implies present. See the clash? In a creative writing class, they called me the Tense Terror and Grammar Goblin because I jumped on peoples' cases about keeping stories in the proper verb tense. It's easy to break the habit and it will improve the quality of your writing ten fold. Congrats, you now write like an 8th grader is SUPPOSE to!!!
Three, even if it's just dialog, make it descriptive. He said/she said grows boring after a page or two. Use a thesaurus if you must, but make the audience see your characters' faces. I imagine I'm a director and I want these actors to really understand the character in that moment.
1) "I can't believe it," he said. --- boooring
2) "I can't believe it," he cried out in disbelief. --- eh, getting there
3) His eyes opened wide as his mouth unhinged, as if opening it wider would allow him to ingest the wonder before him, or at the least vomit it back up into something resembling logic. "I can't believe it," he muttered numbly, not caring if it sounded so cliche that he would have been jeered out of a drama class.
You got the idea? Dialog is not the time for writers to take a creative break. Yes, there are times when the punchy, fast jabs back and forth work for showing the wit between two characters, but eventually your reader will imagine two spotlighted characters on a propless stage, not an heiress to a kingdom who turns into a unicorn.
Four, make all events in the story relevant. I have a problem with this, merely because I write a great part, then forget what happened. Please, don't spend five chapters writing an awesome scene, only to have it so disjunct that you could scrap it and it won't change the book one bit. Your universe! Make it meaningful and fun.
Five, write your synopsis way in advance. Now, I'm one to write outlines and then throw them out the window, but at least know sort of what you want to do. Otherwise (and yes, this happened to me too) you get this awesome first five chapters, then hit a brick wall. What is the hero supposed to do with his stolen dragon egg? Nurrr... I dunno... Story gets shelved, byebye idea.
Six, realize you will likely write the beginning last, so don't sweat it. If you can totally visualize sections, feel free to write them out and keep the notes all together. Work out a character sheet. Yeah, sort of D&D, but it totally helps. What color of eyes? (I learned that when my character went through 3 eye colors and two hair colors). Does he have hobbies? Can you work that in? Strengths? Weakness? All main characters have weaknesses. Even Superman did, right? It makes them believable.
Well, I can think of many other things that make the difference between okay writing and something that will have the NY Times screaming in bold caps, "RIVITING!" but, I don't want to write much more or I'll never get back to my nanowrimo novel. I'll leave you with this final bit of writing advice that works wonders. To quote Mark Twain: "Substitute 'damn' every time you're inclined to write 'very;' your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be."
Happy writing!
One: beware the verb "to be." Learn to eradicate it whenever possible. Don't become anal about it, though. I mean, we don't want to exterminate "to be" from the English language. Just realize this world contains a plethora of descriptive verbs waiting for us writers to manipulate them like tools. Using "to be" tempts a writer to fall back into lazy styles: simple words, writing without thought, and the dreaded passive voice. The next thing you know, your work sounds like an eighth grader typed it up while using meth. Passive tense haunts me, and I constantly fight the urge.
How do you prevent this habit? By using something you probably never leaned in high school: E-Prime. It forces writers to really think about what words we use. Often, we write simply to get words out of our heads before the concept vanishes. In moments like that, we forget what we learned in school and go barbaric, chaotic. E-Prime forces us back into a study of words. Just try it. Take a short story or poem and go psycho with E-Prime. Give the proverbial birdie to Shakespeare's "to be or not to be." Be creative! I bet the weaknesses in your work will jump at you like monkeys at a banana-scented tourist.
Two, for god's sake, people, learn to establish and stick to a verb tense. I had a college professor who pointed this out to me rather harshly, in front of the whole class, then spent the rest of the night going over basic grammar because obviously none of us knew anything and we were all as juvenile as 2nd graders. You think middle school kids can be cruel, imagine a forum filled with college students glaring at you because you made some taboo mistake and now they ALL are paying by the most hideously boring class in the history of college-dom. I've never made the mistake again. Don't suddenly say "They went to the fair, but he forgets his glasses." Went implies past, they already visited that fair, like yesterday, or last century. Forgets implies present. See the clash? In a creative writing class, they called me the Tense Terror and Grammar Goblin because I jumped on peoples' cases about keeping stories in the proper verb tense. It's easy to break the habit and it will improve the quality of your writing ten fold. Congrats, you now write like an 8th grader is SUPPOSE to!!!
Three, even if it's just dialog, make it descriptive. He said/she said grows boring after a page or two. Use a thesaurus if you must, but make the audience see your characters' faces. I imagine I'm a director and I want these actors to really understand the character in that moment.
1) "I can't believe it," he said. --- boooring
2) "I can't believe it," he cried out in disbelief. --- eh, getting there
3) His eyes opened wide as his mouth unhinged, as if opening it wider would allow him to ingest the wonder before him, or at the least vomit it back up into something resembling logic. "I can't believe it," he muttered numbly, not caring if it sounded so cliche that he would have been jeered out of a drama class.
You got the idea? Dialog is not the time for writers to take a creative break. Yes, there are times when the punchy, fast jabs back and forth work for showing the wit between two characters, but eventually your reader will imagine two spotlighted characters on a propless stage, not an heiress to a kingdom who turns into a unicorn.
Four, make all events in the story relevant. I have a problem with this, merely because I write a great part, then forget what happened. Please, don't spend five chapters writing an awesome scene, only to have it so disjunct that you could scrap it and it won't change the book one bit. Your universe! Make it meaningful and fun.
Five, write your synopsis way in advance. Now, I'm one to write outlines and then throw them out the window, but at least know sort of what you want to do. Otherwise (and yes, this happened to me too) you get this awesome first five chapters, then hit a brick wall. What is the hero supposed to do with his stolen dragon egg? Nurrr... I dunno... Story gets shelved, byebye idea.
Six, realize you will likely write the beginning last, so don't sweat it. If you can totally visualize sections, feel free to write them out and keep the notes all together. Work out a character sheet. Yeah, sort of D&D, but it totally helps. What color of eyes? (I learned that when my character went through 3 eye colors and two hair colors). Does he have hobbies? Can you work that in? Strengths? Weakness? All main characters have weaknesses. Even Superman did, right? It makes them believable.
Well, I can think of many other things that make the difference between okay writing and something that will have the NY Times screaming in bold caps, "RIVITING!" but, I don't want to write much more or I'll never get back to my nanowrimo novel. I'll leave you with this final bit of writing advice that works wonders. To quote Mark Twain: "Substitute 'damn' every time you're inclined to write 'very;' your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be."
Happy writing!
Monday, November 12, 2007
Help for the Anxiety Prone
I wrote this to a person seeking help for chronic anxiety disorder, and I thought, well, everyone panics at some point, I should post this. Maybe it'll help someone out there.
I have agoraphobia so I know right where you're at. I've done the psycho-treatments and they didn't help. I did the pills and hated them. I tried yoga and hurt myself. I learned that if I wanted to beat this, it was up to me, not some shrink telling me "write down your dreams" and crap.
First, look at what you can do to your environment to simply relax. Get some Native American flute music, play an Enya CD, cut out alcohol, cigarettes, coffee, and other stimulants and go to herbal teas, particularly mint and lavender. A detox diet honestly does wonders. And there are so many herbs out there that you can pick yourself, or if you're a city girl like me, you can buy them cheap. I've found lavender to take a load of stress off my day. It's cheap at Trader Joe's and other such stores, smells amazing, and tastes delicious. I have lavender bundles in the bathroom, lavender pillow spray for the bedroom, I love cooking lavender and lemon chicken, and I add lavender to my teas. Or find other aromas that soothe you. Maybe vanilla or sage or cedar, whatever works. I totally suggest lavender and mint tea every morning sweetened with honey. It'll help your stomach. We all know how stress screws your digestive system.
Next, take a moment each day for meditation. Not necessarily odd positions and "ohm" chants, but just sit in a comfortable chair or lay in bed and be quiet for a few minutes, whatever you can spare. Think of the one place you love to be, maybe the beach or mountains, somewhere peaceful. Visualization is a powerful tool in psychiatry. Really put yourself in that place, imagining it so vividly that you can feel the air and smell the breeze. Absolutely forbid yourself from thinking of stressful things.
Next, give yourself a mantra of peace. This is one I'm still working on for my anxiety issues. After you've done the soft music and herbs, if you still feel that horrible nervousness creeping in, tell yourself out loud so you hear the words: "I love to be at peace. I refuse to give into fear." Make up whatever you want, but make it a firm declaration, you are not going to let this anxiety get the best of you.
Doesn't work and still feel tense? I learned this from a stress management professor. If you feel the panic attack starting up, start at your toes and tense them, then relax. Then your calves, tensed, relaxed, then thighs, stomach, arms, chest, neck, face. Tense up for five seconds, then relax for five seconds. One, you're doing the counting thing. Two, you're forcing adrenalin into those muscles that are struggling with the fight-or-flight of the panic attack, and the release phase sends endorphins into your system which will relax your muscles. Three, you're paying attention to your whole body so you will not hyperventilate. Four, you are consciously telling your body "stop, deal with this, tense up if you must, but then relax." I learned about this five years ago and it works wonders. Also works great just before bed if you can't sleep.
I have agoraphobia so I know right where you're at. I've done the psycho-treatments and they didn't help. I did the pills and hated them. I tried yoga and hurt myself. I learned that if I wanted to beat this, it was up to me, not some shrink telling me "write down your dreams" and crap.
First, look at what you can do to your environment to simply relax. Get some Native American flute music, play an Enya CD, cut out alcohol, cigarettes, coffee, and other stimulants and go to herbal teas, particularly mint and lavender. A detox diet honestly does wonders. And there are so many herbs out there that you can pick yourself, or if you're a city girl like me, you can buy them cheap. I've found lavender to take a load of stress off my day. It's cheap at Trader Joe's and other such stores, smells amazing, and tastes delicious. I have lavender bundles in the bathroom, lavender pillow spray for the bedroom, I love cooking lavender and lemon chicken, and I add lavender to my teas. Or find other aromas that soothe you. Maybe vanilla or sage or cedar, whatever works. I totally suggest lavender and mint tea every morning sweetened with honey. It'll help your stomach. We all know how stress screws your digestive system.
Next, take a moment each day for meditation. Not necessarily odd positions and "ohm" chants, but just sit in a comfortable chair or lay in bed and be quiet for a few minutes, whatever you can spare. Think of the one place you love to be, maybe the beach or mountains, somewhere peaceful. Visualization is a powerful tool in psychiatry. Really put yourself in that place, imagining it so vividly that you can feel the air and smell the breeze. Absolutely forbid yourself from thinking of stressful things.
Next, give yourself a mantra of peace. This is one I'm still working on for my anxiety issues. After you've done the soft music and herbs, if you still feel that horrible nervousness creeping in, tell yourself out loud so you hear the words: "I love to be at peace. I refuse to give into fear." Make up whatever you want, but make it a firm declaration, you are not going to let this anxiety get the best of you.
Doesn't work and still feel tense? I learned this from a stress management professor. If you feel the panic attack starting up, start at your toes and tense them, then relax. Then your calves, tensed, relaxed, then thighs, stomach, arms, chest, neck, face. Tense up for five seconds, then relax for five seconds. One, you're doing the counting thing. Two, you're forcing adrenalin into those muscles that are struggling with the fight-or-flight of the panic attack, and the release phase sends endorphins into your system which will relax your muscles. Three, you're paying attention to your whole body so you will not hyperventilate. Four, you are consciously telling your body "stop, deal with this, tense up if you must, but then relax." I learned about this five years ago and it works wonders. Also works great just before bed if you can't sleep.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
St. Augustine: Quantum Measurement in the Making?
While doing Shadowstrider research, this time on quantum measurement and the troubles therein (i.e. Schrödinger's Cat), I came across this. Although not the research I was aiming to find, it brings up hypotheses that are geared toward my character's personality and how she would analyze the given situation.
In other words, instead of sounding like I'm writing straight from a physics book (which I've been accused of on occasion) I decided to have Ahaovathea take a more existential POV concerning Time ("time is a protraction of the mind") rather than her mother's POV, which definitely follows a more literal scientific definition.
The only area where I imagine her thinking differently is St. Augustine's theory that "temporal existence is taken to be equivalent to 'being in the present.'" As a Native American, I think Ahaovathea would definitely disagree with both that and the theory that past and future, in a sense, do not exist at all. Although this is a main focus on this treaty, it is one point my character would certainly not agree upon.
My research and wonderful discussions with Native Americans have showed one constant perception that is so different from "Western" thought: Time is fluid, alive, past and future are living things, and the present moment is a knife's edge dividing the two. The Hopi believe that life is filled with things either manifest (thus belonging to the past) or coming into manifestation (and thus categorized as future). A house, tree, memory, etc. exist and are manifest, but hopes, dreams, and expectations are things of the future.
If the future did not exist, does this also mean our dreams do not exist? And yet we have dreams, which proves the existence (even if existentially) that there is a living future out there.
So in that sense, St. Augustine (as is common among European-influenced cultures) veers far from the indigenous respect for Time. Instead of acknowledging the existence of these two major temporal forces, he brushes past and future off as inconsequential.
However, the end result is the same as if you took Ahaovathea's ideas. Time is a protraction of the mind, but St. Augustine's conclusion negates the inclusion that the mind could protrude into past and future.
Like tentacles on an octopus, we reach out in all directions and grasp the world around us. We reach into the world, and we are the world. We reach into Time, and we are Time.
Any comments to debate this temporal issue are encouraged. I love debating the mechanics of Time and hearing the ideas of others. I've flipflopped views on Time, destiny, and choice throughout Shadowstrider, allowing the different members of the family to express unique POVs.
[St. Augustine's treatment of time occurs in the eleventh book of the Confessions, and is connected to his investigation of the opening words of Genesis.]
1. There's no sense in asking what God did before creation because time itself is a creature. God, as for Boethius, is in eternal present. Hence, God precedes all things, including time, ontologically but not temporally.
2. Time seems something we all know well; however, upon further analysis it turns out to be something we barely understand. Some say its the motion of the heavens. But this cannot be right because:
In other words, instead of sounding like I'm writing straight from a physics book (which I've been accused of on occasion) I decided to have Ahaovathea take a more existential POV concerning Time ("time is a protraction of the mind") rather than her mother's POV, which definitely follows a more literal scientific definition.
The only area where I imagine her thinking differently is St. Augustine's theory that "temporal existence is taken to be equivalent to 'being in the present.'" As a Native American, I think Ahaovathea would definitely disagree with both that and the theory that past and future, in a sense, do not exist at all. Although this is a main focus on this treaty, it is one point my character would certainly not agree upon.
My research and wonderful discussions with Native Americans have showed one constant perception that is so different from "Western" thought: Time is fluid, alive, past and future are living things, and the present moment is a knife's edge dividing the two. The Hopi believe that life is filled with things either manifest (thus belonging to the past) or coming into manifestation (and thus categorized as future). A house, tree, memory, etc. exist and are manifest, but hopes, dreams, and expectations are things of the future.
If the future did not exist, does this also mean our dreams do not exist? And yet we have dreams, which proves the existence (even if existentially) that there is a living future out there.
So in that sense, St. Augustine (as is common among European-influenced cultures) veers far from the indigenous respect for Time. Instead of acknowledging the existence of these two major temporal forces, he brushes past and future off as inconsequential.
However, the end result is the same as if you took Ahaovathea's ideas. Time is a protraction of the mind, but St. Augustine's conclusion negates the inclusion that the mind could protrude into past and future.
Like tentacles on an octopus, we reach out in all directions and grasp the world around us. We reach into the world, and we are the world. We reach into Time, and we are Time.
Any comments to debate this temporal issue are encouraged. I love debating the mechanics of Time and hearing the ideas of others. I've flipflopped views on Time, destiny, and choice throughout Shadowstrider, allowing the different members of the family to express unique POVs.
[St. Augustine's treatment of time occurs in the eleventh book of the Confessions, and is connected to his investigation of the opening words of Genesis.]
1. There's no sense in asking what God did before creation because time itself is a creature. God, as for Boethius, is in eternal present. Hence, God precedes all things, including time, ontologically but not temporally.
2. Time seems something we all know well; however, upon further analysis it turns out to be something we barely understand. Some say its the motion of the heavens. But this cannot be right because:
- if motion of heavens stops but a potter's wheel spins, could it not turn faster or slower? Moreover, scripture tells us that the sun stopped and yet time went on;
- by time we measure the motion of bodies, and so that of the heavens.
- if nothing passed away, no past; if nothing were coming, no future; if nothing were, no present;
- the past doesn't exist anymore; the future doesn't exist yet; the present must be transient, from future to past (otherwise it would be eternity), and it cannot be extended, otherwise it would overlap with past and future.
NOTES:- Time, then, involves a flux from future through present to past.
- Temporal existence is taken to be equivalent to "being in the present."
- The treatment of the lack of extension of the present is identical to Aristotle's.
- Time, then, involves a flux from future through present to past.
- Relating the past and foretelling the future are not possible because what is not (past and future) cannot be related or foretold.
- Measuring time is not possible because:
- 1. We cannot measure past and future since they do not exist (what is not, cannot be measured). How, then, can we say "a long time past" or "a long time to come"?
2. We cannot measure the present because it has no extension.
NOTE:- A similar problem in involved in the attempt to explain how we can measure the duration of anything, e.g. a sound. It cannot be measured before or after it exists, and we cannot measure while its present, otherwise we don't measure the whole of it. In short, we cannot measure past and future because they don't exist; we cannot measure the present because it's unextended; we cannot measure passing time because it's not complete.
- 1. When we relate the past or foretell the future, we behold our present memories of things past (effects of past causes) and consider present "signs" of future things (causes of future events).
- Hence, time is a protraction of the mind: the future is expectation, the present enduring consideration, and the past memory.
- But why is measuring representations (instead of the things represented) a solution? Cannot all the arguments about things be reproposed about representations of things? The answer is that a long past is not a "long memory of the past" in the sense that it's a memory which lasts a long time, but an (instantaneous?) memory of a long past (that is, temporal length is not a formal feature of the memory, but an intentional feature of it).
2. When I temporally measure things, I don't measure things themselves, but my representations of them: I measure the "protraction" of the impressions of things in the mind. For example, a "long future is a long expectation of the future;" a "long past a long memory of the past."
NOTES:
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Where were you?
Where were you?
This question used to apply to Kennedy. Everyone knew where they were the day JFK was assassinated. Whether you believe is was a mass conspiracy or a lone gunman, it was an event that shook our nature and reshaped the fabric of our culture.
Now we face a new milestone. It was not just the death toll of those four planes and their devastating effects. It's not just the war on terror and its lasting effects. Whether you are pro-war, pro-peace, or prosaically indifferent to the whole thing, whether you are American, Mexican, Canadian, Japanese, British, Muslim, Buddhist, or even French (insert obligatory sneer, followed by politically correct "just kidding"), September 11, 2001 is a day that shook this world.
Those terrorists wanted something visual, and they got it! The site of those massive buildings falling, of the Pentagon in flames, of the atrocious loss of life on that Pennsylvania field, was a horror now ingrained into the human psyche. Centuries from now, children will read about this day as the first move in events that will shape the 21st Century. Millenniums will pass, and the story of the Two Towers (don't perk up so excitedly, Tolkien fans) will be recited around campfires, a story considered a myth, but an enduring one, like the Tower of Babel or the fall of Jericho.
So I ask you: where were you on 9/11?
I had gone to college early that morning. I had just finished a boring stint studying in the math lab. I noticed more than the usual amount of people on the computers looking up what I assumed was political news. Images of President Bush and views of New York. Odd for a math lab.
I finished early and decided to call up my then-boyfriend/now-husband to see if he could meet me for an early lunch. Matt sounded terrified, asking if I was alright. I was casually walking down the steps of the science/math building, thinking what a lovely day it was (ironic, because it was about to become dark). As I walked down, he frantically explained, "It's World War III out there! They've destroyed the World Trade Center, blew it up with airplanes, and they hit the Pentagon too. We're at WAR!!!"
Odd, but the news of the attack on the Pentagon hit me worse at that moment. The mind focuses on what it can grasp. Blowing of the WTC? That was something out of Hollywood. I imagined maybe a gapping hole, not that they were actually destroyed. But the Pentagon? A symbol of military prowess! How?
I stopped dead in my tracks, whispered "What?" in disbelief, and grabbed hold of the sprawling steps' handrail, barely able to keep hold of the phone as Matt gave me what few details were known for a certainty.
I looked around at the people around me. It was as if I had been blind just a moment before.
Lovely day???
I suddenly saw huddles of young women walking through the hallways, holding onto each other as they cried. I saw an 18-year-old Freshman walking like wood, his eyes strained, his jaw tight to hold in the anger and numbed horror. And there were some still walking to and fro to class, blissfully unaware, laughing and fooling around as college students should, blind, as I had been blind, to the gnashing and weeping filling the campus.
I vividly recall seeing a young Muslim woman sitting on her prayer rug on the Quad grass, she and a group of other Muslims joined together for daily prayer, now busy listening to a radio in gapping disbelief (this was, of course, before the words radical Muslims and the racial fear associated with it ever entered our innocent minds, a time when seeing Muslims praying in the Quad was not a deal at all). I remember she was shouting, "They are cowards, who do this! Cowards!" At the time, there was no clue who might have pulled off such a terrorist act.
Matt rushed to the school to pick me up, insisting I not go to anymore of my classes. I protested at first, but when I saw the images on TV, school was the last thing on my mind. Matt lived near John Wayne Airport, and the roaring sound of incoming and outgoing planes was usual, hardly even noticed after a while. On that day, the skies were silent, which added to the odd solemness. I called my mom, and she did not want me to take the bus back home. Even at that point, there was a fear toward public transportation. My parents would go on to drive me to school for the next week, fearing a bus bomb.
I did go to school the next day, a Wednesday. I had a light schedule, but I had band class that night. i remember sitting with the other French hornists, discussing what we saw on the TV, how the planes turned to the side for maximum damage, about where Flight 93 might have been heading, wondering still who might have orchestrated it all (if you remember, Osama bin Laden denied any involvement for years, and to this day the FBI admits he is still only a suspect, albeit a rather believable scapegoat).
The following days were numbed. I knew no victims, but I knew some people living in NYC at the time who saw the whole thing play out in too-real horror. Matt's cousin lived mere blocks away from the World Trade Center. A WTC employee my sister frequently corresponded with for work was killed. Plus there was the whole bus-bomb scare, and that was my sole means of transportation. The ripples of that day are still felt six years later, and will likely continue to affect us throughout our lives.
So, that's my story. That's where I was on that day, walking down the steps exiting the math lab, happy at such a beautiful morning. And into that stereotypical optimism and ignorance, the spear of hatred was thrust. Still, although some may toss spears and arrows of hate and fear at us, Godly love, respect, and honor shall prevail.
This question used to apply to Kennedy. Everyone knew where they were the day JFK was assassinated. Whether you believe is was a mass conspiracy or a lone gunman, it was an event that shook our nature and reshaped the fabric of our culture.
Now we face a new milestone. It was not just the death toll of those four planes and their devastating effects. It's not just the war on terror and its lasting effects. Whether you are pro-war, pro-peace, or prosaically indifferent to the whole thing, whether you are American, Mexican, Canadian, Japanese, British, Muslim, Buddhist, or even French (insert obligatory sneer, followed by politically correct "just kidding"), September 11, 2001 is a day that shook this world.
Those terrorists wanted something visual, and they got it! The site of those massive buildings falling, of the Pentagon in flames, of the atrocious loss of life on that Pennsylvania field, was a horror now ingrained into the human psyche. Centuries from now, children will read about this day as the first move in events that will shape the 21st Century. Millenniums will pass, and the story of the Two Towers (don't perk up so excitedly, Tolkien fans) will be recited around campfires, a story considered a myth, but an enduring one, like the Tower of Babel or the fall of Jericho.
So I ask you: where were you on 9/11?
I had gone to college early that morning. I had just finished a boring stint studying in the math lab. I noticed more than the usual amount of people on the computers looking up what I assumed was political news. Images of President Bush and views of New York. Odd for a math lab.
I finished early and decided to call up my then-boyfriend/now-husband to see if he could meet me for an early lunch. Matt sounded terrified, asking if I was alright. I was casually walking down the steps of the science/math building, thinking what a lovely day it was (ironic, because it was about to become dark). As I walked down, he frantically explained, "It's World War III out there! They've destroyed the World Trade Center, blew it up with airplanes, and they hit the Pentagon too. We're at WAR!!!"
Odd, but the news of the attack on the Pentagon hit me worse at that moment. The mind focuses on what it can grasp. Blowing of the WTC? That was something out of Hollywood. I imagined maybe a gapping hole, not that they were actually destroyed. But the Pentagon? A symbol of military prowess! How?
I stopped dead in my tracks, whispered "What?" in disbelief, and grabbed hold of the sprawling steps' handrail, barely able to keep hold of the phone as Matt gave me what few details were known for a certainty.
I looked around at the people around me. It was as if I had been blind just a moment before.
Lovely day???
I suddenly saw huddles of young women walking through the hallways, holding onto each other as they cried. I saw an 18-year-old Freshman walking like wood, his eyes strained, his jaw tight to hold in the anger and numbed horror. And there were some still walking to and fro to class, blissfully unaware, laughing and fooling around as college students should, blind, as I had been blind, to the gnashing and weeping filling the campus.
I vividly recall seeing a young Muslim woman sitting on her prayer rug on the Quad grass, she and a group of other Muslims joined together for daily prayer, now busy listening to a radio in gapping disbelief (this was, of course, before the words radical Muslims and the racial fear associated with it ever entered our innocent minds, a time when seeing Muslims praying in the Quad was not a deal at all). I remember she was shouting, "They are cowards, who do this! Cowards!" At the time, there was no clue who might have pulled off such a terrorist act.
Matt rushed to the school to pick me up, insisting I not go to anymore of my classes. I protested at first, but when I saw the images on TV, school was the last thing on my mind. Matt lived near John Wayne Airport, and the roaring sound of incoming and outgoing planes was usual, hardly even noticed after a while. On that day, the skies were silent, which added to the odd solemness. I called my mom, and she did not want me to take the bus back home. Even at that point, there was a fear toward public transportation. My parents would go on to drive me to school for the next week, fearing a bus bomb.
I did go to school the next day, a Wednesday. I had a light schedule, but I had band class that night. i remember sitting with the other French hornists, discussing what we saw on the TV, how the planes turned to the side for maximum damage, about where Flight 93 might have been heading, wondering still who might have orchestrated it all (if you remember, Osama bin Laden denied any involvement for years, and to this day the FBI admits he is still only a suspect, albeit a rather believable scapegoat).
The following days were numbed. I knew no victims, but I knew some people living in NYC at the time who saw the whole thing play out in too-real horror. Matt's cousin lived mere blocks away from the World Trade Center. A WTC employee my sister frequently corresponded with for work was killed. Plus there was the whole bus-bomb scare, and that was my sole means of transportation. The ripples of that day are still felt six years later, and will likely continue to affect us throughout our lives.
So, that's my story. That's where I was on that day, walking down the steps exiting the math lab, happy at such a beautiful morning. And into that stereotypical optimism and ignorance, the spear of hatred was thrust. Still, although some may toss spears and arrows of hate and fear at us, Godly love, respect, and honor shall prevail.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
The Volcano
I was riding through Portland a couple days ago with my folks. It was a lovely clear day, so as we crossed Marquam Bridge, I was able to point out both Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens to them. It's rare enough to see Mt. Hood with all the clouds we usually have, but even on clear days St Helens is hard to see. It's rare indeed to see it so pristine! But it was a lovely cloudless day ... except for the cloud coming from St. Helens! I didn't take this picture, but this is almost exactly what I saw, snow and all.
I've only seen the volcano 2-3 other times and never on an active day. It's actually a little unnerving! I know it's only steam, but it makes you think about what could happen ... and what did happen back in 1980.
Around here, 27 years have not really dimmed the memories of the native Oregonians. They still have their stories of the day the volcano blew. Then they glance over to "our volcano," Mt. Hood, the two looking at each other like giant siblings glaring down through the ages, and you can see in their eyes a wondering "what if" driving an old fear into them.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Not My Week
Ever have "one of those days"? Well, I've been having one of those weeks.
First, my parents are visiting, which is usually cool, I like my folks, but they have two Pomeranians now. I'm allergic to dogs, and these two are as poofy as they get. They want to do all sorts of shopping while up here in Oregon so they don't have to pay taxes. They've already bought an electric grill, a toaster, some tools, a cargo attachment for their RV, and a laptop for my little sister. That's some major money! I hate shopping, just ain't my thing, but my hubby's working, so I have to show them around. And my parents takes the dogs everywhere they go. And dogs love me! They like to get up right into my face, and one, Kissmo, gives me licks, sending me into sneeze fits. If I touch them to push them aside, my hands start itching madly. But I'm not going to complain when my mother has spent over $200 already on blouses and some very nice dresses that I would never have bothered buying on my own. So, shopping isn't my thing, and the dogs bug me, but okay, I'll deal!
But then, as I was walking around with my dad, I hit a pothole or something, started to fall toward a truck (not cool). Luckily, I caught myself on a street sign before getting run over, but I sprained my ankle and reinjured my knee (which has never really healed), plus in the process of catching myself I sprained my wrist and broke my finger. So now I'm limping and I have a metal splint on my right index finger, and I'm right handed, so my life just got 60% harder to do simple tasks. Working on the computer in general is now tough. Try working a mouse some day with your index finger bulked up and sticking straight out, clicking with your middle and ring fingers. Not fun.
Today, my hubby and I had the day off with my folks staying in the RV enjoying the rain. We decided to try a new Asian restaurant called Hot Plate. The food was good, but while I was eating the sweet'n'sour soup (soup of all things) my tooth that has been needing fixed for ... well, too long (hush now, I have a reason to hate dentists, I'm deathly allergic to all numbing stuff, so dental work is unpleasant, to say the least) ... anyway, the tooth broke, right there at the table. I sudden felt a crack, reached back with my tongue, and it's wobbly like a six-year-old. Just broke off, all I had to do was pull it out and put a napkin up there for a couple seconds, hardly bled at all. Now my mouth hurts, and the front part of my tooth feels like it wants to break too ... and the pain is shooting up my nose, which makes me sneeze ... and I'm on my period, so all you women know how sneezing on your period is just not fun.
So I'm limping, toting a broken finger around in a metal splint, my mouth swollen, my gut bloated, cramping up a storm, and riding around town with my folks, shopping which I hate doing, with their dogs which I'm allergic to, and my dad keeps forgetting to take his happy pills so he's acting like a grumpy old man arguing with my mom about everything until they really do sound like an old couple.
Oh, and did I mention my cat is having a kitty crisis? He's fallen in love with our neighbor's cute little Persian - who, by the way, hates his feline guts - so now he mopes around, hates us, scratches and bites a lot more, and he jets toward the door if he even thinks he hears it opening. He's not allowed outside, especially not with Fluffy out there giving him disdainful looks, so when he does sneak out I have to chase him down before the neighbor's dogs scare him up a tree... limping... cramping... with a broken finger... and sneezing from dog danger and broken tooth pain.
It's just not my week!
First, my parents are visiting, which is usually cool, I like my folks, but they have two Pomeranians now. I'm allergic to dogs, and these two are as poofy as they get. They want to do all sorts of shopping while up here in Oregon so they don't have to pay taxes. They've already bought an electric grill, a toaster, some tools, a cargo attachment for their RV, and a laptop for my little sister. That's some major money! I hate shopping, just ain't my thing, but my hubby's working, so I have to show them around. And my parents takes the dogs everywhere they go. And dogs love me! They like to get up right into my face, and one, Kissmo, gives me licks, sending me into sneeze fits. If I touch them to push them aside, my hands start itching madly. But I'm not going to complain when my mother has spent over $200 already on blouses and some very nice dresses that I would never have bothered buying on my own. So, shopping isn't my thing, and the dogs bug me, but okay, I'll deal!
But then, as I was walking around with my dad, I hit a pothole or something, started to fall toward a truck (not cool). Luckily, I caught myself on a street sign before getting run over, but I sprained my ankle and reinjured my knee (which has never really healed), plus in the process of catching myself I sprained my wrist and broke my finger. So now I'm limping and I have a metal splint on my right index finger, and I'm right handed, so my life just got 60% harder to do simple tasks. Working on the computer in general is now tough. Try working a mouse some day with your index finger bulked up and sticking straight out, clicking with your middle and ring fingers. Not fun.
Today, my hubby and I had the day off with my folks staying in the RV enjoying the rain. We decided to try a new Asian restaurant called Hot Plate. The food was good, but while I was eating the sweet'n'sour soup (soup of all things) my tooth that has been needing fixed for ... well, too long (hush now, I have a reason to hate dentists, I'm deathly allergic to all numbing stuff, so dental work is unpleasant, to say the least) ... anyway, the tooth broke, right there at the table. I sudden felt a crack, reached back with my tongue, and it's wobbly like a six-year-old. Just broke off, all I had to do was pull it out and put a napkin up there for a couple seconds, hardly bled at all. Now my mouth hurts, and the front part of my tooth feels like it wants to break too ... and the pain is shooting up my nose, which makes me sneeze ... and I'm on my period, so all you women know how sneezing on your period is just not fun.
So I'm limping, toting a broken finger around in a metal splint, my mouth swollen, my gut bloated, cramping up a storm, and riding around town with my folks, shopping which I hate doing, with their dogs which I'm allergic to, and my dad keeps forgetting to take his happy pills so he's acting like a grumpy old man arguing with my mom about everything until they really do sound like an old couple.
Oh, and did I mention my cat is having a kitty crisis? He's fallen in love with our neighbor's cute little Persian - who, by the way, hates his feline guts - so now he mopes around, hates us, scratches and bites a lot more, and he jets toward the door if he even thinks he hears it opening. He's not allowed outside, especially not with Fluffy out there giving him disdainful looks, so when he does sneak out I have to chase him down before the neighbor's dogs scare him up a tree... limping... cramping... with a broken finger... and sneezing from dog danger and broken tooth pain.
It's just not my week!
Friday, June 29, 2007
It Ain't Enya
There are many songs out there claiming to be Enya... but aren't. Maybe it's a synth lover who thinks the only way they'll get exposure is to claim to be someone famous. Maybe it's a 12-year-old screwing around on mommy's computer and doesn't know the name of the song they just downloaded. Or maybe it's some idiot college kid who hears something and says "oo, oo, I know, that's New Age, so it's gotta be that chick, wutzername, Enya!"
Who knows how it really starts, but at some point someone puts the wrong artist on there. Johnny Cash and Neil Diamond are often mixed too, so it's not just New Age artists. Suddenly, Enya fans see a song they've never heard before, pay their 10 cents or whatever, only to find... it ain't Enya.
My friends know I love Celtic music, so I often get random "have you ever heard of [insert artist]?" which, of course, I've probably never heard of them, and it sends me rummaging through Amazon or Download.com for samples of this newly discovered person. I like that. I discovered Anahata that way.
Other times, I get "I have a song I bet you don't have" and low and behold, I don't have it. Nor did the artist ever make it! Many do that claiming an Enya song I don't own. (I have all of her albums, but she releases some songs only on singles. I don't have all those, but I WANT THEM!) Their claim often turns out to be Loreena McKennitt or Lisa Gerrard or Enya's older siblings in Clannad, all of whom I love.
A year ago when Enya's new album Amarantine came out, someone asked if I had the "Amarantine Promo." I was like, "Sure, you mean Comb of the Winds..." No, no, not the single, I mean the Promo. Like Monsoon Chariot. Monsoon what? Never heard of it. Where can I buy it? Oh, it's not in stores, it's bootlegged, internet only, mysterious 13th track, only in Russia or something.
So I risk the wrath of the RIAA and (hush now) I downloaded these "Enya promos." Sure enough, I've never heard of them. One is titled Amarantine, but it's a fast, heavily percussive song that builds intensity upon one word, "Angelica," even more intense than Enya's other driving song, The River Sings, certainly nothing like the happy, sleepy, optimist "Amarantine, Amarantine" of the album song. In fact, some of these aren't Enya-ish at all. Some plain out aren't Enya. One's a man! I did not download them all, only a few, but I had a problem. Here were some apocryphal songs, maybe-but-most-likely-not by Enya, and I had no clue who really did them.
And I was growing to really like them!
Now, when it comes to my music, I'm a perfectionist. I want all the info inputted properly. If it's off my own collections, no problem, but it's harder if it's from a friend who made a CD of songs they thought I'd like (which is not pirating; it's the same thing we did back in the '80s with tapes and it was legal!) That music doesn't always have the info to transfer over. I'll spend hours searching for the right album, what year, what track number, who wrote the song, a picture of the front of the album. Yes, I obsess a little!
So now I have songs I like, don't want to get rid of them, and they're not the right artist, possibly not even the right name of the song. So off I go, digging into the arcana of Enya forums, hunting for "songs not by Enya." There are plenty of gripers ranting about the difference between Loreena, Lisa, Moire, and Enya, complaining about a new generation of Celtic and New Age musicians masking their songs as Enya, but not much for who actually did these songs. Mostly, they have guesses. It might be him, it's possibly her, admitting many of these are not unknown artists trying to break out, but famous artists people just ignorantly mistook for being Enya. While I'm racking up demerits from the RIAA, I checked these possible songs against the promo songs. Nothing like it at all!
My friends know I love Celtic music, so I often get random "have you ever heard of [insert artist]?" which, of course, I've probably never heard of them, and it sends me rummaging through Amazon or Download.com for samples of this newly discovered person. I like that. I discovered Anahata that way.
Other times, I get "I have a song I bet you don't have" and low and behold, I don't have it. Nor did the artist ever make it! Many do that claiming an Enya song I don't own. (I have all of her albums, but she releases some songs only on singles. I don't have all those, but I WANT THEM!) Their claim often turns out to be Loreena McKennitt or Lisa Gerrard or Enya's older siblings in Clannad, all of whom I love.
A year ago when Enya's new album Amarantine came out, someone asked if I had the "Amarantine Promo." I was like, "Sure, you mean Comb of the Winds..." No, no, not the single, I mean the Promo. Like Monsoon Chariot. Monsoon what? Never heard of it. Where can I buy it? Oh, it's not in stores, it's bootlegged, internet only, mysterious 13th track, only in Russia or something.
So I risk the wrath of the RIAA and (hush now) I downloaded these "Enya promos." Sure enough, I've never heard of them. One is titled Amarantine, but it's a fast, heavily percussive song that builds intensity upon one word, "Angelica," even more intense than Enya's other driving song, The River Sings, certainly nothing like the happy, sleepy, optimist "Amarantine, Amarantine" of the album song. In fact, some of these aren't Enya-ish at all. Some plain out aren't Enya. One's a man! I did not download them all, only a few, but I had a problem. Here were some apocryphal songs, maybe-but-most-likely-not by Enya, and I had no clue who really did them.
And I was growing to really like them!
Now, when it comes to my music, I'm a perfectionist. I want all the info inputted properly. If it's off my own collections, no problem, but it's harder if it's from a friend who made a CD of songs they thought I'd like (which is not pirating; it's the same thing we did back in the '80s with tapes and it was legal!) That music doesn't always have the info to transfer over. I'll spend hours searching for the right album, what year, what track number, who wrote the song, a picture of the front of the album. Yes, I obsess a little!
So now I have songs I like, don't want to get rid of them, and they're not the right artist, possibly not even the right name of the song. So off I go, digging into the arcana of Enya forums, hunting for "songs not by Enya." There are plenty of gripers ranting about the difference between Loreena, Lisa, Moire, and Enya, complaining about a new generation of Celtic and New Age musicians masking their songs as Enya, but not much for who actually did these songs. Mostly, they have guesses. It might be him, it's possibly her, admitting many of these are not unknown artists trying to break out, but famous artists people just ignorantly mistook for being Enya. While I'm racking up demerits from the RIAA, I checked these possible songs against the promo songs. Nothing like it at all!
This is a list of the false-Enya songs on the "Amaratine Promo," who did
them, and I added links so you can check out the album on Amazon.
Support the artists! Or at least spread the word about them.
[UPDATE - Feb. 2014]
I've updated the original list, thanks to a bunch of people jumping in and filling in the blanks. You guys are awesome!
[UPDATE - Feb. 2014]
I've updated the original list, thanks to a bunch of people jumping in and filling in the blanks. You guys are awesome!
01 Amarantine = Angelica, by Seay, 1 Voice (2005)
02 Remember Now, by 2002, The Emerald Way (2006)
03 World of Wonders, by F.R.E.U.D., Time Passangers (1998)
04 Fading Hues = Longing for Ashira, by Enam, M'anchelii (2001)
05 Caeli et Terra = Sanctus, by Anael, Unconditional (1998)
06 Dragonfly = In the Hollows of Trees, by Gary Stadler & Singh Kaur, Fairy NightSongs
07 Mor Rioghain = Siren Song, by Seay, 1 Voice (2005)
08 Along Meadow Streams = Marcomé, by Librarsi, Seven Seas (1996)
09 Arcadia, by Miriam Stockley, Miriam (1999)
10 Cagaran Gaolach = Musa-Mare Lullaby, by Wendy Stark, Child of Transference (1999)
11 In the Arms of Eternity = In The Arms Of Morpheus, by Emoke, Swimming in Dark Water (2003)
12 Iapetus = Mystery, by Lorellei, Spiritus - Breath of Life (1996)
13 Monsoon Chariot = Still, by Seay, 1 Voice (2005)
Okay, so that's the list, a bit more detailed than anything in the Enya forums, if I may brag. Thanks for all the input!
If you downloaded these songs, do everyone a favor and rename them. Please give credit where it's due. And if you realize, "hey, I have that song and I LIKE IT," please check out the artist who really did it. You just might want to buy the album.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Bill Guffey - Requiescat in pace
I happened to do a Google search for an old friend of mine, Mr. Bill Guffey, only to find he passed away two months ago. This is truly heartbreaking to me, mostly because I didn't have a chance to say goodbye.
William "BG" Guffey was the original keyboardist in the band Shooting Star, which was the first American band to sign onto Virgin Records. I met him online around 2001 while playing the MMORPG called Utopia. He went by the name Nicolai, and I happened to guess that his reference was to Nicolai Hel of the novel Shibumi. He guessed my online name, Rhov, was a shortened version of Rhovanion of Tolkein's Middle Earth. We were both literature nerds!
That began many years of witty conversations, enjoying his vast knowledge (he was a member of Mensa and truly brilliant). He liked that I understood obscure cultural references and I actually read Tom Robbins... and enjoyed it! We were leaders in our Utopia game, both of us serving as Monarch for a time, both always the lead magical characters in our kingdom, planning elaborate attacks in the middle of the night. The "Nic and Rhov combo t/m strike" could not be beat! We made lots of friends in those years. I learned about his musical past, which intrigued me, being a musician too. He told me about his family and the son he loved more than anything in the world. He sent me photos of family gatherings, and after a few years it was like I knew them all. He told me much about his personal life, which I could write novels on! The man really lived it up! Weird how online friendships can be so close!
We both stopped playing Utopia at about the same time, but we still kept in touch. Then, about two years ago, shortly after I got married, BG caught me on AIM and told me he was moving away and might not be able to chat anymore. He was going to Europe to pursue a dream. I was proud of him. He had been quite sick over the years, and I felt he deserved rest and happiness. I emailed him a few more times after that, heard some news, but then he never replied. I was busy with being a wife, so our friendship just drifted. Little did I know his trouble with his liver was getting the better of him.
Now, this morning, I caught his obituary on Dan Martin's site. I'm simply stunned. I'm listening to Shooting Star's ballad "Sweet Elatia," my personal favorite. BG never did figure out what Elatia was a reference to, if it was just based from the word "elate" or if it had a deeper meaning; it was something he never thought about until I asked him. It's such a beautiful song. Shooting Star fans notoriously ignore the group's ballads, but for me they are highlights of the albums. I like "Elatia" for the sailing references (I love sailing) and that it's just so peaceful. I honestly could "lay back, let go, close my eyes, and just sail on." I'm also listening to BG's wild keyboard pounding in "Last Chance." He would tell me stories about his days as "the King," getting crazy with the band guys, wooing the women, but how he was so shy to go on stage, the band had to get him totally drunk. It was a rule, there must be a beer sitting on Mr. Guffey's keyboard, that way he could stay buzzed through a concert and be able to face the crowds.
I think back to stories he had, of missing Woodstock to chase after a girl, of seeing the Beatles in concert, of meeting Elton John and many other great performers, of playing with bands all over the Midwest, and many escapades of his that I can't mention for legal reasons. Mostly he talked about his son. Little Billy was his life, and he was so proud of him, bragged about him so much that I ended up knowing this boy as if we had grown up together.
That was Bill Guffey, a devoted father, a lover of music and fine literature, a brilliant man hiding behind that shaggy head of hair. Although our friendship was internet-based, he eventually became one of my best friends. He even inspire one of my characters in the Shadowstrider series. BG thought it a laugh that the character K.J. is a "long-haired man from the Midwest."
BG... you will be deeply missed by friends, by family, and by fans.
William "BG" Guffey, "The King" - 1952-2007
No, I'm not a born saint,
Can't change the course of time,
Can't perform magic,
Can't step into your walk of life.
...
We're just people, people in life.
Together, together we survive.
Give your hand, I'll give you mine.
Don't be scared to take it.
We're here for such a short, short time.
I wanted to show you, I want you to know
That I really care about the hardships you've known.
I want to say believe me, you're not alone.
You're not alone!
Cause we're all in this together.
We're all in this together.
Reach out for a friend
Cause in the end
We're just people,
Just friends.
Just people...
Just friends!
William "BG" Guffey was the original keyboardist in the band Shooting Star, which was the first American band to sign onto Virgin Records. I met him online around 2001 while playing the MMORPG called Utopia. He went by the name Nicolai, and I happened to guess that his reference was to Nicolai Hel of the novel Shibumi. He guessed my online name, Rhov, was a shortened version of Rhovanion of Tolkein's Middle Earth. We were both literature nerds!
That began many years of witty conversations, enjoying his vast knowledge (he was a member of Mensa and truly brilliant). He liked that I understood obscure cultural references and I actually read Tom Robbins... and enjoyed it! We were leaders in our Utopia game, both of us serving as Monarch for a time, both always the lead magical characters in our kingdom, planning elaborate attacks in the middle of the night. The "Nic and Rhov combo t/m strike" could not be beat! We made lots of friends in those years. I learned about his musical past, which intrigued me, being a musician too. He told me about his family and the son he loved more than anything in the world. He sent me photos of family gatherings, and after a few years it was like I knew them all. He told me much about his personal life, which I could write novels on! The man really lived it up! Weird how online friendships can be so close!
We both stopped playing Utopia at about the same time, but we still kept in touch. Then, about two years ago, shortly after I got married, BG caught me on AIM and told me he was moving away and might not be able to chat anymore. He was going to Europe to pursue a dream. I was proud of him. He had been quite sick over the years, and I felt he deserved rest and happiness. I emailed him a few more times after that, heard some news, but then he never replied. I was busy with being a wife, so our friendship just drifted. Little did I know his trouble with his liver was getting the better of him.
Now, this morning, I caught his obituary on Dan Martin's site. I'm simply stunned. I'm listening to Shooting Star's ballad "Sweet Elatia," my personal favorite. BG never did figure out what Elatia was a reference to, if it was just based from the word "elate" or if it had a deeper meaning; it was something he never thought about until I asked him. It's such a beautiful song. Shooting Star fans notoriously ignore the group's ballads, but for me they are highlights of the albums. I like "Elatia" for the sailing references (I love sailing) and that it's just so peaceful. I honestly could "lay back, let go, close my eyes, and just sail on." I'm also listening to BG's wild keyboard pounding in "Last Chance." He would tell me stories about his days as "the King," getting crazy with the band guys, wooing the women, but how he was so shy to go on stage, the band had to get him totally drunk. It was a rule, there must be a beer sitting on Mr. Guffey's keyboard, that way he could stay buzzed through a concert and be able to face the crowds.
I think back to stories he had, of missing Woodstock to chase after a girl, of seeing the Beatles in concert, of meeting Elton John and many other great performers, of playing with bands all over the Midwest, and many escapades of his that I can't mention for legal reasons. Mostly he talked about his son. Little Billy was his life, and he was so proud of him, bragged about him so much that I ended up knowing this boy as if we had grown up together.
That was Bill Guffey, a devoted father, a lover of music and fine literature, a brilliant man hiding behind that shaggy head of hair. Although our friendship was internet-based, he eventually became one of my best friends. He even inspire one of my characters in the Shadowstrider series. BG thought it a laugh that the character K.J. is a "long-haired man from the Midwest."
BG... you will be deeply missed by friends, by family, and by fans.
William "BG" Guffey, "The King" - 1952-2007
No, I'm not a born saint,
Can't change the course of time,
Can't perform magic,
Can't step into your walk of life.
...
We're just people, people in life.
Together, together we survive.
Give your hand, I'll give you mine.
Don't be scared to take it.
We're here for such a short, short time.
I wanted to show you, I want you to know
That I really care about the hardships you've known.
I want to say believe me, you're not alone.
You're not alone!
Cause we're all in this together.
We're all in this together.
Reach out for a friend
Cause in the end
We're just people,
Just friends.
Just people...
Just friends!
Monday, April 02, 2007
The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills
If any of you read The Wheel of Time series, you'll have caught the title reference right away. If not... go to a bookstore and buy Robert Jordan's books, starting with The Eye of the World. They are really well worth it.
It's been a while since I've sat down to actually read. Weird, I know, since I'm a writer and a bookworm. But there is a fine line a writer must walk, a choice to be made: to read or to write. Now, when I start reading, I'll sit for three or four hours at a time, totally absorbed, all life coming to an abrupt caesura as my whole being is swept into a fantasy world. Maybe that's why I prefer fiction; I like escape. Similarly, when I start writing, I can slip away for days, weeks, yes even months. I sleep, but only as long as I need to think clearly enough to see the keyboard. I eat, but at the computer. Earl Grey is my companion. These two existences cannot easily coexist. Either I am in my book, or in someone else's. Too much time and energy is placed in both activities to multitask it.
When I was in high school and college, writing like this was impossible. Short stories has to suffice. Poetry was what got me through my cravings. Something I could sit down for an hour and finish, feeling fulfilled, accomplished, and yet yearning to return - one day - to that great story that has already consumed seventeen years of my life.
I am what some people consider unemployed. I like to think of it as freelancing. I work, don't get me wrong. I work long, hard hours, sitting at a desk and doing research, typing until I have to soak my fingers in hot water. This, right now, is a break from research. I've been looking up info on the M79 Grenade Launcher. Why? Because it is mentioned in the story, and I want to squeeze it into a few niches. Why again? I dunno, 'cause it's cool? As my main character says: "Do not ask why, just know that it is."
My "freelancing" is not just to sit on my rump and write, please don't think that. I have agoraphobia and rheum-arthritis, which makes employment difficult. Some days (like today) the flareups are so bad I can't do anything. My right hand is dead today. Typing one-handed is hard work. I can't walk much further than the kitchen. I hurt... everywhere! Employment in a 9-5 is impossible in this state. Here at home, I can write, or at least do research. I can try to do something. With no "other" job to distract me, I can focus on what I really want to work on, my career passion: my writing. That is my true joy, my ambrosia to drink up and fill me with sweet belletristic ecstasy.
But these flareups are hitting more frequent. The medicines just aren't helping. Thus, I chose an alternative treatment: Robert Jordan. The Wheel of Time takes me away from the pains in my body and places me in characters, be it Rand or Mat or Perrin or Egwene. So many characters to step into, explore, see their world as I try to forget my own. They have pains, yes, and mental anguishes I could never fathom, but it's easier to cope with the afflictions of the characters in my head than with my own aches and anguishes, with swollen joints and fingers that won't straighten, with panic attacks at the stupidest things that leave me embarrassed and frustrated and wanting to scream aloud. When the drugs bring no relief, it's easier to escape.
Reading takes me away from writing, of course, but right now I can't write much. I stop every other sentence to rub out wrists, feeling the bones within pop and crunch in complaint. I chide myself for trying stubbornly to use the right hand that is curled like the dying branches of some ancient oak. Writing on days like this is torture. Yet I know, if it were not for the books to read, I would press on. Why? "Do not ask why, just know that it is." Honestly why: because I'm a stubborn-ass perfectionist who is terrified I won't get to finish the story.
Not being fatalistic or anything, I've just always seen unfinished works as the ultimate tragedy, especially when critics claim the work is an artist's masterpiece. So great... and not complete. I think of Frank Herbert. Surely, Chapterhouse could not be the ending he wanted. I think of Tolkien and the Silmarilion, not to mention the plethora of notes he left behind, to be taken up by his son in hopes of finishing the complex universe his brilliant father created. I think of Kafka, Hemingway, Lord Byron, Chaucer, Spencer and the Faerie Queen, Dickens and who the heck killed Edwin Drood, Schubert and the Unfinished Symphony, Bach and The Art Of Fugue, John Lennon and Free As A Bird (ok, so the remained Beatles finished it, but who's to say if that was Lennon's vision for the song). Unfinished works are one of the ultimate tragedies for me, yet I suppose every artist, be they writer, musician, architect, or painter, eventually succumbs to Azrael's arms with something left unfinished.
Robert Jordan (aka James Rigney), I hope, does not fall victim to this fate. With one more book to go until he finishes the Wheel series, Mr. Rigney has been diagnosed with amyloidosis. Not that I know a bloody thing about the disease, but I know it is fatal. Not just for the sake of personally wanting to see the loose ends tied up, but for the sake of future projects such a creative man surely must have planned in his boundless mind, and for his family and friends, and for the man himself, from one aspiring author to one well established and esteemed, I hope he beats this disease. Write if it makes you happy, Mr. Rigney, but rest up and get well!
Ah, but the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills. My own story reflects such concepts of fate, a theory I personally am not certain about. Fate, many believe, will deal what cards are meant. Robati, the Road of Time (that's what I call it in Shadowstrider, and I'm tickled pink that Jordan calls it the Wheel of Time, so similar)... the Road of Time takes us on our path, and we walk its route. Can we defy fate? Fate, or the disease at least, states that this author, who I have just discovered and yet instantly feel an affinity toward, is destined for a lifespan of 4 years. Perhaps Mr. Rigney is ta'veren and will pull his string in the weave the way he wants.
Oh, I could quote phrases from his books, from my books, from a hundred other stories out there that deal with such topics. I won't. Only because Robati has set me on a path meeting a bottle of Motrin and some pain killers. I'll return to reading Jordan's books... and I will enjoy the escape.
It's been a while since I've sat down to actually read. Weird, I know, since I'm a writer and a bookworm. But there is a fine line a writer must walk, a choice to be made: to read or to write. Now, when I start reading, I'll sit for three or four hours at a time, totally absorbed, all life coming to an abrupt caesura as my whole being is swept into a fantasy world. Maybe that's why I prefer fiction; I like escape. Similarly, when I start writing, I can slip away for days, weeks, yes even months. I sleep, but only as long as I need to think clearly enough to see the keyboard. I eat, but at the computer. Earl Grey is my companion. These two existences cannot easily coexist. Either I am in my book, or in someone else's. Too much time and energy is placed in both activities to multitask it.
When I was in high school and college, writing like this was impossible. Short stories has to suffice. Poetry was what got me through my cravings. Something I could sit down for an hour and finish, feeling fulfilled, accomplished, and yet yearning to return - one day - to that great story that has already consumed seventeen years of my life.
I am what some people consider unemployed. I like to think of it as freelancing. I work, don't get me wrong. I work long, hard hours, sitting at a desk and doing research, typing until I have to soak my fingers in hot water. This, right now, is a break from research. I've been looking up info on the M79 Grenade Launcher. Why? Because it is mentioned in the story, and I want to squeeze it into a few niches. Why again? I dunno, 'cause it's cool? As my main character says: "Do not ask why, just know that it is."
My "freelancing" is not just to sit on my rump and write, please don't think that. I have agoraphobia and rheum-arthritis, which makes employment difficult. Some days (like today) the flareups are so bad I can't do anything. My right hand is dead today. Typing one-handed is hard work. I can't walk much further than the kitchen. I hurt... everywhere! Employment in a 9-5 is impossible in this state. Here at home, I can write, or at least do research. I can try to do something. With no "other" job to distract me, I can focus on what I really want to work on, my career passion: my writing. That is my true joy, my ambrosia to drink up and fill me with sweet belletristic ecstasy.
But these flareups are hitting more frequent. The medicines just aren't helping. Thus, I chose an alternative treatment: Robert Jordan. The Wheel of Time takes me away from the pains in my body and places me in characters, be it Rand or Mat or Perrin or Egwene. So many characters to step into, explore, see their world as I try to forget my own. They have pains, yes, and mental anguishes I could never fathom, but it's easier to cope with the afflictions of the characters in my head than with my own aches and anguishes, with swollen joints and fingers that won't straighten, with panic attacks at the stupidest things that leave me embarrassed and frustrated and wanting to scream aloud. When the drugs bring no relief, it's easier to escape.
Reading takes me away from writing, of course, but right now I can't write much. I stop every other sentence to rub out wrists, feeling the bones within pop and crunch in complaint. I chide myself for trying stubbornly to use the right hand that is curled like the dying branches of some ancient oak. Writing on days like this is torture. Yet I know, if it were not for the books to read, I would press on. Why? "Do not ask why, just know that it is." Honestly why: because I'm a stubborn-ass perfectionist who is terrified I won't get to finish the story.
Not being fatalistic or anything, I've just always seen unfinished works as the ultimate tragedy, especially when critics claim the work is an artist's masterpiece. So great... and not complete. I think of Frank Herbert. Surely, Chapterhouse could not be the ending he wanted. I think of Tolkien and the Silmarilion, not to mention the plethora of notes he left behind, to be taken up by his son in hopes of finishing the complex universe his brilliant father created. I think of Kafka, Hemingway, Lord Byron, Chaucer, Spencer and the Faerie Queen, Dickens and who the heck killed Edwin Drood, Schubert and the Unfinished Symphony, Bach and The Art Of Fugue, John Lennon and Free As A Bird (ok, so the remained Beatles finished it, but who's to say if that was Lennon's vision for the song). Unfinished works are one of the ultimate tragedies for me, yet I suppose every artist, be they writer, musician, architect, or painter, eventually succumbs to Azrael's arms with something left unfinished.
Robert Jordan (aka James Rigney), I hope, does not fall victim to this fate. With one more book to go until he finishes the Wheel series, Mr. Rigney has been diagnosed with amyloidosis. Not that I know a bloody thing about the disease, but I know it is fatal. Not just for the sake of personally wanting to see the loose ends tied up, but for the sake of future projects such a creative man surely must have planned in his boundless mind, and for his family and friends, and for the man himself, from one aspiring author to one well established and esteemed, I hope he beats this disease. Write if it makes you happy, Mr. Rigney, but rest up and get well!
Ah, but the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills. My own story reflects such concepts of fate, a theory I personally am not certain about. Fate, many believe, will deal what cards are meant. Robati, the Road of Time (that's what I call it in Shadowstrider, and I'm tickled pink that Jordan calls it the Wheel of Time, so similar)... the Road of Time takes us on our path, and we walk its route. Can we defy fate? Fate, or the disease at least, states that this author, who I have just discovered and yet instantly feel an affinity toward, is destined for a lifespan of 4 years. Perhaps Mr. Rigney is ta'veren and will pull his string in the weave the way he wants.
Oh, I could quote phrases from his books, from my books, from a hundred other stories out there that deal with such topics. I won't. Only because Robati has set me on a path meeting a bottle of Motrin and some pain killers. I'll return to reading Jordan's books... and I will enjoy the escape.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Corned Beef And Cabbage
Corned beef and cabbage. Even if you have no clue what "corned" beef is (hint: it has nothing to do with corn on the cob), the imagination is instantly tuned into redheads drinking Guinness and Bushmills. Could there be anything more Irish? Why, in 2006, when St. Patrick's Day landed on a Friday during Lent (no meat is to be consumed that day), the debate of whether to follow Lent or follow the tradition of eating corned beef split American dioceses. St. Patty, corned beef, soda bread and shamrocks: nothing screams "Irish" more loudly.
Really?
And what if I told you that corned beef it not a traditional Irish meal?
Lies! Heresy! But all too true.
First off, there is no such thing as a "traditional" St. Patrick's Day meal. This feast day in honor of Saint Patrick, patron saint of Ireland, the man who went from slave to bishop to famous converter of Ireland, has no particular meal associated with it, although anything of Irish origin is encouraged, like soda bread, Baileys, Guinness, Harps, Bushmills.... Notice alcohol plays a big part? Hey, it's Ireland! In any case, a usual feast meal in Ireland would consist of Irish bacon, not corned beef.
The meal of corned beef and cabbage is an American invention. Irish immigrants in New York City's Lower East Side wanted something similar to the Irish bacon they were used to consuming for St. Patty's Day. Their Jewish neighbors told them about corned beef, which was cheaper and still good. So Irish-Americans turned away from tradition and used this beef substitute. It gained popularity, and as more Irish immigrants came, corned beef and cabbage became a staple of any Irish menu.
Boy, my Granka must be rolling in her grave at that! She swore on corned beef and cabbage, refused to eat anything else on St. Patty's! It'd be unpatriotic! The most "Irish" meal in the world!
Then again, she wore Orange for St. Patty's. Her family were Protestant Irish, and she took to the whole "orange and the green" fighting thing seriously. She wasn't religious herself, she purely wanted to walk into an Irish pub wearing orange to start a brawl so she could smash a few Catholic heads, or any heads, whatever their religion. Yep, Granka was quite an interesting woman.
Éireann go Brách
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Book 9 DONE
As of now, my first draft of Book Nine, Shadowstrider: Reiekooadu (yes, such a weird name is explained and highly significant) is FINISHED!!!!
Party time, Party time!!!
If it weren't 2-in-the-frickin-morning I would bring out the whiskey and celebrate. As it is, I'm celebrating by getting some well-deserved rest.
Now... on to Book Ten.... eventually... blah!
If you actually read this blog, you'll ask "Book 9? What happened to Book 7?" Yeah, that was the plan. I finished Book 6 Homefront back in August, sent it to my husband to do a quick grammar check, and he got to my lovely ending, the one I thought was so great, and went "That's it?!?!" He then proceeded to spend a dinner at Sheri's convincing me I needed to expand on two somewhat major characters who just don't get much conclusive development by the end of Book 6. So he convinced me to write a Book 7 and 8, yet to be titled. I didn't want to fuss with that while I'm in the middle of Reiekooadu, so they got skipped. I'll be writing Book 10, tentatively called Final Destinies, finish that, then go back to those two.
A little personal record, I started work on this novel in mid August (I had an outline of it since 2003, but had to finish the previous books first). That means I've been writing this for just slightly under 6 months.
The first draft clocks in at 718 pages!
718 pages in 6 months. That's a new record for me. I have NEVER written ANYTHING so furiously in my life. And I totally followed nothing of my original outline. In fact, I went so far off course, I have to scrap Book 10's outline altogether. That's normal. I hate outlines; I never follow them. They're good to get a general idea out, but I never keep to anything.
Anyway, this means I averaged 4 pages each day. Of course, I don't work on typing this every day. I spend weeks sometimes researching stupid stuff (like last week was spent researching how to tan badger pelts totally natural, without chemicals or anything, and I got into the whole lore of tanning techniques, including a concept called "braining" which, obviously, uses the brains of the animal to soften the pelt and make it shiny. Let's just say, it's a chapter you do not want to read while eating.)
I don't know when was the last time you tried writing a 4-page essay in 1 day (or if you ever tried such a thing), but that's tough work. Record speed for me. Most of my books take a few years to finish. Book 1 took me seven years (I was in school, I had no time to write). Book 3 took me two years (college, same excuse). A few years for a novel is normal. Not bloody 6 months.
If I can keep this pace, I'll have this series finished and ready to resubmit to publishers in two years. YAY!
Wait... 2 years... writing 4 pages a day... every bloody day...
GAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
Party time, Party time!!!
If it weren't 2-in-the-frickin-morning I would bring out the whiskey and celebrate. As it is, I'm celebrating by getting some well-deserved rest.
Now... on to Book Ten.... eventually... blah!
If you actually read this blog, you'll ask "Book 9? What happened to Book 7?" Yeah, that was the plan. I finished Book 6 Homefront back in August, sent it to my husband to do a quick grammar check, and he got to my lovely ending, the one I thought was so great, and went "That's it?!?!" He then proceeded to spend a dinner at Sheri's convincing me I needed to expand on two somewhat major characters who just don't get much conclusive development by the end of Book 6. So he convinced me to write a Book 7 and 8, yet to be titled. I didn't want to fuss with that while I'm in the middle of Reiekooadu, so they got skipped. I'll be writing Book 10, tentatively called Final Destinies, finish that, then go back to those two.
A little personal record, I started work on this novel in mid August (I had an outline of it since 2003, but had to finish the previous books first). That means I've been writing this for just slightly under 6 months.
The first draft clocks in at 718 pages!
718 pages in 6 months. That's a new record for me. I have NEVER written ANYTHING so furiously in my life. And I totally followed nothing of my original outline. In fact, I went so far off course, I have to scrap Book 10's outline altogether. That's normal. I hate outlines; I never follow them. They're good to get a general idea out, but I never keep to anything.
Anyway, this means I averaged 4 pages each day. Of course, I don't work on typing this every day. I spend weeks sometimes researching stupid stuff (like last week was spent researching how to tan badger pelts totally natural, without chemicals or anything, and I got into the whole lore of tanning techniques, including a concept called "braining" which, obviously, uses the brains of the animal to soften the pelt and make it shiny. Let's just say, it's a chapter you do not want to read while eating.)
I don't know when was the last time you tried writing a 4-page essay in 1 day (or if you ever tried such a thing), but that's tough work. Record speed for me. Most of my books take a few years to finish. Book 1 took me seven years (I was in school, I had no time to write). Book 3 took me two years (college, same excuse). A few years for a novel is normal. Not bloody 6 months.
If I can keep this pace, I'll have this series finished and ready to resubmit to publishers in two years. YAY!
Wait... 2 years... writing 4 pages a day... every bloody day...
GAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
Friday, January 19, 2007
Storm Front '07
Doesn't the title of this entry reflect the grotesque sensationalism of TV news? Back in California, it sprinkles a little, and they flash "Flood Watch 2007!!!" Gimme a break! Part of the reason why I don't watch the news anymore.
Anyway, we've had our first real winter storm a few days ago. At first, it was just bloody cold. There's a creek just outside our apartment, and we've been watching it for a while, wondering when it would freeze. Monday I think, Matt left for work, then came running back in shouting "It finally froze!" We got pictures, but the night pix Matt took of the fountain turned out the best. It looks surreal!
Finally, the clouds came back, and with them came the snow. I was up extra early that morning, and I like to look out my window (sort of like math class, you know), when I noticed in the pre-morning dark that there was a lightness not usual to the ivy planter outside my window. Snow! I took some pix, just in case it melted, just to prove it did snow. I didn't have to worry. By that afternoon, there was a good 4 inches, and it's still snowing off and on.
For Matt, it was only the second time he's ever seen it snowing (the first time was last month), and it surprised me when he confessed it was also his first time actually walking in snow (the flurries last month totally don't count) and he was worried about driving in it. But he did good, no accidents, only a little slippery in the parking lot.
His work closed early, so he came home eager to play in the snow. He was like a kid!
We got into a snowball fight.
Then we managed to scrap enough snow together in our little planter to make a miniature snowman we named Doc Brown, because the pine needles I stuck as hair look like Doc of Back to the Future.
It's warming up now, a whoping 38 degrees, just enough to make everything slushy. Well, it was fun while it lasted.
Doc Brown says: "Stay warm and well wishes to all my friends!"
Anyway, we've had our first real winter storm a few days ago. At first, it was just bloody cold. There's a creek just outside our apartment, and we've been watching it for a while, wondering when it would freeze. Monday I think, Matt left for work, then came running back in shouting "It finally froze!" We got pictures, but the night pix Matt took of the fountain turned out the best. It looks surreal!
Finally, the clouds came back, and with them came the snow. I was up extra early that morning, and I like to look out my window (sort of like math class, you know), when I noticed in the pre-morning dark that there was a lightness not usual to the ivy planter outside my window. Snow! I took some pix, just in case it melted, just to prove it did snow. I didn't have to worry. By that afternoon, there was a good 4 inches, and it's still snowing off and on.
For Matt, it was only the second time he's ever seen it snowing (the first time was last month), and it surprised me when he confessed it was also his first time actually walking in snow (the flurries last month totally don't count) and he was worried about driving in it. But he did good, no accidents, only a little slippery in the parking lot.
His work closed early, so he came home eager to play in the snow. He was like a kid!
We got into a snowball fight.
Then we managed to scrap enough snow together in our little planter to make a miniature snowman we named Doc Brown, because the pine needles I stuck as hair look like Doc of Back to the Future.
It's warming up now, a whoping 38 degrees, just enough to make everything slushy. Well, it was fun while it lasted.
Doc Brown says: "Stay warm and well wishes to all my friends!"
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