Tuesday, February 27
For those who aren't caught up -- largely because we, yanno, never got around to posting about it -- Dan and I are in DC right now on a working vacation, him to do tastings at some of the Whole Foods we're in up here, me to do an internship at the DC arm of Cowgirl Creamery.
This has been high on the vacation and low on the working so far. We drove up Sunday, in the lovely combo of snow and freezing rain that hit Virginia for most of that day. For six hours. The problem was not so much the precipitation -- all the highways were pretty darn clear -- as the lovely salt-mud slurry that passing vehicles constantly threw in your windshield. But we made it and, after a brief but impassioned argument about the directions which I think was some kind of marital obligation, arrived safe and sound at my uncle's house.
Then yesterday -- since Cowgirl isn't open on Mondays -- we did the tourist thing and went down to the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History. This was a blast. I spent a lot of time in the extinct beasties section and now have some fabulous ideas for alien races. It also gave me time to orient myself. I am now confident I can make it to Cowgirl on the bus system, seeing as Cowgirl was a block up from where we got off the bus and all. Also, our stop at somewhere called Cosi's for lunch, while fun and tasty, convinced me to make a second stop at Safeways on the way home and pick up some sandwich-makings, because if I have to eat out for lunch every day I'm here I'm gonna be soooo broke.
Dinners are not so much a problem, since my uncle (who, judging by the contents of his kitchen, regards home as that place one stops for sleep and snacks) insists on paying for us every night. I argue, but since he is a brain surgeon and I am broke and the restaurants are inevitably a hair or two out of my price range, I don't argue much.
Today, I work. Originally I was supposed to go at ten, when the shop opened, but when I called last night my temporary boss said "oh, I'm not coming in until noon -- why don't you wait until one." Damn, I could get used to this work schedule.
Finally, writing. I am trying hard to keep up with my writing. Unfortunately, this means working on a Windows machine and writing in GoogleDocs. After one day, I already want to bite someone. The Windows machine does not seem to understand my need to use the Dvorak layout and switches out of it whenever I open a new window or, you know, whenever it feels like it, and there doesn't seem to be a way to turn this off. And GoogleDocs! My god, it's almost as annoying as working in Word. What are all these stupid toolbars that I can't turn off? Why is my window so small? Will you please stop flickering the stupid timer icon at me with every letter I type?
Plus, no running wordcount, no easy way to reference my earlier chapters, no sidebar to write notes in. Damn, I miss Ulysses. You never realize how much you use all those features until they're gone.
But I am still writing, still alive, and in DC. And now I've actually told people so.
This has been high on the vacation and low on the working so far. We drove up Sunday, in the lovely combo of snow and freezing rain that hit Virginia for most of that day. For six hours. The problem was not so much the precipitation -- all the highways were pretty darn clear -- as the lovely salt-mud slurry that passing vehicles constantly threw in your windshield. But we made it and, after a brief but impassioned argument about the directions which I think was some kind of marital obligation, arrived safe and sound at my uncle's house.
Then yesterday -- since Cowgirl isn't open on Mondays -- we did the tourist thing and went down to the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History. This was a blast. I spent a lot of time in the extinct beasties section and now have some fabulous ideas for alien races. It also gave me time to orient myself. I am now confident I can make it to Cowgirl on the bus system, seeing as Cowgirl was a block up from where we got off the bus and all. Also, our stop at somewhere called Cosi's for lunch, while fun and tasty, convinced me to make a second stop at Safeways on the way home and pick up some sandwich-makings, because if I have to eat out for lunch every day I'm here I'm gonna be soooo broke.
Dinners are not so much a problem, since my uncle (who, judging by the contents of his kitchen, regards home as that place one stops for sleep and snacks) insists on paying for us every night. I argue, but since he is a brain surgeon and I am broke and the restaurants are inevitably a hair or two out of my price range, I don't argue much.
Today, I work. Originally I was supposed to go at ten, when the shop opened, but when I called last night my temporary boss said "oh, I'm not coming in until noon -- why don't you wait until one." Damn, I could get used to this work schedule.
Finally, writing. I am trying hard to keep up with my writing. Unfortunately, this means working on a Windows machine and writing in GoogleDocs. After one day, I already want to bite someone. The Windows machine does not seem to understand my need to use the Dvorak layout and switches out of it whenever I open a new window or, you know, whenever it feels like it, and there doesn't seem to be a way to turn this off. And GoogleDocs! My god, it's almost as annoying as working in Word. What are all these stupid toolbars that I can't turn off? Why is my window so small? Will you please stop flickering the stupid timer icon at me with every letter I type?
Plus, no running wordcount, no easy way to reference my earlier chapters, no sidebar to write notes in. Damn, I miss Ulysses. You never realize how much you use all those features until they're gone.
But I am still writing, still alive, and in DC. And now I've actually told people so.
Wednesday, February 21
I haven't posted for a week or so, for very simple reasons. About 140 of 'em.
Basically, my parents took a week's vacation and flew to California. This was a good thing. My parents are in their early fifties and spent the last year going all-out, full-bore, ten-hour workdays seven days a week. The last "day off" they took was the working trip to that conference in Portland back in June. They needed this time.
Thus when I started getting a cold the day before they left, I was at great pains to conceal it from them. I succeeded, and I don't regret it.
The upshot, though, was I ended up feeding 140 cows plus 3 pigs plus 4 Border Collies for the coldest week we've had this year, with a cold, while taking care of the cheese business and keeping up my 750 words a day on the novel. And, yanno, eating and sleeping and such. Blog posts were pretty far down the list.
I couldn't have done it without Dan, who, despite his lack of farm experience and catching my cold, was right there soldiering through the evil wind and ice with me, hauling feedsacks, rolling bale rings, and yelling at the dogs. It was a helluva week.
Kinda fun though. I have not worked with the beasties in some time.
Anyway. The cold is gone now, save for the nasty racking cough it's left as a parting gift. I managed to get my 750 words a day every day except Sunday. Nothing died, and in fact my dad is very pleased with how well we did taking care of the cows.
Back to the routine. Until Monday. When I drive to DC for a week-long internship and have to make up an entirely new routine.
Geez. My life.
Writing Progress:
Today's Yesterday's Progress: 627 words. Yes, again, not quota. I swear I'm making it while you lot aren't looking.
Comments: I is stuck. Aimless writing-related thinking-out-loud follows. Those of you not interested in this writing stuff may want to drift off for a bit.
So way back when I crossed 50K I was all excited about the book, because what I'd wanted to happen at 50K had happened, and it was fun, and stuff was coming together in my head and all was joy and light and song.
This did not last.
What I thought would be 5, maybe 10K of stuff between that landmark and the next has stretched to more like 15. It is all boring. The protag runs around talking to people. And it's necessary, it sets the emotional tone for the next landmark, I can't just jump ahead, but it's long and messy and dull and exhausting and I feel stuck.
Grr.
Basically? The book needs a reshuffle. Most of the Boring Stuff That Must Happen is happening in this huge lump because I introduced the antagonist -- well, one of them -- at 50K, which was the plan. It was just a crappy plan. I think now that I should move him back about, oh, 20K or so, and then spread all this stuff out a bit more and cut like a mofo and then maybe this book's pacing will start to resemble something workable.
After a night's sleep, though, I've come to the conclusion that I should not take the scissors to it right now. Because I've already had similar Horrible Realizations at least three times, and at least two of those fixes have been made obsolete by later realizations about the book. It would be different if I didn't know where I was going -- that's where I've stopped, dropped, and rolled out the ren pen on previous projects, when things had gotten so messy that I could no longer see through the haze. I do know where I'm going. There's scenes coming up that are very clear in my head and that I'm really, really excited about writing. I just have to get to them.
So a lot of what I'm writing will be moved or cut or reshaped beyond recognition. So what? I'll do that later. Right now, I need all this crap on the page so I can feel my way through it. You can't make a roadmap without getting a little lost.
Not if you're me, anyway. *sigh*
Crappy Writing Skill De Jour: Aside from complete inability to move the plot? Lack of words. I hate sitting staring at the screen, feeling what needs to be said but unable to find the words. Stupid words! Don't you know your whole reason for existence is to translate what's inside my head to the outside of it?
Snips: You must be joking.
Basically, my parents took a week's vacation and flew to California. This was a good thing. My parents are in their early fifties and spent the last year going all-out, full-bore, ten-hour workdays seven days a week. The last "day off" they took was the working trip to that conference in Portland back in June. They needed this time.
Thus when I started getting a cold the day before they left, I was at great pains to conceal it from them. I succeeded, and I don't regret it.
The upshot, though, was I ended up feeding 140 cows plus 3 pigs plus 4 Border Collies for the coldest week we've had this year, with a cold, while taking care of the cheese business and keeping up my 750 words a day on the novel. And, yanno, eating and sleeping and such. Blog posts were pretty far down the list.
I couldn't have done it without Dan, who, despite his lack of farm experience and catching my cold, was right there soldiering through the evil wind and ice with me, hauling feedsacks, rolling bale rings, and yelling at the dogs. It was a helluva week.
Kinda fun though. I have not worked with the beasties in some time.
Anyway. The cold is gone now, save for the nasty racking cough it's left as a parting gift. I managed to get my 750 words a day every day except Sunday. Nothing died, and in fact my dad is very pleased with how well we did taking care of the cows.
Back to the routine. Until Monday. When I drive to DC for a week-long internship and have to make up an entirely new routine.
Geez. My life.
Writing Progress:
Comments: I is stuck. Aimless writing-related thinking-out-loud follows. Those of you not interested in this writing stuff may want to drift off for a bit.
So way back when I crossed 50K I was all excited about the book, because what I'd wanted to happen at 50K had happened, and it was fun, and stuff was coming together in my head and all was joy and light and song.
This did not last.
What I thought would be 5, maybe 10K of stuff between that landmark and the next has stretched to more like 15. It is all boring. The protag runs around talking to people. And it's necessary, it sets the emotional tone for the next landmark, I can't just jump ahead, but it's long and messy and dull and exhausting and I feel stuck.
Grr.
Basically? The book needs a reshuffle. Most of the Boring Stuff That Must Happen is happening in this huge lump because I introduced the antagonist -- well, one of them -- at 50K, which was the plan. It was just a crappy plan. I think now that I should move him back about, oh, 20K or so, and then spread all this stuff out a bit more and cut like a mofo and then maybe this book's pacing will start to resemble something workable.
After a night's sleep, though, I've come to the conclusion that I should not take the scissors to it right now. Because I've already had similar Horrible Realizations at least three times, and at least two of those fixes have been made obsolete by later realizations about the book. It would be different if I didn't know where I was going -- that's where I've stopped, dropped, and rolled out the ren pen on previous projects, when things had gotten so messy that I could no longer see through the haze. I do know where I'm going. There's scenes coming up that are very clear in my head and that I'm really, really excited about writing. I just have to get to them.
So a lot of what I'm writing will be moved or cut or reshaped beyond recognition. So what? I'll do that later. Right now, I need all this crap on the page so I can feel my way through it. You can't make a roadmap without getting a little lost.
Not if you're me, anyway. *sigh*
Crappy Writing Skill De Jour: Aside from complete inability to move the plot? Lack of words. I hate sitting staring at the screen, feeling what needs to be said but unable to find the words. Stupid words! Don't you know your whole reason for existence is to translate what's inside my head to the outside of it?
Snips: You must be joking.
Sunday, February 11
Rather late, but here's my book reports for the latter half of January:
Books Read Jan 15 - 31
Myrren's Gift by Fiona McIntosh (Unfinished)
Like Eyes of God, this was an attempt to scratch my high fantasy itch, and it also failed miserably. It was, frustratingly, the book I would have liked, if. The plot was quite good, with some really original points. The characters were interesting and quirky. The setting was generic-medieval and the story started on page 120 (the book, obviously, didn't), but I could have survived that.
If the book hadn't been sabotaged with over-writing.
I got nearly to the end of this book, and I swear, half the reason was the sort of fascinated horror that makes one slow down when passing highway accidents. I couldn't believe the thoroughness and the adroit skill applied to sucking every bit of life out of interesting characters and situations. I kept thinking maybe one would slip through the cracks, but no. The author got 'em all. It was amazing.
Now, mostly this was caused by the fallback of all mediocre writers, violations of the "show, don't tell" rule. If you took all the violations of that rule in this book, bound them in hardback, and used the result to beat the crap out of beginning authors, the world would be a better place. But on those occasions when the author so forgot herself as to actually show something, she became so unnerved by the risk (what if people misunderstood?) that she bent herself over backwards to explain things, from multiple viewpoints, in painstaking detail, in triplicate, so that by the time readers got to the action they just wanted it all to be over and done with.
There was also a lot of intuiting. Characters "instinctively felt" they could trust someone. Characters "just knew" that such-and-such was the right thing to do. Characters fell in love at first sight. You can sneak this by readers a few times, but do it often and some of us will start replacing "his instincts told him..." with "his author told him..." in our own minds. Instinct is not an acceptable substitute for character development and plot causality.
I got about eighty pages from the end before realizing a) I wasn't really enjoying this much, and b) since this was the first book of a series, the author had no obligation to tie up any of the dangling plot threads. Given the quality of the rest of the work, I figured my chances of getting any satisfaction were not good. Time to move on to greener pastures.
The Bookman's Wake by John Dunning
I gather that this is the fourth or fifth installation in the story of Cliff Janeway, policeman-turned-rare-book-dealer -- in fact, I have a vague memory of picking up the first book in the series, then wandering off. Too light on mystery, too heavy on book-geekery, and that's coming from me.
Dunning seems to have caught his balance by this point in the series, though, and I read it in one long sitting -- a gulped meal, as good mysteries generally are. As meals go, it was fairly satisfying. The mystery wasn't the greatest I've read, but it wasn't the worst either: the characters, if not brilliantly rendered, were sturdy and believable, the plot not too great a stretch even if it moved slowly at times. The book-geekery occurred in measured and interesting doses. It's always interesting to get a peek at someone else's obsessions and see the odd, twisty little ways they mirror your own. I adore books with a passion, and the longish scene in which Janeway and the female ingenue are used-bookstore hopping was very familiar... and yet not. I am, at the end of the day, not a collector: I am a reader. I buy these books not to own them but to curl up with them on the couch and devour them. I dog-ear the pages, I break the spines, I pile them in huge, careless heaps on my bookshelves, I write in them when I give them away. The only possible use the copyright page has for me is to tell me when the book was first published. If I have a first edition, it's sheer chance.
Reading this novel has led me to conclude that anyone who lets me get my hands on a first edition ought to be shot. There's an entire world out there -- if a rather small, insular one -- that regards my kind of book-handling with unutterable loathing, a world for whom the actual reading of books is an afterthought at best and sacrilege at worst. An interesting world to visit, even if I wouldn't want to live there.
My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell
This book got read because Dan found it in the same bookstore where I found Bookman's Wake and stood hovering over me waiting for me to put that book down and shove this one into my hands. Oh, the trauma. Twist my rubber arm.
My Family and Other Animals falls roughly into the same category as the James Herriot novels for me: semi-autobiographical, somewhat about beasties, a lot about people, very British, very funny, and very mad. Only with, um, extra mad. The frame story is about Gerald (who would grow up to become a zookeeper and prominent wildlife conservationist) relocating to the Greek isle of Corfu at the age of ten. There he has many encounters with the native wildlife, animal and human alike, all of them much enlivened by the presence of his eccentric family.
The book is immensely, devastatingly funny: rambling speculations and observations on wildlife, events in Durrell's daily life on the isle, and anecdotes ranging from the mundane to the bizarre all delivered in the same deadpan British voice. The dog's loyal but misguided attack on Mother's frilly bathing costume; Gerald buying a semi-tame seagull from a convict; brother Lawrence's phobia of matchboxes, developed after Gerald had captured a scorpion with her young and left her boxed for safekeeping... I honestly never knew what was going to happen when I turned the page.
I will also note that, even if only half the stories in this book are true, Gerald was bloody fearless as a kid. I like wild animals as well as the next girl, but catch me splashing through the swamp fishing around in the mud after two gigantic snakes I just saw disappear.
A lovely, funny book, recommended whether you like animals or just enjoy a taste of the absurd. I'll definitely be looking for more of these.
Sun of Suns by Karl Schroeder
There's only a few hard science fiction writers I can stand to read. Schroeder is one. First, because he's writing about something really different; in the case of Suns, "different" means floating freefall cities built around nuclear-reactor suns, making for a truly bizarre but well-grounded set of societies. Second, and more importantly, because Schroeder performs that oft-forgotten but all-important step of putting actual people in his techno-dreams. And people, moreover, that I like. Gregory Benford, I hope you're taking notes.
Aside from the floating cities, the wild battles, and the woman wounded by a bullet fired in some unknown war millions of miles away (freefall! Nothin' to stop it movin'!), Schroeder also fascinates me with his... I suppose it's best described as a conflicted attitude towards AI. It's not the first time it's come up in his work -- you can see edges of it in Ventus and it's a strong undercurrent in Lady of Mazes. Schroeder seems to take the position that people in his future need to be protected from the all-powerful AIs, not because the AIs are hostile, but because the AIs can do and be everything... and thus there is no particular need for humans to do or be anything.
It's not a world-view I agree is an inevitable consequence of true AI, and certainly not one I would care to write about, but it's fascinating to watch Schroeder exploring all the consequences.
At any rate, aside from the techno-dream and the good characters, this is also a whizz-bang great bloody fun adventure story. If you've been looking for your sensawunda, I suggest you look for it here.
Stamping Butterflies by Jon Courtenay Grimwood
I'd tried to read Grimwood previously, in some of his earlier cyberpunk efforts, and put it down with the conclusion it was not for me. The violence was excessive, the characters were annoying, and Grimwood had fallen victim to the concept of "eyeball kicks" -- that cyberpunk invention which, used properly, presents the reader with a dazzling Vegas-esque collage of imagery and, used improperly, presents the reader with an indigestible lump of sentence fragments which will nevertheless not be criticized for fear of sounding like a plebe. They are used properly about 2% of the time.
But the concept of Butterflies looked fascinating, and the book was free, so I thought I'd give Grimwood another go.
My conclusion was that he's become a very good writer for someone else to read.
Don't get me wrong. Butterflies is a good book, and I was chewing over it for a day or two afterwards, always a good sign. But it lost me. Grimwood's kicked the eyeball habit, thank god, and the violence was more moderate, but the characters still didn't do it for me. They were good. I kinda wanted to like them. And Grimwood's got an amazing way with snapshots, little fragments of moments that perfectly sum up a character -- this gesture, that turn of phrase. It was really a pity that the snapshots didn't mesh with each other into an actual running movie. Character hooks? Brilliant. Character consistency? Nonexistent. Nothing but a series of hooks and moments that seemed to have little to do with each other even when they weren't actively contradictory.
If I'd had a better sense of the characters, the end might have resonated with me. But I didn't, and frankly it struck me as not much of an improvement on the "and then they woke up" ending.
This was, in concept, a good book. You may well like this book. But I couldn't.
I will now get back to the trying-desperately-not-to-be-sick. Or, at least, not to look sick. My parents are leaving for their first real vacation in a year on Tuesday, leaving me in charge of the farm, and my paranoid workaholic father is perfectly capable of canceling the tickets even at this late hour over my measly little head cold.
*drinks the cure for all sick and sulks*
Writing Progress:
Today's Progress: Um, 436 words. I'm hoping to get more when I get back from work. Why is it that whenever I post to the blog I've not made quota?
Comments: My subplots are trying to kill me.
Crappy Writing Skill De Jour: ... pretty much all of them suck today.
Books Read Jan 15 - 31
Myrren's Gift by Fiona McIntosh (Unfinished)
Like Eyes of God, this was an attempt to scratch my high fantasy itch, and it also failed miserably. It was, frustratingly, the book I would have liked, if. The plot was quite good, with some really original points. The characters were interesting and quirky. The setting was generic-medieval and the story started on page 120 (the book, obviously, didn't), but I could have survived that.
If the book hadn't been sabotaged with over-writing.
I got nearly to the end of this book, and I swear, half the reason was the sort of fascinated horror that makes one slow down when passing highway accidents. I couldn't believe the thoroughness and the adroit skill applied to sucking every bit of life out of interesting characters and situations. I kept thinking maybe one would slip through the cracks, but no. The author got 'em all. It was amazing.
Now, mostly this was caused by the fallback of all mediocre writers, violations of the "show, don't tell" rule. If you took all the violations of that rule in this book, bound them in hardback, and used the result to beat the crap out of beginning authors, the world would be a better place. But on those occasions when the author so forgot herself as to actually show something, she became so unnerved by the risk (what if people misunderstood?) that she bent herself over backwards to explain things, from multiple viewpoints, in painstaking detail, in triplicate, so that by the time readers got to the action they just wanted it all to be over and done with.
There was also a lot of intuiting. Characters "instinctively felt" they could trust someone. Characters "just knew" that such-and-such was the right thing to do. Characters fell in love at first sight. You can sneak this by readers a few times, but do it often and some of us will start replacing "his instincts told him..." with "his author told him..." in our own minds. Instinct is not an acceptable substitute for character development and plot causality.
I got about eighty pages from the end before realizing a) I wasn't really enjoying this much, and b) since this was the first book of a series, the author had no obligation to tie up any of the dangling plot threads. Given the quality of the rest of the work, I figured my chances of getting any satisfaction were not good. Time to move on to greener pastures.
The Bookman's Wake by John Dunning
I gather that this is the fourth or fifth installation in the story of Cliff Janeway, policeman-turned-rare-book-dealer -- in fact, I have a vague memory of picking up the first book in the series, then wandering off. Too light on mystery, too heavy on book-geekery, and that's coming from me.
Dunning seems to have caught his balance by this point in the series, though, and I read it in one long sitting -- a gulped meal, as good mysteries generally are. As meals go, it was fairly satisfying. The mystery wasn't the greatest I've read, but it wasn't the worst either: the characters, if not brilliantly rendered, were sturdy and believable, the plot not too great a stretch even if it moved slowly at times. The book-geekery occurred in measured and interesting doses. It's always interesting to get a peek at someone else's obsessions and see the odd, twisty little ways they mirror your own. I adore books with a passion, and the longish scene in which Janeway and the female ingenue are used-bookstore hopping was very familiar... and yet not. I am, at the end of the day, not a collector: I am a reader. I buy these books not to own them but to curl up with them on the couch and devour them. I dog-ear the pages, I break the spines, I pile them in huge, careless heaps on my bookshelves, I write in them when I give them away. The only possible use the copyright page has for me is to tell me when the book was first published. If I have a first edition, it's sheer chance.
Reading this novel has led me to conclude that anyone who lets me get my hands on a first edition ought to be shot. There's an entire world out there -- if a rather small, insular one -- that regards my kind of book-handling with unutterable loathing, a world for whom the actual reading of books is an afterthought at best and sacrilege at worst. An interesting world to visit, even if I wouldn't want to live there.
My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell
This book got read because Dan found it in the same bookstore where I found Bookman's Wake and stood hovering over me waiting for me to put that book down and shove this one into my hands. Oh, the trauma. Twist my rubber arm.
My Family and Other Animals falls roughly into the same category as the James Herriot novels for me: semi-autobiographical, somewhat about beasties, a lot about people, very British, very funny, and very mad. Only with, um, extra mad. The frame story is about Gerald (who would grow up to become a zookeeper and prominent wildlife conservationist) relocating to the Greek isle of Corfu at the age of ten. There he has many encounters with the native wildlife, animal and human alike, all of them much enlivened by the presence of his eccentric family.
The book is immensely, devastatingly funny: rambling speculations and observations on wildlife, events in Durrell's daily life on the isle, and anecdotes ranging from the mundane to the bizarre all delivered in the same deadpan British voice. The dog's loyal but misguided attack on Mother's frilly bathing costume; Gerald buying a semi-tame seagull from a convict; brother Lawrence's phobia of matchboxes, developed after Gerald had captured a scorpion with her young and left her boxed for safekeeping... I honestly never knew what was going to happen when I turned the page.
I will also note that, even if only half the stories in this book are true, Gerald was bloody fearless as a kid. I like wild animals as well as the next girl, but catch me splashing through the swamp fishing around in the mud after two gigantic snakes I just saw disappear.
A lovely, funny book, recommended whether you like animals or just enjoy a taste of the absurd. I'll definitely be looking for more of these.
Sun of Suns by Karl Schroeder
There's only a few hard science fiction writers I can stand to read. Schroeder is one. First, because he's writing about something really different; in the case of Suns, "different" means floating freefall cities built around nuclear-reactor suns, making for a truly bizarre but well-grounded set of societies. Second, and more importantly, because Schroeder performs that oft-forgotten but all-important step of putting actual people in his techno-dreams. And people, moreover, that I like. Gregory Benford, I hope you're taking notes.
Aside from the floating cities, the wild battles, and the woman wounded by a bullet fired in some unknown war millions of miles away (freefall! Nothin' to stop it movin'!), Schroeder also fascinates me with his... I suppose it's best described as a conflicted attitude towards AI. It's not the first time it's come up in his work -- you can see edges of it in Ventus and it's a strong undercurrent in Lady of Mazes. Schroeder seems to take the position that people in his future need to be protected from the all-powerful AIs, not because the AIs are hostile, but because the AIs can do and be everything... and thus there is no particular need for humans to do or be anything.
It's not a world-view I agree is an inevitable consequence of true AI, and certainly not one I would care to write about, but it's fascinating to watch Schroeder exploring all the consequences.
At any rate, aside from the techno-dream and the good characters, this is also a whizz-bang great bloody fun adventure story. If you've been looking for your sensawunda, I suggest you look for it here.
Stamping Butterflies by Jon Courtenay Grimwood
I'd tried to read Grimwood previously, in some of his earlier cyberpunk efforts, and put it down with the conclusion it was not for me. The violence was excessive, the characters were annoying, and Grimwood had fallen victim to the concept of "eyeball kicks" -- that cyberpunk invention which, used properly, presents the reader with a dazzling Vegas-esque collage of imagery and, used improperly, presents the reader with an indigestible lump of sentence fragments which will nevertheless not be criticized for fear of sounding like a plebe. They are used properly about 2% of the time.
But the concept of Butterflies looked fascinating, and the book was free, so I thought I'd give Grimwood another go.
My conclusion was that he's become a very good writer for someone else to read.
Don't get me wrong. Butterflies is a good book, and I was chewing over it for a day or two afterwards, always a good sign. But it lost me. Grimwood's kicked the eyeball habit, thank god, and the violence was more moderate, but the characters still didn't do it for me. They were good. I kinda wanted to like them. And Grimwood's got an amazing way with snapshots, little fragments of moments that perfectly sum up a character -- this gesture, that turn of phrase. It was really a pity that the snapshots didn't mesh with each other into an actual running movie. Character hooks? Brilliant. Character consistency? Nonexistent. Nothing but a series of hooks and moments that seemed to have little to do with each other even when they weren't actively contradictory.
If I'd had a better sense of the characters, the end might have resonated with me. But I didn't, and frankly it struck me as not much of an improvement on the "and then they woke up" ending.
This was, in concept, a good book. You may well like this book. But I couldn't.
I will now get back to the trying-desperately-not-to-be-sick. Or, at least, not to look sick. My parents are leaving for their first real vacation in a year on Tuesday, leaving me in charge of the farm, and my paranoid workaholic father is perfectly capable of canceling the tickets even at this late hour over my measly little head cold.
*drinks the cure for all sick and sulks*
Writing Progress:
Today's Progress: Um, 436 words. I'm hoping to get more when I get back from work. Why is it that whenever I post to the blog I've not made quota?
Comments: My subplots are trying to kill me.
Crappy Writing Skill De Jour: ... pretty much all of them suck today.
Sunday, February 04
Still poking and prodding at what needs to happen in that 10K of story. It's taking a bit better shape now. And at least part of it involves Elliot being menaced by a woman in a bathtub with a sword. Darn bubbles cover everything....
I am noticing, though, that when I'm in these little writing dips I am much prone to distraction and sudden, fierce enthusiasms. Last time it was aliens, and I spent a happy weekend with GURPS Space plotting a series of alien races for a campaign I'll probably never run. This time, it would have been computer games. Except the universe did not cooperate. So instead it was quilting.
It may be a record for shortest burst of obsessive enthusiasm ever. It began at approximately 7 pm, when I was folding laundry and experienced the following thought process:
"Damn, all these shirts of Dan's have holes in them, but he won't let me throw them out. I guess I should mend them."
"Which isn't a problem, really, because I kinda like sewing. Why don't I sew any more? But what would I make?"
"Hey, there's all these holey t-shirts, and I have that silk think upstairs that ripped too badly to mend, and those slacks that got purple spots of dye in the wash...."
"I COULD MAKE A QUILT!"
... and lasted all the way until about 11 pm, when, after copious internet research, I came to the twin conclusions that, first, it wasn't actually feasible to make a quilt from worn-out t-shirts and a pair of slacks and I was going to have to spend actual money on actual fabric; and second, while I had always liked the sewing, I despised the cutting, and it looked like an awful lot of quilting was going to be cutting things up in itty wee triangles. So I got bored.
It's probably just as well. Dan, who was quite blase about me scattering dice all over the bed and muttering about "racial point balance" under my breath, was unnerved by the quilting craze. I'm not sure which disturbed him more, the picture of me sitting on the couch sewing in a terrifyingly domestic and wifely way, or the idea of me attacking his gianormous t-shirt collection with a pair of scissors and a fanatic gleam. Either way he was most relieved when I gave the idea up.
And now I can't find my scissors anywhere.
Oh, well. At least I got all the laundry put away in the grips of my craze. Back to the actual writing, I suppose. Or I could go surf eBay some more. People pay really stupid money for some stuff on there. I feel this incredible urge to ransack the closets and start selling excess stuff on eBay.
Do you think Dan will mind?
I am noticing, though, that when I'm in these little writing dips I am much prone to distraction and sudden, fierce enthusiasms. Last time it was aliens, and I spent a happy weekend with GURPS Space plotting a series of alien races for a campaign I'll probably never run. This time, it would have been computer games. Except the universe did not cooperate. So instead it was quilting.
It may be a record for shortest burst of obsessive enthusiasm ever. It began at approximately 7 pm, when I was folding laundry and experienced the following thought process:
"Damn, all these shirts of Dan's have holes in them, but he won't let me throw them out. I guess I should mend them."
"Which isn't a problem, really, because I kinda like sewing. Why don't I sew any more? But what would I make?"
"Hey, there's all these holey t-shirts, and I have that silk think upstairs that ripped too badly to mend, and those slacks that got purple spots of dye in the wash...."
"I COULD MAKE A QUILT!"
... and lasted all the way until about 11 pm, when, after copious internet research, I came to the twin conclusions that, first, it wasn't actually feasible to make a quilt from worn-out t-shirts and a pair of slacks and I was going to have to spend actual money on actual fabric; and second, while I had always liked the sewing, I despised the cutting, and it looked like an awful lot of quilting was going to be cutting things up in itty wee triangles. So I got bored.
It's probably just as well. Dan, who was quite blase about me scattering dice all over the bed and muttering about "racial point balance" under my breath, was unnerved by the quilting craze. I'm not sure which disturbed him more, the picture of me sitting on the couch sewing in a terrifyingly domestic and wifely way, or the idea of me attacking his gianormous t-shirt collection with a pair of scissors and a fanatic gleam. Either way he was most relieved when I gave the idea up.
And now I can't find my scissors anywhere.
Oh, well. At least I got all the laundry put away in the grips of my craze. Back to the actual writing, I suppose. Or I could go surf eBay some more. People pay really stupid money for some stuff on there. I feel this incredible urge to ransack the closets and start selling excess stuff on eBay.
Do you think Dan will mind?
Saturday, February 03
I'm having a wee bit of computer frustration right now.
See, the other day I asked someone to, ah, acquire a game for me. This is not my usual modus operandi. Not that I have any huge moral qualms about it, but when I have money, I tend to go ahead and give it to the companies who make games I like, in hopes they will keep making games I like rather than grinding out yet another vomit-inducing first person shooter. In this particular instance, however, there were mitigating circumstances. One, I don't have any money. Two, the idiot game company had neglected to put out a demo. I don't understand this. Maybe there's people out there willing to risk forty bucks on a game they've never played on the basis of description and hype alone, but I am not one of them.
When I tried to run the game it demonstrated a prime reason I am not one of those people, namely, the damned thing won't run on my computer.
This was not entirely unexpected. My computer is, to put it delicately, elderly. It's a Mac G4 Sawtooth, top o'the line in 1999, bought used by me in 2003, and still a bloody workhorse of a computer in 2007. Aside from one fit in 2004 (which required me to reinstall the OS, restore my data from backup, and replace a $3 drugstore battery that was apparently the cause of it all) it's run like a dream for the entire time I own it, handling trips to Canada, OS 10.4, and the occasional lightning storm with easy aplomb. It's a great computer. It does everything I need, and nearly everything I want.
Except play the occasional game.
What's particularly annoying in this case is I can't run the game because the idiot developers gave it a nanny. I can't even get to the startup screen. Instead I double-click and get a warning screen telling me the game needs 50 Ghz more speed and double the vRAM to play, which would be terribly impressive if the Sawtooth had not been running a game that required triple its processor speed and vRAM just last week.*
Sadly, these same idiot developers also failed to provide a "fuck off and die" button for the nanny screen, and so this game is, indeed, unplayable.
Could be worse! I could have paid $40 to see that warning message!
So I am left with three options:
a) Buy a new computer I don't need, can't afford, and frankly don't even want all that much.
b) Buy a video card (the processor speed warning being bypassable) that I don't need and can't really afford, but kinda want and could get for, oh, $30-40 on eBay. Not that I looked or anything.
c) Accept that there are more fish in the seas and more games on the Internets and go looking for something not designed by retards.
d) Take this as a sign that I should be doing useful things with my life and not dorking around playing video games.
Currently I'm wavering between b) and c), because a) is ridiculous and d) requires more self-control than I've got. But the whole thing is most annoying. It's not like I'm a hard-core gamer or something. I play sim games and puzzles for the most part, for chrissake. Why the hell am I experiencing forced upgrades for this?
Oh, well. Could be worse. The day I have to upgrade my system to play interactive fiction games, that will be the day I know the apocalypse has finally come.
* Okay, so the game ran so slowly and crashed so much I eventually declared it unplayable. But it did run, dammit!
Writing Progress:
Today's Progress: See d).
Comments: I am actually, probably, going to write today (despite d).) I just haven't done so yet. Boring writerly musing to follow.
So I recently crossed the half-a-book line (hooray! Half a book! *throws confetti*). Which also meant I got to the first absolutely pivotal scene, something I'd been edging my way towards for fifty thousand words, the scene that changes everything and inextricably involves Elliot in the mess to follow. And it worked good enough for a first draft. And it showed up right about where I said it would, word-count wise, which is shockingly, like, planned for me.
However, there's now a 10-15K stretch between me and the next pivotal scene. And I was kinda concentrating on getting to this pivotal scene, so I have only a vague idea what needs to fill in that gap.
My plan for the day, therefore, is to write maybe a couple hundred words more of Elliot sitting and thinking about Stuff (destined for the scissors, no doubt, but it helps me think and keeps me abandoning the story for whatever ooh-shiny! crosses my path), and spend a long time staring at my outline, adding, subtracting, and shuffling the wee digital notecards. I know what I need to accomplish before the next pivotal scene. I just don't know how to get it all done in story terms, what scenes I need in which order and where they happen.
And after I hit the pivotal scene, it's smooth sailing for a good 20K or more. Must keep reminding myself of that.
Right.
*end writerly musing*
Crappy Writing Skill De Jour: I am doing a lot of staring into space wondering what happens next. Elliot is spending the current scene staring into space wondering what happens next. Bad Kat! No Dischism!
See, the other day I asked someone to, ah, acquire a game for me. This is not my usual modus operandi. Not that I have any huge moral qualms about it, but when I have money, I tend to go ahead and give it to the companies who make games I like, in hopes they will keep making games I like rather than grinding out yet another vomit-inducing first person shooter. In this particular instance, however, there were mitigating circumstances. One, I don't have any money. Two, the idiot game company had neglected to put out a demo. I don't understand this. Maybe there's people out there willing to risk forty bucks on a game they've never played on the basis of description and hype alone, but I am not one of them.
When I tried to run the game it demonstrated a prime reason I am not one of those people, namely, the damned thing won't run on my computer.
This was not entirely unexpected. My computer is, to put it delicately, elderly. It's a Mac G4 Sawtooth, top o'the line in 1999, bought used by me in 2003, and still a bloody workhorse of a computer in 2007. Aside from one fit in 2004 (which required me to reinstall the OS, restore my data from backup, and replace a $3 drugstore battery that was apparently the cause of it all) it's run like a dream for the entire time I own it, handling trips to Canada, OS 10.4, and the occasional lightning storm with easy aplomb. It's a great computer. It does everything I need, and nearly everything I want.
Except play the occasional game.
What's particularly annoying in this case is I can't run the game because the idiot developers gave it a nanny. I can't even get to the startup screen. Instead I double-click and get a warning screen telling me the game needs 50 Ghz more speed and double the vRAM to play, which would be terribly impressive if the Sawtooth had not been running a game that required triple its processor speed and vRAM just last week.*
Sadly, these same idiot developers also failed to provide a "fuck off and die" button for the nanny screen, and so this game is, indeed, unplayable.
Could be worse! I could have paid $40 to see that warning message!
So I am left with three options:
a) Buy a new computer I don't need, can't afford, and frankly don't even want all that much.
b) Buy a video card (the processor speed warning being bypassable) that I don't need and can't really afford, but kinda want and could get for, oh, $30-40 on eBay. Not that I looked or anything.
c) Accept that there are more fish in the seas and more games on the Internets and go looking for something not designed by retards.
d) Take this as a sign that I should be doing useful things with my life and not dorking around playing video games.
Currently I'm wavering between b) and c), because a) is ridiculous and d) requires more self-control than I've got. But the whole thing is most annoying. It's not like I'm a hard-core gamer or something. I play sim games and puzzles for the most part, for chrissake. Why the hell am I experiencing forced upgrades for this?
Oh, well. Could be worse. The day I have to upgrade my system to play interactive fiction games, that will be the day I know the apocalypse has finally come.
* Okay, so the game ran so slowly and crashed so much I eventually declared it unplayable. But it did run, dammit!
Writing Progress:
Today's Progress: See d).
Comments: I am actually, probably, going to write today (despite d).) I just haven't done so yet. Boring writerly musing to follow.
So I recently crossed the half-a-book line (hooray! Half a book! *throws confetti*). Which also meant I got to the first absolutely pivotal scene, something I'd been edging my way towards for fifty thousand words, the scene that changes everything and inextricably involves Elliot in the mess to follow. And it worked good enough for a first draft. And it showed up right about where I said it would, word-count wise, which is shockingly, like, planned for me.
However, there's now a 10-15K stretch between me and the next pivotal scene. And I was kinda concentrating on getting to this pivotal scene, so I have only a vague idea what needs to fill in that gap.
My plan for the day, therefore, is to write maybe a couple hundred words more of Elliot sitting and thinking about Stuff (destined for the scissors, no doubt, but it helps me think and keeps me abandoning the story for whatever ooh-shiny! crosses my path), and spend a long time staring at my outline, adding, subtracting, and shuffling the wee digital notecards. I know what I need to accomplish before the next pivotal scene. I just don't know how to get it all done in story terms, what scenes I need in which order and where they happen.
And after I hit the pivotal scene, it's smooth sailing for a good 20K or more. Must keep reminding myself of that.
Right.
*end writerly musing*
Crappy Writing Skill De Jour: I am doing a lot of staring into space wondering what happens next. Elliot is spending the current scene staring into space wondering what happens next. Bad Kat! No Dischism!
Blogarama
