Wednesday, May 30
Gratuitous progress post:
Rewrite Progress
Comments: Today wasn't half bad, actually. First I went through two chapters that were in pretty good shape, once I hammered an extra character into them, making me feel like my writing wasn't complete crap. And then I went through a chapter that was entirely discarded subplot, meaning that I got a high page count and felt like I accomplished something. Hooray for silver linings!
Changes: Added an antagonist. Now if only he would do something.
Rewrite Progress
| |
56 / 172 (32.6%) |
Comments: Today wasn't half bad, actually. First I went through two chapters that were in pretty good shape, once I hammered an extra character into them, making me feel like my writing wasn't complete crap. And then I went through a chapter that was entirely discarded subplot, meaning that I got a high page count and felt like I accomplished something. Hooray for silver linings!
Changes: Added an antagonist. Now if only he would do something.
First, a point of business... a couple of people have asked whether it's better to comment on this blog or on the LJ feed. I see the comments either way (I don't respond to them because I'm a jerk, not because I don't see 'em) but the LJ feed disappears after a month and takes all comments with it into oblivion, so if you have something substantial to say, you may wish to click through and say it here.
On the topic of not answering comments, indigofire was confused over my reference to weaning calves and whifflebats. Ah, yes. Technical terms. In this case "weaning" refers to that time period when we stop giving the babies milk and start encouraging them to eat grass, hay, grain, and other grown-up food, and "whifflebats" are what we use to beat their little heads in when they mob us and try to suck us to death in protest. I'm actually quite proud of the whifflebats, because they were my idea. If you beat them with your bare hands, you hurt your hands, and if you hit them with an actual stick you risk actually hurting the wee buggers instead of making them blink stupidly at you ("my head just went thunk! Why did my head go thunk?") You could not hit them at all, of course, but then at best you end up extremely damp, and at worst you get knocked down and danced on by, um, 96 little razor-sharp hooves. The "babies" weigh 120 pounds each at this stage, and they outnumber us by a factor of many.
Anyway, the whifflebats work pretty well. We still haven't got the Mennonite girl to put her shoulder into it, but the rest of us can whale away guilt-free. The calves are reduced to lurking in the tall grass and bawling loudly at anyone who goes by.
At any rate....
Rewrite Progress
Comments: Of the nine pages revised I only threw out two, so it is seemingly a better day. I'm not fooled, though. I was really going through picking out the good bits to put them in proper order. There's whole reams of crap lurking deep in the manuscript waiting to be waded through and chucked, and now they have their good bits removed.
High Points: Made the antag work for his antagonism. Added actual tension to the Bestiary scene. Gave the Naxan scene a point.
On the topic of not answering comments, indigofire was confused over my reference to weaning calves and whifflebats. Ah, yes. Technical terms. In this case "weaning" refers to that time period when we stop giving the babies milk and start encouraging them to eat grass, hay, grain, and other grown-up food, and "whifflebats" are what we use to beat their little heads in when they mob us and try to suck us to death in protest. I'm actually quite proud of the whifflebats, because they were my idea. If you beat them with your bare hands, you hurt your hands, and if you hit them with an actual stick you risk actually hurting the wee buggers instead of making them blink stupidly at you ("my head just went thunk! Why did my head go thunk?") You could not hit them at all, of course, but then at best you end up extremely damp, and at worst you get knocked down and danced on by, um, 96 little razor-sharp hooves. The "babies" weigh 120 pounds each at this stage, and they outnumber us by a factor of many.
Anyway, the whifflebats work pretty well. We still haven't got the Mennonite girl to put her shoulder into it, but the rest of us can whale away guilt-free. The calves are reduced to lurking in the tall grass and bawling loudly at anyone who goes by.
At any rate....
Rewrite Progress
| |
35 / 172 (20.3%) |
Comments: Of the nine pages revised I only threw out two, so it is seemingly a better day. I'm not fooled, though. I was really going through picking out the good bits to put them in proper order. There's whole reams of crap lurking deep in the manuscript waiting to be waded through and chucked, and now they have their good bits removed.
High Points: Made the antag work for his antagonism. Added actual tension to the Bestiary scene. Gave the Naxan scene a point.
Tuesday, May 29
Writing post! Flee, those of you here for the cute animal stories! (Hmm, I should post some more of those soon. The girls have been quite cute lately.)
So I had this book. It started out with the working title of Bestiary, which I've tentatively changed to Kith and Kin. And, considering that I have about 86,000 words of material, I guess it's more accurate to say I have this book. It's just not a finished book.
I hit what should have been the downward slope of the book, and I choked. This was not entirely unexpected, as my book-writing pattern tends to look something like this:
a) Write.
b) Hate writing. Go back to beginning and rewrite.
c) Write.
d) Hate writing. Go back to beginning and rewrite.
e) Write....
f) Repeat ad infinitum until I somehow reach the end of the book.
But, as this method is rather time-consuming and had a lot to do with why my last book is desk-drawered after I reread it and realized I'd kinda rewrote all the shiny out, I was really, really determined to make it through this one without stopping.
I failed. 86K, and my dropped subplots came back to bite me in the butt and I suddenly had no way to write an emotionally satisfying climax.
So I sulked. Then I picked up Holly Lisle's Create A Plot Clinic, which is less the methodical trudge than it sounds than a really nifty set of methods for generating ideas and getting them on paper. I got ideas. I made plot notes. And, at the end, while I had a clearer notion of where I needed to go, I had to admit that I needed a better feel for where I'd been. I had all the bits for the climax, but the spaces between bits were going to kill it for me.
Which is all a long-winded way of saying y'all are going to be getting rewrite metrics for a while.
Rewrite Progress
Comments: Out of 26 (single-spaced; I am paper-cheap) pages, I have eight with writing on them that I want to keep. Eight. And two scenes. Out of my first three chapters, I have two whole scenes that I still think work.
I hope to God the rest of the book isn't this far off target.
Good Bits: You must be joking.
So I had this book. It started out with the working title of Bestiary, which I've tentatively changed to Kith and Kin. And, considering that I have about 86,000 words of material, I guess it's more accurate to say I have this book. It's just not a finished book.
I hit what should have been the downward slope of the book, and I choked. This was not entirely unexpected, as my book-writing pattern tends to look something like this:
a) Write.
b) Hate writing. Go back to beginning and rewrite.
c) Write.
d) Hate writing. Go back to beginning and rewrite.
e) Write....
f) Repeat ad infinitum until I somehow reach the end of the book.
But, as this method is rather time-consuming and had a lot to do with why my last book is desk-drawered after I reread it and realized I'd kinda rewrote all the shiny out, I was really, really determined to make it through this one without stopping.
I failed. 86K, and my dropped subplots came back to bite me in the butt and I suddenly had no way to write an emotionally satisfying climax.
So I sulked. Then I picked up Holly Lisle's Create A Plot Clinic, which is less the methodical trudge than it sounds than a really nifty set of methods for generating ideas and getting them on paper. I got ideas. I made plot notes. And, at the end, while I had a clearer notion of where I needed to go, I had to admit that I needed a better feel for where I'd been. I had all the bits for the climax, but the spaces between bits were going to kill it for me.
Which is all a long-winded way of saying y'all are going to be getting rewrite metrics for a while.
Rewrite Progress
| |
26 / 172 (15.1%) |
Comments: Out of 26 (single-spaced; I am paper-cheap) pages, I have eight with writing on them that I want to keep. Eight. And two scenes. Out of my first three chapters, I have two whole scenes that I still think work.
I hope to God the rest of the book isn't this far off target.
Good Bits: You must be joking.
Sunday, May 27
A week ago last Saturday, quietly and without fanfare because I was out explaining to 24 baby calves what "weaning" meant via Whifflebat, this blog passed its fifth anniversary. That first post is here, though it's neither interesting nor indicative (the other posts in those first two months were all about my experiences in Britain and were generally much more interesting). But, hey, I actually kept a journal for five years. And people read it now! Hooray! *confetti*
And in slightly more important landmarks, today was Dan's and my first wedding anniversary. We went to the Davis Bourne Inn, where we were married, for a celebratory brunch. And while we're not much for gifting, we have agreed to buy one thing together as a remembrance of our first year as a married couple:
A whole year! And nobody's dead! *more confetti*
And in slightly more important landmarks, today was Dan's and my first wedding anniversary. We went to the Davis Bourne Inn, where we were married, for a celebratory brunch. And while we're not much for gifting, we have agreed to buy one thing together as a remembrance of our first year as a married couple:
A whole year! And nobody's dead! *more confetti*
Wednesday, May 16
So Dan and I are going to World Fantasy. Details in his post, but basically: barring a miracle, we'll be in the overflow hotel (*sigh* -- so many people who are better-organized than me!) but it's not too far from the main hotel this year, and we're looking for roommates. If you're going to WFC and would like to split some costs, please let us know! We are nice people. Honest.
Friday, May 11
So I was reading this post from blackaire, which is interesting in many ways... but for me struck a chord because of the brief mention of homeschooling vs. private school. Because, yanno, I was homeschooled from sixth grade on. And among the many condescending comments one gets when homeschooled, "If you went to a real (read: non-public and/or non-rural) school, you'd have liked it," ranks high. (Though "you'll never get into a good college" makes the top of the list by a mile.)
So. Interesting.
Discussion of this with a fairly sympathetic party, however, elicited the following comment:
"If you'd gone to school, you would be far less of an introvert."
Which in turn, elicits this rant, because the party in question doesn't really deserve it.
First, let's clear up the vocabulary issue. Introversion is not a measure of social aptitude, it's a measure of your gregariousness and whether your general focus is inner or outer. I've always been an introvert, I always will be an introvert, regardless of how many people I meet or know or even like. People fucking wear me out. Sitting at home alone staring at the wall makes me feel all happy and well-adjusted. See? Introvert. What he meant was "If you'd gone to school, you would be far less socially inept."
Now that we've cleared that up, I can call bullshit.
See, I used to be a very outgoing kid. No, really. I used to talk to anyone. I used to make friends easily. I used to walk up to complete strangers and start conversations with them. Those of you who've met me can stop laughing anytime.
Care to guess what changed that? You got it. I went to school.
School taught me to fear people.
School taught me about teachers who would browbeat and humiliate me for no reason save that I failed to conform to some unspoken set of standards. Teachers who'd stand me up in front of a class of kids and mock me about my handwriting, my spelling, my clothes, anything, knowing full well that those kids would take it as a license to bully me all they wanted. Teachers who'd accuse me of lying to get attention when I said I couldn't see the blackboard, causing me to suffer in silence for weeks before I finally got the vision test and the eyeglasses I needed. Teachers who'd fudge my grades to keep from admitting I was smart. Teachers who'd tell me what I wanted, then punish me if I didn't prove them right.
School taught me about weird. Not wearing makeup, that was weird. Not having a boyfriend at age eleven, that was weird. Reading was weird. Wearing glasses was weird. Making friends of the opposite sex was weird; having friends from a different grade than yours was weird. If the teachers liked you, you were weird; if they disliked you, you were weird; too smart, too stupid, too anything... and once you had it, it was a stamp of doom, a stain you couldn't wash away. Weird!
That stamp meant anything went. It was okay, for example, to let the weird kid be your friend for the first few weeks after you moved to school, until you got in with the real kids, and then turn on them and savage them with no warning to gain the approval of the in-crowd. It was okay to booby-trap their locker. It was certainly okay to call them any names you could think up. Send them anonymous notes filled with insults, shoot them with rubber bands, kick them under the table, gouge their arm, pull their hair, think up any nasty trick you liked: that was fine. If they yelled for the teacher, you won. If they tried to fight back, you won. Their best possible option was to show no reaction at all to what you were doing: a qualified win, or maybe a draw, if they were pretty good at it.
(I remember sitting on the school bus digging my nails into my arm, or standing in the shower and turning the hot up until I scalded myself: training myself not to flinch, training myself to bear the pain. I always was proud.)
It never stopped. On and on, day in and day out, the endless round of abuse from kids and teachers and, if you were unlucky, parents, all designed to make you conform. To force you into an identity. Any identity. Jock, dyke, geek, slut, loser, prom queen -- you could chose well or badly, you could be lucky or unlucky, but you had to fucking choose. You had to match somebody's category, because they'd keep pounding on you and hurting you until you did, ripping away every bit of self-confidence or good self-image you had until you broke.
Homeschooling did not make me socially inept. School made me socially inept. Homeschooling left me a few rags of identity left on which I could try to rebuild that fearless, outgoing kid who walked into a kindergarten and never walked out.
Now, I admit I have a warped perception, and I'll admit that my rural backwater of a school was worse than most. But I don't think I'm a unique case. I watched the automatic flinch reflex kick in too much in college when someone admitted to something a wee bit off the norm -- the apologetic half-smile, the self-mockery, or that air of hurling it in your teeth and daring you to say something about it. I watched too many people struggle to treat members of the opposite sex as friends and not sex objects. Some of it's society, and some of it's teenagers, but a fair bit of it? Is school.
In America, anyway. I've been told it's different in Canada. Feel free to speak up for or against.
*sigh*
Okay. Ranted out now. It's amazing how much stuff from when you were a kid can push your buttons, even after years and years.
*goes off to do something useful, like sleep*
So. Interesting.
Discussion of this with a fairly sympathetic party, however, elicited the following comment:
"If you'd gone to school, you would be far less of an introvert."
Which in turn, elicits this rant, because the party in question doesn't really deserve it.
First, let's clear up the vocabulary issue. Introversion is not a measure of social aptitude, it's a measure of your gregariousness and whether your general focus is inner or outer. I've always been an introvert, I always will be an introvert, regardless of how many people I meet or know or even like. People fucking wear me out. Sitting at home alone staring at the wall makes me feel all happy and well-adjusted. See? Introvert. What he meant was "If you'd gone to school, you would be far less socially inept."
Now that we've cleared that up, I can call bullshit.
See, I used to be a very outgoing kid. No, really. I used to talk to anyone. I used to make friends easily. I used to walk up to complete strangers and start conversations with them. Those of you who've met me can stop laughing anytime.
Care to guess what changed that? You got it. I went to school.
School taught me to fear people.
School taught me about teachers who would browbeat and humiliate me for no reason save that I failed to conform to some unspoken set of standards. Teachers who'd stand me up in front of a class of kids and mock me about my handwriting, my spelling, my clothes, anything, knowing full well that those kids would take it as a license to bully me all they wanted. Teachers who'd accuse me of lying to get attention when I said I couldn't see the blackboard, causing me to suffer in silence for weeks before I finally got the vision test and the eyeglasses I needed. Teachers who'd fudge my grades to keep from admitting I was smart. Teachers who'd tell me what I wanted, then punish me if I didn't prove them right.
School taught me about weird. Not wearing makeup, that was weird. Not having a boyfriend at age eleven, that was weird. Reading was weird. Wearing glasses was weird. Making friends of the opposite sex was weird; having friends from a different grade than yours was weird. If the teachers liked you, you were weird; if they disliked you, you were weird; too smart, too stupid, too anything... and once you had it, it was a stamp of doom, a stain you couldn't wash away. Weird!
That stamp meant anything went. It was okay, for example, to let the weird kid be your friend for the first few weeks after you moved to school, until you got in with the real kids, and then turn on them and savage them with no warning to gain the approval of the in-crowd. It was okay to booby-trap their locker. It was certainly okay to call them any names you could think up. Send them anonymous notes filled with insults, shoot them with rubber bands, kick them under the table, gouge their arm, pull their hair, think up any nasty trick you liked: that was fine. If they yelled for the teacher, you won. If they tried to fight back, you won. Their best possible option was to show no reaction at all to what you were doing: a qualified win, or maybe a draw, if they were pretty good at it.
(I remember sitting on the school bus digging my nails into my arm, or standing in the shower and turning the hot up until I scalded myself: training myself not to flinch, training myself to bear the pain. I always was proud.)
It never stopped. On and on, day in and day out, the endless round of abuse from kids and teachers and, if you were unlucky, parents, all designed to make you conform. To force you into an identity. Any identity. Jock, dyke, geek, slut, loser, prom queen -- you could chose well or badly, you could be lucky or unlucky, but you had to fucking choose. You had to match somebody's category, because they'd keep pounding on you and hurting you until you did, ripping away every bit of self-confidence or good self-image you had until you broke.
Homeschooling did not make me socially inept. School made me socially inept. Homeschooling left me a few rags of identity left on which I could try to rebuild that fearless, outgoing kid who walked into a kindergarten and never walked out.
Now, I admit I have a warped perception, and I'll admit that my rural backwater of a school was worse than most. But I don't think I'm a unique case. I watched the automatic flinch reflex kick in too much in college when someone admitted to something a wee bit off the norm -- the apologetic half-smile, the self-mockery, or that air of hurling it in your teeth and daring you to say something about it. I watched too many people struggle to treat members of the opposite sex as friends and not sex objects. Some of it's society, and some of it's teenagers, but a fair bit of it? Is school.
In America, anyway. I've been told it's different in Canada. Feel free to speak up for or against.
*sigh*
Okay. Ranted out now. It's amazing how much stuff from when you were a kid can push your buttons, even after years and years.
*goes off to do something useful, like sleep*
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