One thing I can't stand about message boards is you cannot address someone's comments in real-time. Sometimes, it really boils my groin! I'm never a bully. Never. Though I am strongly opinionated, I am never deliberately condescending to -- or intentionally excluding of -- anyone. When I am critiquing something, I do it honestly. I make no effort to sugar-coat it because sugar-coating is lying. I find it hard to pretend, given the time I have. Most of the time, I try to mention what I like, as well as what I find wrong.
When I am critiqued, I never argue about anyone's opinion. If I think they a wrong about something, I say what and explain why. If I don't, they won't benefit from it. Likewise, if I'm wrong about something, I will admit it. Lord knows I've been wrong enough times. But, it's useless to argue. Right or wrong, neither you nor I can change anyone's first impression.
If the punctuation is wrong; if details are left out because you know what your characters are doing and where; if a typo really spells another word...then a reader has every right to misinterpret what you're saying.
How can they not? Every writer fumbles, from the award-winning/bestseller/Pulitzer Prize winner to the Kindergartner. That's what it means to be human and why they put erasers on pencils. But, to expect everyone one to say, "Well, I know what you meant..." or "Huh?" and just continue to read on -- and compliment your prose to boot -- well that's not only unrealistic, it's conceited. Hell, some people just aren't going to be your audience.
Now, I've had my exchanges. Good or bad, I hold no grudges. And I believe I can hold my own. (You can't tell me what I believe}=p) But, I've learned something from every encounter, and would even venture to say I've made a few friends along the way. A few posts ago, I expressed feeling like I wanted to drop out of these workshops completely, but a few friends (or co-posters if they'd prefer not associating too closely with me }=}) have asked me not to quit. And I thought no one reads this thing! So, I have decided not to.
Perhaps people like me are needed to cut through the thickly glazed turds that goody-two-shoe sycophants regularly cough up! Now, I'm not saying that I'm going to be mean, but I'm going to keep-on-keeping-on. @$$holes like me are what keep the integrity in the critique.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
The Purple Nightmare
I've really got to start keeping this updated.
Started my day off with everyone rushing around like bumper cars. It's lucky that one of the little ones weren't crushed underfoot. (Sigh. All we can do is try.) Fortunately the abominable doofus was already out. I can imagine the pile-up that would have occurred in his wake! Anyway, the reason for all the chaos was a friend's wedding (one of the wife's best friends) was this morning. It was like the culmination of a dark prophecy.
Just the beginning of this week is when the wedding party decided to deliver the dress pattern. So, my wife (recall she's irritable in the daylight) has to make this dress -- be mom to three (9&1/2, 7, and a special-needs 4 year old) children, deal with the abominable doofus, care for her aging father (almost another child sometimes), prepare for a Boy Scouts shin-dig (of which she's the area leader), not to mention deal with me -- in less than a week. (Amazing, ain't she?) Kind of sounds like the biblical signs of apocalypse, right? The similarities are remarkable.
- Snag no. 1: The pattern is not the right size. No big deal. She makes a run to Wal Mart and remedies that.
- Snag no. 2: I had an emergency room visit (false alarm), but it kept us out until 4:00 am!
- Snag no. 3: She sees what it actually looks like!
It looks like a big, shiny, purple, v-necked, BIB. It was like seeing her try on a shiny pillow case. No matter how she turned, tapered, pinched, shuffled, or belted it didn't change.
Now, my wife is a real trooper. As much as she hated the Purple Nightmare; as much as she knew it made her look like a pretty sack of potatoes; as much as every grain of her being wanted to set the offending object afire, she kept at it. She repaired an iron-burn (which I'm not entirely sure was an accident), bought the proper support for a strapless smock, and wore it to the wedding. When I saw the tears well up last night, I knew the size of the sacrifice that she was making, and admired her so much more for it. She not only kept a straight face (which I barely could), she pretended it was the most beautiful dress she'd ever had the privilege to touch. Smooth, baby.
Of course, when she had to leave to bring me to work, she did the quickest change I've seen her pull-off in a while. The slip gave her a little trouble though. As I write this, I wonder -- now that her powers are at full capacity -- if she is dancing around a shiny purple fire.
So, hats off to Missus Babbler, she kicks @$$!
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Writers of the Future (Quarter 4)
Well. After writing a 10,000 short story, having the first draft critiqued at Hatrack, editing it, editing it again, having my wife go over it (And people think I'm brutal with a critique!), and editing it a third time, I finally typed those two words at its bottom: The End. Pantroth has had his first adventure.
Though it probably doesn't show, I have developed this realm for years. Everything you could want is there, except for guns and peace -- the former is long extinct, the latter is keeping it real. Since finishing the story, Magnum Opus, Pantroth has decided to expand his tale. Since he's not the type to settle for a "maybe", I've started his expanded tale.
While I'm committing Pantroth's story to print, Magnum Opus has been sent off to the Writers of the Future Contest (WOTF). The day I sent it out, I learned that they may not consider it fantasy. They may reject it based on the lack of magic or mythical beasts -- more's the pity. It's certainly not historical. Fortunately, Magnum Opus was not written for them. If it makes the grade, awesome; if not, it has a home. I would not have changed it to fit them, even if I had the chance to. There are other stories and other quarters. But, I'm hoping they take it. I'm hoping it goes all the way. I'm hoping...just like every other author.
I'm already planning on which of my short stories could be expanded and polished for the next quarter...
Though it probably doesn't show, I have developed this realm for years. Everything you could want is there, except for guns and peace -- the former is long extinct, the latter is keeping it real. Since finishing the story, Magnum Opus, Pantroth has decided to expand his tale. Since he's not the type to settle for a "maybe", I've started his expanded tale.
While I'm committing Pantroth's story to print, Magnum Opus has been sent off to the Writers of the Future Contest (WOTF). The day I sent it out, I learned that they may not consider it fantasy. They may reject it based on the lack of magic or mythical beasts -- more's the pity. It's certainly not historical. Fortunately, Magnum Opus was not written for them. If it makes the grade, awesome; if not, it has a home. I would not have changed it to fit them, even if I had the chance to. There are other stories and other quarters. But, I'm hoping they take it. I'm hoping it goes all the way. I'm hoping...just like every other author.
I'm already planning on which of my short stories could be expanded and polished for the next quarter...
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Mom's Story
I've started the story that is a dedication to my mom. It's a hard piece to write, for a number of reasons: A) The theme is cliche (alien falls in love with lovely old woman) B) The alien is supposed to be a form of vampire C) She had myriad visions ofr the story, but she only expressed a limited few D) It's all based on a vague memory from a decade ago.
After a long period of wondering how-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do-this, I determined that the heart of the story lay in the dynamic between the old lady and her faithful friend. The friend was more of a live-in-nurse type in the original tale. I beat my head against the wall trying to find a way to fit all the elements that I could remember into something cohesive (and wasn't a copy of Starman). Eventually, I came to the decision that I would have to add my spin on things; I promisd to write the story, not write it true to her vision.
So, I took her outline as a trigger. I determined that they dynamic would be best shown in racial differences and in a specific milieu: Civil War era. Research on a couple of battles of the Civil War led me to another story, one that some southerners have not entirely recovered from. I just hope I can do it justice. My main goal is to get this story published. Yeah, I know that should be most writers' goals in everything they commit to words, but most of what I've written has been with the purpose of learning. I have a few ideas about the alien element, but nothing set in stone, yet.
A few friends friends have opined against my withdrawal from the writers workshops I frequent. Duly noted. I'll give it a bit longer. That's just to show I can take advice too. It's still a hard time, but I'm forging through it. This story is my way of getting some closure and remember my mother for who she was.
After a long period of wondering how-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do-this, I determined that the heart of the story lay in the dynamic between the old lady and her faithful friend. The friend was more of a live-in-nurse type in the original tale. I beat my head against the wall trying to find a way to fit all the elements that I could remember into something cohesive (and wasn't a copy of Starman). Eventually, I came to the decision that I would have to add my spin on things; I promisd to write the story, not write it true to her vision.
So, I took her outline as a trigger. I determined that they dynamic would be best shown in racial differences and in a specific milieu: Civil War era. Research on a couple of battles of the Civil War led me to another story, one that some southerners have not entirely recovered from. I just hope I can do it justice. My main goal is to get this story published. Yeah, I know that should be most writers' goals in everything they commit to words, but most of what I've written has been with the purpose of learning. I have a few ideas about the alien element, but nothing set in stone, yet.
A few friends friends have opined against my withdrawal from the writers workshops I frequent. Duly noted. I'll give it a bit longer. That's just to show I can take advice too. It's still a hard time, but I'm forging through it. This story is my way of getting some closure and remember my mother for who she was.
Monday, August 20, 2007
A New Year
My birthday was Saturday.
Normally, this is the harbinger for a completely miserable day. I'm never depressed because of my age; the day is just a magnet for calamity. It's like Murphy's Law was invented on my birthday.
This year began typically: I woke up; made my breakfast; did my hour-long aerobic workout; then fed the dog and fish (which are supposed to be my oldest two children's chores). During my workout, as usual, my youngest threw a fit (which we lovingly refer to as "Nutties"). He's developementally challenged, and throws a temper tantrum that shifts a bright day into a postapocalyptic negative in the snap of a finger -- like the beginning of the old T.V. show: Tales from the Darkside. He smashed the dog-gate down and freed the Abominable Doofus from his confines. Now, our dog is a German-Blockhead Rottweiller mixed with a Chow and Black Labrador; he's got the size of a Big Rottweiller, the playfulness of a Labrador, and the recalcitrance of a Chow : he's a giant, slobbering, barking, nipping, jackass of a dog that is sometimes outsmarted by our (black) Goldfish, named Life. Yeah, I know. The kids named him. As it turned out, it was an appropriate name. Of our three original fish, Life is the only survivor -- that's how my wife learned that air filter have screens to prevent the fish from being sucked up. I digress. So the Abominable Doofus is drooling in random cirlces, Eli's throwing a nutty, Cait (my seven-year-old daughter) is thumping downstairs one step at a time, wrapped in a comforter, looking like something that was born of the unholy coupling of a lion and a slug, and my wife is waiting for the sun to set before rousing from her coffin. It's a good thing Logan, our oldest son, was spending the night at a friend's, or he'd have been screaming like a girl in a film-noir horror flick. ( The dog's playfulness scares him; along with insects, cobwebs, the water bubbles that form in the tub drain -- which he thinks look like fish eyes, although, I still don't know why that's scary -- and certain kinds of cooked meat.) No stress or anything...
Then, quite shockingly, things got better. While I was struggling to get the Abominable Doofus back into his gated community, my wife proved Bram Stoker right: Although they are considerably weaker, vampires can walk around in the daylight. The nutty gave way to a litany of "eat-eat" and the North American Giant Wild-Haired Slug gradually shed her thick, segmented coating and proved that she had metamorphosized into a cute, hyperspastic girl. However, the transformation did nothing for the hair that even rats would find to messy to nest in.
We traded the oldest child for the youngest, dropped the oldest two off with "Grampy" -- like they wanted -- and did the cake thing. My wife made a scrumptious cake. Then, we went to Topsham (the most peaceful trip we've had in quite a spell) to shop for clothes. Next we went to Borders (bookstores are high on my list of favorites), where I picked up a couple of Bernard Cornwell's Sharpe novels, a Mario Puzo, a Patrick O'Brian, and found Patrick Rothfuss's The Name of the Wind -- a book which I have been wanting to get my hands on a copy of. Rothfuss's debut novel comes very highly recommended by some of my favorite authors, one that I had to finish before delving into The Name of the Wind today...
I took my wife to dinner at a restaurant that she hadn't been to. The meal was splendid and we both had our fill. (It was at dusk, so her powers were full capacity.) By the time we returned home, we had traipsed curcuitously about the state. The kids had been excellent for their grandfather, which is always nice (though rare), and were ready for bed, when I was ready to read to them. They went to sleep relatively easy.
It hadn't been the equivalent of the Windsor Fair for the kids, but it was a milestone in calamity-free birthdays, and one of the most enjoyable days that I've spent with wy wife in a long time.
Normally, this is the harbinger for a completely miserable day. I'm never depressed because of my age; the day is just a magnet for calamity. It's like Murphy's Law was invented on my birthday.
This year began typically: I woke up; made my breakfast; did my hour-long aerobic workout; then fed the dog and fish (which are supposed to be my oldest two children's chores). During my workout, as usual, my youngest threw a fit (which we lovingly refer to as "Nutties"). He's developementally challenged, and throws a temper tantrum that shifts a bright day into a postapocalyptic negative in the snap of a finger -- like the beginning of the old T.V. show: Tales from the Darkside. He smashed the dog-gate down and freed the Abominable Doofus from his confines. Now, our dog is a German-Blockhead Rottweiller mixed with a Chow and Black Labrador; he's got the size of a Big Rottweiller, the playfulness of a Labrador, and the recalcitrance of a Chow : he's a giant, slobbering, barking, nipping, jackass of a dog that is sometimes outsmarted by our (black) Goldfish, named Life. Yeah, I know. The kids named him. As it turned out, it was an appropriate name. Of our three original fish, Life is the only survivor -- that's how my wife learned that air filter have screens to prevent the fish from being sucked up. I digress. So the Abominable Doofus is drooling in random cirlces, Eli's throwing a nutty, Cait (my seven-year-old daughter) is thumping downstairs one step at a time, wrapped in a comforter, looking like something that was born of the unholy coupling of a lion and a slug, and my wife is waiting for the sun to set before rousing from her coffin. It's a good thing Logan, our oldest son, was spending the night at a friend's, or he'd have been screaming like a girl in a film-noir horror flick. ( The dog's playfulness scares him; along with insects, cobwebs, the water bubbles that form in the tub drain -- which he thinks look like fish eyes, although, I still don't know why that's scary -- and certain kinds of cooked meat.) No stress or anything...
Then, quite shockingly, things got better. While I was struggling to get the Abominable Doofus back into his gated community, my wife proved Bram Stoker right: Although they are considerably weaker, vampires can walk around in the daylight. The nutty gave way to a litany of "eat-eat" and the North American Giant Wild-Haired Slug gradually shed her thick, segmented coating and proved that she had metamorphosized into a cute, hyperspastic girl. However, the transformation did nothing for the hair that even rats would find to messy to nest in.
We traded the oldest child for the youngest, dropped the oldest two off with "Grampy" -- like they wanted -- and did the cake thing. My wife made a scrumptious cake. Then, we went to Topsham (the most peaceful trip we've had in quite a spell) to shop for clothes. Next we went to Borders (bookstores are high on my list of favorites), where I picked up a couple of Bernard Cornwell's Sharpe novels, a Mario Puzo, a Patrick O'Brian, and found Patrick Rothfuss's The Name of the Wind -- a book which I have been wanting to get my hands on a copy of. Rothfuss's debut novel comes very highly recommended by some of my favorite authors, one that I had to finish before delving into The Name of the Wind today...
I took my wife to dinner at a restaurant that she hadn't been to. The meal was splendid and we both had our fill. (It was at dusk, so her powers were full capacity.) By the time we returned home, we had traipsed curcuitously about the state. The kids had been excellent for their grandfather, which is always nice (though rare), and were ready for bed, when I was ready to read to them. They went to sleep relatively easy.
It hadn't been the equivalent of the Windsor Fair for the kids, but it was a milestone in calamity-free birthdays, and one of the most enjoyable days that I've spent with wy wife in a long time.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Brain Belches
This is one of those days that nothing seems to go right. Business has been dead -- the perfect time for a photographer to show up to shoot me (not with a gun) at work.
I'm feeling pretty beat up.
The writers forums I frequent seem to profess that they would be better off without me -- which is a shame, because that's one of the few things I derive joy from. I'm not one to stick around where I am not needed or wanted, so that may lead to my leaving.
The thing that sucks about depression (temporary, not clinical) is that it flavors everything. Even when it's a bright, sunny day, everything looks like rain.
I'm feeling pretty beat up.
The writers forums I frequent seem to profess that they would be better off without me -- which is a shame, because that's one of the few things I derive joy from. I'm not one to stick around where I am not needed or wanted, so that may lead to my leaving.
The thing that sucks about depression (temporary, not clinical) is that it flavors everything. Even when it's a bright, sunny day, everything looks like rain.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Solitude
A week before my birthday, and I'm miserable. Except for Mom's passing, I shouldn't be. Business is good. I'm making good money. My wife's attracted to me at present, which fades in and out (at times, admittedly, I giver her "just cause" to be repulsed). I find the kids are behaving -- for me, at least -- better than normal. Holli (my best -- and only -- salesperson and biggest fan) is back to work, after almost a month out, so my crew is full again.
What more could a man ask for, right?
It's strange. I feel utterly alone. Every good thing that I have listed comes with a price: Business being good takes me away from my family, and it keeps me away for long hours. My kids loose out their nightly story and I loose that bonding time that is so precious to me. (Not to mention, my wife looses her much-needed break from the human-zoo.) Long hours mean I'm tired or exhausted by the time I tread through the door, and (by the time I put the kids down) I can't match my wife's enthusiasm. Holli is distracted by personal drama, and letting that tint her work-world.
Ironically, I can usually find a bright side to things. But, right now, I only see shadows. I can't seem to taste any flavors, everything goes plain so fast. The work I'm willing to volunteer (the time consuming work of an experienced craftsman) is unwanted. My prose is dull; it's just as well that no one really reads this. All arguments seem petty and trivial.
It's not that I want attention. Attention (so long as you're not picky about whether it's good or bad) is easy to achieve. I don't want somebody to dote on me -- I have a few fans. But, I long for the simplest of companions. What I really want is someone to hang-out with. Someone who I share interests in common with. These days, that's a rare commodity. I hardly see either of my two best friends, anymore: Dan has M.S. and doesn't come out much; Eugene lives 1300 miles away.
Well, back to the grind...before I gnaw my own ear off.
What more could a man ask for, right?
It's strange. I feel utterly alone. Every good thing that I have listed comes with a price: Business being good takes me away from my family, and it keeps me away for long hours. My kids loose out their nightly story and I loose that bonding time that is so precious to me. (Not to mention, my wife looses her much-needed break from the human-zoo.) Long hours mean I'm tired or exhausted by the time I tread through the door, and (by the time I put the kids down) I can't match my wife's enthusiasm. Holli is distracted by personal drama, and letting that tint her work-world.
Ironically, I can usually find a bright side to things. But, right now, I only see shadows. I can't seem to taste any flavors, everything goes plain so fast. The work I'm willing to volunteer (the time consuming work of an experienced craftsman) is unwanted. My prose is dull; it's just as well that no one really reads this. All arguments seem petty and trivial.
It's not that I want attention. Attention (so long as you're not picky about whether it's good or bad) is easy to achieve. I don't want somebody to dote on me -- I have a few fans. But, I long for the simplest of companions. What I really want is someone to hang-out with. Someone who I share interests in common with. These days, that's a rare commodity. I hardly see either of my two best friends, anymore: Dan has M.S. and doesn't come out much; Eugene lives 1300 miles away.
Well, back to the grind...before I gnaw my own ear off.
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