I completely broke the law of NaNo and revised my first 2,808 words on Saturday night. I felt confident in my rules breaking in that I had preemptively written enough words to cover Saturday so I could game.
So technically, what I was doing wasn't NaNoing so much as an exercise in wasting time... yeah.
Completely revised the first haul - and after Sunday's 2-6pm typestravaganza am up to 13,960 words. I'm about 500 words up on what I should have on this time (a decline in buffer from the previous 1,500 or thereabouts) and am feeling pretty good about things. Despite a marathon RPG fest this weekend - Friday, Saturday, Sunday. I only have to write 9,364 to allow myself to game on Saturday. And 11,030 to game on Sunday. *sigh*
In other news, my right arm has started to develop far more in musculature than my left owning to the mouse flinging I have been performing for at least five hours everyday. Apparently, my aim is improving significantly as well. I can say with some conviction that I can nail a speeding cat in the head with a feather mouse with some amount of accuracy.
Back to writing....
Monday, November 9, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Taking a Break from NaNo
So I started watching ABC's refashioned V today - as soon as it was streaming on Hulu. I have some nebulous (as I was 6) but slightly fond memories of the 1984 version stemming from a particularly embarrassing incident featuring a sticker of Diana and my parent's front window. I'm fairly certain that that sticker was still on that window well into 1985.
30:14 minutes into it, I realize that humanity - at least the TV version of such - is really stupid. Have we learned nothing from a hundred years of speculative alien fiction? Hello! Does To Serve Man mean anything to anyone? War of the Worlds? Independence Day? A spaceship of supermodels come from another galaxy and you're not automatically suspicious?
In short -->
Aliens are evil. They want to eat or enslave humanity. They are not here to be our friends.
Otherwise, outside of Morris Chestnut, who might be the best actor in the series, V is just alright. I'm really getting tired of seeing FBI agents in skintight clothing and skinny jeans. Also, I question the female FBI agent's ability to turn against her partner so readily. She didn't even flinch in attacking him.
In closing, this word of warning:
30:14 minutes into it, I realize that humanity - at least the TV version of such - is really stupid. Have we learned nothing from a hundred years of speculative alien fiction? Hello! Does To Serve Man mean anything to anyone? War of the Worlds? Independence Day? A spaceship of supermodels come from another galaxy and you're not automatically suspicious?
In short -->
Aliens are evil. They want to eat or enslave humanity. They are not here to be our friends.
Otherwise, outside of Morris Chestnut, who might be the best actor in the series, V is just alright. I'm really getting tired of seeing FBI agents in skintight clothing and skinny jeans. Also, I question the female FBI agent's ability to turn against her partner so readily. She didn't even flinch in attacking him.
In closing, this word of warning:
Thursday, November 5, 2009
WTF Fort Hood?!?
As an addendum to my earlier post: what the fuck is going on at Fort Hood?
I am just disgusted. It's bad enough (in my estimation) that those poor families have to deal with the stress of deployment and wondering if their family members are going to die overseas without having to worry whether they're going to be killed on base!
Although now I am curious as to what aids a war-time army have historically received in alleviating psychological trauma, as I'm unfamiliar with whether the thrust of modern media on psychological ailments is a contemporary one or just now receiving mention.
I would say (and did tonight after talking to my Mom for nearly two uninterrupted hours) that I really wonder about psychological services in the military. From certain, unnamed, relations of mine, I really have doubts as to the quality. Seriously.
Hrm... this remind me that I really need to read Drew Gilpin Faust's The Republic of Suffering. But after NaNoWriMo. After.
I am just disgusted. It's bad enough (in my estimation) that those poor families have to deal with the stress of deployment and wondering if their family members are going to die overseas without having to worry whether they're going to be killed on base!
Although now I am curious as to what aids a war-time army have historically received in alleviating psychological trauma, as I'm unfamiliar with whether the thrust of modern media on psychological ailments is a contemporary one or just now receiving mention.
I would say (and did tonight after talking to my Mom for nearly two uninterrupted hours) that I really wonder about psychological services in the military. From certain, unnamed, relations of mine, I really have doubts as to the quality. Seriously.
Hrm... this remind me that I really need to read Drew Gilpin Faust's The Republic of Suffering. But after NaNoWriMo. After.
[NaNoWriMo] Day #5
Alright. So somehow I have survived to Day #5.
At this point last year, I think I was vegging on the couch watching TV and thinking about how much of a loser I am.
I have attained 9, 503 words. In five days. And although I have to completely re-write the 2,808 words of completely shite I put down to bytes on Sunday and spontaneously changed the lead male's father's title, I'm still slightly ahead of schedule.
Tonight I finally started writing some 'better' stuff. Less boring. As I was discussing with Lena earlier today, I might be the only person to elucidate endlessly on the a-Peeling Reform Crisis*. I think I might be a little heavy handed with my 1830s proselytizing. I am slowly converting to the idea that subtle hints might be all that is necessary to give timeliness to a scene.
Am I the only one who wants to know what kind of toothpaste was used in newly industrialized England?
Here is an excerpt from today's mountain of chaos with the caveat that those stealing my prose will be met with a severe Georgian dressing and an attack cat down the pants:
“And how do you find this Author of Waverly?” For a moment, Anne had no idea how to answer. Was he familiar with the book or not? At her slow rejoinder, Robin laughed. “That well, eh?” His ejaculation was slurred with Devon and she realized that despite his clever façade of London airs he was local. “Yet such fervent devotions towards a volume you appear so apathetic about is almost heroic. Of a long sort.”
“On the contrary,” Anne had finally found her voice, “I find his prose to be quite readable.”
“Such high praise, indeed.” Anne cringed as he moved to open the book, realizing her game was just about up. “While others would bestow such gems as ‘romantic’ and ‘poignant.’ How big-headed the Author of Waverly would become to hear your acc –“ his sentence was cut off mid-sentence as the pamphlet she had secreted between pages 102 and 103 slipped from its mooring in his hands, tumbling unceremoniously to the floor of the library. “What is this?” Anne could answer that, for it was the tattoo of her heart as she realized she was caught.
“Goodness! How did that get in there?” The disassembling query would have been more convincing if her pale face had not suddenly flamed with guilty blood.
“With your ready wit, I would have thought you capable of greater subterfuge than that feeble attempt. You are a horrible liar.” For some moments, Robin looked at the somewhat innocuous pamphlet, still in its papers from the publisher. “I am to assume then that this is also yours?” He stared down at Anne waiting her response.
As she was already blushing, Anne simply nodded. She had quite probably been headed to Hell since the first time she had read the Song of Solomon. Fanny Hill and A Chinese Story were just tributaries on her downward spiral. To her horror, he peeled open the blue wrapper."
* And the only one to get that baaaad joke. Seriously.
At this point last year, I think I was vegging on the couch watching TV and thinking about how much of a loser I am.
I have attained 9, 503 words. In five days. And although I have to completely re-write the 2,808 words of completely shite I put down to bytes on Sunday and spontaneously changed the lead male's father's title, I'm still slightly ahead of schedule.
Tonight I finally started writing some 'better' stuff. Less boring. As I was discussing with Lena earlier today, I might be the only person to elucidate endlessly on the a-Peeling Reform Crisis*. I think I might be a little heavy handed with my 1830s proselytizing. I am slowly converting to the idea that subtle hints might be all that is necessary to give timeliness to a scene.
Am I the only one who wants to know what kind of toothpaste was used in newly industrialized England?
Here is an excerpt from today's mountain of chaos with the caveat that those stealing my prose will be met with a severe Georgian dressing and an attack cat down the pants:
“And how do you find this Author of Waverly?” For a moment, Anne had no idea how to answer. Was he familiar with the book or not? At her slow rejoinder, Robin laughed. “That well, eh?” His ejaculation was slurred with Devon and she realized that despite his clever façade of London airs he was local. “Yet such fervent devotions towards a volume you appear so apathetic about is almost heroic. Of a long sort.”
“On the contrary,” Anne had finally found her voice, “I find his prose to be quite readable.”
“Such high praise, indeed.” Anne cringed as he moved to open the book, realizing her game was just about up. “While others would bestow such gems as ‘romantic’ and ‘poignant.’ How big-headed the Author of Waverly would become to hear your acc –“ his sentence was cut off mid-sentence as the pamphlet she had secreted between pages 102 and 103 slipped from its mooring in his hands, tumbling unceremoniously to the floor of the library. “What is this?” Anne could answer that, for it was the tattoo of her heart as she realized she was caught.
“Goodness! How did that get in there?” The disassembling query would have been more convincing if her pale face had not suddenly flamed with guilty blood.
“With your ready wit, I would have thought you capable of greater subterfuge than that feeble attempt. You are a horrible liar.” For some moments, Robin looked at the somewhat innocuous pamphlet, still in its papers from the publisher. “I am to assume then that this is also yours?” He stared down at Anne waiting her response.
As she was already blushing, Anne simply nodded. She had quite probably been headed to Hell since the first time she had read the Song of Solomon. Fanny Hill and A Chinese Story were just tributaries on her downward spiral. To her horror, he peeled open the blue wrapper."
* And the only one to get that baaaad joke. Seriously.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
[NaNoWriMo] What am I listening to?
I started making a playlist for my story - not particularly of period specific music - after catching up on all the Spill podcasts this afternoon. I love 'Let's Do This' and 'A Couple of Cold Ones' the best - as the ladies of the 'League of Extremely Ordinary Gentleman' are incredibly shrill and give me a headache.
To give a hint of the impending plot, here's what I have so far:
Seth Lakeman's John Loman
Mostly for the lines: Willingly, I took his place. With my fair love. Willingly, I stole his face, soaked it in blood.
Sufjan Stevens' To Be Alone With You
For the lyrics: I'll never know the man who loved me.
Low vs. Diamond's I'll Be
For the lyrics:
My heart was pure
And I wanted more
So I wait for signs to feel
You offered me the chance to see what’s real
And I wanted all you had
So I’ll close my eyes and see things from the past
Sharon Van Etten's Same Dream
For the lyrics: Betcha don't remember how we met. That's okay, it hasn't happened yet. Although we had the same dream. Although we had the same dream.
To give a hint of the impending plot, here's what I have so far:
Seth Lakeman's John Loman
Mostly for the lines: Willingly, I took his place. With my fair love. Willingly, I stole his face, soaked it in blood.
Sufjan Stevens' To Be Alone With You
For the lyrics: I'll never know the man who loved me.
Low vs. Diamond's I'll Be
For the lyrics:
My heart was pure
And I wanted more
So I wait for signs to feel
You offered me the chance to see what’s real
And I wanted all you had
So I’ll close my eyes and see things from the past
Sharon Van Etten's Same Dream
For the lyrics: Betcha don't remember how we met. That's okay, it hasn't happened yet. Although we had the same dream. Although we had the same dream.
Monday, November 2, 2009
[NaNoWriMo] Odds and Ends
Some excerpts from my fevered brain:
In an action so indicative of Anne after her return to Macao that her intimates would liken it to breathing, she brought a small, white fist to her torso just under the breast bone, holding it there a while before she could gather her wits about her. Beneath the layers of paramatta silk, crinoline, cotton sateen and linen the long links of a locket lay buried between the narrow valley of her breasts. Beneath the gold and glass lay a small likeness done in watercolor, sketched to the specifications of memory by Cassandra’s deft hands while Anne had critiqued and remarked on the progress. In the end, both girls had been satisfied with the disheveled man of remarkable beauty (which Cassandra thought greatly afflicted, but did not venture to say so aloud) that would spend his days between Anne’s skin and cotton shift. In her diary that evening, Anne had simply written: C. has caught the likeness of Robin’s physiognomy with such cleverness that I feel I will not ever lose the memories of the biblio. As per Shangyin: Never let your heart open with the spring flowers: One inch of love is an inch of ashes.
In an action so indicative of Anne after her return to Macao that her intimates would liken it to breathing, she brought a small, white fist to her torso just under the breast bone, holding it there a while before she could gather her wits about her. Beneath the layers of paramatta silk, crinoline, cotton sateen and linen the long links of a locket lay buried between the narrow valley of her breasts. Beneath the gold and glass lay a small likeness done in watercolor, sketched to the specifications of memory by Cassandra’s deft hands while Anne had critiqued and remarked on the progress. In the end, both girls had been satisfied with the disheveled man of remarkable beauty (which Cassandra thought greatly afflicted, but did not venture to say so aloud) that would spend his days between Anne’s skin and cotton shift. In her diary that evening, Anne had simply written: C. has caught the likeness of Robin’s physiognomy with such cleverness that I feel I will not ever lose the memories of the biblio. As per Shangyin: Never let your heart open with the spring flowers: One inch of love is an inch of ashes.
And tonight's:
Sir Gordon’s hospitality – save the addition of two prized deerhounds, Castor and Pollux, who had the run of the place – was both generous and unceremonious. Although everyone dressed for dinner, it was without the stiff formality Anne knew from Chrysanthemum House or London. Her white on white tambored muslin, though less full than that of the adult guests, was both appropriate and timely. Despite Breadon’s assertions to the draftiness of Roseward, the evening was quite warm as the evening storm necessitated closing the windows against the rain. To amuse themselves for the evening, Trebick had had a fire stoked and one of the gentleman guests – Anne thought he had been introduced as a Mr. Bere – had volunteered his services in the manufacture of jam tarts with iron forms native to the castle. She was sharing hers (somewhat unwillingly) with Pollux on the hopes that he was as resilient as his namesake, when Mr. Ramsay, a neighboring landowner, started in again on the tale of the Wish Hound.
[NaNoWriMo] Insanity? Obsession? Corsets?
Officially as of November 1, 2009, I am once again attempting NaNoWriMo. That would be National Novel Writing Month. The rather ambitious goal of which is to write 50,000 words - the length of a 170+ page novel - by the end of November.
Last year, I only made it to some nebulous area of 8-10K words and then burned out. I learned a valuable lesson: if you don't have an outline - or really, no plot even - you are not going to write a 50K novel in one month's time. The second lesson I learned was that Fantasy writing is very hard without some preemptive world building before the actual writing. In much the same way I have wondered a time or two how the use of magic in Dungeons and Dragons would impact human behavior, it is probably a good idea to have parameters.
So this time I have gone where I have only tentatively gone before: a sketchy outline that morphs daily (mostly I pull 8o% of my stories out of my ass while I'm writing it) and the boundary that I need so as not to go all over the place - and then overwhelm myself. The boundary this time is Britain and Portuguese/Chinese Macao of 1825-1831. A time period I enjoy very much and researched extensively while I was living in Japan - although the introduction of Google Books and my proximity to the NYPL make it much easier. As I enjoy the novels of Stephanie Laurens and Eloisa James, I thought I would try my hand at a somewhat gritty romance novel.
And by gritty, I mean somehow my main character, Anne Edwardes, has a half-sister who is half-Macanese (although I don't know if the nativized Portuguese who lived there referred to themselves as such at the time). Unlike her other half-siblings, Lucy has lost the genetic game of roulette and has the very (time-specific) unfavorable features of her distant Chinese antecedents. So she has to remain locked in the House - her only views of life beyond Chrysanthemum House the Spanish garden in the middle of the building and through a looking glass that Anne gives her. I find a lot of similarities to her plight and the Lady of Shallot - and have to work very hard to not become too interested in her story before writing out Anne's more generic one.
There's the whole issue of Anne's (non-practicing, but obviously) homosexual brother, Sebastian. Lucky for me, the period Earl of Devon - whose residence is ironically close to where the Edwardes' English house is - was actually a confirmed (and reputedly quite good looking) homosexual. Although he apparently lived most of his life in America. Yeah, I think gritty is the word.
Right now I just have to worry about murder, lost loves, mistaken identities and corsets. And it seems to be going alright... if I can divorce myself from the constant need for fact checking. If I could put footnotes ala Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell in my novel, I absolutely would.
But I am a nerd.
2808 words on Sunday. 1742 tonight. The goal is the seemingly nefarious total of 1666 words everyday to keep on schedule. And trying not to descend into archaic speak in an attempt to not break character. I asked my Mom if my niece was being "fractious" this evening and knew I was crossing some unspoken line of madness.
Last year, I only made it to some nebulous area of 8-10K words and then burned out. I learned a valuable lesson: if you don't have an outline - or really, no plot even - you are not going to write a 50K novel in one month's time. The second lesson I learned was that Fantasy writing is very hard without some preemptive world building before the actual writing. In much the same way I have wondered a time or two how the use of magic in Dungeons and Dragons would impact human behavior, it is probably a good idea to have parameters.
So this time I have gone where I have only tentatively gone before: a sketchy outline that morphs daily (mostly I pull 8o% of my stories out of my ass while I'm writing it) and the boundary that I need so as not to go all over the place - and then overwhelm myself. The boundary this time is Britain and Portuguese/Chinese Macao of 1825-1831. A time period I enjoy very much and researched extensively while I was living in Japan - although the introduction of Google Books and my proximity to the NYPL make it much easier. As I enjoy the novels of Stephanie Laurens and Eloisa James, I thought I would try my hand at a somewhat gritty romance novel.
And by gritty, I mean somehow my main character, Anne Edwardes, has a half-sister who is half-Macanese (although I don't know if the nativized Portuguese who lived there referred to themselves as such at the time). Unlike her other half-siblings, Lucy has lost the genetic game of roulette and has the very (time-specific) unfavorable features of her distant Chinese antecedents. So she has to remain locked in the House - her only views of life beyond Chrysanthemum House the Spanish garden in the middle of the building and through a looking glass that Anne gives her. I find a lot of similarities to her plight and the Lady of Shallot - and have to work very hard to not become too interested in her story before writing out Anne's more generic one.
There's the whole issue of Anne's (non-practicing, but obviously) homosexual brother, Sebastian. Lucky for me, the period Earl of Devon - whose residence is ironically close to where the Edwardes' English house is - was actually a confirmed (and reputedly quite good looking) homosexual. Although he apparently lived most of his life in America. Yeah, I think gritty is the word.
Right now I just have to worry about murder, lost loves, mistaken identities and corsets. And it seems to be going alright... if I can divorce myself from the constant need for fact checking. If I could put footnotes ala Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell in my novel, I absolutely would.
But I am a nerd.
2808 words on Sunday. 1742 tonight. The goal is the seemingly nefarious total of 1666 words everyday to keep on schedule. And trying not to descend into archaic speak in an attempt to not break character. I asked my Mom if my niece was being "fractious" this evening and knew I was crossing some unspoken line of madness.
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