We went to the coast. Camping was More pictures once I wash all the smoke and sand out of my hair.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Norton Gulch Beetle
We went to the coast. Camping was More pictures once I wash all the smoke and sand out of my hair.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Dredging Memories with the Ile de France
I'm slightly weirded out. I was looking at this web page about the Ile de France, and I looked closely at a picture of the more modern funnels of the ship.
Suddenly, I'm re-living a memory and I'm seeing black sooty smoke coming out of a grey funnel. Although I would have called it a smoke stack at the time. The stack leans backward, and my memory is of just the top. I don't remember the ship -- or whatever -- it was attached to... although trying to recall more, I have a sense of a pipe railing with three horizontal pipes.
I think this is a memory of a trans-Atlantic crossing in 1967, so I would have been three. It's also connected to a memory of my grandmother's hand, she's wearing a jacket or blouse with turquoise sleeve and some kind of chunky bracelet. Actually, all I can remember is her forearm (turquoise sleeved) and her hand, which is on a round dial on a rectangular box. How do I know it's my grandmother's hand? I don't know, but it is.
These memories make my head feel funny. It's almost as if the engrams live in a space between my temples. Maybe some day I'll see if I can be hypnotized to recall more about the trip. Until then, I guess it will have to remain part of a collection of funny stories things I got into when I was three.
Suddenly, I'm re-living a memory and I'm seeing black sooty smoke coming out of a grey funnel. Although I would have called it a smoke stack at the time. The stack leans backward, and my memory is of just the top. I don't remember the ship -- or whatever -- it was attached to... although trying to recall more, I have a sense of a pipe railing with three horizontal pipes.
I think this is a memory of a trans-Atlantic crossing in 1967, so I would have been three. It's also connected to a memory of my grandmother's hand, she's wearing a jacket or blouse with turquoise sleeve and some kind of chunky bracelet. Actually, all I can remember is her forearm (turquoise sleeved) and her hand, which is on a round dial on a rectangular box. How do I know it's my grandmother's hand? I don't know, but it is.
These memories make my head feel funny. It's almost as if the engrams live in a space between my temples. Maybe some day I'll see if I can be hypnotized to recall more about the trip. Until then, I guess it will have to remain part of a collection of funny stories things I got into when I was three.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Last August Musing
The dog days of August are upon us. Last night was one of the first nights there wasn't a midnight breeze to blow through the house and cool it down. This morning the house resounds with the whir of large box fans near the windows. It feels like being aboard an aircraft -- either a dirigible or a turbo-prop plane -- but it's worth it because two fans have managed to cool the house down by seven degrees down to 72F in about an hour.
Not a whole lot from the Dream Department that I'm comfortable sharing. This morning I suddenly remembered last night's dream and started laughing. I did what with who? At least it's kind of funny instead of icky. And it was in a cool forest house made out of stones half-set into a hill. I'm still trying to figure out what the dream means.
My writing discipline has gone out the window. This week's goal is to actually finish one of the several unfinished manuscripts I've got in my pile.
But first, the Day Job.
Not a whole lot from the Dream Department that I'm comfortable sharing. This morning I suddenly remembered last night's dream and started laughing. I did what with who? At least it's kind of funny instead of icky. And it was in a cool forest house made out of stones half-set into a hill. I'm still trying to figure out what the dream means.
My writing discipline has gone out the window. This week's goal is to actually finish one of the several unfinished manuscripts I've got in my pile.
But first, the Day Job.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Good Submission Advice
I think I need to add this to my list of writer's advice:
It's a variation of "Write what you love; love what you write."
BOOK VIEW CAFE BLOG � Things I wish I’d known: In hindsight I should have realised then that if I didn’t like any of the stories in a magazine, then that magazine is not one I should have been sending stories to.
It's a variation of "Write what you love; love what you write."
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Go Ask Alice...
There was an Alice in Wonderland themed party. I was going to go as a playing card, but I didn't get my act together; so I went as the March Hare instead.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Mice
It's the Season of the Mouse. I don't know why -- either it's the record cold Summer, it's mouse-kit time, or we've been extra cavalier with open doors -- but we've seen a bunch of mice in our garage and our kitchen.
Saturday, we watched a young mouse darting back and forth in the rosemary bed. Then it skittered across Café John, jumped up on the concrete foundation of the house, and ran along the south flower bed. We tracked it by the quivering sweet alyssum, tomato and strawberry plants.
And then the mouse was so bold as to sit there, watching us with one eye as it nibbled a ripe strawberry. Who knew that mice and slugs have something in common?
We've put out some traps in the house. But I'm thinking that it might be time to get a cat. And by cat, I mean a lean, mean, bat-catching machine like Mâtchka was. Muriel was an okay cat, but... well... she was a kind of odd, needy thing. She got points for being able to climb ladders -- but almost instantly lost them for never being able to figure out how to get out of the loft she'd climbed to (at 3:43 AM). And the poor thing had never been taught how to catch mice; in our old rental, she'd just look at them quizzically as if they were curiosities from another epoch.
Mâtchka automatically got cool points for being black except for a small white patch on her chest. She had the hauteur thing down. She could upstage anyone on giving a tour of Arcosanti simply by displaying herself in High Egyptian Cat style. And yes, she was able to catch bats.
Sigh. I know it's wrong to want a new cat just like Mâtchka. We kind of like our cat-free life. Still, sometimes....
Saturday, we watched a young mouse darting back and forth in the rosemary bed. Then it skittered across Café John, jumped up on the concrete foundation of the house, and ran along the south flower bed. We tracked it by the quivering sweet alyssum, tomato and strawberry plants.
And then the mouse was so bold as to sit there, watching us with one eye as it nibbled a ripe strawberry. Who knew that mice and slugs have something in common?
We've put out some traps in the house. But I'm thinking that it might be time to get a cat. And by cat, I mean a lean, mean, bat-catching machine like Mâtchka was. Muriel was an okay cat, but... well... she was a kind of odd, needy thing. She got points for being able to climb ladders -- but almost instantly lost them for never being able to figure out how to get out of the loft she'd climbed to (at 3:43 AM). And the poor thing had never been taught how to catch mice; in our old rental, she'd just look at them quizzically as if they were curiosities from another epoch.
Mâtchka automatically got cool points for being black except for a small white patch on her chest. She had the hauteur thing down. She could upstage anyone on giving a tour of Arcosanti simply by displaying herself in High Egyptian Cat style. And yes, she was able to catch bats.
Sigh. I know it's wrong to want a new cat just like Mâtchka. We kind of like our cat-free life. Still, sometimes....
Thursday, August 11, 2011
A Brief Survey of Faerie
The other day at Wordos, I was going to give a short presentation on Writing Elves and Fairies. I took copious notes from Tolkien's On Fairy Stories. I collected various research books, anthologies, and fantasy paperbacks. Alas, when it came time to give my mini-lecture, I discovered that my notes were not in my bag of Books about Fairies, and so I had to improvise wildly.
I said I'd post my notes. So, without further ado....
Dwarves, Gobblins, Dragons, Trolls, Elves and Fairies have been written about for a very long time. There are several approaches to take when writing about Faerie, Elves, and Fairy Magic, and each of them has their own merits. Tolkien writes that the words elf and fairy are equivalent, but that fairy is a Tudor word popularized by authors like Spenser, Shakespeare and Drayton. Tolkien makes a distinction between fairy stories, dream tales, and adventure, wonder- or marvel stories. More on Tolkien later.
One early source about fairies are the Child Ballads. The elves in these ballads tend appear suddenly and steal people away -- babes, maidens, queens and poets alike. Some are summoned by blowing horns, like Isabel's Fairy Knight; some appear beneath special trees, like the Queen of Fairy before Thomas the Rhymer; others pierce their victim's hearts with darts, like the Elfking in King Orefo.
Or these stories use the fairies as boogie-men in cautionary tales for children. One example is the Kelpie that takes the form of a horse and tricks children into riding it, whereupon it jumps into the nearest pool or river and drowns them.
The old stories present the folk of Faerie as strange to or unmoved by human morality or desires. They are elemental and tricky like thunder and lightning, or a rip-tide in the ocean.
Then there are the fairies of the Mabinogion, the Arthurian Romances, and the lays of Marie de France. In these, knights summon otherworldly lovers by blowing horns, ladling water out of fountains, or putting on rings. Typically these fairy women aid the knight in a quest or redress some wrong done by a mortal court. Or else the knights camp out in an old haunted castle and risk being eaten (or worse) by an ugly, riddling spirit woman who usually turns into a beautiful bride by the time morning dawns and the knight has solved three riddles.
These medieval stories present fairies as foils to the mortal courts, and even the Courts of Heaven and Hell. The fairies are both friend and foe simultaneously -- dangerous as chaotic beings living outside the walls of civilization and beneficial as magical helpers. Treating with them requires navigating taboos and prohibitions alien to mortal custom. Almost always, the mortal breaks the rule -- they open the forbidden door, they speak the fairy lover's name, they taste the brew in the cauldron -- and bring ruin, wrath and lamentation down upon themselves.
Tolkien theorizes that after the age of Enlightenment, Faerie began to be depicted in the language of rationality and science. Elvin glamour became finesse. This led to a kind of "domesticated" fairy, the Flower Fairy. He places the blame for teeny-tiny fairies dressed in flower petals with deelybopper antenna squarely on Drayton's Nymphidia.
Between Drayton, Spenser and Shakespeare, the fairies became agents of satire, allegory, and the author's plot needs (the fairies made him do it!). Sometime around this point, elves and fairies begin to be relegated to the nursery and peasant wisdom. In 1889, this (according to Tolkien) prompted Andrew Lang to complain in the Lilac Fairy Book, "these fairies try to be funny and fail, and try to preach and succeed."
Another rationalization is to explain fairies as "savage" Northern European tribes of pygmies or Picts, long ago driven into the hinter-lands by the Romans or other civilized peoples.
From the flower fairies and anthropological fairies, it's a short jump to Puck of Pook's Hill, and Rudyard Kipling's "Puck's Song." In the song, Puck sings about the rise and fall of human empires and cities. We get the sense that the fairies are long-lived, and will continue to exist long after the last human ruin has crumbled. Kipling's Puck is diminutive and pointy eared, and he appears by accident after some children perform A Mid-Summer Night's Dream on Mid-Summer Night.
Now we get to Tolkien. The Hobbit. The Lord of the Rings. On Fairy Stories. In his essay, Tolkien says of the Elves: "Elves are not primarily concerned with us, nor we with them. Our fates are sundered..."
He says of Fairy Magic:
And of Faerie in general: Faerie cannot be caught within a net of words.
In Tolkien's works, Elves are so connected with Nature that they appear "supernatural." Their immortality sunders them from humankind, who is given the gift of death. This makes the Elves weary preservers of nature. Tolkien's Elves are also caught up in Tolkien's theme of the One Ring of Power, which is "Absolute power corrupts absolutely"; therefore, Tolkien's Elves have the unenviable choice of watching the nature and world they love and are intimately connected with fade away, or becoming corrupted by power that could preserve it.
Tolkien set the mold for the fantasy genre.
Since Tolkien, there have been a few other approaches to Elves and Faerie.
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fairies in The Mists of Avalon (1982) are beings that inhabit a kind of parallel world. Faerie, such as it is, is portrayed as an other-worldly haven for an enclave practicing the old ways of Goddess Religion. It is a mist-filled place removed from the advances of Christianity and male-centric civilizations. The Fairies who do appear seem part-and-parcel of a magical, parallel-realm accessible only to those with The Sight. This realm, or possibly The Sight used to see it, is malleable to observers' expectations or state.
More modern Faerie seems to have pushed the immortality, removal, and indifference so far that it suffers from a kind of stasis or arrested development.
Prince Shadowbow (1985), by Sherri S Tepper, shows a Faerie that is fragile and must seek renewal through the more vital mortal world.
In War for the Oaks (1987), by Emma Bull, the folk of Faerie seem drawn to human music and movies to such an extent that the mortal protagonist asks the Queen of the Unseelie Court if there isn't anything she hasn't stolen from a movie. They seem to not understand love and death.
Patricia C. Wrede's Snow White and Rose Red (1989) presents a renaissance England fairy court, with magical court intrigues. One of the story's arcs concerns the nature of the connection between the Mortal and Faerie realms. "Mortal lands are our stability," says Wrede's Fairy Queen, "Without them we would fade to mist and shadows."
Ellen Kushner, in Thomas the Rhymer, (1990) has the Queen of Fairy tell Thomas that Elves are drawn to Humans because they burn bright, with a kind of fire which sustains them. Later Thomas opines that Fairies are bad liars because living in Faerie has blunted their ability to invent. In one of her last appearances, the Queen reports that she cannot change (and possibly cannot love because that would require change).
These previous four stories share Terri Windling as an editor. All though they they are long-lived or immortal, partake of magic, and have a separate fate from humanity, "Windling Elves" do not appear to have the Tolkien Elves' supernatural connection to the natural world -- their magic stems from their removal from the natural world; their other-worldliness is rooted in by their inability to understand moral emotion.
I'm almost forgetting Charles de Lint -- his Elves of European descent are close to Tolkien's; his expansion on them is to have them interact with Native American nature spirits.
And I've almost forgotten Brian Froud's Fairies. I want to be flippant and call them Muppet Fairies because of Froud's influence on the movies The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth. I admit my own ambiguity of feeling toward Froud's Fairies. On one hand, I love Labyrinth for the stunning visuals, artistry, and costuming. But I used to have a friend whom I used to share the tag-line "Love me, fear me, do what I say, and I will be your slave forever" as a joke. I feel the same way about Dark Crystal, only I loved the intricate freaky magic -- even if it was hard to find just one joke in the overwrought melodrama. If I were pressed, I'd say that Froud's art in general is in touch with Faerie as wonder; Labyrinth is in touch with fairy as trickster; and Dark Crystal is in touch with a "wholistic" politics and aesthetic.
Oh yeah, and then there are the D&D Elves. And Hobbits. Um... I think these count as humans with pointy ears. With the copyright filed off.
To summarize, Faerie illuminates our relationships with and attitudes toward nature, civilization, modes of thought, and the human condition. The Realm of Faerie has ranged from the Elemental, to the Outlandish, to the Preserving Sanctuary. Faerie magic shows us how we love, what we fear, and how we die.
When I write about Faerie, I want to partake of the Tolkien essence of it. I want my Elves to shine a different light (and shadow) on the truth. I want them to reveal the wonder of the connected world. And I want the reader to risk peril in the hope of transformation.
I said I'd post my notes. So, without further ado....
Dwarves, Gobblins, Dragons, Trolls, Elves and Fairies have been written about for a very long time. There are several approaches to take when writing about Faerie, Elves, and Fairy Magic, and each of them has their own merits. Tolkien writes that the words elf and fairy are equivalent, but that fairy is a Tudor word popularized by authors like Spenser, Shakespeare and Drayton. Tolkien makes a distinction between fairy stories, dream tales, and adventure, wonder- or marvel stories. More on Tolkien later.
One early source about fairies are the Child Ballads. The elves in these ballads tend appear suddenly and steal people away -- babes, maidens, queens and poets alike. Some are summoned by blowing horns, like Isabel's Fairy Knight; some appear beneath special trees, like the Queen of Fairy before Thomas the Rhymer; others pierce their victim's hearts with darts, like the Elfking in King Orefo.
Or these stories use the fairies as boogie-men in cautionary tales for children. One example is the Kelpie that takes the form of a horse and tricks children into riding it, whereupon it jumps into the nearest pool or river and drowns them.
The old stories present the folk of Faerie as strange to or unmoved by human morality or desires. They are elemental and tricky like thunder and lightning, or a rip-tide in the ocean.
Then there are the fairies of the Mabinogion, the Arthurian Romances, and the lays of Marie de France. In these, knights summon otherworldly lovers by blowing horns, ladling water out of fountains, or putting on rings. Typically these fairy women aid the knight in a quest or redress some wrong done by a mortal court. Or else the knights camp out in an old haunted castle and risk being eaten (or worse) by an ugly, riddling spirit woman who usually turns into a beautiful bride by the time morning dawns and the knight has solved three riddles.
These medieval stories present fairies as foils to the mortal courts, and even the Courts of Heaven and Hell. The fairies are both friend and foe simultaneously -- dangerous as chaotic beings living outside the walls of civilization and beneficial as magical helpers. Treating with them requires navigating taboos and prohibitions alien to mortal custom. Almost always, the mortal breaks the rule -- they open the forbidden door, they speak the fairy lover's name, they taste the brew in the cauldron -- and bring ruin, wrath and lamentation down upon themselves.
Tolkien theorizes that after the age of Enlightenment, Faerie began to be depicted in the language of rationality and science. Elvin glamour became finesse. This led to a kind of "domesticated" fairy, the Flower Fairy. He places the blame for teeny-tiny fairies dressed in flower petals with deelybopper antenna squarely on Drayton's Nymphidia.
Between Drayton, Spenser and Shakespeare, the fairies became agents of satire, allegory, and the author's plot needs (the fairies made him do it!). Sometime around this point, elves and fairies begin to be relegated to the nursery and peasant wisdom. In 1889, this (according to Tolkien) prompted Andrew Lang to complain in the Lilac Fairy Book, "these fairies try to be funny and fail, and try to preach and succeed."
Another rationalization is to explain fairies as "savage" Northern European tribes of pygmies or Picts, long ago driven into the hinter-lands by the Romans or other civilized peoples.
From the flower fairies and anthropological fairies, it's a short jump to Puck of Pook's Hill, and Rudyard Kipling's "Puck's Song." In the song, Puck sings about the rise and fall of human empires and cities. We get the sense that the fairies are long-lived, and will continue to exist long after the last human ruin has crumbled. Kipling's Puck is diminutive and pointy eared, and he appears by accident after some children perform A Mid-Summer Night's Dream on Mid-Summer Night.
Now we get to Tolkien. The Hobbit. The Lord of the Rings. On Fairy Stories. In his essay, Tolkien says of the Elves: "Elves are not primarily concerned with us, nor we with them. Our fates are sundered..."
He says of Fairy Magic:
- "The part of magic [faeries] wield is power to play on the desires of [man's] body and heart."
- Fairy magic satisfies the desire to survey space and time and commune with other living things.
- Fairy magic enables the realization of imagined wonder.
- The magic of faerie re-enchants the familiar with its wonder-ful connection to the natural, as opposed to mortal magic which is concerned with willing power over nature.
- There's a distinction between myth and history. Historical people and places become attached to mythic ones.
- Fairy stories are mythic tales.
- Fairy-tales confound Comparative Folk-lore's list of correspondences and story element concordances.
- Fairy stories are mystical toward the supernatural, magical toward nature, and the beings of Faerie regard mortals with pity and scorn.
- Fairy stories contain prohibitions.
And of Faerie in general: Faerie cannot be caught within a net of words.
In Tolkien's works, Elves are so connected with Nature that they appear "supernatural." Their immortality sunders them from humankind, who is given the gift of death. This makes the Elves weary preservers of nature. Tolkien's Elves are also caught up in Tolkien's theme of the One Ring of Power, which is "Absolute power corrupts absolutely"; therefore, Tolkien's Elves have the unenviable choice of watching the nature and world they love and are intimately connected with fade away, or becoming corrupted by power that could preserve it.
Tolkien set the mold for the fantasy genre.
Since Tolkien, there have been a few other approaches to Elves and Faerie.
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fairies in The Mists of Avalon (1982) are beings that inhabit a kind of parallel world. Faerie, such as it is, is portrayed as an other-worldly haven for an enclave practicing the old ways of Goddess Religion. It is a mist-filled place removed from the advances of Christianity and male-centric civilizations. The Fairies who do appear seem part-and-parcel of a magical, parallel-realm accessible only to those with The Sight. This realm, or possibly The Sight used to see it, is malleable to observers' expectations or state.
More modern Faerie seems to have pushed the immortality, removal, and indifference so far that it suffers from a kind of stasis or arrested development.
Prince Shadowbow (1985), by Sherri S Tepper, shows a Faerie that is fragile and must seek renewal through the more vital mortal world.
In War for the Oaks (1987), by Emma Bull, the folk of Faerie seem drawn to human music and movies to such an extent that the mortal protagonist asks the Queen of the Unseelie Court if there isn't anything she hasn't stolen from a movie. They seem to not understand love and death.
Patricia C. Wrede's Snow White and Rose Red (1989) presents a renaissance England fairy court, with magical court intrigues. One of the story's arcs concerns the nature of the connection between the Mortal and Faerie realms. "Mortal lands are our stability," says Wrede's Fairy Queen, "Without them we would fade to mist and shadows."
Ellen Kushner, in Thomas the Rhymer, (1990) has the Queen of Fairy tell Thomas that Elves are drawn to Humans because they burn bright, with a kind of fire which sustains them. Later Thomas opines that Fairies are bad liars because living in Faerie has blunted their ability to invent. In one of her last appearances, the Queen reports that she cannot change (and possibly cannot love because that would require change).
These previous four stories share Terri Windling as an editor. All though they they are long-lived or immortal, partake of magic, and have a separate fate from humanity, "Windling Elves" do not appear to have the Tolkien Elves' supernatural connection to the natural world -- their magic stems from their removal from the natural world; their other-worldliness is rooted in by their inability to understand moral emotion.
I'm almost forgetting Charles de Lint -- his Elves of European descent are close to Tolkien's; his expansion on them is to have them interact with Native American nature spirits.
And I've almost forgotten Brian Froud's Fairies. I want to be flippant and call them Muppet Fairies because of Froud's influence on the movies The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth. I admit my own ambiguity of feeling toward Froud's Fairies. On one hand, I love Labyrinth for the stunning visuals, artistry, and costuming. But I used to have a friend whom I used to share the tag-line "Love me, fear me, do what I say, and I will be your slave forever" as a joke. I feel the same way about Dark Crystal, only I loved the intricate freaky magic -- even if it was hard to find just one joke in the overwrought melodrama. If I were pressed, I'd say that Froud's art in general is in touch with Faerie as wonder; Labyrinth is in touch with fairy as trickster; and Dark Crystal is in touch with a "wholistic" politics and aesthetic.
Oh yeah, and then there are the D&D Elves. And Hobbits. Um... I think these count as humans with pointy ears. With the copyright filed off.
To summarize, Faerie illuminates our relationships with and attitudes toward nature, civilization, modes of thought, and the human condition. The Realm of Faerie has ranged from the Elemental, to the Outlandish, to the Preserving Sanctuary. Faerie magic shows us how we love, what we fear, and how we die.
When I write about Faerie, I want to partake of the Tolkien essence of it. I want my Elves to shine a different light (and shadow) on the truth. I want them to reveal the wonder of the connected world. And I want the reader to risk peril in the hope of transformation.
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
First-Order Approximation Plots
Sometimes when I look at a manuscript, I find it suffers from what I call first-order approximation plots. They aren't bad plots exactly, but they're plots that have either stalled out without resolving or they're too well worn. The language can be beautiful and the words can flow, but in the end, if the plot isn't working, a the result is an unsalable manuscript. Here's a list of what I see most of.
Wish Fulfillment Daydreams - There's absolutely nothing wrong about imagining nice things happening to nice people, except it makes for a flat plot. (Yes, I want a star cruiser and cool magic powers, too.) In most short stories, conflict and the reaction to conflict reveals character, and most wish fulfillment manuscripts have very little (or easily overcome) conflict. This type of plot frequently suffers from a passive telling of events instead of an active unfolding of action. Not to be confused with the The Revenge Fantasy.
Driving To The Plot - A big flag word in this type of manuscript is the word "decided," as in "He decided he would go to the store." ...And then the manuscript spends three or five paragraphs describing the trip from point A to the store. Getting to the store may seem like a character's problem, but it isn't. Another flag word is "wondered," as in "She wondered what it would be like to walk on Mars," followed by supposition or a wish fulfillment daydream. The problem with Driving to the Plot is that the reader has to wade through three, five, or more pages of exposition, back-story or description before we learn what the character wants, or a precipitating event threatens something the main character loves. Get us there sooner. Get her on Mars!
Satire - There's confusion about what satire is. It's not simply making fun of something. It's not even being sarcastic about mainstream society (the aim of sarcasm is to hurt someone or something). Satire aims at fixing a wrong by taking a person's, institution's or society's quality or qualities, magnifying them until they're way over the top, and then writing about them. I think sometimes authors are worried that they're going to offend somebody, and wind up calling a manuscript "satire" as a defense. Or they are being sarcastic. In any case, they shouldn't have to call it anything and let the humor and social commentary speak for the piece.
The Angry Young Man Manuscript - Pick a cause, or make one up. Now have your characters act at low capacity but nevertheless achieve the cause's goals just before dying, or fail miserably in a very un-cheery way just before dying. I'm trying to imagine Ursula K Le Guin writing an Angry Young Man Manuscript, and the closest work I can think of is The Word For World is Forrest. If you must write an Angry Young Man Manuscript (and I know you must), try to make it as layered as Ms. Le Guin's.
My Characters Are All Capitalized Stereotypes - "The Business Man stood over The Crone and smiled a wicked smile. But before he could evict her, The Child rode in on A Big White Horse with a bag of gold." Okay; I haven't read something this vague in a very long while -- yes, it may be clear in the author's head what The Business Man looks and sounds like, but all I know is that he's a male character somehow connected with a business of some sort. The problem may be that the author is trying to be ageless and dramatic. Or maybe they're relying too much on Jung's collective unconscious. The cure is to remember two things: 1) specific details are your friends and 2) give your characters names as well as descriptions.
This isn't an exhaustive list - for that you can get lost at Television Tropes or at the Turkey City Lexicon - but it's what I see the most of.
Wish Fulfillment Daydreams - There's absolutely nothing wrong about imagining nice things happening to nice people, except it makes for a flat plot. (Yes, I want a star cruiser and cool magic powers, too.) In most short stories, conflict and the reaction to conflict reveals character, and most wish fulfillment manuscripts have very little (or easily overcome) conflict. This type of plot frequently suffers from a passive telling of events instead of an active unfolding of action. Not to be confused with the The Revenge Fantasy.
Driving To The Plot - A big flag word in this type of manuscript is the word "decided," as in "He decided he would go to the store." ...And then the manuscript spends three or five paragraphs describing the trip from point A to the store. Getting to the store may seem like a character's problem, but it isn't. Another flag word is "wondered," as in "She wondered what it would be like to walk on Mars," followed by supposition or a wish fulfillment daydream. The problem with Driving to the Plot is that the reader has to wade through three, five, or more pages of exposition, back-story or description before we learn what the character wants, or a precipitating event threatens something the main character loves. Get us there sooner. Get her on Mars!
Satire - There's confusion about what satire is. It's not simply making fun of something. It's not even being sarcastic about mainstream society (the aim of sarcasm is to hurt someone or something). Satire aims at fixing a wrong by taking a person's, institution's or society's quality or qualities, magnifying them until they're way over the top, and then writing about them. I think sometimes authors are worried that they're going to offend somebody, and wind up calling a manuscript "satire" as a defense. Or they are being sarcastic. In any case, they shouldn't have to call it anything and let the humor and social commentary speak for the piece.
The Angry Young Man Manuscript - Pick a cause, or make one up. Now have your characters act at low capacity but nevertheless achieve the cause's goals just before dying, or fail miserably in a very un-cheery way just before dying. I'm trying to imagine Ursula K Le Guin writing an Angry Young Man Manuscript, and the closest work I can think of is The Word For World is Forrest. If you must write an Angry Young Man Manuscript (and I know you must), try to make it as layered as Ms. Le Guin's.
My Characters Are All Capitalized Stereotypes - "The Business Man stood over The Crone and smiled a wicked smile. But before he could evict her, The Child rode in on A Big White Horse with a bag of gold." Okay; I haven't read something this vague in a very long while -- yes, it may be clear in the author's head what The Business Man looks and sounds like, but all I know is that he's a male character somehow connected with a business of some sort. The problem may be that the author is trying to be ageless and dramatic. Or maybe they're relying too much on Jung's collective unconscious. The cure is to remember two things: 1) specific details are your friends and 2) give your characters names as well as descriptions.
This isn't an exhaustive list - for that you can get lost at Television Tropes or at the Turkey City Lexicon - but it's what I see the most of.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Mammoth Art
When Mark and I were in the modern art wing of the Portland Art Museum, we passed by a neon sign that read, "Five Words in Orange Neon". This was one of several pieces that reminded me of Tina Howe's play, Museum.
As we were waiting for the elevator, Mark noticed the sign and said, "This is not a mammoth -- For all we know that's what all those cave painters were thinking."
This struck me as funny on many levels and I giggled. "I love you," I said and pulled Mark closer.
As we were waiting for the elevator, Mark noticed the sign and said, "This is not a mammoth -- For all we know that's what all those cave painters were thinking."
This struck me as funny on many levels and I giggled. "I love you," I said and pulled Mark closer.
Cars Alluring; But Is It Art?
For our anniversary, Mark and I went to see The Allure of the Automobile at the Portland Art Museum.
The phrase that sums up our experience: It was a car show. And by "car" I mean million dollar vintage race cars or vehicles that really only fit two people (and their suitcases).
After looking at the fifteen or so cars, we decided that we were looking at craft and history, but I wasn't sure that we were looking at art. Mark (and I) had hoped that there would be original draft designs on display. And I'd hoped that we'd see more radiator cap tops and sculpture. I think the show would have benefitted with the inclusion of other period objects, so we could have seen how the cars' aesthetic was interacting with the aesthetic of the time. "Well, I guess this is like looking at jewelry," Mark said.
After about ninety minutes of looking at cars, we took a break to the modern art wing. This was mostly because I was having trouble wrapping my (admittedly pedestrian) art appreciation brain around the concept of car-as-art-object, and I figured that if I looked at things like eighteen inch black plastic cubes, video loops of sunsets set to the Apocalypse Now movie soundtrack, and pictures of dumpsters taped over with silver tape (I'm not making this up, you know), I'd be able to go back to the car show with a better appreciation for the artistry.
I fell in love with Mark all over again as we chortled our way through the Modern Wing. On our way back to the cars, we gave a detailed artistic critique of the way the metal etching on the elevator walls made organic reflections of the lights. And then we were back with the cars.
Going off to view alternate art didn't quite work. I was still mentally contrasting and comparing Allure with a show consisting of Kitchen Aide mixers all lined up on artistically lit pedestals.
I made a few sketches.
One thing I noticed about this show that was different from other shows was how (ahem) aggressive everyone was with photographing (they didn't exactly say, "Get out of my way!" but they didn't say "please" either). The photograph frenzy was strange, like being on a kind of birding expedition -- and I guess when I've been in museums before, people take pictures of the art. At Allure, as often as not, people would have their pictures taken as they were standing in front of cars, sort of like one would have one's picture taken with a recently-caught trophy fish.
I enjoy photographing objects in the Egyptian wing of the MET. So I can understand the thrill of phonographic acquisition. Still....
My favorite car was the sting ray because it looked just a little bit like Luke Skywalker's land speeder. Mark's was a 1930's Chitty-chitty-bang-bang style car. I liked how the headlights on some of the older cars had magnifying lenses built into their glass, or how designs (like a candelabra) were etched into the bulb's glass. A few cars had hinged wrought-iron-looking bumpers, which was cool. But the award for most interesting goes to the car with a third, swiveling headlight stuck in front of the radiator.
We left the car show and went upstairs to look at the silverware. I really looked at those 17th-Century chocolate pots and tried to imagine that I was looking at the cars. But it wasn't the same -- the cars didn't have clawed feet, or labyrinths of leafy bronze vines coiling around Titans. The cars looked like tanks, or teardrops, or women's breasts, or phalluses, or airplanes, or cellphones. They weren't even SteamPunk. I guess cars fall into the same category for me as all those endless Madonna With Child portraits from the renaissance.
Afterward, we had dinner at The Portland City Grill. It was fun because we were thirty stories high. We ate good food while looking at Mount Hood. We got to watch skateboarders on the roof of a parking garage beneath us, and also the gyres of a red-tailed hawk.
The phrase that sums up our experience: It was a car show. And by "car" I mean million dollar vintage race cars or vehicles that really only fit two people (and their suitcases).
After looking at the fifteen or so cars, we decided that we were looking at craft and history, but I wasn't sure that we were looking at art. Mark (and I) had hoped that there would be original draft designs on display. And I'd hoped that we'd see more radiator cap tops and sculpture. I think the show would have benefitted with the inclusion of other period objects, so we could have seen how the cars' aesthetic was interacting with the aesthetic of the time. "Well, I guess this is like looking at jewelry," Mark said.
After about ninety minutes of looking at cars, we took a break to the modern art wing. This was mostly because I was having trouble wrapping my (admittedly pedestrian) art appreciation brain around the concept of car-as-art-object, and I figured that if I looked at things like eighteen inch black plastic cubes, video loops of sunsets set to the Apocalypse Now movie soundtrack, and pictures of dumpsters taped over with silver tape (I'm not making this up, you know), I'd be able to go back to the car show with a better appreciation for the artistry.
I fell in love with Mark all over again as we chortled our way through the Modern Wing. On our way back to the cars, we gave a detailed artistic critique of the way the metal etching on the elevator walls made organic reflections of the lights. And then we were back with the cars.
Going off to view alternate art didn't quite work. I was still mentally contrasting and comparing Allure with a show consisting of Kitchen Aide mixers all lined up on artistically lit pedestals.
I made a few sketches.
One thing I noticed about this show that was different from other shows was how (ahem) aggressive everyone was with photographing (they didn't exactly say, "Get out of my way!" but they didn't say "please" either). The photograph frenzy was strange, like being on a kind of birding expedition -- and I guess when I've been in museums before, people take pictures of the art. At Allure, as often as not, people would have their pictures taken as they were standing in front of cars, sort of like one would have one's picture taken with a recently-caught trophy fish.
I enjoy photographing objects in the Egyptian wing of the MET. So I can understand the thrill of phonographic acquisition. Still....
My favorite car was the sting ray because it looked just a little bit like Luke Skywalker's land speeder. Mark's was a 1930's Chitty-chitty-bang-bang style car. I liked how the headlights on some of the older cars had magnifying lenses built into their glass, or how designs (like a candelabra) were etched into the bulb's glass. A few cars had hinged wrought-iron-looking bumpers, which was cool. But the award for most interesting goes to the car with a third, swiveling headlight stuck in front of the radiator.
We left the car show and went upstairs to look at the silverware. I really looked at those 17th-Century chocolate pots and tried to imagine that I was looking at the cars. But it wasn't the same -- the cars didn't have clawed feet, or labyrinths of leafy bronze vines coiling around Titans. The cars looked like tanks, or teardrops, or women's breasts, or phalluses, or airplanes, or cellphones. They weren't even SteamPunk. I guess cars fall into the same category for me as all those endless Madonna With Child portraits from the renaissance.
Afterward, we had dinner at The Portland City Grill. It was fun because we were thirty stories high. We ate good food while looking at Mount Hood. We got to watch skateboarders on the roof of a parking garage beneath us, and also the gyres of a red-tailed hawk.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Seven Years Annerversary
Seven years ago -- August 1, 2004 -- Mark and I had a Ceremony of Marriage. Our families and friends attended the outdoor ceremony, which was held in our landlady's backyard garden.
It was purely a ceremony -- Oregon's constitution had recently been amended to forbid same-sex marriage. (And, reviewing notes, it appears that West Nile Fever had yet to make it to Oregon.) Aside from things like the car, the house and joint checking, we haven't really registered with legislative bodies.
Mark was particularly handsome that day. Some days -- just the other day, in fact -- I'll look at him and fall in love with him all over. And on the other days, the hard days, I repeat my part of the vows: "As the Earth and the Moon dance around the Sun, so I braid my life with yours."
And thinking about Mark, who will probably make a gagging sound when he reads the above, I suppose that I should prepare the Ultimate Love Gift and start the laundry and the dishwasher.
It was purely a ceremony -- Oregon's constitution had recently been amended to forbid same-sex marriage. (And, reviewing notes, it appears that West Nile Fever had yet to make it to Oregon.) Aside from things like the car, the house and joint checking, we haven't really registered with legislative bodies.
Mark was particularly handsome that day. Some days -- just the other day, in fact -- I'll look at him and fall in love with him all over. And on the other days, the hard days, I repeat my part of the vows: "As the Earth and the Moon dance around the Sun, so I braid my life with yours."
And thinking about Mark, who will probably make a gagging sound when he reads the above, I suppose that I should prepare the Ultimate Love Gift and start the laundry and the dishwasher.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Microdrones
This was in the news a few weeks back:
On one hand, cool! Robots! On the other hand, these are war toys, and some folks would like to see them being tested in Easter Oregon. What I want to know is, why isn't the department of agriculture working with microdrones to improve farming and ranching techniques? Or why isn't the parks service using these to monitor forest fires? And could microdrones become the guardians of the very young and the very old? Or deliver pizzas?
Microdrones, Some as Small as Bugs, Are Poised to Alter War - NYTimes.com: "The Pentagon now has some 7,000 aerial drones, compared with fewer than 50 a decade ago. Within the next decade the Air Force anticipates a decrease in manned aircraft but expects its number of “multirole” aerial drones like the Reaper — the ones that spy as well as strike — to nearly quadruple, to 536. Already the Air Force is training more remote pilots, 350 this year alone, than fighter and bomber pilots combined.
“It’s a growth market,” said Ashton B. Carter, the Pentagon’s chief weapons buyer."
On one hand, cool! Robots! On the other hand, these are war toys, and some folks would like to see them being tested in Easter Oregon. What I want to know is, why isn't the department of agriculture working with microdrones to improve farming and ranching techniques? Or why isn't the parks service using these to monitor forest fires? And could microdrones become the guardians of the very young and the very old? Or deliver pizzas?
Late July 2011 Update
Hmm. The day job is cutting into blogging time. So some quick updates:
- The Pearwood Pipers went to Canterbury Renaissance Faire. In addition to singing The Oyster girl in drag, there was a need to fill out a women's chorus of Oaken Leaves, so Molly got a new sister named Inga.
- I bought a new scholar's hat. At least it's supposed to be a scholar's hat. I'm trying to find documentation about how to wear the hat. I remember seeing a portrait from 1500-something of a man in mostly black wearing a jeweled, square fabric hat with a wire or string between a break in the brim, but it's not any of these pictures
- http://www.metmuseum.org/works_of_art/collection_database/european_paintings/portrait_of_a_cardinal_probably_cardinal_don_fernando_el_greco_domenikos_theotokopoulos/objectview_enlarge.aspx?page=39&sort=0&sortdir=asc&keyword=&fp=1&dd1=11&dd2=0&vw=1&collID=11&OID=110001015&vT=1&hi=0&ov=0
- http://www.metmuseum.org/works_of_art/collection_database/european_paintings/portrait_of_a_young_man_bronzino_agnolo_di_cosimo_di_mariano/objectview.aspx?page=3&sort=6&sortdir=asc&keyword=hat&fp=1&dd1=11&dd2=0&vw=1&collID=11&OID=110000235&vT=1&hi=0&ov=0
- http://www.metmuseum.org/works_of_art/collection_database/european_paintings/portrait_of_a_man_andrea_del_sarto_andrea_d_agnolo/objectview.aspx?page=2&sort=6&sortdir=asc&keyword=hat&fp=1&dd1=11&dd2=0&vw=1&collID=11&OID=110002063&vT=1&hi=0&ov=0
- Saturday night, in a pine grove, I saw a bat flitting about eating bugs underneath a starry sky.
- I also saw the Summer Triangle for the first time this season, along with Arcturus, Spica, and Antares.
- Eugene continues not to live up to its image as a bike-friendly city: Last week I was nearly side-swiped by an SUV as it rode the white line between the motor traffic and bicycle traffic lanes. For an encore, the SUV failed to signal right as it turned (right in front of me). This morning a city bus turn right, right in front of me (at least it signaled). I am considering attending various city committees' meetings.
- After (Don't. Do. The. Math) Many Years' Service, the futon bed-couch frame is literally falling apart. I'm afraid to sleep in our bed. So we're getting a new frame.
- My story submission cycle is at an ebb. I'm working a short story right now, and various critiqued drafts need final tweaking.
- Google-plus has made FaceBook a little less interesting, but time spent on social media has gone up. I suspect that upgrading my cell phone to a smart phone would help.
- OMG, I still have a cell phone. Everyone at my new job has a smart phone. I would like an iPhone, but I think it's too much for my data plan.
Monday, July 18, 2011
2011 June 30 - Thursday
After the third or fourth time I'd sung, "What's that on your head? / A wig!" Mark finally asked me why I was channeling the B-52's. I smiled and said, "I like to call my wig, 'Olana'." Because it was true, we were driving off to the Rip Van Winkle Bridge and the magical family mansion of Frederic Edwin Church, Olana. We'd first discovered Olana last January, and between Mr. Church's over-the-top writing about it and all the sumptuous interior designs we knew we had to go.
As we crossed the bridge over the Hudson, we saw the square tower rising over the trees on an overlooking hill.
After a brief snack in the parking lot, we walked to the carriage house, which now serves as the museum and gift shop. The house had lots "gingerbread" on in, which made Mark wonder which came first, the houses in San Fransisco or Olana. Then we saw the main house.
I wanted to take photographs, but they weren't allowed inside. I wanted to sketch, but sketching wasn't allowed, either.
Mark and I probably won the Gay Men's Laser Eye Award for Interior Motif Recognition. The house was filled with chachkies from Egypt and Damascus. The whole house, especially the yellow Central Hall, was designed for family nights of children's plays and guests' tableaus. Everything that wasn't imported from the near East was designed or painted by Church. One picture frame that stuck with me was based on decagons and star zelige. Upstairs, there were samples of imported tile work Church had probably used for the exterior.
The funniest moment was learning that the meticulously stenciled Arabic script in Mrs. Church's office was complete gibberish. The most useful factoid -- he sandwiched black paper between clear and amber glass to create a stained glass window effect.
The servant's quarters were much more plain but still nice; even the utility stairs were wide with low risers.
After the tour I photographed the outside of the building. The day was mostly sunny, and it was just after the sun had passed through the local meridian. Olana strikes me as one of those buildings that demands being photographed ninety minutes within sunrise or sunset. There are so many rich details tiled or carved into the walls that navigating the contrasts proved to be an almost insurmountable challenge for my camera's light meter and auto-focus.
I also sketched some of the curiously shaped windows. Mr. Church had fun working out the brickwork and the geometry for the keyhole shaped casements.
More photos here: John's Olana Photos
After Olana, we went to a Vanderbilt Mansion in Hyde Park. Mark called it a McMansion of its day. Whereas Olana had been a grand family chateau, Vanderbilt was a family hotel. Olana was welcoming like a Vegas show; Vanderbilt was welcoming like an Edward Gory Chase - I fully expected an urn to thud into the earth next to us.
Our Vanderbilt guide was a Park Ranger. She had long blond hair and used the word "costed", as in "it costed twelve million." I can't decide which part of the tour was funnier, learning that Mrs. Vanderbilt died in Paris on a shopping trip or the following exchange as the tour guide and I were speaking about Olana and I pulled out my sketchbook. TG: "Oh, are you an architect?" Me: "No, but I play one on TV." TD (Obviously missing the 70's TV commercial reference): "Oh, are you an actor?" Me: "No, I'm just a computer geek." (Note to self: jokes based on 70's culture only work with people born between 1950 and 1970).
Our Park Ranger Guild was less formal than our Olana Docent, and let us wander on the floors more. Although the French Empire chairs and tapestries and sculptures were cool, the most interesting thing to me was how the natural convection of air from sub-basement tunnels up through the skylights allowed for fairly good 1880's air conditioning.
After the mansion tour, Mark and I walked through the garden. Mark surveyed the landscaping and made a few note for how we could respond to our neighbor's recent construction with layered plantings of bamboo, lily, iris, and shrubbery.
As we crossed the bridge over the Hudson, we saw the square tower rising over the trees on an overlooking hill.
After a brief snack in the parking lot, we walked to the carriage house, which now serves as the museum and gift shop. The house had lots "gingerbread" on in, which made Mark wonder which came first, the houses in San Fransisco or Olana. Then we saw the main house.I wanted to take photographs, but they weren't allowed inside. I wanted to sketch, but sketching wasn't allowed, either.
Mark and I probably won the Gay Men's Laser Eye Award for Interior Motif Recognition. The house was filled with chachkies from Egypt and Damascus. The whole house, especially the yellow Central Hall, was designed for family nights of children's plays and guests' tableaus. Everything that wasn't imported from the near East was designed or painted by Church. One picture frame that stuck with me was based on decagons and star zelige. Upstairs, there were samples of imported tile work Church had probably used for the exterior.The funniest moment was learning that the meticulously stenciled Arabic script in Mrs. Church's office was complete gibberish. The most useful factoid -- he sandwiched black paper between clear and amber glass to create a stained glass window effect.The servant's quarters were much more plain but still nice; even the utility stairs were wide with low risers.
After the tour I photographed the outside of the building. The day was mostly sunny, and it was just after the sun had passed through the local meridian. Olana strikes me as one of those buildings that demands being photographed ninety minutes within sunrise or sunset. There are so many rich details tiled or carved into the walls that navigating the contrasts proved to be an almost insurmountable challenge for my camera's light meter and auto-focus.I also sketched some of the curiously shaped windows. Mr. Church had fun working out the brickwork and the geometry for the keyhole shaped casements.More photos here: John's Olana Photos
After Olana, we went to a Vanderbilt Mansion in Hyde Park. Mark called it a McMansion of its day. Whereas Olana had been a grand family chateau, Vanderbilt was a family hotel. Olana was welcoming like a Vegas show; Vanderbilt was welcoming like an Edward Gory Chase - I fully expected an urn to thud into the earth next to us.Our Vanderbilt guide was a Park Ranger. She had long blond hair and used the word "costed", as in "it costed twelve million." I can't decide which part of the tour was funnier, learning that Mrs. Vanderbilt died in Paris on a shopping trip or the following exchange as the tour guide and I were speaking about Olana and I pulled out my sketchbook. TG: "Oh, are you an architect?" Me: "No, but I play one on TV." TD (Obviously missing the 70's TV commercial reference): "Oh, are you an actor?" Me: "No, I'm just a computer geek." (Note to self: jokes based on 70's culture only work with people born between 1950 and 1970). Our Park Ranger Guild was less formal than our Olana Docent, and let us wander on the floors more. Although the French Empire chairs and tapestries and sculptures were cool, the most interesting thing to me was how the natural convection of air from sub-basement tunnels up through the skylights allowed for fairly good 1880's air conditioning. After the mansion tour, Mark and I walked through the garden. Mark surveyed the landscaping and made a few note for how we could respond to our neighbor's recent construction with layered plantings of bamboo, lily, iris, and shrubbery.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
2011 June 29 - Wednesday
This was Playland Day! Family fun since 1928!
Visiting Playland is a Dwyer Tradition. When I first met Mark's family, one of the very first things we did was go to Playland. I'm not sure when they moved into their current house, but previously, at one point in the 1960's, the Dwyers, then a family of three, lived near the old amusement park.
I enjoy the rides (although I would have enjoyed a few more had I been wearing my contacts), but what I like about Playland are some of the old attractions from the early 1920's. The Dragoncoaster is a mostly wooden roller-coaster. Part of the attraction (?) is that people were shorter back then, so sometimes it seems like I'm about to be decapitated by some of the wood beams in the ride's structure. I think what I like are some of the old posters for the Dragoncoaster; but the really cool thing is that the operator controls the ride with a Really Big Lever -- I think it's about four feet long and it looks like you need to work out a little to move it.
The architecture of Playland has an Art Deco feel to it. I like the light tower at one end of the arcade.
But what I remember most about Playland is the carousel -- it's from something like 1910. I had romanticized the horses, because reviewing the pictures I took, there's something frantically wild about these ones. They all are pulling hard against their reigns, and their eyes have a sad, terrified, or calculating cast.
We stayed until the park closed.
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