Thothmuffin
Don't get any crumbs on the scale of judgement.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Autumn Commute: A Haiku
ripples in the sky
lovely silk and serpentine
clouds cause accidents
lovely silk and serpentine
clouds cause accidents
Friday, November 17, 2006
Excerpt from "The Sacrifice"
OK, at long last, here is the first chapter of my gay immortal cannibal romance novel, "The Sacrifice." Um. I wrote it for NaNo 2006. This part has been spell checked. That's pretty much all I can say about it.
En...joy?
[Click for full post to see cannibal novel excerpt.]
The Sacrifice
Chapter 1
It's my iPod's fault that I'm living with a cannibal. That's because it's my iPod's fault that I got mugged, stabbed in the stomach, and almost died. Maybe Apple can find some way to put a positive marketing spin on this, but I sure as hell can't.
It happened like this: I was walking home from one of those arty film festivals you go to in college because you feel like you should in order to become a well-rounded citizen, when in fact no one cares about independent animation festivals in the real world. I was walking past this big Wachovia that you can tell used to be a much cooler bank because it had marble and pillars and looked all neo-Classical.
I have to admit that I can't remember what I was listening to, really; something classic rock, probably. You know. Led Zeppelin. Aerosmith. You'd think I'd remember what I was listening to at a time like that, but I don't.
Anyway, I had those little earbuds living deep in my canals, and I was probably singing along in some totally embarrassing way, and possibly even doing chords on my leg as I walked. I wasn't afraid to walk around in Philly; it's not like I'm a girl all worried about getting raped. In fact, being a 20-year-old male, I was usually on the power side of fear; before this, I'd always taken a weird comfort in that fact that girls walking in the city didn't want to meet my eyes and crossed to the other side of the street. Maybe this makes me sound kind of sociopathic, but I'm really not. I'm just being honest about those weird little thoughts people have before they can tell themselves not to.
So I wasn't expecting the guy in the big coat to come out from behind one of the Wachovia bank pillars. I knew he wasn't a homeless guy, but I tried to ignore him and step around him in typical hobo strategy anyway.
It didn't work. He pulled out a knife.
Knives command attention. I pulled out my earbuds.
"Gimme your iPod," he ordered.
"Sure, man, sure, whatever," I blathered. I'm not sure why I was trying to build camaraderie with a guy who was mugging me; I was raised politely, and it seemed like the thing to do at the time.
I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it over to him. He reached out for it with his non-knifed hand; he was kinda shaking. I'm surprised I noticed it, but I noticed a lot of things that night, things I won't ever forget.
"Take it man, take it," I urged. He snatched it, then waved his knife at me.
"Wallet, asshole!"
I'm not sure what made me stupid: the thought of losing my wallet, or the thought of being called asshole by some junkie who was robbing me at knifepoint.
"No way, man. Why don't you just move on."
He thought about it; it really almost worked for a second, I think. I know they say you're supposed to give muggers anything they want, but they also say that identity theft can ruin your life. I'm a product of competing interests.
I'm an idiot is what I am. You'll see what I mean in a minute.
My mugger was sort of hovering there when one of those things you really hope doesn't happen happens. A car backfired, and my mugger freaked out like he thought I'd shot him. He lunged forward; I don't even know if he was trying to stab me, but I thought he was, and I tried to use my semester of student-taught kung fu to grab his arm or deflect the knife or something.
What I accomplished was pretty much putting my stomach directly in line with his knife at optimum angles for incredibly painful stabbing.
"Shit, man!" My mugger gave me this look, I'll never forget it, like somehow I'd screwed everything up and set him up for assault and possible homicide charges. He ran off, leaving me a gut wound and a highly illegal switchblade in return for my brand new shiny black iPod Nano.
Then I was on the cement, curled up around my bleeding stomach; I don't remember getting there. I didn't remember anything but pain right then, really. I wish I could describe it, it's hard to put that kind of pain into words if you've never felt it. It was surprising, is what it was; the pain kept getting worse and worse, and all I could thing was, "Oh shit. Oh wow. Oh WOW, that hurts, wow…holy SHIT…" and on and on. It's banal, but pain is banal.
I'm not sure the pain ever lessened or receded, but I guess I did get a little more used to it, and that's when I started to think hey, shit, I'm going to die.
Those of you who live in the 21st century and own an iPod will interject here: retard, why didn't you get out your cell phone and call 911?
OK, what an excellent idea. Next time you are stabbed in the stomach and are worried that uncurling at all will tear irreparable holes through your large intestine and cause you to black out and bleed to death on the filthy Philadeplhia sidewalk, I recommend that you find the presence of mind to reach into your GAP messenger bag, find your cell phone, power it up after having turned it off for stupid indie animation films, and dial some buttons with your blood-encrusted fingers.
Still, once I realized I was going to die, the cell phone was definitely starting to tempt me. But before I could work myself up to the daunting task of reaching into my messenger bag, which is a way more complicated process than I had ever realized before, some kind of freaking angel was suddenly standing over me.
I'm not exactly the most religious Jew, but I paid attention enough to those Torah studies my parents made me attend to know that when God's messengers appear, some shit is going down that you probably won't like. I was hoping in my case that this shit wasn't going to be death, although it's not like I wanted Philadelphia to be eradicated in a hail of fire and brimstone either. I'm not that selfish.
I can't really explain my conviction that he was an angel; I would like to say it was because I was delirious with pain, but I think there was some pretty good evidence on the side this being a reasoned, logical conclusion. First of all, he was hot. Like, blisteringly hot. Maybe it seems strange to you that I noticed this when I was dying, but that kind of hotness is hard to ignore no matter your condition, and also there is the fact that I am a twenty year old guy. These things happen.
He looked down at me; he seemed very tall, and he had a swept-back mane of golden hair that just brushed his shoulders, framing his face and his large, dark eyes. The lighting was strange, seeping reluctantly down at us from tall orange street lights, and even though everything else seemed painfully detailed to me, his face was softly lit and ill defined.
I had a weird thought that it was like the light got almost all the way to him and then, microns from the atoms of his body, bounced back, too deferent or too afraid to actually make contact with his skin. Looking back on it now, I think that's a sign that it's a good thing I changed my major from Physics to English.
While I was staring up at him in a mix of awe and misappropriated optical theory, he let out a little sigh and turned away. Started walking away, I realized.
"Hey!" I managed. It didn't sound like much, but it was pitiful, and obviously needed help, so I was pretty proud of it.
The physics-defying angel didn't pause.
"Hey!" I tried, sounding a little more like a human being and less like an oozing flesh sack nearing the end of its existence.
He slowed and looked back at me. I was already wearing my most desperate look, so I just concentrated on not passing out. I guess the look was effective, because he walked back and hunkered down next to me, looking at me calmly as if I presented an interesting opportunity.
This didn't seem like very angelic behavior, and the more practical part of me, and also the part that had grown up in Vermont and not Philly, thought: Shit, what if he's another mugger? I couldn't believe it, though; he was the least likely mugger I'd ever seen. He was dressed oddly formally for the end of May; some kind of long black trench coat, black pants, a dress shirt, and, I noticed from my low vantage point, a pair of silver-tipped black cowboy boots.
"Help," I tried, and he leaned closer--probably because he couldn't hear me.
He shook his head as he looked me over. "I don't suppose you want to die?"
"What? No!"
"Ah," he said, disappointed, and stood up. It looked like he was leaving again, this time for real. I almost couldn't believe it, because my brain wasn't working so well (the pain, remember; my brain was too busy being surprised, working overtime, whirring and overheating like my laptop fan). But no; he definitely was leaving.
"Hey. Asshole!" It was all my brain remembered; a word that had changed things for me, an improbable word.
It changed him too; he paused and looked back at me quizzically.
"Get back here!" I was crying. I'm not too proud to admit it; if you think this makes me a sissy, you call me when you get stabbed in the gut. If you can get to your cellphone, that is. "Save me, you asshole. I'm dying, I'm dying!"
It hurt so much; you never realize how much your lungs and throat and talking organs are connected to your guts until you get a knife in the stomach. But I sensed a real chance here, maybe my last chance, and what was a little more pain compared to what I was already feeling?
He came back. "Yes. You are dying."
"I want to live," I pleaded. "You asshole, I want to live. I want to live."
I did. I'd never really thought about it before, at either extreme. I mean, I wasn't one of those emo kids, obsessed with the transience of life and the horror of death and the freedom of suicide; but neither was I very grateful or spiritual, one of those irritating people who remembers to take every day as a gift from God. I had never needed to think about dying until now, when I realized: I really, really wanted to live.
"Okay," he said, in this weird way that was as calm and as comforting as when he'd asked me if I wanted to die. "How much do you want to live? What will you do?"
"Whatever. Anything!"
I wish I could say here that I didn't really know what I was saying, because that would probably make me and you both feel a lot better about what the rest of my life turned into because of my willingness to do anything to live. But the truth is, I really did mean it. I would have done anything. And, if I knew everything then that I do now, I still would have said it. Pain is that great; death that terrifying. Later, when you realize what "anything" encompasses, you'll understand why I feel it's only fair that I note this here.
"You'll probably hate me for this," he said companionably, and then pushed me flat on my back. The pain was so hot and intense that I wanted to throw up, but couldn't; I think maybe a little piece of my brain exploded instead, because for a little bit everything behind my eyes went black and red.
The next thing I remember, he had my shirt torn open and was poking me around my wound with something. I struggled for words to express my extreme displeasure at being probed so casually while I was in an advanced stage of dying, but there were none, and really, what good would they have done even if I could find them?
At that thought, a weird peace started to settle over me; there really wasn't anything left to do. I'd done all I could, cell phone aside, and now everything was in the hands of this strange angel, who didn't seem to care either way if I lived or died, but somehow was my only hope. So I placed all my trust in him, everything, and stopped fighting against the pain and the darkness, and closed my eyes, and waited.
I'd never really given everything up like that before, not to anyone or anything, not even to God, and it was a crazy, warm, liberating feeling, one I never thought I'd feel before I died. I was glad I'd had the chance to feel like that; not that I would have willingly gone through the stabbing just for the experience, but now that I was there, I was glad. It was rare, I knew, and it made the thought of death less terrifying.
"Don't move," he warned me, and my eyes flew open just in time to see him pull the knife out of me. The pain of that was finally too much, and my brain gave up, and there was nothing.
En...joy?
[Click for full post to see cannibal novel excerpt.]
The Sacrifice
Chapter 1
It's my iPod's fault that I'm living with a cannibal. That's because it's my iPod's fault that I got mugged, stabbed in the stomach, and almost died. Maybe Apple can find some way to put a positive marketing spin on this, but I sure as hell can't.
It happened like this: I was walking home from one of those arty film festivals you go to in college because you feel like you should in order to become a well-rounded citizen, when in fact no one cares about independent animation festivals in the real world. I was walking past this big Wachovia that you can tell used to be a much cooler bank because it had marble and pillars and looked all neo-Classical.
I have to admit that I can't remember what I was listening to, really; something classic rock, probably. You know. Led Zeppelin. Aerosmith. You'd think I'd remember what I was listening to at a time like that, but I don't.
Anyway, I had those little earbuds living deep in my canals, and I was probably singing along in some totally embarrassing way, and possibly even doing chords on my leg as I walked. I wasn't afraid to walk around in Philly; it's not like I'm a girl all worried about getting raped. In fact, being a 20-year-old male, I was usually on the power side of fear; before this, I'd always taken a weird comfort in that fact that girls walking in the city didn't want to meet my eyes and crossed to the other side of the street. Maybe this makes me sound kind of sociopathic, but I'm really not. I'm just being honest about those weird little thoughts people have before they can tell themselves not to.
So I wasn't expecting the guy in the big coat to come out from behind one of the Wachovia bank pillars. I knew he wasn't a homeless guy, but I tried to ignore him and step around him in typical hobo strategy anyway.
It didn't work. He pulled out a knife.
Knives command attention. I pulled out my earbuds.
"Gimme your iPod," he ordered.
"Sure, man, sure, whatever," I blathered. I'm not sure why I was trying to build camaraderie with a guy who was mugging me; I was raised politely, and it seemed like the thing to do at the time.
I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it over to him. He reached out for it with his non-knifed hand; he was kinda shaking. I'm surprised I noticed it, but I noticed a lot of things that night, things I won't ever forget.
"Take it man, take it," I urged. He snatched it, then waved his knife at me.
"Wallet, asshole!"
I'm not sure what made me stupid: the thought of losing my wallet, or the thought of being called asshole by some junkie who was robbing me at knifepoint.
"No way, man. Why don't you just move on."
He thought about it; it really almost worked for a second, I think. I know they say you're supposed to give muggers anything they want, but they also say that identity theft can ruin your life. I'm a product of competing interests.
I'm an idiot is what I am. You'll see what I mean in a minute.
My mugger was sort of hovering there when one of those things you really hope doesn't happen happens. A car backfired, and my mugger freaked out like he thought I'd shot him. He lunged forward; I don't even know if he was trying to stab me, but I thought he was, and I tried to use my semester of student-taught kung fu to grab his arm or deflect the knife or something.
What I accomplished was pretty much putting my stomach directly in line with his knife at optimum angles for incredibly painful stabbing.
"Shit, man!" My mugger gave me this look, I'll never forget it, like somehow I'd screwed everything up and set him up for assault and possible homicide charges. He ran off, leaving me a gut wound and a highly illegal switchblade in return for my brand new shiny black iPod Nano.
Then I was on the cement, curled up around my bleeding stomach; I don't remember getting there. I didn't remember anything but pain right then, really. I wish I could describe it, it's hard to put that kind of pain into words if you've never felt it. It was surprising, is what it was; the pain kept getting worse and worse, and all I could thing was, "Oh shit. Oh wow. Oh WOW, that hurts, wow…holy SHIT…" and on and on. It's banal, but pain is banal.
I'm not sure the pain ever lessened or receded, but I guess I did get a little more used to it, and that's when I started to think hey, shit, I'm going to die.
Those of you who live in the 21st century and own an iPod will interject here: retard, why didn't you get out your cell phone and call 911?
OK, what an excellent idea. Next time you are stabbed in the stomach and are worried that uncurling at all will tear irreparable holes through your large intestine and cause you to black out and bleed to death on the filthy Philadeplhia sidewalk, I recommend that you find the presence of mind to reach into your GAP messenger bag, find your cell phone, power it up after having turned it off for stupid indie animation films, and dial some buttons with your blood-encrusted fingers.
Still, once I realized I was going to die, the cell phone was definitely starting to tempt me. But before I could work myself up to the daunting task of reaching into my messenger bag, which is a way more complicated process than I had ever realized before, some kind of freaking angel was suddenly standing over me.
I'm not exactly the most religious Jew, but I paid attention enough to those Torah studies my parents made me attend to know that when God's messengers appear, some shit is going down that you probably won't like. I was hoping in my case that this shit wasn't going to be death, although it's not like I wanted Philadelphia to be eradicated in a hail of fire and brimstone either. I'm not that selfish.
I can't really explain my conviction that he was an angel; I would like to say it was because I was delirious with pain, but I think there was some pretty good evidence on the side this being a reasoned, logical conclusion. First of all, he was hot. Like, blisteringly hot. Maybe it seems strange to you that I noticed this when I was dying, but that kind of hotness is hard to ignore no matter your condition, and also there is the fact that I am a twenty year old guy. These things happen.
He looked down at me; he seemed very tall, and he had a swept-back mane of golden hair that just brushed his shoulders, framing his face and his large, dark eyes. The lighting was strange, seeping reluctantly down at us from tall orange street lights, and even though everything else seemed painfully detailed to me, his face was softly lit and ill defined.
I had a weird thought that it was like the light got almost all the way to him and then, microns from the atoms of his body, bounced back, too deferent or too afraid to actually make contact with his skin. Looking back on it now, I think that's a sign that it's a good thing I changed my major from Physics to English.
While I was staring up at him in a mix of awe and misappropriated optical theory, he let out a little sigh and turned away. Started walking away, I realized.
"Hey!" I managed. It didn't sound like much, but it was pitiful, and obviously needed help, so I was pretty proud of it.
The physics-defying angel didn't pause.
"Hey!" I tried, sounding a little more like a human being and less like an oozing flesh sack nearing the end of its existence.
He slowed and looked back at me. I was already wearing my most desperate look, so I just concentrated on not passing out. I guess the look was effective, because he walked back and hunkered down next to me, looking at me calmly as if I presented an interesting opportunity.
This didn't seem like very angelic behavior, and the more practical part of me, and also the part that had grown up in Vermont and not Philly, thought: Shit, what if he's another mugger? I couldn't believe it, though; he was the least likely mugger I'd ever seen. He was dressed oddly formally for the end of May; some kind of long black trench coat, black pants, a dress shirt, and, I noticed from my low vantage point, a pair of silver-tipped black cowboy boots.
"Help," I tried, and he leaned closer--probably because he couldn't hear me.
He shook his head as he looked me over. "I don't suppose you want to die?"
"What? No!"
"Ah," he said, disappointed, and stood up. It looked like he was leaving again, this time for real. I almost couldn't believe it, because my brain wasn't working so well (the pain, remember; my brain was too busy being surprised, working overtime, whirring and overheating like my laptop fan). But no; he definitely was leaving.
"Hey. Asshole!" It was all my brain remembered; a word that had changed things for me, an improbable word.
It changed him too; he paused and looked back at me quizzically.
"Get back here!" I was crying. I'm not too proud to admit it; if you think this makes me a sissy, you call me when you get stabbed in the gut. If you can get to your cellphone, that is. "Save me, you asshole. I'm dying, I'm dying!"
It hurt so much; you never realize how much your lungs and throat and talking organs are connected to your guts until you get a knife in the stomach. But I sensed a real chance here, maybe my last chance, and what was a little more pain compared to what I was already feeling?
He came back. "Yes. You are dying."
"I want to live," I pleaded. "You asshole, I want to live. I want to live."
I did. I'd never really thought about it before, at either extreme. I mean, I wasn't one of those emo kids, obsessed with the transience of life and the horror of death and the freedom of suicide; but neither was I very grateful or spiritual, one of those irritating people who remembers to take every day as a gift from God. I had never needed to think about dying until now, when I realized: I really, really wanted to live.
"Okay," he said, in this weird way that was as calm and as comforting as when he'd asked me if I wanted to die. "How much do you want to live? What will you do?"
"Whatever. Anything!"
I wish I could say here that I didn't really know what I was saying, because that would probably make me and you both feel a lot better about what the rest of my life turned into because of my willingness to do anything to live. But the truth is, I really did mean it. I would have done anything. And, if I knew everything then that I do now, I still would have said it. Pain is that great; death that terrifying. Later, when you realize what "anything" encompasses, you'll understand why I feel it's only fair that I note this here.
"You'll probably hate me for this," he said companionably, and then pushed me flat on my back. The pain was so hot and intense that I wanted to throw up, but couldn't; I think maybe a little piece of my brain exploded instead, because for a little bit everything behind my eyes went black and red.
The next thing I remember, he had my shirt torn open and was poking me around my wound with something. I struggled for words to express my extreme displeasure at being probed so casually while I was in an advanced stage of dying, but there were none, and really, what good would they have done even if I could find them?
At that thought, a weird peace started to settle over me; there really wasn't anything left to do. I'd done all I could, cell phone aside, and now everything was in the hands of this strange angel, who didn't seem to care either way if I lived or died, but somehow was my only hope. So I placed all my trust in him, everything, and stopped fighting against the pain and the darkness, and closed my eyes, and waited.
I'd never really given everything up like that before, not to anyone or anything, not even to God, and it was a crazy, warm, liberating feeling, one I never thought I'd feel before I died. I was glad I'd had the chance to feel like that; not that I would have willingly gone through the stabbing just for the experience, but now that I was there, I was glad. It was rare, I knew, and it made the thought of death less terrifying.
"Don't move," he warned me, and my eyes flew open just in time to see him pull the knife out of me. The pain of that was finally too much, and my brain gave up, and there was nothing.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
An experiment with expandable posts
I am experimenting with expandable posts so I can post novel excerpts and they don't eat up prime blog real estate.
Click the "Click for full post" link at the bottom of the post if you're interested in reading the complete post. Unfortunately, with Blogger, this link will appear at the bottom of every post, whether or not it has "expandable content." Clicking it for a non-expanded post will just take you to the permalink page, which is also the page you get when you click to look at comments.
I will probably do something like this to notify you of extra content:
[See full post for extra content.]
You get a cookie! \^_^/
Click the "Click for full post" link at the bottom of the post if you're interested in reading the complete post. Unfortunately, with Blogger, this link will appear at the bottom of every post, whether or not it has "expandable content." Clicking it for a non-expanded post will just take you to the permalink page, which is also the page you get when you click to look at comments.
I will probably do something like this to notify you of extra content:
[See full post for extra content.]
You get a cookie! \^_^/
A winner is me!
ZOMG, I *finally* crossed the 50K line on my NaNovel, four days ahead of when I vowed I would.
Chris Baty, the founder of NaNo, likes to say that after 40,000 everything is a breeze. That is lies. I fought for every word of the last 10,000 words of this novel. The last 500 were particularly excruciating. And then the official site word counter trimmed 500 off my final count, putting me below 50K, so I had to write *another* 500 with drops of my blood. Or something.
I have no idea what happened with this book. Usually I have no problem going at least 70,000 words with my plot ideas. This year I had to rely on front matter like my copyright notices to get up to word count. I guess immortal cannibals isn't as rich a subject matter as I had hoped.
Valuable lesson learned: do not write books of dubious moral standing whose content kind of squicks you. My books have been trending a little more towards horror as a genre recently (first necromancers, now cannibals!), and if the nightmares I have given myself as a result of this book, and how hard it was for me to write it, are any indication, I should stick to light fluffy happy fantasy with sparkles and silk and shiny swords. Noted.
The rest of November will be spent making the cannibal novel into something that is hopefully internally consistent and somewhat readable. And then maybe I can put it away and never look at it again. _-_
Chris Baty, the founder of NaNo, likes to say that after 40,000 everything is a breeze. That is lies. I fought for every word of the last 10,000 words of this novel. The last 500 were particularly excruciating. And then the official site word counter trimmed 500 off my final count, putting me below 50K, so I had to write *another* 500 with drops of my blood. Or something.
I have no idea what happened with this book. Usually I have no problem going at least 70,000 words with my plot ideas. This year I had to rely on front matter like my copyright notices to get up to word count. I guess immortal cannibals isn't as rich a subject matter as I had hoped.
Valuable lesson learned: do not write books of dubious moral standing whose content kind of squicks you. My books have been trending a little more towards horror as a genre recently (first necromancers, now cannibals!), and if the nightmares I have given myself as a result of this book, and how hard it was for me to write it, are any indication, I should stick to light fluffy happy fantasy with sparkles and silk and shiny swords. Noted.
The rest of November will be spent making the cannibal novel into something that is hopefully internally consistent and somewhat readable. And then maybe I can put it away and never look at it again. _-_
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
I'm done with papers!
I *finally* finished all my term papers for my first quarter of LIS. One of my papers, about the Homeland Security Advisory System (HSAS) as a classification system, almost made it through to submission with the following typo:
"The HSAS classifies the current threat of terrorist attacks on domestic soul"
My braaaaain.... @_@
"The HSAS classifies the current threat of terrorist attacks on domestic soul"
My braaaaain.... @_@
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
A Day in the Life of a Cannibal Novel Writer
TM: *musing* I wonder if you have to "crack the chest" to get at people's hearts like they show them doing on ER shows.
TM: If you do have to, I wonder if a suitably strong person could pull someone's ribs open with their hands?
TM: . . .
TM: Ew! EWWW!!!
TM: I hate you, cannibal novel.
CN: *smug* You'll be back.
-------
ETA: My title for this post contains a very important lesson in the use of hyphenated compound adjectives. I would like to stress here that I am a "cannibal-novel writer" and not a "cannibal novel-writer." Thank you, that will be all.
TM: If you do have to, I wonder if a suitably strong person could pull someone's ribs open with their hands?
TM: . . .
TM: Ew! EWWW!!!
TM: I hate you, cannibal novel.
CN: *smug* You'll be back.
-------
ETA: My title for this post contains a very important lesson in the use of hyphenated compound adjectives. I would like to stress here that I am a "cannibal-novel writer" and not a "cannibal novel-writer." Thank you, that will be all.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
34,000 = Love!
Wow! My OCD is so happy right now because I stopped writing on my NaNovel at exactly 34,000 words today. Yay. <3
I have to put in a note here about Microsoft Word 2K. Now, I much maligned this program last year because it used up 100% of my computing power and caused much fan-whirring whenever my NaNovel file got over 30 pages or so. Well, this year, using exactly the same set-up, I'm on page 53 of my NaNovel and there has been no crying or whirring whatsoever so far. The only difference I can think of so far is that last year I was dividing parts of my story into columns, which apparently is some kind of crazy new science that makes Word cry. Hopefully Word will prove me right by continuing to behave until the end of the document.
I was a little worried that I wouldn't have enough plot to get up to 50,000 words, but I have 2 or three major scenes left, and I'm not sure how it's going to end yet, so I'm pretty sure I can get another 16,000 words out of it at least.
I swear I'm going to post an excerpt. But right now I have to get back to my paper on DRM. x_x
I have to put in a note here about Microsoft Word 2K. Now, I much maligned this program last year because it used up 100% of my computing power and caused much fan-whirring whenever my NaNovel file got over 30 pages or so. Well, this year, using exactly the same set-up, I'm on page 53 of my NaNovel and there has been no crying or whirring whatsoever so far. The only difference I can think of so far is that last year I was dividing parts of my story into columns, which apparently is some kind of crazy new science that makes Word cry. Hopefully Word will prove me right by continuing to behave until the end of the document.
I was a little worried that I wouldn't have enough plot to get up to 50,000 words, but I have 2 or three major scenes left, and I'm not sure how it's going to end yet, so I'm pretty sure I can get another 16,000 words out of it at least.
I swear I'm going to post an excerpt. But right now I have to get back to my paper on DRM. x_x
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
I'm writing about cannibals.
My NaNovel this year is about cannibals. Yes, cannibals. This is intriguing because I hate the idea of cannibals. I have yet to encounter a work about cannibals that was enjoyable to me. But I also don't have the kind of horrified fascination with cannibals that some people have, like they do with disasters or terrible acts of war or various other psychopathies.
So how'd I end up with cannibals? Well, much like how I got The Protecter, I had a very vivid dream that involved cannibals and was marvelously atmospheric. The basic set-up of the dream, and now my book, is that there is a group of people who can consume parts of other people's bodies to extend their own lives, and this is a particular magic that works best when it is a voluntary sacrifice.
This book has evolved in interesting ways in the week I've been writing it. I'm already at 22,000+ words, which is hopefully a little less than half the total length of the book. Some early realizations include:
1. I became determined to write this book because I hate that anything exists outside my aesthetic. In short, I wanted to see if I could make cannibals sexy.
This may seem an insurmountable task, but I was heartened by the example of vampires, which, as members of my NaNo group have pointed out, are really just liquid diet cannibals. How can a vampire be so much sexier than a cannibal? There's the immortality angle, which I'd already wrapped up, and of course the fact that many claim vampirism is a metaphor for STDs. Key points, I realized, would be to confine the cannibalism to a ritual purpose (immortality) [i.e. nobody's noshing on people for the taste] and to make a culture of transferability/contact contamination.
2. Everyone has a favorite cannibal joke.
Whenever I mention this book, the person I'm talking to invariably responds with "That's great! You simply have to have a scene where [insert morbidly funny cannibal joke/irony here]. Examples include the liquid diet, the presence of HuFu (tofu that supposedly tastes like human flesh), and references to other popular cannibals in literature. Since my cannibals aren't doing it for taste/nutrition, most of these jokes don't work.
I did, however, find out that I am not above the cannibal joke after all, when somewhere around 18,000 words I included a joke about "finger food." :/
3. I just can't bring cannibals for eating's sake into my aesthetic.
I've finally massaged the idea into something that doesn't totally squick me, but I'm afraid that my cannibals aren't very much like cannibals at all any more, except for how every once in awhile they have to kill someone and eat a piece of their liver. Now I feel like a cannibal novel poseur.
I'll try to post some excerpts in the coming days.
So how'd I end up with cannibals? Well, much like how I got The Protecter, I had a very vivid dream that involved cannibals and was marvelously atmospheric. The basic set-up of the dream, and now my book, is that there is a group of people who can consume parts of other people's bodies to extend their own lives, and this is a particular magic that works best when it is a voluntary sacrifice.
This book has evolved in interesting ways in the week I've been writing it. I'm already at 22,000+ words, which is hopefully a little less than half the total length of the book. Some early realizations include:
1. I became determined to write this book because I hate that anything exists outside my aesthetic. In short, I wanted to see if I could make cannibals sexy.
This may seem an insurmountable task, but I was heartened by the example of vampires, which, as members of my NaNo group have pointed out, are really just liquid diet cannibals. How can a vampire be so much sexier than a cannibal? There's the immortality angle, which I'd already wrapped up, and of course the fact that many claim vampirism is a metaphor for STDs. Key points, I realized, would be to confine the cannibalism to a ritual purpose (immortality) [i.e. nobody's noshing on people for the taste] and to make a culture of transferability/contact contamination.
2. Everyone has a favorite cannibal joke.
Whenever I mention this book, the person I'm talking to invariably responds with "That's great! You simply have to have a scene where [insert morbidly funny cannibal joke/irony here]. Examples include the liquid diet, the presence of HuFu (tofu that supposedly tastes like human flesh), and references to other popular cannibals in literature. Since my cannibals aren't doing it for taste/nutrition, most of these jokes don't work.
I did, however, find out that I am not above the cannibal joke after all, when somewhere around 18,000 words I included a joke about "finger food." :/
3. I just can't bring cannibals for eating's sake into my aesthetic.
I've finally massaged the idea into something that doesn't totally squick me, but I'm afraid that my cannibals aren't very much like cannibals at all any more, except for how every once in awhile they have to kill someone and eat a piece of their liver. Now I feel like a cannibal novel poseur.
I'll try to post some excerpts in the coming days.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Book Meme from Fiore
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next four sentences on your blog along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig around for that "cool" or "intellectual" book on your shelves. (I know you were thinking about it.) Just pick up whatever is closest.
From Rubin, R. E. Foundations of Library and Information Science, 2nd Ed.
Just so you know, the above book is my favorite LIS reading from all quarter, because it is the most useful, comprehensive, and simply written text I've had to read so far. Ah-yup.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next four sentences on your blog along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig around for that "cool" or "intellectual" book on your shelves. (I know you were thinking about it.) Just pick up whatever is closest.
Government is also in the business of disseminating and controlling information. To this end, the government promulgates regulations to restrict information, such as information affecting national security, and plays a role in selecting what information is published and made available to the public (or the press) and what information is not. Laws such as the Freedom of Information Act and the National Security Act form part of the process that defines the role of government in the dissemination and control of information.
Information Producers, Disseminators, Transmitters, or Telecommunicators
Although these stakeholders could be considered part of business and industry, they form a critical subgroup that takes a special interest in information policy because of the profound effect such policies might have on them.
From Rubin, R. E. Foundations of Library and Information Science, 2nd Ed.
Just so you know, the above book is my favorite LIS reading from all quarter, because it is the most useful, comprehensive, and simply written text I've had to read so far. Ah-yup.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Return of the Blog: NaNo 2006!
I've slacked the blog for too long, mostly because of grad-school-related issues. But I'm picking it up again to keep you all apprised of my progress on NaNo 2006, my third year of doing National Novel Writing Month!
I'll post more about book content later, but my goals for this month are as follows:
1. Get 50,000 words, of course.
2. Actually finish the book's narrative arc in November. Last year I was writing for two weeks into December. Never again.
3. Not fail my first quarter of grad school.
All in all, it looks pretty doable. Right?
I'll post more about book content later, but my goals for this month are as follows:
1. Get 50,000 words, of course.
2. Actually finish the book's narrative arc in November. Last year I was writing for two weeks into December. Never again.
3. Not fail my first quarter of grad school.
All in all, it looks pretty doable. Right?
