Yes, this is the time of year when people make New Year's Resolutions and I am telling you that not because you do not already know it, but because sometimes there are times when one feels like stating the obvious, especially when the obvious is going to be followed by something slightly less obvious, which means it is only the more obvious—or isn't.
In other words I am not going to here state my New Year's Resolutions. In point of fact, I haven't any.
I have always thought said resolutions were somewhat silly. After all it is just as easy to make resolutions the rest of the year, and most resolutions probably result in nothing anyway. I do now recognize the importance of setting goals and the benefit of telling them to others, so that it is harder to fail to accomplish them, but that is all.
Enough of that. This is your opportunity to suggest some for me.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Sad and Spooky
It is sad how in our society today God is being replaced by so many other things, but there is one thing I do not understand at all. (I had much time to think about this, being subjected to it each day at work, which—huzzah!—I am finished with.)
"He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good..."
This sounds as if it were a description of God. But, no. They meant Santa Claus of all things. Since when is Santa Claus omniscient and omnipresent? I think someone forgot to teach me that when I was growing up, as so many other children are taught.
Somehow I do not find that a bad thing. I much prefer the legend of Saint Nicholas, which was in some almost-inexplicable way corrupted into the modern idea of Santa Claus. However, it is a great pity that this happened, as not only does Saint Nicholas have a better sense of fashion and a better sense of justice and generosity, but he is also the patron saint of pirates and sailors.
I may say they are equating Santa Claus with God, but some can derive an entirely different conclusion from the same set of facts (from Wikipedia):
"He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good..."
This sounds as if it were a description of God. But, no. They meant Santa Claus of all things. Since when is Santa Claus omniscient and omnipresent? I think someone forgot to teach me that when I was growing up, as so many other children are taught.
Somehow I do not find that a bad thing. I much prefer the legend of Saint Nicholas, which was in some almost-inexplicable way corrupted into the modern idea of Santa Claus. However, it is a great pity that this happened, as not only does Saint Nicholas have a better sense of fashion and a better sense of justice and generosity, but he is also the patron saint of pirates and sailors.
I may say they are equating Santa Claus with God, but some can derive an entirely different conclusion from the same set of facts (from Wikipedia):
A Calvin and Hobbes strip implied that if Santa "sees you when you're sleeping [and] knows when you're awake," he must be a "CIA spook."
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Yuletide Analogy
Life is like fixing a string of Christmas lights.
No matter how much energy one puts into trying to be ahead, it never works.
No matter how many times one fixes the same problem, one has to keep fixing it each year, and in addition to all the old problems, there are always new ones, some of which are practically impossible to fix.
The result is always easier for others to appreciate.
It takes so much time and hardly seems worth it, though there can also be something that makes one suddenly glad for the effort.
As do all things, it has an end, sometimes good, sometimes not.
While one is doing it there are the small pleasures—or perhaps more accurately reliefs—of bringing light to something that hardly seems to be of any value.
And sometimes you just want to throw it out the window.
No matter how much energy one puts into trying to be ahead, it never works.
No matter how many times one fixes the same problem, one has to keep fixing it each year, and in addition to all the old problems, there are always new ones, some of which are practically impossible to fix.
The result is always easier for others to appreciate.
It takes so much time and hardly seems worth it, though there can also be something that makes one suddenly glad for the effort.
As do all things, it has an end, sometimes good, sometimes not.
While one is doing it there are the small pleasures—or perhaps more accurately reliefs—of bringing light to something that hardly seems to be of any value.
And sometimes you just want to throw it out the window.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Honorificabilitudinity
Once upon a time there was a boy whose name was...
Well, his father—whose name was Athanasius Christopher Maximilian Augustine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff—was born in Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotameteaturipukakapikimau-
ngahoronukupokaiwhenakitanatahu, New Zealand, and his mother—whose name was Caoilfhionn Eileánóir MacGhilleseatheanaich—was born in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, Wales. The event of their marriage transpired approximately halfway between in Krungthepmahanakonbowornratanakosinmahintarayud-
yayamahadiloponoparatanarajthaniburiromudomrajniwesmahasat-
arnamornpimarnavatarsatitsakattiyavisanukamphrasit, Thailand, after his father attempted to circumexplorandiscover the world by a combined means of circumnavigation and circumambulation, which failed when he met Caoilfhionn. His brother's name is Marcellinus Alexander Nathaniel Johnathan, and his sisters' names are Francesca Gwendolyn Meredith Josephine and Cassandra Gabrielle Dominique Annabelle.
Their family is unusual, for they are the only ones in the world to express their surprise by saying Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious. They have a habit of floccinaucinihilipilification. Also, they are the only ones to have both acquired Numanoultramicroscopicsilicavolcanoconeosis and to suffer from Pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism.
Athanasius Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff is a scientist and works with chemicals. His children enjoy hearing him repeat them, but this is their favorite: methionylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamylserylleucylphenylalany-
lalanylglutaminylleucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylglutamylglycylal-
anylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenylalanylvalylthreonylleucylglycyla-
spartylprolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleucyllysyliso-
leucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylglycylalanylas-
partylalanylleucylglutamylleucylglycylisoleucylprolylphenylalanyl-
serylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartylglycylprolylthreonylisoleu-
cylglutaminylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucylarginylalanylphenylal-
anylalanylalanylglycylvalylthreonylprolylalanylglutaminylcysteiny-
lphenylalanylglutamylmethionylleucylalanylleucylisoleucylarginyl-
glutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonylisoleucylprolylisoleucylglyc-
ylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparaginylleucylvalylphenyla-
lanylasparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylaspartylglutamylphenylalanylt-
yrosylalanylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysylvalylglycylvalylaspart-
ylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylaspartylvalylprolylvalylglutaminylglu-
tamylserylalanylprolylphenylalanylarginylglutaminylalanylalanylleu-
cylarginylhistidylasparaginylvalylalanylprolylisoleucylphenylalany-
lisoleucylcysteinylprolylprolylaspartylalanylaspartylaspartylaspa-
rtylleucylleucylarginylglutaminylisoleucylalanylseryltyrosylglycy-
larginylglycyltyrosylthreonyltyrosylleucylleucylserylarginylalany-
lglycylvalylthreonylglycylalanylglutamylasparaginylarginylalanyla-
lanylleucylprolylleucylasparaginylhistidylleucylvalylalanyllysylle-
ucyllysylglutamyltyrosylasparaginylalanylalanylprolylprolylleucyl-
glutaminylglycylphenylalanylglycylisoleucylserylalanylprolylaspar-
tylglutaminylvalyllysylalanylalanylisoleucylaspartylalanylglycyla-
lanylalanylglycylalanylisoleucylserylglycylserylalanylisoleucylva-
lyllysylisoleucylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylhistidylasparaginyliso-
leucylglutamylprolylglutamyllysylmethionylleucylalanylalanylleucyll-
ysylvalylphenylalanylvalylglutaminylprolylmethionyllysylalanylalany-
lthreonylarginylserine.
The children are fond of words, and always enjoy coming across a new one such as honorificabilitudinitatibus or Lopadotemachoselachogaleokranioleipsanodrimhypotrimmatosilph-
ioparaomelitokatakechymenokichlepikossyphophattoperisteralektr-
yonoptekephalliokinklopeleiolagoiosiraiobaphetraganopterygon.
Now, what is the boy's name?
Well, his father—whose name was Athanasius Christopher Maximilian Augustine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff—was born in Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotameteaturipukakapikimau-
ngahoronukupokaiwhenakitanatahu, New Zealand, and his mother—whose name was Caoilfhionn Eileánóir MacGhilleseatheanaich—was born in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, Wales. The event of their marriage transpired approximately halfway between in Krungthepmahanakonbowornratanakosinmahintarayud-
yayamahadiloponoparatanarajthaniburiromudomrajniwesmahasat-
arnamornpimarnavatarsatitsakattiyavisanukamphrasit, Thailand, after his father attempted to circumexplorandiscover the world by a combined means of circumnavigation and circumambulation, which failed when he met Caoilfhionn. His brother's name is Marcellinus Alexander Nathaniel Johnathan, and his sisters' names are Francesca Gwendolyn Meredith Josephine and Cassandra Gabrielle Dominique Annabelle.
Their family is unusual, for they are the only ones in the world to express their surprise by saying Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious. They have a habit of floccinaucinihilipilification. Also, they are the only ones to have both acquired Numanoultramicroscopicsilicavolcanoconeosis and to suffer from Pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism.
Athanasius Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff is a scientist and works with chemicals. His children enjoy hearing him repeat them, but this is their favorite: methionylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamylserylleucylphenylalany-
lalanylglutaminylleucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylglutamylglycylal-
anylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenylalanylvalylthreonylleucylglycyla-
spartylprolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleucyllysyliso-
leucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylglycylalanylas-
partylalanylleucylglutamylleucylglycylisoleucylprolylphenylalanyl-
serylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartylglycylprolylthreonylisoleu-
cylglutaminylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucylarginylalanylphenylal-
anylalanylalanylglycylvalylthreonylprolylalanylglutaminylcysteiny-
lphenylalanylglutamylmethionylleucylalanylleucylisoleucylarginyl-
glutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonylisoleucylprolylisoleucylglyc-
ylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparaginylleucylvalylphenyla-
lanylasparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylaspartylglutamylphenylalanylt-
yrosylalanylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysylvalylglycylvalylaspart-
ylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylaspartylvalylprolylvalylglutaminylglu-
tamylserylalanylprolylphenylalanylarginylglutaminylalanylalanylleu-
cylarginylhistidylasparaginylvalylalanylprolylisoleucylphenylalany-
lisoleucylcysteinylprolylprolylaspartylalanylaspartylaspartylaspa-
rtylleucylleucylarginylglutaminylisoleucylalanylseryltyrosylglycy-
larginylglycyltyrosylthreonyltyrosylleucylleucylserylarginylalany-
lglycylvalylthreonylglycylalanylglutamylasparaginylarginylalanyla-
lanylleucylprolylleucylasparaginylhistidylleucylvalylalanyllysylle-
ucyllysylglutamyltyrosylasparaginylalanylalanylprolylprolylleucyl-
glutaminylglycylphenylalanylglycylisoleucylserylalanylprolylaspar-
tylglutaminylvalyllysylalanylalanylisoleucylaspartylalanylglycyla-
lanylalanylglycylalanylisoleucylserylglycylserylalanylisoleucylva-
lyllysylisoleucylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylhistidylasparaginyliso-
leucylglutamylprolylglutamyllysylmethionylleucylalanylalanylleucyll-
ysylvalylphenylalanylvalylglutaminylprolylmethionyllysylalanylalany-
lthreonylarginylserine.
The children are fond of words, and always enjoy coming across a new one such as honorificabilitudinitatibus or Lopadotemachoselachogaleokranioleipsanodrimhypotrimmatosilph-
ioparaomelitokatakechymenokichlepikossyphophattoperisteralektr-
yonoptekephalliokinklopeleiolagoiosiraiobaphetraganopterygon.
Now, what is the boy's name?
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
To Blog or Not to Blog
"Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia."—E.L. Doctorow
"Blogging is a socially acceptable form of talking to oneself." -Myself
Perhaps that is why I find blogging interesting and quite natural, for I have always been accustomed to talk to myself. Perhaps it is a habit like that of Gandalf, choosing to speak to the wisest person.
However, there is a difference between blogging and mere talking to oneself. Rather than addressing comments to myself as if I were another person (which generally is the form talking to oneself takes), I address my comments as if I were addressing all the inhabitants of the entire world, and any other worlds I do not yet happen to know about.
This, of course, is not true for all. There are numerous people out there blogging who are not talking to themselves, not even talking to themselves as if they were addressing the whole world, but instead are talking to a group of dedicated readers. I would guess, though, that even these people started out their blogging careers (if it can be called that) by talking to themselves as if they were the whole world; if not, then I daresay they must have been famous already, or have begun by bribing a whole bunch of people to read, and comment on, their blogs.
---------------------------------------------
Upon rereading that, I am not wholly certain it is true after all, though a good portion of it is. Now, I think perhaps that blogging is really more like addressing an entire audience that does not exist.
This, however, is a point of mere detail, for it is really no different than what I have stated above except in the form of my expression of the matter: addressing a group of people that does not exist is scarcely different—if at all—from addressing yourself as a group of people; either way you are projecting yourself into a group of people, whom you are then addressing.
--------------------------------------------
Then again, this may just be an excuse for why I receive no more than an occasional comment or two. Of course, that is entirely my own fault, since I have not really told anyone I even have a blog, let alone that they might actually want to read it. Perhaps I ought to. It may not be a good thing to talk to oneself all the time...
"Blogging is a socially acceptable form of talking to oneself." -Myself
Perhaps that is why I find blogging interesting and quite natural, for I have always been accustomed to talk to myself. Perhaps it is a habit like that of Gandalf, choosing to speak to the wisest person.
However, there is a difference between blogging and mere talking to oneself. Rather than addressing comments to myself as if I were another person (which generally is the form talking to oneself takes), I address my comments as if I were addressing all the inhabitants of the entire world, and any other worlds I do not yet happen to know about.
This, of course, is not true for all. There are numerous people out there blogging who are not talking to themselves, not even talking to themselves as if they were addressing the whole world, but instead are talking to a group of dedicated readers. I would guess, though, that even these people started out their blogging careers (if it can be called that) by talking to themselves as if they were the whole world; if not, then I daresay they must have been famous already, or have begun by bribing a whole bunch of people to read, and comment on, their blogs.
---------------------------------------------
Upon rereading that, I am not wholly certain it is true after all, though a good portion of it is. Now, I think perhaps that blogging is really more like addressing an entire audience that does not exist.
This, however, is a point of mere detail, for it is really no different than what I have stated above except in the form of my expression of the matter: addressing a group of people that does not exist is scarcely different—if at all—from addressing yourself as a group of people; either way you are projecting yourself into a group of people, whom you are then addressing.
--------------------------------------------
Then again, this may just be an excuse for why I receive no more than an occasional comment or two. Of course, that is entirely my own fault, since I have not really told anyone I even have a blog, let alone that they might actually want to read it. Perhaps I ought to. It may not be a good thing to talk to oneself all the time...
Monday, December 10, 2007
Mon Ami
"We live in a culture that often talks about community, connectedness, social networking, etc where very little true community actually exists and where we elevate acquaintances to friends and have very few true friends." -The Curt Jester, whose blog is both informative and entertaining.
This is something I have often thought about. It seems that the meaning of friend has been forgotten, or delegated to a far lower position than it previously held. People now communicate with people all across the world, but how many of these could truly be called friends?
Let us take a look at a definition:
With our society's focus on quantity rather than quality and the ease with which we can communicate with hundreds upon hundreds of people, is it any surprise that we no longer have the time for true friendship? Friends—to use the more exclusive meaning of the word—are not made overnight. To have friends, you must learn to know and trust them, which takes time. People do not have energy for that when they scatter their time among so many different people and enterprises.
Perhaps I am in the minority with this viewpoint, but I do not think that acquaintances should be elevated to the level of friends. Friends are people you know and trust, whom you can rely on. They are people with whom you want to be and who want to be with you; to whom you want to talk, and who want to talk to you. When you need help, it is your friends to whom you look for help, and in turn you help them through their difficulties, easing the pains of this life in ways that no acquaintance of a brief moment could. Yet still my attempt to define the word falls short of its meaning. Thus is my thought, though perhaps it is no more than relic of ages past. As goes the old saying, "Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold."
Even with this view in mind, the matter is uncertain. Definitions are inherently arbitrary, based solely on our own perceptions, and one major question remains: when does an acquaintance become a friend?
This is something I have often thought about. It seems that the meaning of friend has been forgotten, or delegated to a far lower position than it previously held. People now communicate with people all across the world, but how many of these could truly be called friends?
Let us take a look at a definition:
From the American Heritage Dictionary:So it seems that definition of ordinary usage has made its way into the dictionary as well. So much for the purity of the word friend. It is not the first to travel this road, though, nor shall it be the last. After all, "silly" once meant "innocent".
friend
- A person whom one knows, likes, and trusts.
- A person whom one knows; an acquaintance.
With our society's focus on quantity rather than quality and the ease with which we can communicate with hundreds upon hundreds of people, is it any surprise that we no longer have the time for true friendship? Friends—to use the more exclusive meaning of the word—are not made overnight. To have friends, you must learn to know and trust them, which takes time. People do not have energy for that when they scatter their time among so many different people and enterprises.
Perhaps I am in the minority with this viewpoint, but I do not think that acquaintances should be elevated to the level of friends. Friends are people you know and trust, whom you can rely on. They are people with whom you want to be and who want to be with you; to whom you want to talk, and who want to talk to you. When you need help, it is your friends to whom you look for help, and in turn you help them through their difficulties, easing the pains of this life in ways that no acquaintance of a brief moment could. Yet still my attempt to define the word falls short of its meaning. Thus is my thought, though perhaps it is no more than relic of ages past. As goes the old saying, "Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold."
Even with this view in mind, the matter is uncertain. Definitions are inherently arbitrary, based solely on our own perceptions, and one major question remains: when does an acquaintance become a friend?
Monday, December 3, 2007
Blast!
"The cold droplets of rain lashing against my bare head, soaking my hair, dripping down to run in rivulets across my face; the rush and roar of the wind, which presses upon the sails and whips through the rigging, tugging against my coat; the rushing waters of the seas all around, the waves crested with white; the roll and surge of the deck beneath my feet and the feel of the wheel in my hands, as I brace my feet to hold the ship upon her course; the fear that every moment one of the men might slip overboard or the sails rip to shreds in the wind or the rudder fail: thus it is to be a captain aboard a ship in a storm."
"I love storms. There is something about the power of the elements--a power one cannot lessen, but only endure--that touches some instinct within. It touches a chord of defiance within the heart, for who willingly admits the insignificance of himself until pitted against such an ancient and powerful adversary as the sea? This defiance brings a thrill surging through every fiber of one's being."
-Captain Nic Blaknar
Yet for those who are landlocked, a storm means something far different. Especially for those who dwell near a river or creek.
As the rain pours down, the muddy waters rise, higher and higher until they spill over the bank, flooding across lowlands, running in ever-widening streams of brown. The waters continue to rise until shallow brown water flows across the pastures and through the forests, rushing ever onward, and still the waters continue to come, flowing higher and higher.
Children glory in such a flood. They play in the water-filled fields, finding grubs and voles, and they do not mind getting wet in the pounding rains. They care not for the damage it may wreak. The hours of hard work that may be ruined in a single day are as naught to them.
Yet as they grow older, they forget their careless enjoyment and think instead of the annoyance and sorrow, losing their wonder. The sight of the still falling rain can only depress them. They cannot think of the floods without sadness at what may be destroyed.
Some there are who stand between, like one lingering halfway between two worlds.
The two feelings tug at them and their hearts are divided.
Never before--at least as long as we have lived here--has this much water passed through our lands for this long. Ever before it was a brief: a quick rise and fall overnight so that we saw only the muddy desolation left behind. Now a whole day has passed and still the waters stream through, hardly less than before.
Three trees at least have fallen in this storm, and these on our side of the creek. Too many already have fallen. So few remain. It will be long before those we have planted grow tall enough to cast shade of much consequence, and meanwhile how many more will fall? Already there were too few trees. At this rate it shall not be long before the lands lie bare.
This brings to mind a story that occurred to me the last time the winds brought some of the trees to the ground. It was a sad story, a tragedy perhaps. The trees were falling, falling, falling...
EDIT: The water finally receded enough that I was able to go out yesterday morning and take stock of the damage. Except for two uprooted plants and the loss of four wire cages protecting plants, there was little more damage beyond the usual layer of fine mud wherever I looked and the places eroded even further by the rushing torrents. Deep pools still remain. This was a flood such as we have not seen before. Shortly after we moved in there was a flood of similar proportions, but it rose quickly and then passed away; we had hardly enough time to look at it before the waters had returned to the creek, leaving behind the eroded streams of mud through the overgrazed pasture. At least the damage was less than it might have been.
"I love storms. There is something about the power of the elements--a power one cannot lessen, but only endure--that touches some instinct within. It touches a chord of defiance within the heart, for who willingly admits the insignificance of himself until pitted against such an ancient and powerful adversary as the sea? This defiance brings a thrill surging through every fiber of one's being."
-Captain Nic Blaknar
Yet for those who are landlocked, a storm means something far different. Especially for those who dwell near a river or creek.
As the rain pours down, the muddy waters rise, higher and higher until they spill over the bank, flooding across lowlands, running in ever-widening streams of brown. The waters continue to rise until shallow brown water flows across the pastures and through the forests, rushing ever onward, and still the waters continue to come, flowing higher and higher.
Children glory in such a flood. They play in the water-filled fields, finding grubs and voles, and they do not mind getting wet in the pounding rains. They care not for the damage it may wreak. The hours of hard work that may be ruined in a single day are as naught to them.
Yet as they grow older, they forget their careless enjoyment and think instead of the annoyance and sorrow, losing their wonder. The sight of the still falling rain can only depress them. They cannot think of the floods without sadness at what may be destroyed.
Some there are who stand between, like one lingering halfway between two worlds.
The two feelings tug at them and their hearts are divided.
Never before--at least as long as we have lived here--has this much water passed through our lands for this long. Ever before it was a brief: a quick rise and fall overnight so that we saw only the muddy desolation left behind. Now a whole day has passed and still the waters stream through, hardly less than before.
Three trees at least have fallen in this storm, and these on our side of the creek. Too many already have fallen. So few remain. It will be long before those we have planted grow tall enough to cast shade of much consequence, and meanwhile how many more will fall? Already there were too few trees. At this rate it shall not be long before the lands lie bare.
This brings to mind a story that occurred to me the last time the winds brought some of the trees to the ground. It was a sad story, a tragedy perhaps. The trees were falling, falling, falling...
EDIT: The water finally receded enough that I was able to go out yesterday morning and take stock of the damage. Except for two uprooted plants and the loss of four wire cages protecting plants, there was little more damage beyond the usual layer of fine mud wherever I looked and the places eroded even further by the rushing torrents. Deep pools still remain. This was a flood such as we have not seen before. Shortly after we moved in there was a flood of similar proportions, but it rose quickly and then passed away; we had hardly enough time to look at it before the waters had returned to the creek, leaving behind the eroded streams of mud through the overgrazed pasture. At least the damage was less than it might have been.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Finito--or is it?
Midnight of the last day of November is fast approaching. Once again I managed to finish my novel, but only barely in time. I am filled with the same strange mix of feelings always present after I have typed the words THE END on the last page: satisfaction at my accomplishment; sorrow that it had to end; an eagerness to read it; and a knowledge that there are many things I feel still need to be improved, which I would not allow myself to do at the time for fear I should not finish before the month was over.
There are many small things I left out of scenes that I must add, but most in mind is a whole new character, whose part I did not realize until now and am not yet certain belongs. This new character will not greatly change the story, but may add much of value to it. Yet this character is one whom I cannot easily understand, and therefore cannot easily write about, and that, I think, is the primary cause of my doubt.
Overall I think my month writing a novel went rather well. There were a few things I promised myself I would do and I think I mostly succeeded in this: firstly that I would try to end each chapter in such a way that it would draw the reader onward, leaving him in anticipation, while I shifted between characters; secondly that I would write only scenes I enjoyed, and not plow through boring sections that could only be boring to readers; thirdly that I would visualize what I was writing. These all helped to create a better story, I think. The first is more important for readers, and the latter two helped me to really get into the story, as I have never done before.
Usually I am thinking about so many things I have a hard time keeping track of all the different characters and events in my stories and how they all fit together, but this time I did not have that problem. I scarcely wrote any notes at all: only once or twice. The rest of the time I figured it all out in my mind.
This year was different than last year in another way as well. Last year I had far more free time and so was able to write a 100,000 word novel without difficulty. This year, however, what with working two days a week and teaching piano two days a week, and all the other responsibilites I have, it was more difficult. My mom pointed out that it was a good experience to have to be able to write while still doing all these other things (which could be considered a justification for why she does not let me off all my chores for the month as some people do, not that I think that is necessary), and I agree.
My parents thought it was amazing that I could start writing the novel on November 1st and finish it just a little before midnight of the last day of the month. I do not find it so. I knew I was drawing near to the end and thus wrote furiously to finish in time. That is the power of deadlines. Sometimes it is a good thing to have deadlines to meet, though in this case I do not know; I fear I may have rushed the ending a little more than I should have.
So now it is time to set it aside for a bit. I am eagerly looking forward to reading it, but that will have to wait until I have distanced myself from it a little. In the meantime there are some of my older writings I am eager to read again, and also I want to finish probably my slowest ever reading of the Lord of the Rings, which sadly is only my fifth time.
After I have revised my novel, then the time will come for it to be read. I told my brother he could probably read it, but I think I will look for other readers as well so that I may receive a good selection of criticism.
Then it will be on to other projects. At the moment I have at least two novels in mind I would like to start and one to rewrite and some others I do not remember just now, and I think I may work on these all at the same time to try something different for a while, varying which one I am writing with how I am feeling at the time.
If this all seems less coherent than usual, than I suppose it is due to the lateness of the hour and the fact that I already wrote over 12,000 words today. This would make it right around 13,000 I would imagine. Not the most I have ever written, but a goodly sum notwithstanding.
There are many small things I left out of scenes that I must add, but most in mind is a whole new character, whose part I did not realize until now and am not yet certain belongs. This new character will not greatly change the story, but may add much of value to it. Yet this character is one whom I cannot easily understand, and therefore cannot easily write about, and that, I think, is the primary cause of my doubt.
Overall I think my month writing a novel went rather well. There were a few things I promised myself I would do and I think I mostly succeeded in this: firstly that I would try to end each chapter in such a way that it would draw the reader onward, leaving him in anticipation, while I shifted between characters; secondly that I would write only scenes I enjoyed, and not plow through boring sections that could only be boring to readers; thirdly that I would visualize what I was writing. These all helped to create a better story, I think. The first is more important for readers, and the latter two helped me to really get into the story, as I have never done before.
Usually I am thinking about so many things I have a hard time keeping track of all the different characters and events in my stories and how they all fit together, but this time I did not have that problem. I scarcely wrote any notes at all: only once or twice. The rest of the time I figured it all out in my mind.
This year was different than last year in another way as well. Last year I had far more free time and so was able to write a 100,000 word novel without difficulty. This year, however, what with working two days a week and teaching piano two days a week, and all the other responsibilites I have, it was more difficult. My mom pointed out that it was a good experience to have to be able to write while still doing all these other things (which could be considered a justification for why she does not let me off all my chores for the month as some people do, not that I think that is necessary), and I agree.
My parents thought it was amazing that I could start writing the novel on November 1st and finish it just a little before midnight of the last day of the month. I do not find it so. I knew I was drawing near to the end and thus wrote furiously to finish in time. That is the power of deadlines. Sometimes it is a good thing to have deadlines to meet, though in this case I do not know; I fear I may have rushed the ending a little more than I should have.
So now it is time to set it aside for a bit. I am eagerly looking forward to reading it, but that will have to wait until I have distanced myself from it a little. In the meantime there are some of my older writings I am eager to read again, and also I want to finish probably my slowest ever reading of the Lord of the Rings, which sadly is only my fifth time.
After I have revised my novel, then the time will come for it to be read. I told my brother he could probably read it, but I think I will look for other readers as well so that I may receive a good selection of criticism.
Then it will be on to other projects. At the moment I have at least two novels in mind I would like to start and one to rewrite and some others I do not remember just now, and I think I may work on these all at the same time to try something different for a while, varying which one I am writing with how I am feeling at the time.
If this all seems less coherent than usual, than I suppose it is due to the lateness of the hour and the fact that I already wrote over 12,000 words today. This would make it right around 13,000 I would imagine. Not the most I have ever written, but a goodly sum notwithstanding.
Monday, November 26, 2007
The Inspiration of Confidence , Or, Conversely, The Confidence of Inspiration
I had hardly thought about my novel from last year's NaNoWriMo for nearly a year, but for some reason it surfaced in my mind the other day. Remembering a scene near the end, I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to read it. Thus, after writing a little more on my current NaNovel, I did.
Not only did it utterly absorb my attention and draw me into reading more than I had intended, but I was actually impressed to think that I had written it. There were of course a few things I thought could be improved; that, however, is always the case, even with my writing now. This means that my writing has reached the point where it is no longer improving at such a drastic rate, and I can be pleased with my work as a writer.
For a long time I have disparaged my writing, but that time is at an end. I have confidence in my work for the first time.
Now some might say that I should have discovered this a long time ago and it would have been more beneficial for me. I would not agree. The years in which I labored over my writing, feeling it was lacking and ever striving toward perfection, have not been in vain. It is through those struggles that I have reached the mountaintop upon which I now stand, and may look beyond to the higher mountains that I have yet to reach.
This summer of letting my mind lay fallow was not without benefit either. It made me realize how much I missed writing and allowed the ideas and the words to grow in more fertile soil when the time of growth came again.
Even as I realized all of this, though, I was afraid I should have waited to read part of last year's NaNovel until I had completed this year's, for after reading it I could think of little else. For the first time I wanted to revise more than to write, which was a strange feeling, as I have always preferred to seek out new stories and ideas.
Nevertheless, it turned out that the inspiration it gave me was invaluable. I was able to turn my mind to my current project and write onward.
I have now completed over 50,000 words on my novel and four days remain. The end of the story is at a distance still, but I hope that I may have time to finish it before the month runs out.
Some difficulties still remain, though none are insurmountable. The primary one is that I have many major characters and not all will live happily ever after, but I am reluctant to allow that anything will happen to them, whether suffering or death, or worse. I wonder if all writers feel this way.
Yet there is nothing I can do to prevent this from happening. The story must go as it will, and—unless I stop now— I will discover all their ends. I do not really feel as if I am choosing these ends and their choices leading up to them, but it is rather as if I am discovering these stories and recording them; that feeling is especially strong this month since I began my novel with no more than a single character and a single scene, not knowing where it would lead, and now I have a host of characters and a plot that draws me toward the still mysterious end.
Even though I recognize that not all can live happily ever after and I know that I tend to prefer tragic characters when I read, still I wish those in my story might find peace, for they are not strangers whose tragedies affect me not. These are my friends and their lives touch me deeply.
Not only did it utterly absorb my attention and draw me into reading more than I had intended, but I was actually impressed to think that I had written it. There were of course a few things I thought could be improved; that, however, is always the case, even with my writing now. This means that my writing has reached the point where it is no longer improving at such a drastic rate, and I can be pleased with my work as a writer.
For a long time I have disparaged my writing, but that time is at an end. I have confidence in my work for the first time.
Now some might say that I should have discovered this a long time ago and it would have been more beneficial for me. I would not agree. The years in which I labored over my writing, feeling it was lacking and ever striving toward perfection, have not been in vain. It is through those struggles that I have reached the mountaintop upon which I now stand, and may look beyond to the higher mountains that I have yet to reach.
This summer of letting my mind lay fallow was not without benefit either. It made me realize how much I missed writing and allowed the ideas and the words to grow in more fertile soil when the time of growth came again.
Even as I realized all of this, though, I was afraid I should have waited to read part of last year's NaNovel until I had completed this year's, for after reading it I could think of little else. For the first time I wanted to revise more than to write, which was a strange feeling, as I have always preferred to seek out new stories and ideas.
Nevertheless, it turned out that the inspiration it gave me was invaluable. I was able to turn my mind to my current project and write onward.
I have now completed over 50,000 words on my novel and four days remain. The end of the story is at a distance still, but I hope that I may have time to finish it before the month runs out.
Some difficulties still remain, though none are insurmountable. The primary one is that I have many major characters and not all will live happily ever after, but I am reluctant to allow that anything will happen to them, whether suffering or death, or worse. I wonder if all writers feel this way.
Yet there is nothing I can do to prevent this from happening. The story must go as it will, and—unless I stop now— I will discover all their ends. I do not really feel as if I am choosing these ends and their choices leading up to them, but it is rather as if I am discovering these stories and recording them; that feeling is especially strong this month since I began my novel with no more than a single character and a single scene, not knowing where it would lead, and now I have a host of characters and a plot that draws me toward the still mysterious end.
Even though I recognize that not all can live happily ever after and I know that I tend to prefer tragic characters when I read, still I wish those in my story might find peace, for they are not strangers whose tragedies affect me not. These are my friends and their lives touch me deeply.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Yo Ho, Yo Ho, An Artist's Life For Me
This past weekend I decided to try the artist's life. It was an interesting experience and one that was perhaps not as authentic as it might have been, for I did at least did sell a few things, despite the lack of visitors to the bazaar.
I did at least manage to cover most of my materials costs. However, I also had to sit there for two long days. There were of course the times when I talked with people, whether friends or strangers, including the time when we played 'I Doubt It' and Fr. Carl walked over and asked whether he wanted to know what we were playing and I said, "I doubt it."
It was not completely dull, not even as dull as I might have made it seem. Sebastian was selling wood swords he had made and several of his friends took it upon themselves to become his salesmen. One of them was quite good at it, and it was most interesting—and often quite amusing and even hilarious at times—to watch the reactions he received.
The hardest thing about it was that I was there probably a total of over 18 hours, which I could have spent writing, and if I had, I likely would have written at least 18,000 words. Instead I managed to write only a mere 2,400; this was due partially to the distraction of being in the middle of a room where children are running about and people are talking, and partially to the measly battery my laptop has, and mostly to my not leaving the table to go hide in a corner by an electrical socket. Of course, the problem is those 18,000 words I could have written would have gotten me no closer to the earning money in a way other than being employed at the Berry Barn.
I learned many things from the experience, however. Firstly, it is more beneficial to concentrate my time in one day upon one end rather than working on many various projects at once. Secondly, I need to learn how not to wait until the last moment. Thirdly, it might actually be possible to make a bit of money for college.
Furthermore, I also got many compliments upon my work. This means I am no longer an artist in my own eyes only. Huzzah!
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Jack of All Trades
People always say practice makes perfect, which by extension means the same for focus. If you focus all your energy and concentration upon one area, your skill in that one area will be immense. I often wonder what it would be like to only have area that was the focus of all my life...
If my focus were running, I could run for miles and miles, perhaps eventually enough to circumambulate (which is not a word, but ought to be) the world.
If it were making friends, I could have lots of good friends spread throughout the world from America to Europe to Antartica (or maybe that is stretching it a little too far).
If it were art, I could create beautiful illuminated manuscripts, paintings and fine drawings, with my art known the world over, perhaps even resulting in a masterpiece that would bring those looking at it into the picture.
If it were languages I could know a good portion of the languages of the world and have several constructed languages of my own, and be able to speak them all so perfectly well that no one would ever know whether I was complimenting them or insulting them, or complimenting them in a way that happened to be an insult.
If it were sailing, I could be winning races and circumnavigating the globe, proving the Age of Sail continues strong and well, at least in the mind of one.
If it were being a pirate captain, I could have several fine prizes and a wealth of legends gathering about me, and show to the world that piracy is not a thing of the past, except whereas it concerns the internet or machine guns and rubber rafts.
If it were writing, I could be a renowned published author, subverting my readers just as the other best-selling authors do, except to the truth.
If it were living out my faith, I could be in heaven by now, rather than laboring through this valley of sorrows.
Wow. I impress myself. To think that I could have done any of those! (Never mind that the odds of any one of them happening are about as great as that of a polar bear and a penguin waltzing to a minuett played by a Chinese dragon.)
Yet I have chosen another course, the way of diverse interests and little rewards and a mind full of thoughts as scattered as feathers in the wind; though whether I have chosen rightly none can say. It is a good life. Perhaps a better one. Instead of going through life trying to be the best at something I can realize that there will always be many who are better than I, and yet not in all ways. Yes, I like being Jack of All Trades.
If my focus were running, I could run for miles and miles, perhaps eventually enough to circumambulate (which is not a word, but ought to be) the world.
If it were making friends, I could have lots of good friends spread throughout the world from America to Europe to Antartica (or maybe that is stretching it a little too far).
If it were art, I could create beautiful illuminated manuscripts, paintings and fine drawings, with my art known the world over, perhaps even resulting in a masterpiece that would bring those looking at it into the picture.
If it were languages I could know a good portion of the languages of the world and have several constructed languages of my own, and be able to speak them all so perfectly well that no one would ever know whether I was complimenting them or insulting them, or complimenting them in a way that happened to be an insult.
If it were sailing, I could be winning races and circumnavigating the globe, proving the Age of Sail continues strong and well, at least in the mind of one.
If it were being a pirate captain, I could have several fine prizes and a wealth of legends gathering about me, and show to the world that piracy is not a thing of the past, except whereas it concerns the internet or machine guns and rubber rafts.
If it were writing, I could be a renowned published author, subverting my readers just as the other best-selling authors do, except to the truth.
If it were living out my faith, I could be in heaven by now, rather than laboring through this valley of sorrows.
Wow. I impress myself. To think that I could have done any of those! (Never mind that the odds of any one of them happening are about as great as that of a polar bear and a penguin waltzing to a minuett played by a Chinese dragon.)
Yet I have chosen another course, the way of diverse interests and little rewards and a mind full of thoughts as scattered as feathers in the wind; though whether I have chosen rightly none can say. It is a good life. Perhaps a better one. Instead of going through life trying to be the best at something I can realize that there will always be many who are better than I, and yet not in all ways. Yes, I like being Jack of All Trades.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Riddle
It now is hard inside and soft outside,
But ought to be the opposite.
It changes from century to century
And yet remains the same.
It puts its trust in many things
That soon will be no more.
It rushes forward at a great rate
Forgetting its past wisdom.
It strives to reach for the heavens
But alone it can only fail.
But ought to be the opposite.
It changes from century to century
And yet remains the same.
It puts its trust in many things
That soon will be no more.
It rushes forward at a great rate
Forgetting its past wisdom.
It strives to reach for the heavens
But alone it can only fail.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Bella: True Love Goes Beyond Romance
Finally a movie has arisen to combat the foul trends of Hollywood: Bella. Though I tend to prefer what my parents describe as "shallow action films" such as Pirates of the Caribbean and Mask of Zorro, I was impressed with how beautiful and well-done Bella was. It is worth seeing both on its own merits and because it will send out a message that there are people who care about seeing good, moral movies. Furthermore, the story behind the movie is quite impressive as well:
The Testimony of Eduardo Verastegui
In 2006 Bella won the People's Choice Award at the Toronto Film Festival, and then October 26th of this year it came out in a few select theaters . My understanding is that it broke at least one record its opening weekend. I actually saw it that Sunday with my grandmother.
I highly recommend it. The only good excuse you could have for not going to see it would be if there were no theater showing it in your state, and as they are adding new theaters, I doubt that could be an adequate excuse for long. I just hope that Metanoia Films will keep up the good work and produce more films like this one.
The Testimony of Eduardo Verastegui
In 2006 Bella won the People's Choice Award at the Toronto Film Festival, and then October 26th of this year it came out in a few select theaters . My understanding is that it broke at least one record its opening weekend. I actually saw it that Sunday with my grandmother.
I highly recommend it. The only good excuse you could have for not going to see it would be if there were no theater showing it in your state, and as they are adding new theaters, I doubt that could be an adequate excuse for long. I just hope that Metanoia Films will keep up the good work and produce more films like this one.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Greetings and Salutations to the Wide World
"The first million words are practice." Thus said Isaac Asimov, and his words, if not literal truth, are at least something many people ought to keep in mind.
Though I have never bothered to calculate the quantity of words contained in my collective writings, yet by estimation I am certain that I have more than exceeded that count. Yet still I would not easily pass up an opportunity to increase my skill, such as this, despite the requirements of the month of November, alternatively known as National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo).
To embark upon such a quest--to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days--may seem daunting, and not without good reason. You may start out the month eager and expectant, not knowing where the story is headed, yet not caring, but merely reveling in the experience. Then the days go on. The time comes for the story to decide its course, and doubts ensue. You may begin to wonder whether it will be possible to complete the novel, or even to pass the 10,000 word mark. Then comes the time when the story comes together: those subconscious parts of your mind have really been working all the while, and those vague ideas come together into something that begins to resemble a cohesive whole. The first obstacle has been overcome. None after can ever equal it, for now the end is in sight, different than was first envisioned, and all the better for it.
At just over 20,000 words, I am right on schedule. As usual, my story threatens to grow beyond control and likely beyond the requisite 50k, but not in such a vast epic manner as too many of my ideas before--not yet anyway. I am enjoying it, even at the relatively slow pace I am taking it. I can even say I look forward to the revision in December when I figure out in what order to place the chapters so that they better move the narrative toward the currently unknown and mysterious ending.
Though I have never bothered to calculate the quantity of words contained in my collective writings, yet by estimation I am certain that I have more than exceeded that count. Yet still I would not easily pass up an opportunity to increase my skill, such as this, despite the requirements of the month of November, alternatively known as National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo).
To embark upon such a quest--to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days--may seem daunting, and not without good reason. You may start out the month eager and expectant, not knowing where the story is headed, yet not caring, but merely reveling in the experience. Then the days go on. The time comes for the story to decide its course, and doubts ensue. You may begin to wonder whether it will be possible to complete the novel, or even to pass the 10,000 word mark. Then comes the time when the story comes together: those subconscious parts of your mind have really been working all the while, and those vague ideas come together into something that begins to resemble a cohesive whole. The first obstacle has been overcome. None after can ever equal it, for now the end is in sight, different than was first envisioned, and all the better for it.
At just over 20,000 words, I am right on schedule. As usual, my story threatens to grow beyond control and likely beyond the requisite 50k, but not in such a vast epic manner as too many of my ideas before--not yet anyway. I am enjoying it, even at the relatively slow pace I am taking it. I can even say I look forward to the revision in December when I figure out in what order to place the chapters so that they better move the narrative toward the currently unknown and mysterious ending.
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