Bored? This is me, blathering about work. You can skip it.
This last week at work has been one long episode of deja vu from high school. They call it a training class, but really it's just a roomful of smartasses staring at a markerboard in the front of the room. The question/answer sessions were more intelligent than I expected, and usually resulted in the honest answer of "I don't know. I'll have to take this back with me."
The first two days were informative; the last three were practical. By Friday, I was down to writing a first draft of a short story. It's a Weird Tales story. We'll see.
"Things You Don't Want But You Have to Take."
Writerly trick recently learned and there applied: details. The details you use in a story aren't just there to add realism. If all your details do is add realism, you don't need them. Details serve multiple duties: they either reinforce or contrast characters and plot; they foreshadow; they focus conflict; and yes, they provide realism. They should be as essential to the plot as the plot itself. They shouldn't go on and on and on....
7.19.2002
Quick notes early on a Friday morning.
1. Joe has been moved. He's now living in an awesome house on the northernish side of actual Colorado Springs (near Academy and Union, actually). The yard is of such a type that when engineer-trained Joe says he's going to make a waterfall in the backyard, I believe him.
2. Ray can aaaallllmost stand on her own. She'll balance for maybe a second or two, and thump! Down on her butt. Lee said yesterday (yesterday, she was in a bad mood. This is strange, ok? Our kid? In a bad mood? My guess is that she has more teeth coming in, but I'm keeping an eye on her anyway. I gave her a cool bath and cuddled much with her yesterday, but as soon as I put her down she was fussy again. Hm. She has a baby-appointment next week for shots) that she was so mad that she actually stood on her own for about five seconds. As a "tower of rage."
3. We got a digital camera. Ray understands that bright flashy things are going to shine in her eyes whenever she sees it, so all the pictures we have of her are either asleep or sqinting. Hooray!
4. Much writing and brainstorming has been being done lately -- thus little blogging. The rewrite on "Mrs. Kurtz" (now officially titled "On Hold") is done, and Lee-approved. Score! I didn't think he'd like it, but, neener neener, he does. The book review I'm doing for Banshee Studios (new issue coming out...uh...August first? My deadline is sooner) is done, but I'm taking another look at it tonight to supplement my spell-checker. And, while doing research on time-travel for the ongoing project "The Best of All Possible Beauregards," I hit on another story idea. Of course this one has something to do with time...but not with time travel. All I have is some philosophical bones to the story and a few wisps of plot, but the main character most likely will be a neophyte in a world populated by humans, demons (but this will have a slightly different meaning), and the "saved" (I'm thinking here that it's possible to be technically "saved" without being a nice person. At all). As it turns out, Christian philosophers of a certain type have theorized that there are not only four dimensions (3D + time), but five (3D + time + eternity). What if when Lucifer fell, he lost a dimension, eternity, i.e., the ability to be outside of time? Hmmm...
Off to work. More later.
1. Joe has been moved. He's now living in an awesome house on the northernish side of actual Colorado Springs (near Academy and Union, actually). The yard is of such a type that when engineer-trained Joe says he's going to make a waterfall in the backyard, I believe him.
2. Ray can aaaallllmost stand on her own. She'll balance for maybe a second or two, and thump! Down on her butt. Lee said yesterday (yesterday, she was in a bad mood. This is strange, ok? Our kid? In a bad mood? My guess is that she has more teeth coming in, but I'm keeping an eye on her anyway. I gave her a cool bath and cuddled much with her yesterday, but as soon as I put her down she was fussy again. Hm. She has a baby-appointment next week for shots) that she was so mad that she actually stood on her own for about five seconds. As a "tower of rage."
3. We got a digital camera. Ray understands that bright flashy things are going to shine in her eyes whenever she sees it, so all the pictures we have of her are either asleep or sqinting. Hooray!
4. Much writing and brainstorming has been being done lately -- thus little blogging. The rewrite on "Mrs. Kurtz" (now officially titled "On Hold") is done, and Lee-approved. Score! I didn't think he'd like it, but, neener neener, he does. The book review I'm doing for Banshee Studios (new issue coming out...uh...August first? My deadline is sooner) is done, but I'm taking another look at it tonight to supplement my spell-checker. And, while doing research on time-travel for the ongoing project "The Best of All Possible Beauregards," I hit on another story idea. Of course this one has something to do with time...but not with time travel. All I have is some philosophical bones to the story and a few wisps of plot, but the main character most likely will be a neophyte in a world populated by humans, demons (but this will have a slightly different meaning), and the "saved" (I'm thinking here that it's possible to be technically "saved" without being a nice person. At all). As it turns out, Christian philosophers of a certain type have theorized that there are not only four dimensions (3D + time), but five (3D + time + eternity). What if when Lucifer fell, he lost a dimension, eternity, i.e., the ability to be outside of time? Hmmm...
Off to work. More later.
7.13.2002
7.08.2002
Out!
Did I forget to mention it? I believe so. The manager of our apartment complex is out!
Out!
Possibly tens of thousands of dollars of embezzling. The owners, of course, aren't going to press charges.
It must have been that last communique. Which one? Oh, the one that said that she was going to start fining people for not keeping their front steps swept, the cobwebs brushed off the underside of their decks, and their apartments clean. That's right, she was seriously going to walk into people's apartments and fine them a hundred bucks if it was a pigsty. Hmmm....there have been mysterious fees for leaving mail on the sidewalk. And hundred-dollar-a-day late fees. None of which the owners knew anything about. And she had an "agreement" with a towing company. That she kind of owned. Not a conflict of interest or anything.
And the stories that my neighbor tells about this woman breaking into her apartment to steal narcotics...
It burns me that this bitch isn't being taken to court. I want all of this on her record.
When we moved in, she sat us down and said, "I don't care if you use drugs, but if you sell 'em...you're out!" "If you make too much noise...you're out! And if you ever beat your wife...you're out!"
Woo Hoo!
Did I forget to mention it? I believe so. The manager of our apartment complex is out!
Out!
Possibly tens of thousands of dollars of embezzling. The owners, of course, aren't going to press charges.
It must have been that last communique. Which one? Oh, the one that said that she was going to start fining people for not keeping their front steps swept, the cobwebs brushed off the underside of their decks, and their apartments clean. That's right, she was seriously going to walk into people's apartments and fine them a hundred bucks if it was a pigsty. Hmmm....there have been mysterious fees for leaving mail on the sidewalk. And hundred-dollar-a-day late fees. None of which the owners knew anything about. And she had an "agreement" with a towing company. That she kind of owned. Not a conflict of interest or anything.
And the stories that my neighbor tells about this woman breaking into her apartment to steal narcotics...
It burns me that this bitch isn't being taken to court. I want all of this on her record.
When we moved in, she sat us down and said, "I don't care if you use drugs, but if you sell 'em...you're out!" "If you make too much noise...you're out! And if you ever beat your wife...you're out!"
Woo Hoo!
7.07.2002
Snippet: Tofu Cartel!
What with one thing and another (a couple of freshman girls from Miller drove over and bought one of the new tarot decks she'd ordered, not Rider Waite, not Thoth, the one with the cats? No, the Medicine Wheel deck. And the orange juice machine broke during breakfast. An earring down the drain in room fifteen. And she was nearly full up, had been since she'd ordered a couple of Feng Shui kits. Bobby told everyone that that the betassled flutes dangling from their ceiling beam was a gift from his mother. His mother? Polish. Ah, Polish), she didn't check the fax machine until nearly ten a.m.
It was almost like finding a death threat.
BUYING INTO THE HEATLH FOOD CRAZE
DID YOU KNOW BUYING INTO THE DRUG CRAZE TOO
MISTY MOUNTAINS FOODS
MAKER OF "CLOUDS BREATH TOFU"
AND OTHER "HEATLHY LIVING" PRODUCTS
SUCH AS "OCEANS BREATH" SUSHI KITS
AND "FRESH BREATH" ORGANIC FOODS
IS A FRONT FOR A JAPANESE DRUG CARTEL!
And, in even larger letters:
SAVE OUR CHILDREN FROM DRUGS
EAT BEEF
The fine print stated that any persons interested in further information should call The Branding Iron Society of Buffalo County at 605-245-2492.
Guess what brand of tofu Rainbow Krytzpoliski had in the converted soda cooler just inside the office door? Guess who was trying to put her out of business? And ruin her reputation in town? And get her arrested with the cops? And bust up her marriage? And, damn it, crush out every progressive thought in central South Dakota? Who ran the Branding Iron Society of Buffalo County?
Her ex.
What with one thing and another (a couple of freshman girls from Miller drove over and bought one of the new tarot decks she'd ordered, not Rider Waite, not Thoth, the one with the cats? No, the Medicine Wheel deck. And the orange juice machine broke during breakfast. An earring down the drain in room fifteen. And she was nearly full up, had been since she'd ordered a couple of Feng Shui kits. Bobby told everyone that that the betassled flutes dangling from their ceiling beam was a gift from his mother. His mother? Polish. Ah, Polish), she didn't check the fax machine until nearly ten a.m.
It was almost like finding a death threat.
BUYING INTO THE HEATLH FOOD CRAZE
DID YOU KNOW BUYING INTO THE DRUG CRAZE TOO
MISTY MOUNTAINS FOODS
MAKER OF "CLOUDS BREATH TOFU"
AND OTHER "HEATLHY LIVING" PRODUCTS
SUCH AS "OCEANS BREATH" SUSHI KITS
AND "FRESH BREATH" ORGANIC FOODS
IS A FRONT FOR A JAPANESE DRUG CARTEL!
And, in even larger letters:
SAVE OUR CHILDREN FROM DRUGS
EAT BEEF
The fine print stated that any persons interested in further information should call The Branding Iron Society of Buffalo County at 605-245-2492.
Guess what brand of tofu Rainbow Krytzpoliski had in the converted soda cooler just inside the office door? Guess who was trying to put her out of business? And ruin her reputation in town? And get her arrested with the cops? And bust up her marriage? And, damn it, crush out every progressive thought in central South Dakota? Who ran the Branding Iron Society of Buffalo County?
Her ex.
Review.Bag of Bones, Stephen King, or "Rosebud."
This here review comes both with and without spoilers.
Non-spoileriffic: King is the master of page-turners. Even the most mundane events make you flip...flip...flip...until it's much too late to think of doing anything other than flip...flip...flip. Not one of his best books. Read It or The Shining or The Stand if you want that kind of heightened mythicalness. This is a story about unique events told in a fascinatingly mundane way.
Oxymoron. That's the word you're looking for, as in "But isn't 'fascinatingly mundane' an oxymoron?"
***Spoileriffic***
This is The Shining all over again, or Misery, or The Dark Half or (the main characters from the Dark Half are even mentioned as is the sherrif from Needful Things). Yessir, this is one of those Steven King books about a writer who can't write; doesn't want to write; has other, natural problems; and is plagued by some kind of nasty from the Other Side. Predictable? No. And just because this is the spoiler version, don't think I'm going to blow the ending.
I was left (unintentionally?) with the impression that Stephen King, the writer, should either quit writing or just get out of the damn business (continue to write novels, lock them in a safe-deposit box, and leave them to his offspring).
Dear Stephen King,
Jesus, guy, if you're done, you're done. Nobody but the psychos needs you to write for them. You can quit already. You can write literary novels. You can write poetry, you can crochet. And if you're just letting off steam again, well, that's good, too. I don't like putting people through hell. Not even a writer.
But as far as this book goes, it was the seven-eighths of the book written as a straight novel that I liked. The supernatural elements did nothing for me. The story could have ended with purely the "natural" elements, and I would have been more than satisfied. The characters were better-drawn than the epinonymous quote suggests. I cared. I even chortled over the sled, all right? I liked the details, and I liked the way you brought attention to the fact that it was a writerly trick to put them in.
Do what you want to do already.
Sincerely,
Moi.
P.S. And yeah, it did remind me of The Tempest. A little.
This here review comes both with and without spoilers.
Non-spoileriffic: King is the master of page-turners. Even the most mundane events make you flip...flip...flip...until it's much too late to think of doing anything other than flip...flip...flip. Not one of his best books. Read It or The Shining or The Stand if you want that kind of heightened mythicalness. This is a story about unique events told in a fascinatingly mundane way.
Oxymoron. That's the word you're looking for, as in "But isn't 'fascinatingly mundane' an oxymoron?"
***Spoileriffic***
This is The Shining all over again, or Misery, or The Dark Half or (the main characters from the Dark Half are even mentioned as is the sherrif from Needful Things). Yessir, this is one of those Steven King books about a writer who can't write; doesn't want to write; has other, natural problems; and is plagued by some kind of nasty from the Other Side. Predictable? No. And just because this is the spoiler version, don't think I'm going to blow the ending.
I was left (unintentionally?) with the impression that Stephen King, the writer, should either quit writing or just get out of the damn business (continue to write novels, lock them in a safe-deposit box, and leave them to his offspring).
Dear Stephen King,
Jesus, guy, if you're done, you're done. Nobody but the psychos needs you to write for them. You can quit already. You can write literary novels. You can write poetry, you can crochet. And if you're just letting off steam again, well, that's good, too. I don't like putting people through hell. Not even a writer.
But as far as this book goes, it was the seven-eighths of the book written as a straight novel that I liked. The supernatural elements did nothing for me. The story could have ended with purely the "natural" elements, and I would have been more than satisfied. The characters were better-drawn than the epinonymous quote suggests. I cared. I even chortled over the sled, all right? I liked the details, and I liked the way you brought attention to the fact that it was a writerly trick to put them in.
Do what you want to do already.
Sincerely,
Moi.
P.S. And yeah, it did remind me of The Tempest. A little.
7.05.2002
If He Would Tell Me
Is it really allergies or is it something worse?
Did I tell you the story about his thumb? Last year he -- I don't know, he hit his thumb with a hammer, something, and gave himself a blood blister under his right thumbnail. He's left handed, by the way. Anyway, it started to bother him -- he hadn't gone to the doctor -- so he waitned until Mom and the kids were out of the house, shopping for school clothes in Sioux Falls, I think, & drilled a hole in his thumbnail with a power drill.
Of course he did sterilize the bit first.
He's had a "cold" for over a year now. Is it really allergies or could it be cancer?
I didn't ask.
Did I mention I spent my teenage years resenting him for things I appreciate now? (The things I didn't like about my mother, I still don't like.)
Whatever it is, he's going to handle it his own damn way. I can respect that.
Is it really allergies or is it something worse?
Did I tell you the story about his thumb? Last year he -- I don't know, he hit his thumb with a hammer, something, and gave himself a blood blister under his right thumbnail. He's left handed, by the way. Anyway, it started to bother him -- he hadn't gone to the doctor -- so he waitned until Mom and the kids were out of the house, shopping for school clothes in Sioux Falls, I think, & drilled a hole in his thumbnail with a power drill.
Of course he did sterilize the bit first.
He's had a "cold" for over a year now. Is it really allergies or could it be cancer?
I didn't ask.
Did I mention I spent my teenage years resenting him for things I appreciate now? (The things I didn't like about my mother, I still don't like.)
Whatever it is, he's going to handle it his own damn way. I can respect that.
The End of Mrs. Kurtz. (I'm going to go back, pick through things, and put up the whole thing later. Promise.)
"What would it take to rectify this situation for you, Mrs. Kurtz? The employee who spoke to you earlier--"
"Scott."
"Yes, Scott, is going to undergo disciplinary action."
"How does that make up for my wasted time and--"
"How does six months of credit for internet access sound, Mrs. Kurtz? Our only concern at this point is keeping you as a customer. We'd like to rebuild our relationship with you, Mrs. Kurtz. We know how word of mouth can hurt our business."
"Oh, really?" Mrs. Kurtz said.
"Yes, Mrs. Kurtz. Would that be acceptable?"
"Yeah, if you get me a repair guy out here ay-ess-ay-pee. What good is six free months of internet if I can't get online in the first place?"
"Done, Mrs. Kurtz. Will you be home later today between three and five p.m? I'll move you to the top of our list."
"Sure," she said, and within fifteen seconds, she was off the phone. Click.
She hit the redial button and dialed her way through the menus to the customer service que.
"Would you like to know more about our Internet service plans? Please stay on the line, and the next available customer service representative will assist you."
Elevator music.
"Your call is very valuable to us. Please stay on the line, and your call will be answered in the order in which it was received."
Elevator music.
"Are you paying too much for your combined internet and cable TV packages? Why not get a discount? Ask about our great combo packages from your customer service representative."
Elevator music.
No such thing as aliens. More likely just a combination of a nutcase and an asshole. That's the story she'd give Marcus, anyway.
Except she felt like she'd been paid off. Instead of placated.
---
Epilogue.
---
Three o'clock. Nothing. Three-oh-eight, a man in a workman's uniform and nylon web-belts hung with tools and cases stepped up to the door of Mrs. Kurtz' apartment. He knocked. The door opened, admitted him, and shut. After half an hour, the door opened again, emitted the man in the workman's uniform. The door closed. Five minutes later (after checking a small box on the outside of the building), the man knocked at the door again. The door opened. The man walked in. The door shut.
From the open window (it was a beautiful day), Mrs. Kurtz' voice screeched, "Operator error? What do you mean, operator error? How are you going to fix that?"
There was a flash of light.
The door opened. The man walked out, looked back, and walked away. The door shut. Three forty-seven.
A week later, Marcus was out. He didn't mind. She just wasn't the same woman.
That autumn, she signed up for physics at the local college.
"What would it take to rectify this situation for you, Mrs. Kurtz? The employee who spoke to you earlier--"
"Scott."
"Yes, Scott, is going to undergo disciplinary action."
"How does that make up for my wasted time and--"
"How does six months of credit for internet access sound, Mrs. Kurtz? Our only concern at this point is keeping you as a customer. We'd like to rebuild our relationship with you, Mrs. Kurtz. We know how word of mouth can hurt our business."
"Oh, really?" Mrs. Kurtz said.
"Yes, Mrs. Kurtz. Would that be acceptable?"
"Yeah, if you get me a repair guy out here ay-ess-ay-pee. What good is six free months of internet if I can't get online in the first place?"
"Done, Mrs. Kurtz. Will you be home later today between three and five p.m? I'll move you to the top of our list."
"Sure," she said, and within fifteen seconds, she was off the phone. Click.
She hit the redial button and dialed her way through the menus to the customer service que.
"Would you like to know more about our Internet service plans? Please stay on the line, and the next available customer service representative will assist you."
Elevator music.
"Your call is very valuable to us. Please stay on the line, and your call will be answered in the order in which it was received."
Elevator music.
"Are you paying too much for your combined internet and cable TV packages? Why not get a discount? Ask about our great combo packages from your customer service representative."
Elevator music.
No such thing as aliens. More likely just a combination of a nutcase and an asshole. That's the story she'd give Marcus, anyway.
Except she felt like she'd been paid off. Instead of placated.
---
Epilogue.
---
Three o'clock. Nothing. Three-oh-eight, a man in a workman's uniform and nylon web-belts hung with tools and cases stepped up to the door of Mrs. Kurtz' apartment. He knocked. The door opened, admitted him, and shut. After half an hour, the door opened again, emitted the man in the workman's uniform. The door closed. Five minutes later (after checking a small box on the outside of the building), the man knocked at the door again. The door opened. The man walked in. The door shut.
From the open window (it was a beautiful day), Mrs. Kurtz' voice screeched, "Operator error? What do you mean, operator error? How are you going to fix that?"
There was a flash of light.
The door opened. The man walked out, looked back, and walked away. The door shut. Three forty-seven.
A week later, Marcus was out. He didn't mind. She just wasn't the same woman.
That autumn, she signed up for physics at the local college.
7.04.2002
Update
My folks have been in town, just left this morning. They're on the road to Rapid City with two teenage daughters, 89% of their sanity, and some cute bebe pictures in their cameras. It was good to see them, some health worries (one of the girls is allergic to pine trees, and my father has some kind of mysterious illness that might be allergies. Nobody knows; nobody admits knowing. More later on that subject) but otherwise everything went OK.
The bebe 1) learned how to clap so her hands make little clapping noises and 2) cut her first toofer in honor of the occaision. And she was good. She sat through her first trip to the restaurant with nothing more serious than a dropped spoon. Reacquaintance with Grandma, Grandpa, and the crazy aunts was accomplished; my brothers stayed home. The sixteen-year-old has a job. Andy. Andy has a job. It's not that I'm getting old, it's that...Andy has a job. At least it's at a place called "Mad Mary's." And it's a block from home. Mmmm. A good steakhouse, one of those places you take New York vegetarians to. "This is meat?" they'd cry. And they'd either break down and order a steak or kill themselves over the guilt, because baby cows are really cute.
They do mushrooms on the side, you know.
The only thing I miss about Iowa is...well, a couple of things. But the only relevant thing I miss about Iowa is the pork chops. You can't get Iowa chops out here, man. And don't lie to me, because it isn't the same.
My folks have been in town, just left this morning. They're on the road to Rapid City with two teenage daughters, 89% of their sanity, and some cute bebe pictures in their cameras. It was good to see them, some health worries (one of the girls is allergic to pine trees, and my father has some kind of mysterious illness that might be allergies. Nobody knows; nobody admits knowing. More later on that subject) but otherwise everything went OK.
The bebe 1) learned how to clap so her hands make little clapping noises and 2) cut her first toofer in honor of the occaision. And she was good. She sat through her first trip to the restaurant with nothing more serious than a dropped spoon. Reacquaintance with Grandma, Grandpa, and the crazy aunts was accomplished; my brothers stayed home. The sixteen-year-old has a job. Andy. Andy has a job. It's not that I'm getting old, it's that...Andy has a job. At least it's at a place called "Mad Mary's." And it's a block from home. Mmmm. A good steakhouse, one of those places you take New York vegetarians to. "This is meat?" they'd cry. And they'd either break down and order a steak or kill themselves over the guilt, because baby cows are really cute.
They do mushrooms on the side, you know.
The only thing I miss about Iowa is...well, a couple of things. But the only relevant thing I miss about Iowa is the pork chops. You can't get Iowa chops out here, man. And don't lie to me, because it isn't the same.
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