Follow or Face My Wrath
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Christmas Ruminations
Sometimes, the best Christmas gifts are the ones whose true meaning only reveals itself upon reflection. This year, my lovely wife gave me The Complete Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Watterson. I grew up with this comic, but only by flipping through the pages of this wonderful boxed set have I realized the true impact Bill Watterson had on me.
"Redeye", or "An Ode to Coffee"
I am no poet, but for fun, I submit this little ditty for your criticism:
Redeye
Redeye
For all who dare put pen to page, I cry!
When sleep doth claw at eyes, words lose appeal
and thoughts do flee like birds to realms surreal.
How can a mind give chase and seek to fly?
When slumber lurks long past its welcome, why
must writers strain to call the muse to heel?
Wherefore me must above our downfall reel?
Some errand we must take; a stiff red-eye!
A shot of black, plunged deep in darkness hot!
Where caffeine lurks, and earthy notes exhale,
where "bitter" tastes so sweet, and sleep rules not.
Oh coffee stark and true, you find our plot!
Thou coffee black and strong, with you none ail!
Without your aid, our dreams would go unwrought.
Murder, I Write
I've been thinking about the way I want to write murder. Before I go into it, however, it is important to define murder.
Murder is clearly morally wrong. Killing, however, is not necessarily inherently wrong, and I think that the distinction isn't always clear to people. Killing is the simple act of ending the life of a living thing. Spraying Round-Up on a weed is clearly killing, but it is just as clearly not murder (unless you are the most fanatical sort of Buddhist). In my opinion, even formal execution carried out by the state is not murder. It is often the punishment for murder, but though the primary event is the same, the motive makes all the difference in the world. Formal execution generally (I am not so naïve as to say 'always') is the result of a due process, in which a group of people soberly weigh the facts of a given incident and decide upon the guilt of the accused, and only then further debate the means of punishment. 'Punishment' is a misleading word, however. In my opinion it gives a sense of society taking revenge upon the guilty, which is clearly not the purpose of formal execution. Execution is chosen as a 'punishment' when the guilty party is so morally off balance, so heinously violent that the only prudent, reliable way of protecting society from them is to end their life. We as a society aren't mad at them (as individuals we surely are, but as a society I think it's hard to argue this in most cases), we merely need them gone. The death penalty is a means of permanently assuring that unrepentant murderers are removed from society and can never commit such atrocities again.
Murder, on the other hand is motivated by emotion, not reason. Murder is often committed in an effort to reach an individual goal of some kind. Murder is often committed – with or without forethought – as an individual's way of administering punishment or obtaining revenge. It is motivated by anger or self-interest, not reason or the common good. Murder is what happens when people kill because of how they feel.
So often in fiction, the act of murder is bound up in a lot of gloating or drama. Villains often make speeches as they prepare to murder the hero. But in life, it is seldom – if ever – this way. In reality, the act of murder is often impulsive and sudden; and even when premeditated, the actual act is carried out quickly. And that's the true horror of it; in an instant, something that was is no more. And this change is rarely marked with any fanfare. It happens so fast we barely notice the moment itself, and yet once it had passed, it is unchangeable, immutable, eternal. Dead is dead.
When you think about it, it's terrifying how something so permanent can happen so quickly. And I think that's why murder is often written the way it is. Because it's so horrible, all the drama surrounding it serves not only to prepare us for what is coming, but to allow us to feel more relaxed, to remind us that what is happening is fiction, to cushion the blow, in a sense. It's more comfortable we are protected from the reality of it. In a way, the drama can even glorify the act, or make it seem justified, which I think is a disservice to society. Murder – no matter how evil the victim – is always wrong, even if killing is not.
And that is why all my favorite scenes of murder are the ones that have no pomp and circumstance. My favorite scenes of murder are jarring, sudden, unexpected. The murder of Cedric Diggory in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire comes to mind. So does Don Corleone's first murder in The Godfather 2. In both scenes, the victim's life is abruptly ended, with a lack of physical violence that somehow makes the murder even more vicious. Because the act is inherently violent, and not in the obvious way. Even when murder isn't physically violent, the sudden shift from life to death, from existence to non-existence, is violent in the way that a fast-moving car hitting a wall is. It happens so fast that rippling waves of destruction explode out from the moment and wreck everything they touch, most notably the lives of the people involved. The people who survive the victim have to live on with a terrible loss. The murderer themselves bear the stain of their actions on their soul for all eternity, and it can often poison their mind beyond all repair. When the act is dragged out in fiction, this impact and immediacy is often lost.
So when I write the act of murder, I want it to come at you from out of nowhere. I want your reaction to be “Wait, what? No!” I want the character to be gone so suddenly you have to go back over the last paragraph to make sure you read it correctly. When I murder one of my characters, I want it to fuck you up for life. Because that is how murder really happens.
Murder is clearly morally wrong. Killing, however, is not necessarily inherently wrong, and I think that the distinction isn't always clear to people. Killing is the simple act of ending the life of a living thing. Spraying Round-Up on a weed is clearly killing, but it is just as clearly not murder (unless you are the most fanatical sort of Buddhist). In my opinion, even formal execution carried out by the state is not murder. It is often the punishment for murder, but though the primary event is the same, the motive makes all the difference in the world. Formal execution generally (I am not so naïve as to say 'always') is the result of a due process, in which a group of people soberly weigh the facts of a given incident and decide upon the guilt of the accused, and only then further debate the means of punishment. 'Punishment' is a misleading word, however. In my opinion it gives a sense of society taking revenge upon the guilty, which is clearly not the purpose of formal execution. Execution is chosen as a 'punishment' when the guilty party is so morally off balance, so heinously violent that the only prudent, reliable way of protecting society from them is to end their life. We as a society aren't mad at them (as individuals we surely are, but as a society I think it's hard to argue this in most cases), we merely need them gone. The death penalty is a means of permanently assuring that unrepentant murderers are removed from society and can never commit such atrocities again.
Murder, on the other hand is motivated by emotion, not reason. Murder is often committed in an effort to reach an individual goal of some kind. Murder is often committed – with or without forethought – as an individual's way of administering punishment or obtaining revenge. It is motivated by anger or self-interest, not reason or the common good. Murder is what happens when people kill because of how they feel.
So often in fiction, the act of murder is bound up in a lot of gloating or drama. Villains often make speeches as they prepare to murder the hero. But in life, it is seldom – if ever – this way. In reality, the act of murder is often impulsive and sudden; and even when premeditated, the actual act is carried out quickly. And that's the true horror of it; in an instant, something that was is no more. And this change is rarely marked with any fanfare. It happens so fast we barely notice the moment itself, and yet once it had passed, it is unchangeable, immutable, eternal. Dead is dead.
When you think about it, it's terrifying how something so permanent can happen so quickly. And I think that's why murder is often written the way it is. Because it's so horrible, all the drama surrounding it serves not only to prepare us for what is coming, but to allow us to feel more relaxed, to remind us that what is happening is fiction, to cushion the blow, in a sense. It's more comfortable we are protected from the reality of it. In a way, the drama can even glorify the act, or make it seem justified, which I think is a disservice to society. Murder – no matter how evil the victim – is always wrong, even if killing is not.
And that is why all my favorite scenes of murder are the ones that have no pomp and circumstance. My favorite scenes of murder are jarring, sudden, unexpected. The murder of Cedric Diggory in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire comes to mind. So does Don Corleone's first murder in The Godfather 2. In both scenes, the victim's life is abruptly ended, with a lack of physical violence that somehow makes the murder even more vicious. Because the act is inherently violent, and not in the obvious way. Even when murder isn't physically violent, the sudden shift from life to death, from existence to non-existence, is violent in the way that a fast-moving car hitting a wall is. It happens so fast that rippling waves of destruction explode out from the moment and wreck everything they touch, most notably the lives of the people involved. The people who survive the victim have to live on with a terrible loss. The murderer themselves bear the stain of their actions on their soul for all eternity, and it can often poison their mind beyond all repair. When the act is dragged out in fiction, this impact and immediacy is often lost.
So when I write the act of murder, I want it to come at you from out of nowhere. I want your reaction to be “Wait, what? No!” I want the character to be gone so suddenly you have to go back over the last paragraph to make sure you read it correctly. When I murder one of my characters, I want it to fuck you up for life. Because that is how murder really happens.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
House of Cards
[Repost From Old Site]
So last night, my gorgeous wife and I started watching the first Netflix Original Series; House of Cards, starring Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright (I didn't know who that was at first, but she played Jenny in Forrest Gump, and she was The Princess Bride). It's a more-or-less color-by-numbers political drama, with some very junior mistakes in the writing, and nothing too surprising plot-wise (at least in the first four episodes), but more on that later. It's meaty enough to keep us watching, and the acting is definitely up to par with some of the best TV series out these days.
Which brings me to my main point. This new entertainment delivery system is awesome. Netflix streaming is now available for almost every device out there, even most new TVs. I have it on my freaking phone now. It's still under $10/month for streaming only, and that's a small price to pay for the absolute control you get. Its very encouraging to see big names like Kevin Spacey and David Fincher (who directed the first two episodes) getting attached to a project that's taking advantage of a totally untried format, because that means the format will probably succeed. Which means, that though House of Cards has its flaws, it's big enough to set a precedent for well-financed, talent-rich series to continue coming out on Netflix exclusively, and ultimately, they're bound to come up with a masterpiece. When that happens, we subscribers will be able to enjoy it for dirt-cheap prices without all the baggage that comes along with regular television.
There's no commercials on Netflix. No stopping and starting of the drama. Even if you have DVR, you still have to deal with the inconvenience of TV, and if you watch shows on major networks, there are no guarantees that your favorite show won't be knocked out of it's regular time slot for a long-running sports game or breaking news. Another great advantage is the fact that the series can come out a season at a time, rather than one episode a week. If you're like me (and most Netflix users, apparently) you like to devour your shows marathon-style, so that you don't spend each week wondering what's going to happen, or worse, forgetting what happened last episode.
When we're really into a series, it becomes all we watch until there is no more of that series. The Netflix original takes advantage of that watching habit. A good drama series is really like a long movie, and it sucks to have to watch it tiny bit by tiny bit. I know with The Walking Dead, I spend the first few minutes of every episode trying to re-orient myself to what's going on, and just when I'm getting settled in, it's over. If this new format continues to produce quality output, that won't be so, at least for some shows. I know the audience will agree with me on this one, and hopefully that will mean Netflix will soon be able to compete with networks like AMC, HBO and Showtime.
House of Cards, specifically, falls prey to a few flaws, however. The most obvious of these is Spacey's first person narration to the camera. While I recognize this as a valid stylistic choice (After all the technique was used to great effect by Shakespeare in Richard III), I feel that the writers of House of Cards fall into the novice trap of using this narration as exposition in disguise; that is, explaining to the audience what's going on, who is who, and what the relationships between characters and events are. It panders to the audience a little, as if the writers were afraid we wouldn't catch on. They needn't have been, for two reasons: one, the skillful acting and generally well conceived plot make tings obvious enough; and two, the relationships and events are familiar to most viewers, drawing upon the usual archetypes of political drama. So the narrative technique is really just propping up already strong writing, which has the unintentional effect of making it look weaker than it really is. I sincerely hope the writers grow in confidence as seasons progress. The first person narrative technique is useful, but generally used best when a story focuses on a single character and their point of view. House of Cards shuffles through many points of view, giving Spacey's well-delivered monologues a much more artificial feel. Because we don't spend all our time focusing on Spacey's character, the narration's flaw becomes all the more obvious; the writers are really just using him to explain the story.
Another closely related flaw is that the dialogue often sacrifices realism for wit. The characters banter back and forth in perfect rhythm; hammering out clever turns of phrase without a moment's pause. I'm willing to suspend my disbelief in this case - after all, politicians are wordy people - but again, it gives the writing a feel of being weaker than it really is. Character are easier to empathize with when they're realistic, and realistic character often find themselves at a loss for words, or speak out of turn, or misunderstand one another. House of Cards lacks this authenticity, and it puts us at a remove from the characters, even if we want to love them. It even makes hating the evil ones harder, which means the writers are really selling themselves short. The characters are compelling, and if they talked like normal people we'd know it.
All in all, however, the fact that Netflix has produced a big-budget, talent-boasting original series is a huge leap forward in the entertainment world. I look forward to the next Netflix original series, and dearly hope that the big networks catch on to this format, so that in the future everyone will have absolute control of their entertainment lineup. I'm convinced commercials are the only reason TV makes you stupider, after all, no one ever told you that going to the movies makes you dumb. Anything that lets you do away with the trash is good in my book.
[Addendum]
In the weeks since this post, my wife and I finished House of Cards. My original assessment stands, the story telling is sloppy, and made to look weak by being propped up with obstrusive narrative technique, but the actual content of the plot is juicy enough to keep you watching, even if it's not original.
SPOILER ALERT!
There was one episode where we find out Spacey's character had a gay fling in college. The entire episode is spent with him rabble-rousing with his old college buddies, reliving old times. I suppose the intent here was to give the character a human face, to try and make the audience feel sympathy for him. the only problem is...
WE DON'T WANT TO!
It's an anti-hero story! to try and make us sympathize with an anti-hero is to ruin the fun of such stories. we want to feel good about rooting for the bad guy, that's what makes them so damn great. This episode not only stopped the story dead in it's tracks to tell us something about the character that has no bearing whatsoever on the plot, but it also damaged the cold, ruthless image of him we have, and from there on out, his character loses clout.
I wil say, however, that his toadie Doug Stamper is probably the best character in the show. He's the one who gets his hands dirty on Frank's behalf, and he's probably the best goon character I've come across in a while.
We will, of course, watch season two. but they better step their fucking game up, or I'm out after that.
So last night, my gorgeous wife and I started watching the first Netflix Original Series; House of Cards, starring Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright (I didn't know who that was at first, but she played Jenny in Forrest Gump, and she was The Princess Bride). It's a more-or-less color-by-numbers political drama, with some very junior mistakes in the writing, and nothing too surprising plot-wise (at least in the first four episodes), but more on that later. It's meaty enough to keep us watching, and the acting is definitely up to par with some of the best TV series out these days.
Which brings me to my main point. This new entertainment delivery system is awesome. Netflix streaming is now available for almost every device out there, even most new TVs. I have it on my freaking phone now. It's still under $10/month for streaming only, and that's a small price to pay for the absolute control you get. Its very encouraging to see big names like Kevin Spacey and David Fincher (who directed the first two episodes) getting attached to a project that's taking advantage of a totally untried format, because that means the format will probably succeed. Which means, that though House of Cards has its flaws, it's big enough to set a precedent for well-financed, talent-rich series to continue coming out on Netflix exclusively, and ultimately, they're bound to come up with a masterpiece. When that happens, we subscribers will be able to enjoy it for dirt-cheap prices without all the baggage that comes along with regular television.
There's no commercials on Netflix. No stopping and starting of the drama. Even if you have DVR, you still have to deal with the inconvenience of TV, and if you watch shows on major networks, there are no guarantees that your favorite show won't be knocked out of it's regular time slot for a long-running sports game or breaking news. Another great advantage is the fact that the series can come out a season at a time, rather than one episode a week. If you're like me (and most Netflix users, apparently) you like to devour your shows marathon-style, so that you don't spend each week wondering what's going to happen, or worse, forgetting what happened last episode.
When we're really into a series, it becomes all we watch until there is no more of that series. The Netflix original takes advantage of that watching habit. A good drama series is really like a long movie, and it sucks to have to watch it tiny bit by tiny bit. I know with The Walking Dead, I spend the first few minutes of every episode trying to re-orient myself to what's going on, and just when I'm getting settled in, it's over. If this new format continues to produce quality output, that won't be so, at least for some shows. I know the audience will agree with me on this one, and hopefully that will mean Netflix will soon be able to compete with networks like AMC, HBO and Showtime.
House of Cards, specifically, falls prey to a few flaws, however. The most obvious of these is Spacey's first person narration to the camera. While I recognize this as a valid stylistic choice (After all the technique was used to great effect by Shakespeare in Richard III), I feel that the writers of House of Cards fall into the novice trap of using this narration as exposition in disguise; that is, explaining to the audience what's going on, who is who, and what the relationships between characters and events are. It panders to the audience a little, as if the writers were afraid we wouldn't catch on. They needn't have been, for two reasons: one, the skillful acting and generally well conceived plot make tings obvious enough; and two, the relationships and events are familiar to most viewers, drawing upon the usual archetypes of political drama. So the narrative technique is really just propping up already strong writing, which has the unintentional effect of making it look weaker than it really is. I sincerely hope the writers grow in confidence as seasons progress. The first person narrative technique is useful, but generally used best when a story focuses on a single character and their point of view. House of Cards shuffles through many points of view, giving Spacey's well-delivered monologues a much more artificial feel. Because we don't spend all our time focusing on Spacey's character, the narration's flaw becomes all the more obvious; the writers are really just using him to explain the story.
Another closely related flaw is that the dialogue often sacrifices realism for wit. The characters banter back and forth in perfect rhythm; hammering out clever turns of phrase without a moment's pause. I'm willing to suspend my disbelief in this case - after all, politicians are wordy people - but again, it gives the writing a feel of being weaker than it really is. Character are easier to empathize with when they're realistic, and realistic character often find themselves at a loss for words, or speak out of turn, or misunderstand one another. House of Cards lacks this authenticity, and it puts us at a remove from the characters, even if we want to love them. It even makes hating the evil ones harder, which means the writers are really selling themselves short. The characters are compelling, and if they talked like normal people we'd know it.
All in all, however, the fact that Netflix has produced a big-budget, talent-boasting original series is a huge leap forward in the entertainment world. I look forward to the next Netflix original series, and dearly hope that the big networks catch on to this format, so that in the future everyone will have absolute control of their entertainment lineup. I'm convinced commercials are the only reason TV makes you stupider, after all, no one ever told you that going to the movies makes you dumb. Anything that lets you do away with the trash is good in my book.
[Addendum]
In the weeks since this post, my wife and I finished House of Cards. My original assessment stands, the story telling is sloppy, and made to look weak by being propped up with obstrusive narrative technique, but the actual content of the plot is juicy enough to keep you watching, even if it's not original.
SPOILER ALERT!
There was one episode where we find out Spacey's character had a gay fling in college. The entire episode is spent with him rabble-rousing with his old college buddies, reliving old times. I suppose the intent here was to give the character a human face, to try and make the audience feel sympathy for him. the only problem is...
WE DON'T WANT TO!
It's an anti-hero story! to try and make us sympathize with an anti-hero is to ruin the fun of such stories. we want to feel good about rooting for the bad guy, that's what makes them so damn great. This episode not only stopped the story dead in it's tracks to tell us something about the character that has no bearing whatsoever on the plot, but it also damaged the cold, ruthless image of him we have, and from there on out, his character loses clout.
I wil say, however, that his toadie Doug Stamper is probably the best character in the show. He's the one who gets his hands dirty on Frank's behalf, and he's probably the best goon character I've come across in a while.
We will, of course, watch season two. but they better step their fucking game up, or I'm out after that.
The Perfect is the Enemy of the Good
[Repost From Old Site]
I recently read Blood Meridian, by Cormac McCarthy, and well, it was an undisputed masterpiece. It took me many months to read (I'm a slow reader, plus I mostly read in the bathroom), but I soldiered through some of it's more long-winded portions to discover that the entire book happens in the last two chapters. Fortunately, the events therein would be meaningless without the other 90% of the book. What I thought had been a laborious and repetitive journey turned out to be a startlingly subtle technique of pummeling my brain with violence to the point that I'm desensitized, so that when the blood stops, I'm left breathless, chilled to the bone, and honestly... fucked up for life.
I once read a book called Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski. It's almost like a more modern Catcher in the Rye, with a "later-on-in-life" epilogue that actually takes up almost half of the book. I hated it, but I hated it so much that I loved it. Because this wasn't the hate of a poorly written book, it was the hate of a real, living, breathing human being; one who, surprisingly, was entirely fictional. The protagonist was one of those passive tragic types, the type of character who doesn't do, but instead is done unto. Such characters are infuriating to read about, as they utterly fail to move the plot along, and you're left feeling like nothing happened in the book. However, occasionally, this can result in a brilliantly rendered character study as it did with Catcher in the Rye, and Ham on Rye. Now that I think about it, the bread choice in the title is probably not a coincidence.
I also once read a book most of you are familiar with, a little ditty called The Lord of the Rings. It's world was so thoroughly and beautifully imagined that I felt more like I was discovering a secret history of our world, rather than reading a work of fiction.
As a teenager, I read a book called Foxfire by Joyce Carol Oates, and it's characters, five rebellious teen girls, were so complete, so real, that I find myself missing them as if they were real people, even as I write this. Maddie may well have been the first girl I ever loved, which would make Legs was the girl I cheated on her with.
I've read extensively of the works of Asimov and Orson Scott Card, two brilliant plot-driven writers, who keep me on the edge of my seat with their cinematic and cerebral stories. I've read Vonnegut, who makes me laugh through tears of rage and dotes on his readers like a candy-bearing grandfather. I've been scared half to death by Dracula, infuriated with the careless meddling of Dr. Frankenstein, shocked by the animal nature of humanity in Lord of the Flies, died of thirst in the deserts of Dune, been a sailor stranded in Shogun's feudal Japan...
Voltaire but it best: "The perfect is the enemy of the good."
I read these works of art, and it fills me with mortal terror. When I picked up Blood Meridian, within a single paragraph I felt like it would be a crime if I ever wrote another word, such an affront to McCarthy's genius would it be.
But to paraphrase a spirit-lifting article I read recently, a novel can be a comforting friend as easily as it can be a brilliant teacher. If every novel was a mind-rending masterpiece, can you imagine how exhausted you'd be? We'd spend all our hours weeping in despair of the rotten condition of humanity.
So I say, simply, I don't have any pretension of being great. I'd just like to be good.
...And I'd like to get published. Please? The little button on the dashboard of this blog isn't doing it for me.
I recently read Blood Meridian, by Cormac McCarthy, and well, it was an undisputed masterpiece. It took me many months to read (I'm a slow reader, plus I mostly read in the bathroom), but I soldiered through some of it's more long-winded portions to discover that the entire book happens in the last two chapters. Fortunately, the events therein would be meaningless without the other 90% of the book. What I thought had been a laborious and repetitive journey turned out to be a startlingly subtle technique of pummeling my brain with violence to the point that I'm desensitized, so that when the blood stops, I'm left breathless, chilled to the bone, and honestly... fucked up for life.
I once read a book called Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski. It's almost like a more modern Catcher in the Rye, with a "later-on-in-life" epilogue that actually takes up almost half of the book. I hated it, but I hated it so much that I loved it. Because this wasn't the hate of a poorly written book, it was the hate of a real, living, breathing human being; one who, surprisingly, was entirely fictional. The protagonist was one of those passive tragic types, the type of character who doesn't do, but instead is done unto. Such characters are infuriating to read about, as they utterly fail to move the plot along, and you're left feeling like nothing happened in the book. However, occasionally, this can result in a brilliantly rendered character study as it did with Catcher in the Rye, and Ham on Rye. Now that I think about it, the bread choice in the title is probably not a coincidence.
I also once read a book most of you are familiar with, a little ditty called The Lord of the Rings. It's world was so thoroughly and beautifully imagined that I felt more like I was discovering a secret history of our world, rather than reading a work of fiction.
As a teenager, I read a book called Foxfire by Joyce Carol Oates, and it's characters, five rebellious teen girls, were so complete, so real, that I find myself missing them as if they were real people, even as I write this. Maddie may well have been the first girl I ever loved, which would make Legs was the girl I cheated on her with.
I've read extensively of the works of Asimov and Orson Scott Card, two brilliant plot-driven writers, who keep me on the edge of my seat with their cinematic and cerebral stories. I've read Vonnegut, who makes me laugh through tears of rage and dotes on his readers like a candy-bearing grandfather. I've been scared half to death by Dracula, infuriated with the careless meddling of Dr. Frankenstein, shocked by the animal nature of humanity in Lord of the Flies, died of thirst in the deserts of Dune, been a sailor stranded in Shogun's feudal Japan...
Voltaire but it best: "The perfect is the enemy of the good."
I read these works of art, and it fills me with mortal terror. When I picked up Blood Meridian, within a single paragraph I felt like it would be a crime if I ever wrote another word, such an affront to McCarthy's genius would it be.
But to paraphrase a spirit-lifting article I read recently, a novel can be a comforting friend as easily as it can be a brilliant teacher. If every novel was a mind-rending masterpiece, can you imagine how exhausted you'd be? We'd spend all our hours weeping in despair of the rotten condition of humanity.
So I say, simply, I don't have any pretension of being great. I'd just like to be good.
...And I'd like to get published. Please? The little button on the dashboard of this blog isn't doing it for me.
Work Sucks, Until It Doesn't
[Repost From Old Site]
You know, now that I think about it, every job I've ever had has sucked.
My very first job was at the Coffee Bean (Though it was known as the Coffee Beanery in those days). I was a top performer there, but I quickly found the place to be shithole, which is why it was so easy for a 16-year old punk to be one of the good ones.
I tarried briefly at another coffee shop and them moved on to one of my most fondly remembered jobs as a full-service gas pump attendant at Amoco (now BP). I worked there off and on for over two years, and I loved it. It was full of zany characters and the whole place was held together with duct tape and coat hangers. I had the run of the shop most of the time. I could wander in two hours late and nobody got mad. I got to wrench on a few cars, made a few bucks in tips, and had enough to buy my then girlfriend a meal every once in a while. It was a great job... for a teenager.
Then I went to college and I didn't exactly work... let's say I dabbled occasionally in black market trade. My clientele was so scummy that it nearly changed the course of my life, an issue I mentioned with in an earlier article. Near the end of college, I worked at Ray's Wine and Spirits, probably my most fondly remembered job. The place was another in what's become a long string of falling apart crap-holes, but I had a lot of close friends working there, and we made that place like a second home. The pay was shit, but there were... fringe benefits, and the boss made a habit of looking the other way. It was a great job... for a stoner.
Alas, I did eventually graduate (though Lord knows I stretched that out as long as I could) and I moved in with my Grandma for a few months. There, I held two short-term jobs, one as a cashier at yet another character-filled gas station (Shell this time), and my first server job, at Smoke House BBQ. For you Kansas Citians, Smoke House is a pale, limp-wristed imitation of Jack Stack. Don't bother. Both of those places offered crappy pay and crappier hours.
Then I moved on to Harpo's, a bar and grill in the famed Old Westport district. It was my first bartending job, and I made good money. It sucked in the end, because Old Westport is a giant clique. If you're working behind one of the 11-odd bars in the area, you'd better spend your off hours drinking in front of them, otherwise you're branded as an outsider.
Then came Meadowbrook. Oh, Meadowbrook. It was a private golf club. I loved the members and they loved me. My first boss there was a good guy, and if were to see him again, I'd buy him a beer. But by the end of a long and harrowing story that I will spare you the details of, I was made into a scapegoat for all the shortcomings of an aging edifice whose ability to turn a profit was forgotten legend. In times of recession, luxuries are the first to go, and I got the boot with them.
After moving to L.A., I worked part time at Target, which is really just Walmart + 10%. It's an expensive Walmart. The shit there is the same. Target, like Walmart, was filled with trailer-trash mutants who couldn't seem to leave me in peace to zone my shelves. Anyone who has worked big-box retail will know what I'm talking about.
Then there was the J.W. Marriott. I met a bunch of great people there, some of whom I consider good friends. But the level of fever-pitch insanity that was the norm there was more than I could handle. As a cocktail server, you could hardly find a more challenging environment. That place is asses to elbows 362 days a year, and the only predictable thing about that place is its manic unpredictability. That job was a heart attack waiting to happen.
All of these jobs had their moments, but in the final analysis, each one took a toll on me. Some of them merely exposed me to people I found distasteful. Some put me in environments that quickly became unhealthy. Some pitted me against customers or coworkers who seemed to be out for my blood. In every job, nearly every employee was unhappy. In every job, I quickly rose through the ranks to become a top performer, but when I was at them all I could think about was how much I wanted to be anywhere else. I believe, during the final days at Meadowbrook, I even said that I'd rather go to prison than walk into that building one more time.
Before I've resigned from each job (always on good terms) I've felt that way. Like being locked in a cage with a serial rapist was better than going to work one more time. No matter how nice the place was, it always turned out to be a chaotic hell-hole when I was there. When I left, every place either got better or got shut down. Ray's, Amoco, The Coffee Bean and Meadowbrook all went under new management within months of my leaving, some changing their brand name in the process. Smoke House, Shell, The Marriott and Target all had turnovers in management that increased the happiness of the employees. After a while, I started to feel like I was a curse. Everywhere I worked got worse during my tenure, and got better (or was at least put out of its misery) the moment I left. And then I realized something.
This is how God works.
Since I've been "self-employed" I've had no trouble finding freelance work when I want it, no real trouble performing such work, and no trouble moving on amicably. I'm fitter, healthier, more productive. My house is cleaner. My dogs are happier, and more well-behaved. My wife is happier. I'm happier. I am eager to start work every day. When other errands impede my ability to work, I get upset. It used to be I looked forward to sickness and car trouble so I had an excuse to play hooky.
And I'm overcome with a profound sense of deja-vu. When I was in my mid to late teens, I published a zine that actually got a little attention. I was featured in the newspaper. I set up and maintained a small distribution network that saw my zine making it as far as L.A, Minnesota and Austin, TX. I wrote often, and people liked reading what I wrote.
When I was in college, I thought I wanted to be a musician. But every turn I made, every opportunity I explored, every connection I made turned up a dead end. In the working world, every advance I made was punished by a boat-load of stress, and never rewarded with a substantial increase in earnings.
For my whole life, there has been a pattern of God setting things up for me to knock down. I've been graced with the foresight to be aware of a few of them. But nowhere have I been more lucky than when he brought me together with my wife. Her love, patience and support had made our mutual happiness possible. It took us a while to figure out that this was what we were supposed to be doing, but now things are going swimmingly. I finally feel like I'm on the path of least resistance.
And who knows? Nothing may come of it. I may wallow in unpublished obscurity until the day I die. I may never be a famous novelist. But who cares? At least I'm finally getting the message that God has been ramming into my brain for the last 20 years. Be it cruel or kind, I'm no longer ignoring my destiny.
You know, now that I think about it, every job I've ever had has sucked.
My very first job was at the Coffee Bean (Though it was known as the Coffee Beanery in those days). I was a top performer there, but I quickly found the place to be shithole, which is why it was so easy for a 16-year old punk to be one of the good ones.
I tarried briefly at another coffee shop and them moved on to one of my most fondly remembered jobs as a full-service gas pump attendant at Amoco (now BP). I worked there off and on for over two years, and I loved it. It was full of zany characters and the whole place was held together with duct tape and coat hangers. I had the run of the shop most of the time. I could wander in two hours late and nobody got mad. I got to wrench on a few cars, made a few bucks in tips, and had enough to buy my then girlfriend a meal every once in a while. It was a great job... for a teenager.
Then I went to college and I didn't exactly work... let's say I dabbled occasionally in black market trade. My clientele was so scummy that it nearly changed the course of my life, an issue I mentioned with in an earlier article. Near the end of college, I worked at Ray's Wine and Spirits, probably my most fondly remembered job. The place was another in what's become a long string of falling apart crap-holes, but I had a lot of close friends working there, and we made that place like a second home. The pay was shit, but there were... fringe benefits, and the boss made a habit of looking the other way. It was a great job... for a stoner.
Alas, I did eventually graduate (though Lord knows I stretched that out as long as I could) and I moved in with my Grandma for a few months. There, I held two short-term jobs, one as a cashier at yet another character-filled gas station (Shell this time), and my first server job, at Smoke House BBQ. For you Kansas Citians, Smoke House is a pale, limp-wristed imitation of Jack Stack. Don't bother. Both of those places offered crappy pay and crappier hours.
Then I moved on to Harpo's, a bar and grill in the famed Old Westport district. It was my first bartending job, and I made good money. It sucked in the end, because Old Westport is a giant clique. If you're working behind one of the 11-odd bars in the area, you'd better spend your off hours drinking in front of them, otherwise you're branded as an outsider.
Then came Meadowbrook. Oh, Meadowbrook. It was a private golf club. I loved the members and they loved me. My first boss there was a good guy, and if were to see him again, I'd buy him a beer. But by the end of a long and harrowing story that I will spare you the details of, I was made into a scapegoat for all the shortcomings of an aging edifice whose ability to turn a profit was forgotten legend. In times of recession, luxuries are the first to go, and I got the boot with them.
After moving to L.A., I worked part time at Target, which is really just Walmart + 10%. It's an expensive Walmart. The shit there is the same. Target, like Walmart, was filled with trailer-trash mutants who couldn't seem to leave me in peace to zone my shelves. Anyone who has worked big-box retail will know what I'm talking about.
Then there was the J.W. Marriott. I met a bunch of great people there, some of whom I consider good friends. But the level of fever-pitch insanity that was the norm there was more than I could handle. As a cocktail server, you could hardly find a more challenging environment. That place is asses to elbows 362 days a year, and the only predictable thing about that place is its manic unpredictability. That job was a heart attack waiting to happen.
All of these jobs had their moments, but in the final analysis, each one took a toll on me. Some of them merely exposed me to people I found distasteful. Some put me in environments that quickly became unhealthy. Some pitted me against customers or coworkers who seemed to be out for my blood. In every job, nearly every employee was unhappy. In every job, I quickly rose through the ranks to become a top performer, but when I was at them all I could think about was how much I wanted to be anywhere else. I believe, during the final days at Meadowbrook, I even said that I'd rather go to prison than walk into that building one more time.
Before I've resigned from each job (always on good terms) I've felt that way. Like being locked in a cage with a serial rapist was better than going to work one more time. No matter how nice the place was, it always turned out to be a chaotic hell-hole when I was there. When I left, every place either got better or got shut down. Ray's, Amoco, The Coffee Bean and Meadowbrook all went under new management within months of my leaving, some changing their brand name in the process. Smoke House, Shell, The Marriott and Target all had turnovers in management that increased the happiness of the employees. After a while, I started to feel like I was a curse. Everywhere I worked got worse during my tenure, and got better (or was at least put out of its misery) the moment I left. And then I realized something.
This is how God works.
Since I've been "self-employed" I've had no trouble finding freelance work when I want it, no real trouble performing such work, and no trouble moving on amicably. I'm fitter, healthier, more productive. My house is cleaner. My dogs are happier, and more well-behaved. My wife is happier. I'm happier. I am eager to start work every day. When other errands impede my ability to work, I get upset. It used to be I looked forward to sickness and car trouble so I had an excuse to play hooky.
And I'm overcome with a profound sense of deja-vu. When I was in my mid to late teens, I published a zine that actually got a little attention. I was featured in the newspaper. I set up and maintained a small distribution network that saw my zine making it as far as L.A, Minnesota and Austin, TX. I wrote often, and people liked reading what I wrote.
When I was in college, I thought I wanted to be a musician. But every turn I made, every opportunity I explored, every connection I made turned up a dead end. In the working world, every advance I made was punished by a boat-load of stress, and never rewarded with a substantial increase in earnings.
For my whole life, there has been a pattern of God setting things up for me to knock down. I've been graced with the foresight to be aware of a few of them. But nowhere have I been more lucky than when he brought me together with my wife. Her love, patience and support had made our mutual happiness possible. It took us a while to figure out that this was what we were supposed to be doing, but now things are going swimmingly. I finally feel like I'm on the path of least resistance.
And who knows? Nothing may come of it. I may wallow in unpublished obscurity until the day I die. I may never be a famous novelist. But who cares? At least I'm finally getting the message that God has been ramming into my brain for the last 20 years. Be it cruel or kind, I'm no longer ignoring my destiny.
Special Effects
[Repost From Old Site]
As a sci-fi nerd, flashy special effects in movies has always been a given. It really isn't sci-fi unless there's something fantastic or unreal about it, and in movies this almost always demands the use of prosthetic makeup or CG. It's something you learn to expect.
But for some reason, I've always disliked it when the CG is in your face, even when it's done well. Like in the God-forsaken Star Wars trilogy re-release; where elaborate CG scenes are cut and pasted onto otherwise perfect sequences; lasers that were once totally believable beams of fuzzy light are suddenly crisp, three-dimensional lines that only highlight the limitations of 1070's film making; Yoda, who was once a totally believable, even life-like puppet, suddenly jumps and spins and loses every ounce of his wizened credibility.
Or take Avatar, a movie whose entire reason for existing was a masturbatory exercise in computer generated reality. There, you don't even have the obvious contrast between what's real and what's green screen or motion capture suits. The CG blends seamlessly, even artfully with the live-action shots. And yet it still left a bad taste in my mouth. I, a master of suspending disbelief, walked out of that movie with a pervasive sense of implausibility and falsehood.
I've felt like this for several years, and its only recently that I've been able to put my finger on why
If you keep reading this blog, you will no doubt continue to catch references to the book Self Editing for Fiction Writers by Renni Brown and Dave King. The book gave names and rules to vague feelings I've always had about story-craft, be it in film or on paper. It crystallized the unknown reasons behind objections I'd never before been able to articulate. It even managed to shed light on why I don't like overblown CG in my sci-fi movies.
In the book, a great deal is made of the fact that when one is reading a good book, one is immersed to a point where the real world falls away, and only the story exists. If you've ever read a great work of fiction, you've no doubt experienced this; where you crack a book, blink your eyes a time or two and suddenly four hours have passed. John Gardener, in his equally life-changing book On Becoming a Novelist (another book you'll probably see me refer to a lot), refers to this experience as "The vivid and continuous dream." In Self Editing, Brown and King repeatedly emphasize that all decisions a writer or editor makes must be in service to the vivid and continuous dream. Every word must be crafted to enhance it, and when a particular turn of phrase or a badly jumbled sentence distracts from it, the reader is robbed of part of the intended experience.
When a word is mispeled, or a sentence is so long that verbs and subjects are forgotten in the sea of unnecessary, obscuring, unwelcome adjectives, when subclauses extend to the point of inviting ridicule from editors, readers and critics alike, when punctuation, is, used... improperly or (without merit), the reader is robbed of a part of that vivid and continuous dream. Like I just tried to do with that last sentence. I'm betting some of you had to read it twice to put it all together. Isn't it maddening when you have to do that in the middle of a book? Doesn't it draw you out of the story?
That's exactly the point that Brown and King make. And it's not only errors that damage the vivid and continuous dream. Subtle stylistic choices like unnecessarily flowery language, or the noticing of details that a particular character would likely be blind to, or the sudden switching from my point of view to his, all of these draw attention to the writers technique and thusly away from the story itself. A casual or uninformed reader may not notice this explicitly, but they are likely to recall less of the book, or they may have a vague feeling like something is wrong, without knowing what. That's because the writer's technique or style is commanding your attention instead of the story. So every creative decision that is made, must be made in service to the vivid and continuous dream.
And that, my friends, is exactly why I hate in your face CG in movies. When I see a 1970's Harrison Ford talking to a very 21st century Jabba the Hut outside of the Millennium Falcon, I'm not thinking about the fact that Han is trying to talk his way out of a confrontation with a powerful crime lord, I'm thinking about the fact that Jabba stands out against the background. When I see a tall blue guy galloping through the magical forests of Pandora with his new found alien love, I'm not thinking about the fact that his loyalties are evolving and that the humans are cruelly exploiting a beautiful and wondrous place, I'm thinking about how many interns it took to render that glowing plant, or how the motion capture suit works, or at best I'm thinking about the fact that the background looks really cool. Either way, I'm not thinking about the story.
And now that I think about it, this is why I prefer musicality to technical skill in my rock music. When Ynwie Malmsteen is shredding my face off, I'm thinking about how fast his fingers are moving, not about the music, and that's why I can't remember a note of it. When Inferno is slamming out blast beat after blast beat, there's really no hook that I can tap along to. But when Hendrix played the national anthem, all I could think about was the ironic and yet patriotic statement he was making, and how his rendition of that song distilled the entire spirit of Woodstock, hell the entire idiom of the 1960's into one piece of simple, expressive music.
So, in conclusion: anything, in any artistic medium, that draws attention away from that which is expressed, and draws attention to how it is expressed does a disservice to those who experience it. Good art is transparent, and the best artists are invisible.
As a sci-fi nerd, flashy special effects in movies has always been a given. It really isn't sci-fi unless there's something fantastic or unreal about it, and in movies this almost always demands the use of prosthetic makeup or CG. It's something you learn to expect.
But for some reason, I've always disliked it when the CG is in your face, even when it's done well. Like in the God-forsaken Star Wars trilogy re-release; where elaborate CG scenes are cut and pasted onto otherwise perfect sequences; lasers that were once totally believable beams of fuzzy light are suddenly crisp, three-dimensional lines that only highlight the limitations of 1070's film making; Yoda, who was once a totally believable, even life-like puppet, suddenly jumps and spins and loses every ounce of his wizened credibility.
Or take Avatar, a movie whose entire reason for existing was a masturbatory exercise in computer generated reality. There, you don't even have the obvious contrast between what's real and what's green screen or motion capture suits. The CG blends seamlessly, even artfully with the live-action shots. And yet it still left a bad taste in my mouth. I, a master of suspending disbelief, walked out of that movie with a pervasive sense of implausibility and falsehood.
I've felt like this for several years, and its only recently that I've been able to put my finger on why
If you keep reading this blog, you will no doubt continue to catch references to the book Self Editing for Fiction Writers by Renni Brown and Dave King. The book gave names and rules to vague feelings I've always had about story-craft, be it in film or on paper. It crystallized the unknown reasons behind objections I'd never before been able to articulate. It even managed to shed light on why I don't like overblown CG in my sci-fi movies.
In the book, a great deal is made of the fact that when one is reading a good book, one is immersed to a point where the real world falls away, and only the story exists. If you've ever read a great work of fiction, you've no doubt experienced this; where you crack a book, blink your eyes a time or two and suddenly four hours have passed. John Gardener, in his equally life-changing book On Becoming a Novelist (another book you'll probably see me refer to a lot), refers to this experience as "The vivid and continuous dream." In Self Editing, Brown and King repeatedly emphasize that all decisions a writer or editor makes must be in service to the vivid and continuous dream. Every word must be crafted to enhance it, and when a particular turn of phrase or a badly jumbled sentence distracts from it, the reader is robbed of part of the intended experience.
When a word is mispeled, or a sentence is so long that verbs and subjects are forgotten in the sea of unnecessary, obscuring, unwelcome adjectives, when subclauses extend to the point of inviting ridicule from editors, readers and critics alike, when punctuation, is, used... improperly or (without merit), the reader is robbed of a part of that vivid and continuous dream. Like I just tried to do with that last sentence. I'm betting some of you had to read it twice to put it all together. Isn't it maddening when you have to do that in the middle of a book? Doesn't it draw you out of the story?
That's exactly the point that Brown and King make. And it's not only errors that damage the vivid and continuous dream. Subtle stylistic choices like unnecessarily flowery language, or the noticing of details that a particular character would likely be blind to, or the sudden switching from my point of view to his, all of these draw attention to the writers technique and thusly away from the story itself. A casual or uninformed reader may not notice this explicitly, but they are likely to recall less of the book, or they may have a vague feeling like something is wrong, without knowing what. That's because the writer's technique or style is commanding your attention instead of the story. So every creative decision that is made, must be made in service to the vivid and continuous dream.
And that, my friends, is exactly why I hate in your face CG in movies. When I see a 1970's Harrison Ford talking to a very 21st century Jabba the Hut outside of the Millennium Falcon, I'm not thinking about the fact that Han is trying to talk his way out of a confrontation with a powerful crime lord, I'm thinking about the fact that Jabba stands out against the background. When I see a tall blue guy galloping through the magical forests of Pandora with his new found alien love, I'm not thinking about the fact that his loyalties are evolving and that the humans are cruelly exploiting a beautiful and wondrous place, I'm thinking about how many interns it took to render that glowing plant, or how the motion capture suit works, or at best I'm thinking about the fact that the background looks really cool. Either way, I'm not thinking about the story.
And now that I think about it, this is why I prefer musicality to technical skill in my rock music. When Ynwie Malmsteen is shredding my face off, I'm thinking about how fast his fingers are moving, not about the music, and that's why I can't remember a note of it. When Inferno is slamming out blast beat after blast beat, there's really no hook that I can tap along to. But when Hendrix played the national anthem, all I could think about was the ironic and yet patriotic statement he was making, and how his rendition of that song distilled the entire spirit of Woodstock, hell the entire idiom of the 1960's into one piece of simple, expressive music.
So, in conclusion: anything, in any artistic medium, that draws attention away from that which is expressed, and draws attention to how it is expressed does a disservice to those who experience it. Good art is transparent, and the best artists are invisible.
Grammar is Rad
So today I started my day by flipping through an old book I have, one
that anyone who took English 101 in the US in the last 10 years might
recognize: The Everyday Writer. I'm working on a novel based on
a true story, and it includes a great deal of characters who are not
native English speakers, but will be speaking English at times in the
book. I've been looking up some rules of the English language so I can
creatively subvert them in order to use the diction and word choice of a
non-native English speaker without just making them sound stupid.
When I've tried to do this in the past, I've ended up... with... a lot of... sentences... that are, uh... full of ellipses... and, uh... filler, like... the word "uh". And this is annoying to read. Though it is fairly accurate, a lot of people speaking a second language who aren't totally fluent will have to pause often to consider their next words, running through a sort of mental dictionary to find the right ones. But there are other, more elegant ways of illustrating this to the reader, and subtler ways to show that the person speaking isn't perfectly proficient in English.
We'll see how I do. I'm scared to death of coming across as judgy or condescending.
In the process of looking this stuff up, I've found my self positively enraptured by the power of grammar to artistically communicate ideas. As a native English speaker I use grammar automatically, whether I use it correctly or not. So automatically that I sometimes forget it's there, and I definitely forget the rules because I'm at a point in my life where I'm no longer being graded on it. I do well enough in every day conversation. I would even go so far as to say, on average, I speak with remarkable clarity in social situations. But that's not enough in writing. I need the tools to practice the trade. And I'm loving the process of boning up. Did you know what a Parallelism is? I didn't!
Not that anyone who reads this blog will ever see a single subordinate clause of my new found powers. After all, this blog is called Pete Rambles, and that's exactly what I intend to do.
But suffice it to say that after a few hours of reading up on grammar and sentence style, I feel like I'm Batman, and I'm building the Bat-Arsenal. A while ago I read a book called Self-Editing for Fiction Writers. That was like getting the Batmobile. Then I read On Becoming a Novelist my John Gardener. that was like finding and furnishing the Bat-cave. Now, with The Everyday Writer , I'm minting fresh Bat throwing-stars and reinforcing the Kevlar in the Bat suit. It's pretty awesome when something so mundane can make you feel like such a hard case.
When I've tried to do this in the past, I've ended up... with... a lot of... sentences... that are, uh... full of ellipses... and, uh... filler, like... the word "uh". And this is annoying to read. Though it is fairly accurate, a lot of people speaking a second language who aren't totally fluent will have to pause often to consider their next words, running through a sort of mental dictionary to find the right ones. But there are other, more elegant ways of illustrating this to the reader, and subtler ways to show that the person speaking isn't perfectly proficient in English.
We'll see how I do. I'm scared to death of coming across as judgy or condescending.
In the process of looking this stuff up, I've found my self positively enraptured by the power of grammar to artistically communicate ideas. As a native English speaker I use grammar automatically, whether I use it correctly or not. So automatically that I sometimes forget it's there, and I definitely forget the rules because I'm at a point in my life where I'm no longer being graded on it. I do well enough in every day conversation. I would even go so far as to say, on average, I speak with remarkable clarity in social situations. But that's not enough in writing. I need the tools to practice the trade. And I'm loving the process of boning up. Did you know what a Parallelism is? I didn't!
Not that anyone who reads this blog will ever see a single subordinate clause of my new found powers. After all, this blog is called Pete Rambles, and that's exactly what I intend to do.
But suffice it to say that after a few hours of reading up on grammar and sentence style, I feel like I'm Batman, and I'm building the Bat-Arsenal. A while ago I read a book called Self-Editing for Fiction Writers. That was like getting the Batmobile. Then I read On Becoming a Novelist my John Gardener. that was like finding and furnishing the Bat-cave. Now, with The Everyday Writer , I'm minting fresh Bat throwing-stars and reinforcing the Kevlar in the Bat suit. It's pretty awesome when something so mundane can make you feel like such a hard case.